Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

Miss Wolf sat down upon an ottoman, carefully placing her bag upon the floor next to her. Her expression became both grave and sympathetic. “Yes, your nephew still resides in the Outland, does he not?”

“I’d not use the term ‘reside.’ We don’t actually know just what has become of him.”

“You’re close to him?”

“Oh yes. Quite. I cannot say the same for my niece, but they are both very different creatures. Some find Newman hopelessly incorrigible, but I see worth to his character where others may not. He plays the role of the simpleton, but I know he is not. Let me shew you something.”

I rummaged in my pockets to find a letter written by Newman several weeks earlier, sent to me from the Chowser School. I don’t know why I continued to carry it with me, or perhaps, then again, I do know why: to keep the spirit of my nephew close at hand, as the chance of ever seeing him again waned.

Miss Wolf took the envelope and unfolded it. “Oh, isn’t this intriguing? He has written his letter to you in — what is this? If I am not mistaken, it’s like Egyptian hieroglyphics. Now are these symbols you have made up betwixt yourselves?”

“On the contrary. They are true and historical hieroglyphics that Chowser has taken from the Ensyke and taught to his boys.”

“I am sorry that I never met your nephew Newman. He sounds quite fascinating.” The statement was made to me in a steady and even tone, and the composed features of Miss Wolf ’s face did the job as well of not betraying to me the truth that lived behind the falsehood of the declaration.

“You have never?”

Miss Wolf shook her head. “Not that I can remember. I cannot even think of what he looks like, though I live only a few houses down the lane. He has in all likelihood been inside this house or off and away each time I have passed.”

“He looks very much like his father. And a little like me. May I put the kettle on for tea?”

“Please,” said Miss Wolf, stretching her limbs upon the ottoman, and looking all about the room with interest. “This is where you grew up— right here in this house?” she called to me in the next room.

“No,” I called back. “That house is no longer standing. This is a house that Gus and Charlotte lease from my friends, the Fagins.”

“I see. Can I not help you, Mr. Trimmers?”

“Not at all. Make yourself comfortable.”

Ruth Wolf did make herself comfortable, and when I returned to the drawing room after lighting the stove we both fell into a rather desultory conversation about her work at the various Dinglian hospitals. Especial mention was made of Bedlam, where Miss Wolf informed me she spent the greatest amount of her time tending to the sundry patients and especially to the victims of the “Terror Tremens,” that disease exclusive to those who return from the Outland.

We spoke as well of Miss Wolf ’s own childhood. As the story went, she had been an invalid for most of her life, finally overcoming a multiplicity of childhood ailments and infirmities and then dedicating the remainder of her life to the healing of others.

“I’ve always found it rather odd,” I mused aloud, once I’d set the tea tray down between us, and my popping up and down had subsided, “that your parents never made mention of your existence all the time that they were alive. And then there was the carriage accident — please stop me if this is difficult to speak of.”

“No, no. I am not so troubled by the recall of those events as I once was, for time has been a balm.”

“Yet it has only been two years.”

“I mourn my father and mother, Mr. Trimmers, but I do not allow memory of them to keep me from tending without distraction to my important work. You mentioned the fact that my existence was kept hidden until their deaths — now that is not quite true. There were quite a few who visited me when I was bedridden. I was simply never in sufficient health to be permitted to leave the house.” Miss Wolf smiled archly. “You know a bit more about me than most. Are you planning to write of me some day— perhaps for that dissident newspaper that publishes your work?”

I laughed over Miss Wolf ’s perspicacity. “You don’t think yourself worthy of a profile in the Dingley Delver ?”

“Yet I am merely a nurse.”

“‘Merely a nurse.’ Come now, Miss Wolf. I have heard it said of you that you are the very best nurse in Dingley Dell. And after only two years’ training!”

Miss Wolf shifted a bit upon the ottoman. “Perhaps my reputation merely reflects my determination to rise from my bed like Lazarus and make something of the life that I saw spanning ahead of me. I will admit to working quite long hours. Even now, I rarely take a day off.”

“But perhaps you should. Is there harm in giving oneself the occasional holiday? Is there harm in doing what we’re doing now, for that matter: sitting at tea and speaking only of inconsequential matters?”

“Is that how you would characterise our conversation? I was thinking that it felt quite the opposite.”

“Quite the opposite?”

“Like an interview of some sort.”

I took a moment to consider the directness of Miss Wolf ’s assessment. “Have I been playing the part of inquisitor? If so, I humbly beg your pardon, madam.”

“I didn’t say that it was necessarily untoward of you to interrogate me. I’m merely curious as to your motives.”

“My motives? Hmm. Well, I did come to your rescue, Miss Wolf, and as hero of this little play, perhaps I give myself license to eschew propriety to some extent, considering the circumstances.”

“That is a rather silly line of reasoning. Chivalry obviates propriety? I’ve never heard that said before.” Miss Wolf ’s smile had a mischievous quality that was quite appealing. It brightened her whole face and illuminated her amply lashed green eyes.

“What I meant was that the circumstances that introduced us were of such an exigent uncommon nature that to reintroduce formality and decorum after the fact, as it were, seemed, at least to me , unnecessarily inelastic.”

“So you gave yourself liberty to regard me at the outset as an old friend — an old friend about whom you might wish to learn more than you already know — is that it? I must say that it’s a rather interesting approach to endearment — as such approaches go.”

“Endearment, my good woman? You think that my primary motive has been to endear myself to you?’

“You do have a charm about you.”

“As do you.”

“Resolved then, um: that we are both charming.”

“And I regret, Miss Wolf, that our paths have not so intimately crossed before now. I should have liked, when you were an invalid child, to have brought you soup or something.”

“And I should have been most grateful to have had it, and would have slurped it up with relish.”

“My dear Miss Wolf, what is happening here?” My face and neck had suddenly caught fire. I wondered if it was the same with my companion.

“We are—” Now there came a breathlessness to my lady’s voice that was all the more intriguing and tantalising. “We are each of us making a new friend, I suppose.”

“I’m happy that you accepted my invitation to join me for tea,” I said, taking Miss Wolf ’s soft, freckled right hand into my less soft and far less freckled left hand (for I had moved my chair close by the ottoman, thus putting us face-to-face, or hand-to-hand, as it were.)

“And I am most happy that the invitation was extended,” replied Miss Wolf in her breathy way.

I now took up the other hand.

“This is rather precipitant,” said she, looking down at both hands being held in a rather bold and, yes, somewhat untoward way, given that neither of us was wearing ice skates nor were we doing figures upon a dance floor — the only two circumstances which came instantly to mind that did not require an admixture of affection to bring delight to the encounter.