Under One Roof

By the standards of anyone who had not actually lived there, Blackwood House was magnificent. It had thirty-two rooms, eleven fireplaces, a conservatory large enough to make an ordinary greenhouse feel ashamed of itself, a dining room designed for twenty-four people even though no more than seven ever seemed to sit in it, a library whose shelves reached the ceiling, and a central staircase so dramatic that Beatrice Blackwood once remarked that even descending for breakfast felt like making an entrance at the opera. By the standards of the women who did live there, however, Blackwood House was frequently unbearable. It was not the building that was dull. It was the men. Edward Blackwood, fifty-eight, owner of the house and most of the money required to keep it standing, possessed the extraordinary ability to turn almost any subject into a lecture on investments, municipal bonds, or the decline of proper tailoring. His son, Charles, thirty-six, was scarcely better, although his preferred conversational territories were automobiles, business clubs, golf handicaps, and the mysterious incompetence of everyone who worked beneath him. Then there was Charles's brother-in-law, Peter Wainwright, thirty-nine, the unmarried brother of Charles's late first wife, who had somehow remained attached to the household through habit, convenience, and Edward's inexplicable fondness for him. And finally Mr. Harold Pike, the male housekeeper, forty-seven, who moved through Blackwood House as though personally responsible for protecting civilization from crooked picture frames. Life beneath that roof therefore proceeded with the predictability of a grandfather clock. Breakfast at eight. Correspondence at nine. Lunch at one. Tea at four. Drinks at six. Dinner at eight. Silence shortly thereafter. At least, that was how the men understood it. The women understood Blackwood House rather differently. The Women of Blackwood House Beatrice Blackwood, forty-three, Edward's second wife, ruled the domestic side of the mansion with the calm authority of a woman who could silence a room simply by placing down her teacup. She was elegant, composed, silver-blonde, and almost irritatingly beautiful, with a tendency to correct everything from floral arrangements to posture. "Clara," she said one morning from the far end of the breakfast table, "your napkin." Clara Blackwood, thirty-one, Charles's wife and therefore Beatrice's stepdaughter only through marriage rather than blood, looked down. "My napkin?" "It is falling." Clara caught it just before it reached the floor. "Oh." Beatrice raised one eyebrow. "You see? Civilization survives another morning." Clara smiled despite herself. She was pretty in a way that seemed almost embarrassed by being noticed, dark-haired, soft-spoken, and forever apologizing for taking up more than her allotted portion of the world. "I'm sorry." "Stop apologizing." "I'm—" Beatrice looked at her. Clara bit her lip. Beatrice's mouth twitched. "Better." Across the table, Lydia Blackwood, twenty-nine, Charles's younger sister, watched them both with the lazy amusement of a cat observing birds. Lydia was red-haired, extravagantly confident, and possessed of the unshakable belief that rules existed primarily to provide her with something to ignore. "You bully her," Lydia said. "I improve her," Beatrice replied. Clara murmured, "I don't mind." Lydia grinned. "That may be the most Clara sentence Clara has ever spoken." Behind them, Nora Bell, twenty-eight, the house maid, poured coffee. Nora had dark hair pinned neatly beneath her cap, quick eyes, and the trained stillness of someone accustomed to being present without appearing to be. "Coffee, Miss Lydia?" "Yes." "Milk?" "No." "Sugar?" "Two." Beatrice glanced over. "One." Lydia stared at her. "It's my coffee." "It's your third cup." Nora stood perfectly still. Lydia slowly turned toward her. "Nora?" "Yes, miss?" "Two." Nora looked at Beatrice. Beatrice looked back. Nora swallowed. "One and a half?" Clara choked on her tea. Even Beatrice laughed. From the kitchen came the unmistakable voice of Margaret Doyle, forty, the cook. "Nora! If that tray isn't back here in five minutes, I'll come fetch it myself!" Margaret was tall, broad-shouldered, and utterly unimpressed by almost everyone in the household. Nora called back, "Yes, Mrs. Doyle!" Margaret appeared in the doorway. "I'm not married, girl." Nora flushed. "I know." "Then stop promoting me." Lydia said, "I'd marry you for the pies." Margaret stared at her. "You couldn't afford me." At the French doors beyond the breakfast room, Evelyn Marsh, thirty-four, the gardener, passed carrying a basket of cut roses. She paused when she noticed Beatrice watching. "Mrs. Blackwood." "Evelyn." "I'll have the south beds replanted by Friday." "You said Thursday." Evelyn's expression tightened. "The rain delayed us." "Flowers are not generally surprised by rain." Evelyn shifted the basket anxiously. "No, ma'am." Beatrice let the silence hang for three dreadful seconds. Then she said, "Friday will be fine." Evelyn exhaled. "Thank you." Lydia waited until she had disappeared before saying, "You terrify that woman." Beatrice sipped her coffee. "People work better when slightly terrified." Clara glanced at her. "Do they?" Beatrice met her eyes. "Some people." Clara immediately looked down. Lydia saw this. Lydia saw practically everything. That was the trouble with Lydia. The Fishing Trip The announcement came at dinner on Thursday evening. Edward cleared his throat with the unnecessary solemnity of a man preparing to address Parliament. "Gentlemen," he said, although the only gentlemen present were already looking at him, "we have decided to spend the weekend fishing." Beatrice stopped cutting her asparagus. "Fishing." Charles nodded. "At Lake Harrow." Peter added, "Excellent trout." Mr. Pike, seated somewhat unusually at the table because Edward had insisted he join them for brandy afterward, said, "Very restorative." Lydia stared at all four men. "You?" Peter frowned. "What does that mean?" "You dislike mud." "I tolerate mud." "You once changed shoes because there was dew on the lawn." "That was excessive dew." Clara looked at Charles. "All weekend?" He reached across and patted her hand in the absent-minded manner one might reassure a nervous spaniel. "Only until Sunday evening, darling." Clara arranged her face into disappointment. "Oh." Beatrice lowered her eyes to hide hers. Lydia did not bother. "What a tragedy." Charles smiled. "We knew you'd miss us." "Desperately." Edward pointed his fork at her. "No parties." Lydia placed a hand against her chest. "Father." "No parties." "Do I look irresponsible?" Every person at the table looked at her. Lydia sighed. "Fine." Mr. Pike added, "I have given Nora a complete schedule for the weekend." From behind him Nora said quietly, "Yes, sir." Margaret, passing through with dessert, muttered, "God help us." Edward heard. "What was that?" "Plum tart, sir." "Ah." The men departed Friday afternoon. They wore tweed. They carried fishing rods. They carried tackle boxes. They carried enough luggage for what was allegedly two nights beside a lake. The women stood on the front steps and waved. Clara even produced a handkerchief. Charles leaned from the motorcar window. "Don't be lonely!" "I'll try!" Beatrice called, "Drive carefully!" Edward waved. Peter tipped his hat. Mr. Pike shouted, "Nora, remember the silver inventory!" "Yes, sir!" The car rolled down the drive. The women continued waving. The motorcar passed the gates. The sound faded. Nobody moved. Ten seconds passed. Lydia lowered her hand. "Are they gone?" Evelyn, standing near the roses, leaned sideways. "Almost." Another few seconds. "Now?" "Now." Beatrice turned toward the house. Her expression changed completely. "Margaret." "Yes?" "Open the champagne." Margaret grinned. "Already chilled." Nora blinked. Lydia laughed. Clara covered her mouth. Beatrice looked at all of them. "Ladies," she said, "Blackwood House is ours." Chapter One — Stepmother by Moonlight Clara had been avoiding Beatrice all evening. This would have been more effective if Beatrice had not noticed immediately. At ten-thirty, Clara slipped into the library, believing herself alone, selected a book she had no intention of reading, and curled into the corner of the green velvet sofa. A minute later Beatrice entered carrying two glasses. Clara looked up. "Oh." Beatrice closed the door behind her. "That is becoming your favorite word." "I thought you were upstairs." "I was." "Then why are you here?" Beatrice crossed the room. "Because you are." Clara lowered the book. Beatrice handed her a glass. "What is it?" "Brandy." "I don't really drink brandy." "You do tonight." Clara took it. Beatrice sat beside her. Too close. Clara stared into the glass. Beatrice said, "You've been avoiding me." "No." "Clara." "A little." "Why?" Clara gave a helpless laugh. "Because when the men left, everyone changed." "Did we?" "Lydia certainly did." "Lydia was born changed." Clara smiled. Beatrice leaned back. "And you?" "What about me?" "Have you changed?" Clara looked toward the fire. "I don't know." Beatrice studied her. "You spend most of your life asking permission." "I do not." "You asked Charles whether you could move a chair last week." "It was his chair." "It was a chair." Clara laughed again, but more nervously. Beatrice reached over and touched her wrist. Clara stopped laughing. "There," Beatrice said softly. "What?" "That." Clara swallowed. "That what?" "The part of you that appears whenever I touch you." Clara's eyes widened. "Beatrice." "Yes." "You shouldn't say things like that." "Why?" "Because you're my father's wife." "Your father married me. You did not." Clara looked away. Beatrice waited. Finally Clara whispered, "You frighten me." Beatrice's hand remained on her wrist. "I know." "That doesn't bother you?" "No." Clara turned back. Beatrice's expression had softened. "What bothers me," she said, "is that you always assume fear means stop." Clara's voice became nearly inaudible. "Doesn't it?" "Sometimes." Beatrice leaned closer. "And sometimes it means you have finally reached something important." Clara stared at her. The grandfather clock ticked loudly from the hall. Clara whispered, "You are impossible." Beatrice smiled. "So I've been told." Clara looked at Beatrice's mouth. Beatrice noticed. Of course she noticed. "Clara." "Yes?" "Do you want me to move?" A long silence. "No." Beatrice kissed her. Not dramatically. Not hungrily. Almost carefully. Clara froze for half a second, then reached for Beatrice's sleeve as though she needed something solid to hold. When they separated, Clara stared at her. "Oh." Beatrice laughed. "There it is again." Clara covered her face. "You are terrible." "And yet you didn't move." "No." "Would you like me to?" Clara lowered her hands. Beatrice studied her for another moment, then stood and held out her hand. Clara stared at it. “Where are we going?” “My room.” Clara’s eyes widened. “Beatrice.” “You said you didn't want me to move away.” “That isn't quite the same thing.” “No,” Beatrice agreed, with the faintest smile. “It isn't.” Clara hesitated only another second before placing her hand in Beatrice’s. They crossed the library together, Beatrice extinguished the lamp, and by the time they reached the upper corridor Clara was laughing nervously beneath her breath. At Beatrice’s bedroom door, Clara stopped. “We really shouldn't.” Beatrice opened it. “Then don't come in.” Clara looked at her. Then she stepped across the threshold. Beatrice closed the door behind them. Meanwhile, in the City… The four men reached the hotel at seven. Peter had promised sophistication. Charles had promised beautiful women. Edward had promised discreet service. Mr. Pike had promised he knew a man. The man Mr. Pike knew had apparently moved to Cleveland three years earlier. The fashionable nightclub they intended to visit had been closed for a private wedding reception. Peter attempted to bribe the doorman. The doorman turned out to be the groom's brother. Twenty minutes later all four men were eating boiled potatoes in a railway café while Edward complained that modern cities had "lost their standards." "This isn't quite what you described," Charles said. Peter stabbed his potato. "It's early." Mr. Pike said, "The evening may yet improve." At that exact moment a passing waiter spilled soup down Edward's trousers. Edward closed his eyes. "Wonderful." Chapter Two — His Sister After Dark Clara should have felt guilty. Instead, she felt strangely light. This became complicated when Lydia cornered her the following afternoon in the upstairs sitting room. "You look different." Clara nearly dropped her embroidery. "What?" "Different." "I don't." "You do." Lydia closed the door. Clara watched her. "Why are you closing that?" "For privacy." "Why do we need privacy?" Lydia walked toward her. "That's what I'm trying to determine." Clara set the embroidery aside. "Lydia." "Clara." "You're behaving oddly." Lydia stopped in front of her. “You were in Beatrice’s room last night.” Clara went pale. "What?" Lydia smiled slowly. "I knew it." "You didn't know anything!" "I suspected." “Did you see me?” "No." Clara exhaled. “Then how could you possibly know?” Lydia tilted her head. “Because Beatrice came downstairs this morning looking entirely too pleased with herself, and you spent breakfast staring into your coffee as though it contained evidence.” “Lydia!” “Also, you are wearing the same earrings you wore yesterday and a different dress.” Clara stared at her. “That proves nothing.” “No,” Lydia said cheerfully. “But your face just proved the rest.” Clara stared at her. "You're awful." "Yes." "You won't tell Charles?" Lydia's amusement vanished. "Of course not." Clara searched her face. "Why not?" Lydia shrugged. "Because Charles has spent three years treating you like decorative upholstery." "Lydia!" "He has." "He is your brother." "Unfortunately." Clara stood. "This is ridiculous." Lydia caught her hand. Clara stopped. Lydia looked at her very differently now. "You know," she said, "I've wondered about you." Clara's pulse quickened. "Wondered what?" "Whether all that shyness is real." "It is." "All of it?" Clara tried to pull away. Lydia did not let go. "Lydia." "You let Beatrice kiss you." Clara whispered, "That's different." "Why?" "Because she's—" "Controlling?" "Yes." "Confident?" "Yes." "Older?" Clara hesitated. Lydia smiled. "Interesting." Clara frowned. "You are enjoying this far too much." "Probably." Lydia stepped closer. Clara's back touched the edge of the desk. "What are you doing?" "Testing a theory." "What theory?" "That perhaps my brother married a much more interesting woman than anyone realized." Clara whispered, "You really are arrogant." "I know." "And completely insufferable." "I know that too." Clara stared at her. Then, with a courage she did not know she possessed, she said, "Then stop talking." Lydia blinked. Clara kissed her first. When she pulled away, Lydia looked genuinely astonished. Clara smiled nervously. "Interesting enough?" Lydia slowly grinned. "Oh, Clara." "What?" "Where have you been hiding?" Clara was still blushing. “I wasn't hiding.” “You absolutely were.” Lydia stood and offered her hand. Clara looked at it suspiciously. “What now?” “I think we should continue this conversation somewhere less likely to be interrupted.” “Lydia.” “My room is twenty feet away.” “That is not a conversation.” “It might begin as one.” Clara laughed despite herself, then allowed Lydia to pull her toward the corridor. At the bedroom door, Lydia turned. “Last chance to become respectable again.” Clara looked back toward the sitting room. Then she reached past Lydia, opened the door herself, and said quietly: “I think I already missed it.” Lydia followed her inside. Meanwhile, in the City… The men's second attempt at nightlife began with a cab driver misunderstanding Peter's directions and delivering them to a church charity auction. Charles insisted they leave immediately. Edward discovered free whisky. They stayed forty minutes. Mr. Pike accidentally bid twelve dollars on a crocheted tea cozy. Peter attempted conversation with an attractive blonde. She introduced him to her husband. Her husband was six feet four. Peter returned to the group. "Lovely people." Charles narrowed his eyes. "You look pale." "Lighting." By midnight they had been rejected from two clubs, overcharged at a third, and somehow acquired three raffle tickets for a ham. Edward won the ham. Nobody knew what to do with it. Chapter Three — The Maid Knew Her Secret Nora was polishing the upstairs banister when Lydia appeared. "You're doing that wrong." Nora froze. "I'm sorry, miss." Lydia smiled. "I was joking." Nora exhaled. "Yes, miss." "You apologize too much." Nora resumed polishing. "So does Mrs. Charles." "Clara." "Yes, miss." Lydia leaned against the rail. "Nora." "Yes?" "Look at me." Nora did. Lydia's expression was amused. "You always obey immediately." "It's my job." "Everything?" Nora lowered her eyes. "Within reason." "Who decides reason?" "You do, usually." Lydia laughed. "Smart girl." Nora continued working. Lydia watched her. "Have you ever disliked me?" Nora stopped. "Miss?" "Don't lie." Nora considered. "Occasionally." Lydia looked delighted. "When?" "When you ring for me after midnight because you've left a book downstairs." "Fair." "When you change dresses three times before dinner." "Also fair." "And when you leave stockings on the floor." Lydia gasped. "Nora Bell." "You asked." Lydia stepped closer. "And yet you stay." "It's employment." "Only employment?" Nora looked up. Something passed between them. Nora swallowed. Lydia said softly, "You know everyone's secrets." "I know where everyone leaves things." "Same skill." Nora tried to turn away. Lydia caught the polishing cloth. Their hands touched. Nora immediately withdrew hers. "Miss Lydia." "Yes?" "This is not wise." Lydia smiled. "Nothing interesting ever is." Nora glanced toward the corridor. "No one is here." "I know." "Mrs. Blackwood could come upstairs." "Beatrice is in the conservatory." "Mrs. Charles?" "Clara is reading." Nora stared at her. "You know where everyone is." "So do you." Nora's voice lowered. "That's different." "Is it?" Lydia moved closer. Nora whispered, "I'm employed here." "And?" "I could lose my position." "You won't." "You can't promise that." Lydia's arrogance softened. "No," she admitted, "but I can promise I wouldn't let it happen because of me." Nora looked at her for a long moment. Then she said, "You really do think you can solve everything." "Usually." Nora smiled faintly. "That's what makes you unbearable." Lydia grinned. Then Nora kissed her. The polishing cloth slipped from Nora’s hand and fell to the floor. Lydia stared at her. For perhaps the first time since Nora had known her, Lydia Blackwood appeared to have absolutely nothing to say. “Well,” she finally managed. Nora immediately stepped back. “I shouldn't have done that.” “You absolutely should have.” “Miss Lydia—” “Nora.” The maid stopped. Lydia glanced at the discarded cloth between them, then nudged it aside with the toe of her slipper. “You've spent years coming into my room to put things away.” Nora's cheeks reddened. “That is my job.” Lydia stepped closer. “Tonight you can come in without carrying anything.” Nora looked toward the servants’ staircase, then toward Lydia’s bedroom door. “You really are trouble.” “I've been telling you that for years.” Nora shook her head, although the smile had already betrayed her. Lydia opened the bedroom door and stood aside. Nora hesitated on the threshold. “Still giving orders, miss?” Lydia smiled. “Would you rather give one?” Nora looked at her for a moment, then reached for Lydia’s hand. “Close the door.” Lydia did. Meanwhile, in the City… Peter's "exclusive club" turned out to be a basement with four tables and a piano missing three keys. Charles ordered champagne. The waiter brought cider. Edward demanded a refund. The proprietor invited them to leave. Outside, it began raining. Mr. Pike opened his umbrella. A gust of wind inverted it instantly. The ham, still being carried by Peter because nobody trusted the hotel cloakroom, slipped from its paper wrapping and rolled into the gutter. All four men watched it disappear beneath a parked delivery truck. Peter whispered, "That was a very good ham." Chapter Four — Heat in the Service Wing Nora entered the kitchen just after midnight. Margaret was kneading dough. "You know it's Saturday," Nora said. "Dough doesn't." "You could leave it." Margaret looked offended. "And let it think it's won?" Nora smiled. Margaret noticed. "What?" "Nothing." "That's not a nothing smile." Nora sat at the table. Margaret dusted flour from her hands. "What's happened?" Nora shook her head. "Nothing." Margaret stared. "Nora." Nora laughed. "Why does everyone say my name like that?" "Because you're a terrible liar." Margaret poured tea into two mugs. Nora watched her. "You know everything." "I work in a kitchen. People confess beside food." Nora accepted the mug. "Do you ever wish you lived differently?" Margaret shrugged. "I live exactly as I please." "Really?" "Within the limits of income, law, weather, and Beatrice Blackwood." Nora laughed. Margaret leaned against the table. "What brought this on?" Nora traced the rim of her mug. "I was in Lydia's room last night." Margaret's eyebrows rose. Nora looked at her. "Don't." "I haven't said anything." "You're thinking very loudly." Margaret sat beside her. "How late?" Nora's cheeks reddened. Margaret smiled. "Ah." "That's all you're going to say?" "What did you expect? Thunder?" Nora stared into her tea. "I don't know." "Did you want to be there?" Nora hesitated only a moment. "Yes." "Then there's your answer." "It's not that simple." "Things are usually simple. People make them complicated afterward." Nora looked at Margaret. "You always sound so certain." "I'm usually right." "You're impossible too." "Who else is impossible?" Nora flushed. Margaret smiled knowingly. "Ah." Nora looked away. Margaret reached across and wiped a small streak of flour from Nora's cheek. Nora went still. Margaret's fingers lingered. Nora whispered, "Margaret." "Yes?" "You shouldn't do that." "Probably not." Neither moved. Nora said, "You're very close." "I noticed." "What if someone comes in?" "At twelve-thirty?" "Beatrice." Margaret considered. "Fair point." Nora laughed. Margaret did too. Then Margaret kissed her. Nora's hand caught the edge of the table. When Margaret pulled back, she said calmly, "Tea's getting cold." Nora stared at her. "How can you say that now?" Margaret picked up her mug. "Because it is." Nora stared at her. “You kiss me and then complain about the tea?” “I can do two things at once.” Margaret stood, took both mugs, and carried them to the counter. Nora watched her. “What are you doing?” “Making sure they don't spill.” “Why?” Margaret turned. “Because I intend to be distracted.” Nora laughed softly. Margaret came back to her, untied Nora's apron bow with one easy pull, and let the white fabric fall loose behind her. Nora's eyes widened. “Margaret.” “Yes?” “That was part of my uniform.” “I know.” Margaret took her hand. “My room is warmer than this kitchen.” Nora glanced at the dying stove. Then at Margaret. “Well,” she said, “we wouldn't want to get cold.” Margaret grinned and led her through the service corridor. Meanwhile, in the City… Charles finally found women willing to sit with them. This seemed promising for approximately six minutes. Then the women explained that drinks would be ten dollars each. Edward objected on economic grounds. Peter attempted charm. Mr. Pike attempted dignity. Charles attempted negotiation. The women left. Edward called them extortionists. A waiter informed Edward that he still owed for the drinks. Edward paid. Then Peter realized his wallet was missing. They searched the floor. They searched the table. They questioned the waiter. They accused the cloakroom attendant. Eventually Mr. Pike found the wallet in Peter's inside jacket pocket. Nobody spoke for nearly a minute. Peter said, "These things happen." Edward replied, "Not to competent people." Chapter Five — Roses After Supper Margaret found Evelyn in the garden early Sunday morning. Evelyn was trimming roses aggressively. "Planning to kill them?" Evelyn looked up. "What?" "You've attacked that bush for ten minutes." "I haven't." Margaret held out a mug. "Coffee." Evelyn took it. "Thank you." Margaret leaned against the stone wall. "You look worried." "I'm always worried." "Why?" Evelyn gestured toward the house. "Because everything here belongs to someone else." Margaret frowned. "What does that mean?" "The house. The gardens. The tools. My room. My wages." "Your life belongs to you." Evelyn gave a humorless laugh. "That's easy for you to say." "Why?" "Because nobody scares you." Margaret considered. "Plenty scares me." "I've never seen it." "That's because I'm talented." Evelyn smiled. Margaret nodded toward the roses. "Beatrice?" Evelyn looked away. "She watches everything." "True." "She notices everything." "Also true." "I always think I've done something wrong." Margaret sipped her coffee. "Perhaps because she enjoys making people think that." Evelyn looked at her. "You're not afraid of her." "No." "Why?" "Because she still eats my soup." Evelyn laughed. Margaret smiled. "There you are." "What?" "You should laugh more." Evelyn shook her head. "I don't have much reason." Margaret stepped closer. "Then borrow one." Evelyn looked confused. Margaret gently removed the pruning shears from her hand. "You'll cut yourself." Evelyn whispered, "Margaret." "Yes?" "You shouldn't—" Margaret kissed her. Evelyn stiffened completely. Margaret pulled back at once. "Sorry." Evelyn grabbed her apron. Margaret blinked. Evelyn whispered, "Don't be." Then she kissed her back. A watering can tipped over beside them. Neither noticed. Margaret finally pulled away just far enough to breathe. “You're shaking.” “I know.” “Because you're frightened?” Evelyn looked toward the house. “Partly.” Margaret brushed a loose curl from her face. “And the rest?” Evelyn looked back at her. “You.” Margaret smiled. “Better answer.” She took Evelyn's gloved hand and began walking toward the small gardener's cottage beyond the rose beds. Evelyn stopped. “Where are we going?” “You've spent all morning worrying about losing your job.” “Yes.” “So for the next hour,” Margaret said, tugging gently at the fingers of Evelyn's glove until it slipped free, “you're going to stop thinking about work.” Evelyn looked at the discarded glove in Margaret's hand. Then she smiled. “That may take more than an hour.” Margaret opened the cottage door. “I'm flexible.” Meanwhile, in the City… At eight Sunday morning, the four men sat in their hotel room surrounded by the wreckage of failure. Charles had lost one shoe. Nobody knew how. Edward had acquired a parking citation despite not owning the motorcar they had allegedly parked. Peter had a bruise on his forehead from walking into a decorative column. Mr. Pike had developed hiccups. "We should go home," Edward said. Nobody disagreed. Charles looked around. "What do we tell them?" Peter said, "Fishing was excellent." Mr. Pike hiccupped. Edward nodded. "We caught trout." "How many?" "Several." "How large?" Edward thought. "Respectable." Charles looked at the empty room. "We need fish." Silence. Peter said, "There's a market downstairs." Chapter Six — The Greenhouse Door Evelyn spent the rest of Sunday expecting disaster. It arrived at four in the afternoon wearing pearls. Beatrice found her in the greenhouse. "Evelyn." Evelyn nearly dropped a tray of seedlings. "Mrs. Blackwood." Beatrice looked at the tray. "You've overwatered those." Evelyn's face fell. "I'll fix them." "You can't unwater something." "No." Beatrice folded her arms. "Evelyn." "Yes?" "Why are you terrified of me?" "I'm not." Beatrice stared. Evelyn immediately corrected herself. "A little." "Why?" Evelyn set down the tray. "Because I need this job." Beatrice's expression changed. "I have never threatened your job." "No." "Have I criticized your work?" "Sometimes." "Because sometimes it requires criticism." Evelyn nodded. "Yes." Beatrice stepped closer. "But you are very good at what you do." Evelyn blinked. "I am?" Beatrice sighed. "Must I publish it in the newspaper?" Evelyn smiled nervously. "No." Beatrice studied her. "You were with Margaret last night." Evelyn's smile vanished. Her face drained of color. Beatrice continued, "Interesting reaction." Evelyn whispered, "How do you know?" "Margaret told me." "She told you?" "Not directly." "Then—" "Margaret came into breakfast looking as though she'd won a private war, and you arrived twenty minutes late with your scarf tied differently than usual." Evelyn stared at her. "You noticed that?" "I notice everything." Evelyn looked toward the greenhouse door. "Am I dismissed?" Beatrice stared at her. "For disappearing with Margaret for half the night?" Evelyn swallowed. "Yes." Beatrice laughed. Actually laughed. Evelyn stared. Beatrice shook her head. "My dear woman, if I dismissed everyone in this house for inappropriate affection, I would have to start with myself." Evelyn blinked. "What?" Beatrice moved closer. "You really don't notice anything outside the flower beds, do you?" "I try not to." "That may be your problem." Evelyn looked at her. Beatrice reached up and adjusted the scarf at Evelyn's neck. Evelyn froze. "Mrs. Blackwood." "Beatrice." "I shouldn't call you that." "Tonight you should." Evelyn whispered, "You're doing that thing." "What thing?" "Making me nervous." Beatrice smiled. "Perhaps I enjoy it." Evelyn's breath caught. Beatrice touched her chin. "Do you want me to stop?" Evelyn looked toward the greenhouse glass, the fading sunlight, the empty garden paths. Then back at Beatrice. "No." Beatrice kissed her. Evelyn's pruning shears fell to the floor. Beatrice glanced down. "Those are expensive." Evelyn burst out laughing. And Beatrice, unexpectedly, laughed with her. Then Evelyn noticed Beatrice's hand still resting at her waist. Her laughter faded. “Beatrice.” “Yes?” “You're still doing it.” “Doing what?” “Making me nervous.” Beatrice reached behind Evelyn and pushed the greenhouse door closed. The latch clicked. Evelyn looked at it. Then back at her. “That doesn't help.” “It wasn't intended to.” Beatrice's fingers found the zipper at the back of Evelyn's work dress, but she stopped before moving it. “Tell me to stop.” Evelyn swallowed. For once, she did not look toward the house, the gardens, or the paths where someone might appear. She looked only at Beatrice. “Don't.” And the greenhouse lights burned long after the rest of Blackwood House had gone dark. The Return of the Fishermen At six-thirty on Sunday evening, the women gathered in the drawing room. Clara sat beside Beatrice, not close enough to be noticed, but close enough that their hands brushed once when Clara reached for her glass. Lydia occupied the chaise as though she owned it. Nora stood near the drinks trolley. Margaret leaned in the doorway with folded arms. Evelyn arranged fresh roses in a silver vase, although she had already rearranged them twice. The motorcar sounded on the drive. Clara glanced toward the window. "They're back." Lydia sighed. "So ends the best weekend this house has had in years." Nora lowered her eyes to hide a smile. Margaret said, "Speak for yourself. I still have dough rising." Beatrice looked at them all. "Everyone behave normally." Lydia raised an eyebrow. "What exactly is normal now?" Beatrice gave her a look. Lydia smiled. "Right. Respectable misery." The front door opened. Edward entered first, carrying himself with the wounded dignity of a man who had been defeated by an entire city. Charles followed with two boxes of fish. Peter came behind him with a bruise above one eyebrow. Mr. Pike entered last, limping slightly and looking as though he had lost an argument with public transportation. The women rose. Beatrice smiled warmly. "Darling." Edward kissed her cheek. "Wonderful trip." "Was it?" "Excellent fishing." Charles lifted one of the boxes. "Look." Margaret stared at it. Then at the small white label still attached to one fish. "$1.20 a pound." Silence. Charles looked down. Peter closed his eyes. Lydia turned toward the mantelpiece and bit her knuckle. Edward recovered first. "The lodge sells its catch." "How practical," Beatrice said. Clara pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Charles looked at her. "Are you crying?" She nodded. "I missed you terribly." Lydia made a strangled sound. Peter frowned. "Are you all right?" "Perfect," Lydia said. Mr. Pike slowly looked around the room. Something was wrong. Or perhaps something was right. Nora seemed unusually relaxed. Margaret was smiling for no apparent reason. Evelyn no longer looked as though she expected dismissal every time Beatrice spoke. Clara seemed almost radiant. Lydia appeared dangerously content. And Beatrice stood at the center of them all with the expression of a woman who had just acquired information she intended to use for the rest of her natural life. Mr. Pike narrowed his eyes. "Was everything quiet?" Six women looked at him. Beatrice answered. "Painfully." Edward sighed. "I knew we could trust you." Lydia murmured, "Completely." Charles set the fish down. "What did you all do?" Clara looked at Beatrice. Beatrice looked at Evelyn. Evelyn looked at Margaret. Margaret glanced at Nora. Nora looked at Lydia. Lydia smiled at Clara. Clara turned back to Charles. "Oh," she said softly, "nothing you would have found interesting." Beatrice lifted her glass. "To fishing." The women raised theirs. The men did the same. "To fishing," Edward said. Lydia smiled. "May you go again very soon." This time the women did not even try to hide their laughter. Epilogue — A Necessary Weekend Away Three days later, Beatrice announced at breakfast that she required a spa weekend. Edward looked up from the financial pages. "A what?" "A spa weekend." "You've never needed a spa weekend." Beatrice folded her napkin. "Until now." Clara nearly smiled into her coffee. Edward frowned. "Where?" "Greenbriar Springs." Lydia immediately said, "I'm coming." Charles looked at her. "You hate spas." "I've changed." Clara said quietly, "I thought perhaps I might come too." Charles looked surprised. "You?" Clara smiled. "I think it would be good for me." Beatrice nodded. "Excellent." Edward shrugged. "Three women for a weekend. Fine." Beatrice took a sip of coffee. "Four." Everyone looked at her. "Nora will come." Mr. Pike frowned. "The maid?" "Clara will need assistance." Clara lowered her eyes. "Yes. I probably will." Lydia coughed into her napkin. Edward said, "Very well." Beatrice continued. "Five." Charles looked suspicious. "Five?" "Margaret." "The cook?" Beatrice nodded. "I have dietary restrictions." Margaret, standing in the doorway, raised an eyebrow. Edward glanced at her. "You do?" Beatrice did not hesitate. "Temporary ones." Margaret said, perfectly straight-faced, "Very complicated." Clara stared at her plate. Lydia's shoulders were shaking. Edward sighed. "Fine." Beatrice folded her hands. "Six." The room went quiet. Edward lowered the newspaper. "Who else?" "Evelyn." "The gardener?" Beatrice smiled. "The spa has extensive botanical gardens." Edward stared at her. "And you need our gardener for that?" "Professional curiosity." Evelyn, carrying flowers into the room, nearly dropped them. Beatrice continued calmly. "She may learn something useful." Charles looked from one woman to another. "So let me understand this. You need Clara because she's going, Lydia because she invited herself, Nora because Clara apparently cannot survive three days without a maid, Margaret because of mysterious dietary restrictions, and Evelyn because there are flowers." Beatrice smiled. "Exactly." Edward lowered the newspaper again. "Six women?" Beatrice nodded. "For an entire weekend?" "That is generally what a weekend means." Edward ignored that. "And how many rooms exactly are you planning to book?" Beatrice glanced at Clara. Clara glanced at Lydia. Lydia immediately understood. "Six, I suppose," she said, making it sound reluctantly obvious. Edward nearly dropped the paper. "Six?" "Well," Beatrice said, "there are six of us." "At Greenbriar Springs? Do you know what they charge per room?" Lydia gave a tiny sigh. "Father, must we discuss money at breakfast?" "When you intend to spend that much of it, yes." Clara lowered her eyes, hiding a smile. Beatrice looked mildly disappointed. "Very well. Perhaps you're right." Edward blinked. He had clearly not expected victory so quickly. Beatrice continued, "We could take three rooms." Nora almost looked up too quickly. Margaret suddenly became very interested in the coffee service. Evelyn stared at the roses. Lydia sighed theatrically. "Three?" Beatrice nodded. "We'll simply have to manage." Clara added softly, "I'm sure we can make it work." "It may be rather crowded," Lydia said. "We'll survive," Margaret said from the doorway. Nora bit her lip. Evelyn looked as though she had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. Edward sat back, visibly pleased. "There. You see? Perfectly sensible." Charles nodded. "Three rooms for six women. Much more reasonable." Edward smiled at Beatrice with genuine approval. "You women can be quite frugal when you put your minds to it." Beatrice returned the smile. "Apparently we can." Under the table, Lydia's shoe touched Clara's. Across the room, Margaret caught Nora's eye. Evelyn glanced toward Beatrice and immediately looked away again. Edward unfolded his newspaper with the satisfied air of a man who believed he had just saved the household a considerable amount of money. "Three rooms," he said. "Excellent." Beatrice lifted her coffee. "Three will be more than enough." This time, every woman at the table managed not to laugh. Barely. Then Beatrice looked around the table at the other women. "Friday morning?" One by one, they nodded. And for the first time in the history of Blackwood House, every woman in the room was genuinely looking forward to a weekend away. Story Note: Under One Roof began as the six-image Under One Roof set, built around a chain of secrets within one household — stepmother and stepdaughter, stepdaughter and sister-in-law, sister-in-law and maid, maid and cook, cook and gardener, and gardener and stepmother. The mini-novella grew out of those images and expands their playful, romantic, and humorous what-if concept into a full story. Enjoy it here : Pulp Fiction Series: Under One Roof