By Kathleen Bradford, based upon characters created by E. F. Benson and expanded by Tom Holt, Guy Fraser-Sampson and Deryck Solomon. This story takes place just after Mr Solomon's story, which can be found at
http://inspectormorrisonanotheryearintilling.blogspot.com/2012/06/january.html
http://inspectormorrisonanotheryearintilling.blogspot.com/2012/06/january.html
A hard freeze and snowfall in January had allowed the residents of Tilling to ice skate on the flooded salt flats outside of town. Mr Algernon Wyse had shown himself a master of skating in the English style, his blades inscribing graceful swirls and figure-eights on the ice. Whilst many of the other residents of Tilling who braved the ice clung to each other to keep from falling, Mr Wyse nonchalantly raised his hat to each lady as he smoothly glided past them. No rough barrel-jumping or speed-skating for Mr Wyse; he moved over the ice with the finesse of a professional dancer.
Later that evening after wonderful dinner of salmon from Scotland, roast beef from the Midlands, and their cook’s delightful Sussex Pond Pudding (an old recipe discovered in a hand-written cookery book that Cook had recently inherited from her great aunt), the Wyses sat in their parlour before the fire.
“Dearest Algernon,” began Susan, “I must say how very proud I was of you today. No one, not even I, suspected expert ease and beauty with which you skate. All Tilling is agog, just as they were when we began riding bicycles and you showed yourself a master of that machine.” She had had all afternoon and evening to prepare this gracious little speech for her husband.
Her husband inclined his head. “Thank you, my dear. I did learn from the best.” He paused, then said, “Although . . . there was a time in childhood that I was fearful of such weather and the joys of playing in snow and ice seemed deadly to me.”
“Algernon! Why is that?” questioned Susan.
“It began with a cold snap just like this, when I was a child in Hampshire. My sister Amelia and I watched the snow fall throughout the evening and anticipated the pleasures of playing in it the next day. A very deep freeze. I remember hearing the trees crack in the night and branches crash as the weight of the ice brought them down. It was not a gentle snow.
“As I lay drowsy in my bed that night, I had a thrilling idea, a way to get ahead of Amelia, who bullied me. I would get up earlier than she, and build for myself a snow fort that I could valiantly defend from her approach, like a knight of old.
“I had been troubled by nightmares, and my father was rather a martinet, demanding that I manfully wake to the sound of an alarm instead of being what he called ‘softly woken by the maid.’ So I set my alarm clock to sound at six in the morning.
“By the time Amelia came out after breakfast, my snow fort was solid and I was secure in my fastness. And the ‘long and short of the story’, as they say, was that there was a snowball fight. I meanly packed an extra-hard icy snowball for Amelia. After a volley of snowballs back and forth, I imagined I was on the pitch at Lord’s and threw my icy snowball at Amelia as hard as I could. It hit her squarely in the face.
“In my childish foolishness, I expected her to cry, I imagined I would soothe her and then allow her to be a guest in my snow fort. Unfortunately, my ball of ice had quite the opposite effect. Amelia became furious and ran straight at me, her eyes as wild as those of an enraged bull. She had such anger and such momentum that she ploughed completely through the snowy wall that I had built, knocking my snow fort into bits.
“Amelia threw me down so hard that the wind was knocked out of me. When she saw me gasping for breath, she calmed down, fearing that she may have done some real damage to me. Fortunately or not, my thick coat, hat, and muffler kept me from any real harm. Once she had ascertained that I was uninjured, she laughed at me, and said she was going to skate on what we called 'our little lake,' which was the largest of the ponds that had been dug out in accordance with the directions of Capability Brown, the renowned landscape architect, in 1763, shortly before he was appointed Master Gardener at Hampton Court Palace.” Algernon Wyse paused and took a drink of his own excellent after-dinner port.
Algernon noted Susan’s sympathetic silence, a trait which he adored, and he continued, “Still shaken, I followed Amelia to our little lake, but I was too upset to skate with her. Also, I feared she might still be angry. So I hid my fear and busied myself in sculpting a snow-woman, shaped rather like Signorina, our Italian governess, who was kept indoors by a cold in her head, bemoaning her absence from Italy and her presence in the Arctic wilds of the English country-side. Signorina had a robust physique, rather like your own, carissima sposa.”
Susan Wyse blushed a little, lowered her eyes, and murmured, “Dear Algernon.” Then she raised her eyes and said gently, “Pray, continue your story.”
“Amelia was trying to get my attention, which I kept firmly focused upon my sculpture. I imagined myself to be Michelangelo, creating a companion-piece to his David. I heard a loud crack, I turned, and I saw a large hole in the ice and Amelia had disappeared. I instantly realized she skated too far toward the middle of our little lake and had fallen through the ice.
“Without thinking, I grabbed a branch that had been broken from a nearby tree by the weight of the ice that clung to it. I ran out onto the pond, and then I lay prone upon its ice, pushing my branch before me as I crept toward the black hole. Just as the branch got close, Amelia surfaced and grabbed it. My fear at losing her was such that I pulled her from the icy water without thought for myself.
“Two of the groundsmen saw what had happened and ran up, but they were afraid to go too far out on the ice. You see, the ice had begun cracking, and the weight of an adult male could send everyone into the cold black water beneath. I managed to get Amelia, who was coughing and clinging to me, over to the men. One picked up Amelia and ran, literally ran, all the way back to the Hall carrying her in his arms. Oddly, I remember he had to take high, leaping steps because the snow was so very deep, and he reminded me of a bounding stag; ever afterward, in fact, I thought of him as Oldfield the Stag.
“The other man and I followed more slowly, as he was much older than the Leaping Stag, and I clung to his hand, not because I needed it for physical balance but because I needed it for emotional balance; his hard and re-assuring hand kept me from crying as the shock of the morning’s events began to wear off.”
“Amelia was uninjured?” inquired Susan. Algernon, who had long finished his port, rose and poured a dram of Laphroaig whisky for each of them. He handed the small glass of amber fluid to his wife with a bow. The peaty alcohol warmed them both as he re-lived the icy coldness of that morning long ago.
“Yes, she was uninjured. And Father was pleased with me, with my ‘quick thinking and courageous action under fire,’ as he described it. Amelia was kept indoors for the rest of the day, but by dinner she was as boisterous and outspoken as she ever was. For my bravery, I was allowed to eat with the grown-ups in the dining room thenceforth. As for Amelia and I, although we disagree upon occasion, we have never fought again. She said I bravely saved her from certain death. She remembers that I thought and acted quickly, and that I did not cry, and she respects me for it.
“But I was always afterward afraid of the icy ponds around the Hall, until we were visited by the Skating Champion, whom I mentioned earlier this evening to you, during another ice-bound winter. I wanted so much to be as graceful on ice-skates as he. I told him of my admiration and confided my fear, and he helped me to conquer that fear by teaching me to skate. The skill and mastery he shared with me during the few days he stayed with us has remained with me to this day. And he kept safe the secret that I had been so terribly afraid, which I later realized was well-mannered of him, and that remains with me also.” Algernon Wyse paused in thought, “I think Father told me how to be a brave man, but Mr Benson showed me what it was to face my fears and remain a gentleman. He was, in many ways, a role-model.”
“Thank you, Algernon, for trusting me with that wonderful reminiscence! I, too, will keep that secret safe,” said Susan. “And I have an idea. Perhaps tomorrow we could have an impromptu snowball party here in Porpoise Street. Ask our friends to come round and serve a Wassail cup to warm us all afterward. Not snowball fights, but perhaps snowball tosses for accuracy, or for height, like those Scotsmen did when we visited Braemar last year.”
“A magnificent plan, my dear!” Algernon Wyse bowed to his wife, or to her plan, or perhaps to Braemar’s competitive Scotsmen, although as he was facing south, the latter was unlikely. “Perhaps Cook will make another Sussex Pond Pudding for us to share with our guests. Such a delightful local dish; I’m sure our Honorable Mrs Pillson will love it,” said Algernon.
“And I shall ascertain whether Cook will share the recipe, as it is certain to be in demand.” Susan rose from her chair and took her husband’s hand; looking down at him (for she was taller as well as broader than he), she softly said, “And so to bed.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Georgino Mio!” exclaimed Lucia Pillson to her husband, Georgie, after breakfast the next morning. “Change into your old clothing. Presto! The Wyses are hosting a snowball toss on Porpoise Street, with a warm Wassail cup to follow.”
“Really? How impromptu of them,” said Georgie with little enthusiasm, thinking, How tarsome, out in the freezing cold, ruining perfectly good clothing. But catching a glance from Lucia’s gimlet eye, he replied, “Very well, Lucia,” as he knew arguing would simply waste his energy and he would lose the argument anyway. Just before he released a heavy sigh, he realized that he would be able to wear his new Russian snow boots with fur trim. Suddenly a snowball party did not seem so “tarsome” after all. He hurried upstairs to find that Foljambe, his maid and valet, had already laid out those pieces of clothing suitable for a snowy frolic.
When the Pillsons arrived at Porpoise Street, they found everyone except the Mapp-Flints there. Susan Wyse, thoughtfully, had ordered her chauffeur to make a pile of snowballs “as close to the same size as possible, and not too heavily packed” before he drove out of Tilling to pick up the Mapp-Flints at Grebe. As Georgie and Lucia greeted their friends, Diva Plaistow was scrutinizing this pile of snowballs, trying to decide which lucky snowballs would help her win the game.
A short way down the street, “Quaint” Irene Coles was busy creating her own snowballs. In one snowball she had concealed a large piece of anthracite, and Irene intended to throw this at Elizabeth Mapp-Flint. I’ll teach that old witch what a coal strike really is, thought Irene. But then Irene realized that speaking sarcastically to Mapp, as she always called Elizabeth, was quite different than assaulting her with a dangerous snowball; Irene’s beloved Lucia would surely frown upon it, and there was the possibility of being ostracized from Tilling society. I would miss the bridge parties, thought Irene, and what would Lucia think of me if I give that old witch the smack that she deserves? Irene’s private income was supplemented by the hospitality of her friends, which allowed her the freedom to pursue her painting, and Irene had once been ostracized by Lucia after she had implicitly indicated that she believed Lucia had lied, and another such ostracism would be too much to bear. Thus the anthracitic snowball Irene laid aside, intending to pick it up on the way home and use the coal on her fire, as was proper.
Boon, the Wyse’s butler, had appeared bearing a large, steaming silver (not silver-plate, as Elizabeth averred) punch bowl. He placed it on a small table that had been moved outside for the party. Wassail! thought Irene as she walked to the table, which was supported on one side by bricks, in order to balance it on the steep incline of Porpoise Street. She picked up a silver cup (which matched the punchbowl) and dipped it into the steaming fluid, following Mr Wyse’s lead; Irene wondered for a moment why he did not use the dipper but, since Mr Wyse was Mr Wyse, his action as host must certainly be the correct action.
Diva, who had followed Irene up Porpoise Street, noticed that one of the snowballs had fallen out of the pile and rolled some yards downhill to where Irene had been standing. She picked it up and placed it with the other snowballs so thoughtfully provided for their guests by the Wyses. Diva then went to claim her steaming cup of punch and warm her hands on the cup. She sipped the delicious concoction of wine and juice and spice as the Mapp-Flints joined the party, climbing carefully out of the Wyse’s Rolls Royce.
Elizabeth smiled widely at Diva. “Same old scarf, dear Diva? I recall that the rose-madder worsted you used was supposed to be mine, but far be it for me to complain.” While Elizabeth sniped at Diva, Major Benjy quickly swallowed his cup of punch, burning his tongue slightly, and acquired a second cup from Boon, who was refilling the bowl.
The fight over the worsted was old news, so Diva rudely ignored Elizabeth and turned to Georgie. “Any news, Mr Georgie?” she inquired. “And, my! what lovely boots! They look so deliciously warm.”
The Reverend Kenneth Bartlett, known as “The Padre,” and his wife Evie had joined the group around the punch bowl. “Ach, an’ just richt for the cauld,” the Padre agreed. The Padre was in the habit of speaking in a mixture of Scots dialect and Elizabethan English. Evie, mousier than ever in a grey and brown coat, squeaked in agreement.
Mr Wyse handed cups of punch to Evie and the Padre. “An’ a wee drappie will go down well, thank you,” said the Padre. Evie murmured her thanks.
Few vehicles would brave the steep incline of Porpoise Street when it was covered in snow and ice, and so Tilling society was able to have their snow party uninterrupted. Mr Georgie and Major Benjy, the tallest of the party, held a long rope stretched across the street, and the others were to throw snowballs at it. The players agreed to pay tuppence a throw, winner take all.
“’Tis harder than it looks, throwin’ the snowballs up the brae. T’ would be easier throwin’ doon the brae, to my way o’ thinkin’,” said the Padre.
“Ah, but that’s the sport of it,” responded Mr Wyse, as he threw a snowball to demonstrate to the others how it was done, and politely missed the line by an inch, forfeiting his tuppence. “We do seek a bit of challenge in the game.”
Diva, with one of her specially chosen snowballs threw first. Her toss was a complete miss, falling short of the line. “Drat!” she exclaimed.
Then Elizabeth, irritated at having to put tuppence into the pot, threw and missed. “The sun shone in my eyes,” she said, “I think I should be allowed to try my shot again.”
Diva harrumphed. “The sun is behind you, Elizabeth. No doing it over,” she said firmly.
Elizabeth stared fixedly at the rose-madder stripe in Diva’s scarf. Susan Wyse was watching the two women argue, and she looked at Elizabeth and recalled the comparison of Amelia to an angry bull that her husband had used in his story last night. Elizabeth always looks at that rose-madder in Diva’s muffler as if she’s a bull looking at a red flag—how silly, thought Susan.
“I meant that the light of the sun reflected off the snow and blinded me as I threw,” said Elizabeth through gritted teeth.
“I never realized before that you can say a whole sentence with your teeth gritted together, Elizabeth,” rejoined Diva, "Such an accomplishment. No doing it over.”
Sensing the storm brewing, Evie Bartlett bravely said, “Can I throw now, please?” Not wanting to seem ungracious to the Vicar’s wife, Elizabeth relented. Evie threw and missed by a hair’s breath, garnering praise from her friends.
Lucia stepped forward for her turn.
“Do show us how it’s done, Worship,” Elizabeth cooed with sweet sarcasm.
Lucia ignored the sarcasm. “I don’t know how it’s done, dear, but I’ll give it my best shot, as Georgie and Percy say when playing cricket or football,” she responded, mentioning her friends, the town surveyor and his brother the foreman of the gas works, both sports enthusiasts. She picked up a snowball threw, making sure she missed so that one of her friends could win.
“Oh, hard luck, beloved,” exclaimed Irene. “Do take my turn and try again,” she offered Lucia her snowball.
Diva interceded. “No doing it over,” she insisted.
So Irene threw her snowball with such energy that it sailed over the line and dropped into the snow far beyond.
“A brave try, Irene,” said Lucia.
Mr Wyse indicated that his wife should throw next, but Susan demurred. “Really, I’m not good at sports,” she said, but her friends urged her to try and to her surprise her snowball hit the line. Everyone cheered. “Beginner’s luck,” said Susan.
The men threw, with Mr Wyse and the Padre replacing Mr Georgie and the Major in holding the line. “Thank you, my arms were getting rather sore from holding the rope up for so long,” said Mr Georgie. Major Benjy snorted at this unmanly remark.
Georgie threw carefully but missed, “It’s much harder than I thought it would be, just as the Padre said.”
The Major wound up like a pitcher and hurled his snowball which flew farther than Irene’s had and missed the narrow rope as well.
Georgie then took the end of the rope back from the Padre, but as Major Benjy had wandered back over to the punch bowl, Mr Wyse retained the other end.
The Padre’s keen eye, which often aided his golf game, helped his snowball hit the line.
“Well thrown!” said Mr Georgie, “With your eye for distance and perspective, you should take up drawing.”
“Nae, nae, my parish duties, ye ken,” said the Padre smiling.
Algernon and Susan Wyse were having a quick, quiet word together. They seemed to come to an agreement. “We thought of two alternatives to offer: first, that we split the pot between Susan and the Padre, or second, play for the best out of three throws. Which would you prefer,” Mr Wyse addressed the question to the whole group.
“Best of three,” said Diva immediately.
“I agree with Diva,” said Elizabeth, whose competitive spirit was roused. As in a well-fought game of Bridge, Elizabeth bid without thinking of the two more tuppences that losing might cost when the score was tallied.
Boon appeared and relayed a message to Mrs Wyse, and thus it was the Wyse’s cook who cast the deciding vote: the Sussex Pond Pudding needed another half an hour before it would be ready to serve. “Indeed, let us throw again,” Susan said.
“If we are all agreed,” said Mr Wyse and everyone nodded.
Once again the rope was raised, with Quaint Irene volunteering to hold one end and Major Benjy taking up the other. When Elizabeth threw, Major Benjy dropped the line a bit. It was impossible to determine whether he had done so in an attempt to help his wife win or if his state of Wassail had made him unsteady.
“Sheer accident, a muscle contraction,” averred the Major, “My wounded arm, you know.” He patted his upper arm and flexed his shoulder. But since Elizabeth’s snowball had missed hitting the rope, it was a moot point.
In retaliation, when Lucia threw, Irene deliberately lowered the line, trying to help the line and the snowball to meet.
“Foul!” exclaimed Elizabeth joyously.
“Now, now,” said Lucia, shaking her finger at Irene. “You must play fair, Irene. I forfeit my throw.”
“Very munificent of you, Dear Worship,” said Elizabeth tartly. The tide of competition had washed all the sweetness out of her sarcasm.
“Irene’s turn to throw anyway,” said Diva, who walked carefully through the snow to take the rope from Irene. “Hold steady, Major,” she called and received an unsteady salute by way of reply.
Each of the players took their turn at the toss, and soon it was time for Lucia’s third throw. She lifted a random snowball from the pile, not realizing that it was the special, spiteful snowball that Irene had created, then rejected, and that Diva had unwittingly placed in the pile. “I’m going to throw this as hard as I can, so everyone, look out!” Lucia called playfully. She squinted at the rope and, remembering the lessons she had taken during the Riseholme golf stunt, she addressed the snowball in her hand: “Oo naughty ickle snowball! Lucia’s going to throw you hard as she can!”
Good God! thought Major Benjy, she sounds like that repulsive child actress Shirley Temple! And even worse when her husband lisps baby-talk that way.
Lucia drew back and as she threw, Elizabeth innocently exclaimed to her husband, “Do hold the rope steady, Benjy-boy!” for, overcome by his disgust at Lucia’s playful lisping, the Major had begun to lower his arm.
Lucia, using not only her arm muscles but also her back muscles and the momentum of her upper body, threw a pitch worthy of an American baseball player. But Elizabeth’s exclamation had startled her and her snowball bounced off the wall nearest to Major Benjy. It split open and the cold, wet anthracite core hit Major Benjy in the eye.
Mr Wyse suddenly felt weak, as he vividly remembered that frozen, fateful day he cruelly threw his icy snowball at Amelia.
“Oh, no!” “Are you hurt!?” “Your eye!” The Major’s friends exclaimed.
Major Benjy pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the black slush, leaving a black smear on his face. He blinked and after a moment said, “Pshaw! No harm done! What’s a little ice to an old campaigner?”
The coal blacking made him look like he had a deep bruise around his right eye. Diva stifled a nervous giggle, as one side of Major Benjy’s face reminded her of the Chinese Panda Bear she had seen in a travelling menagerie last summer.
“My dear Benjy-boy! You must go inside and wash your face!” exclaimed Elizabeth.
Aware that his reputation as a duelist had been eclipsed by his wife’s hen-pecking behavior, Major Benjy refused. “Come, come. Let us finish our game, then I can wash. Let’s have a winner!”
His friends were impressed. “That’s the ticket!” exclaimed Quaint Irene in admiration.
Mrs Wyse pressed another cup of warm Wassail on the Major, who downed it quickly and followed it with another.
Irene noticed that after the first cup had been drunk, Mr Wyse began to use the dipper. Aha! The first Wassail was done in casual camaraderie, then you use the dipper to keep from spreading germs, she thought, We should find an anthropologist to study Wyse in his natural habitat and then present the findings in a lecture at the Institute.
At last all the throws were completed, but there was a fierce debate as to whether Diva’s two near-misses trumped Susan’s single hit. At last it was decided that the Padre with three hits was the uncontested winner, with Susan’s single hit in second place. The Major had made an accidentally successful third throw, and Lucia, feeling guilty about her snowball hitting him in the eye, suggested an honorable mention for Major Benjy.
Mr Georgie said, “Yes, Major Benjy gets the award for the most sports-manish conduct. Or sports-manly, or whatever it is.”
“Best Sportsmanship Award,” said the Padre in plain modern English, for he did not know how it was said in Scottish or in Elizabethan English.
“Hurrah for Sportin’ Benjy!” cried Irene, knowing that her use of the Major’s Army nick-name would irritate Elizabeth.
“Here, here,” agreed Mr Wyse, bowing politely to the Major, then to Mr Georgie, then he bowed twice more in general, just in case there was someone in East Sussex to whom he had forgotten to bow.
As happened so often when Bridge was played in Tilling, the Padre pocketed the winnings, saying, “Tha wee tuppences will go guid wi’ the poor o’ the Parish. Every wee bittie helps.”
The group moved into Starling Cottage, the women jockeying for position in front of the fire, and the men waiting politely for their turn. Major Benjy went to wash his face and, just in passing, helped himself to a tumbler-full of Mr Wyse’s Laphroaig. Medicinal, of course, for the slight cut and the small bruise which was forming beneath his eye; doubtless it would help relieve the involuntary muscle contractions in his wounded arm as well.
Elizabeth and Diva immediately noticed the pudding, which had been placed on the buffet table with the rest of the food. They left the warmth of the fire and their places were immediately taken by the Padre and Mr Georgie.
Another vulgar, over-done display, thought Elizabeth, who said kindly, “Lovely as always, dear Susan! And is this a new dish I see? A boiled pudding?”
“Sussex Pond Pudding,” said Susan proudly.
“But where’s the Pond,” asked Diva.
Susan nodded to the maid, who dug a serving spoon into the pudding, which then released a “pond” of thick, caramelized sauce.
“There’s the Pond!” cried Diva with delight.
“Is that a lemon in the center?” asked Elizabeth dubiously.
“Yes,” replied Susan. “Cook says that the pudding is made with pastry which encases a whole lemon, with butter and sugar, and it is boiled or steamed for several hours. A traditional Sussex recipe which she learned from her great-aunt, who was cook to the Earl of Arundel and later to Mr Disraeli and the Viscountess Beaconsfield in London.”
The maid had sliced the lemon, which had candied like marmalade. Mr Wyse handed the first dish of pudding, over which the maid had poured thick cream, to Diva. “With your interest in culinary matters, Susan thought you might like this,” he said, graciously alluding to the fact that Diva ran a tea shop out of her house for four afternoons every week, with her maid Janet to help cook and serve.
Diva nodded in acknowledgement and filled her spoon. She then closed her eyes and put the spoonful into her mouth. Such a large, vulgar bite to take, thought Elizabeth as she smiled and received her share of the pudding, not like a lady at all.
But even Elizabeth could find nothing mean to say about the dish. Lucia waxed enthusiastic over the dish being “traditional Sussex fare, I must have it served at the next Corporation dinner.”
As the party broke up, Evie thanked the Wyses. “Such a fun time I’ve had today. Usually I’m with the Girl Guides and have to supervise the fun instead. So nice to relax and enjoy myself.”
Diva agreed and, clutching the recipe for Sussex Pond Pudding in her hand, she also thanked their host and hostess. “Delighted with the recipe, Susan. I wonder if Janet can make it in individual servings. We’ll experiment with it.” Perhaps it was worth the sixpence my three throws cost me after all, Diva thought.
“Better than your experiments with fish pastry,” said Elizabeth, as Diva tucked the ends of the scarf made with the rose-madder worsted into her coat.
“Capital Wassail,” said Major Benjy, clapping Mr Wyse on the back. “Warms a man up in this weather. I am—hiccup—fully fortified for my march back to Grebe.”
Algernon and Susan Wyse swiftly exchanged a glance. “No, no,” Mr Wyse hastened to say. “Our chauffeur will drive you home in the Royce. It is too cold, and we would never forgive ourselves if you or Mrs Mapp-Flint slipped on the ice, or mistakenly fell into the marsh water, and was truly injured.” Susan nodded vigorously in agreement. A squiffy Major Benjy was unsteady enough without the added hazard of snow and ice.
As they walked back home to Mallards House, Georgie said, “I’m glad, Lucia, that you made me come out today. Such fun! I haven’t romped in the snow since Hermy and Ursy tried to turn me into a snowman, when I was a child, just a few years ago.” Hermione and Ursula were Georgie’s sister who had a predilection for rough “larks,” and Mr Wyse was not the only man carrying childhood scars from wounds inflicted by a bullying sister.
“How everyone envied you your Russian boots! Evie Bartlett loved the fur trim on them,” said Lucia, pushing away any dark memories with a more congenial subject. “Yes, it was a wonderful day!”
THE END
Note:
For those of us unaccustomed to or unappreciative of suet, butter can be substituted. Please visit
Text Copyright 2012 Kathleen Bradford
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