The Night Gardener by Jonathan Auxier Read Free Book Online Page B

sir.”
    “Ah, victuals!” Master Windsor clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “There’s nothing I prefer to a hot meal at the end of a long ride … Well, perhaps a hot meal at the end of a
short
ride!” He turned toward his wife, offering a low bow. “After you, my dear.”
    Mistress Windsor rolled her eyes and walked into the house, closing the door behind her. It shut right in his face.
    Bertrand gave Molly a somewhat embarrassed smile and then trotted inside after his wife, calling out some joke about the tortoise and the hare.
    Molly exchanged a look with her brother. “He seems … friendly,” she said.
    Kip snorted. “Friendly like a housefly. I’d ’a shook his hand if I didn’t think it’d frighten him to death.” He hobbled to the carriage and climbed onto the driver’s seat. “It’s a mixed-up world where
he’s
the one bein’ called Master.” He snapped the reins and drove into the yard.
    Molly spent the next half hour finishing supper. She stewed alongside her food, thinking about how unfair Kip’s comment about Master Windsor had been. Her brother, of all people, should know what it meant to be disregarded.
    The evening menu was mostly burned pork roast with a side of mostly bland vegetables—the best Molly could do in light of all the extra housework. Penny spent the bulk of her mealtime trying to see how many individual peas she could spear onto her fork tongs, Alistair busied himself with smuggling what looked to be peppermints from his pocket into his mouth without his parents noticing, Constance seemed more interested in her wineglass than her plate, and Bertrand Windsor was too busy talking to eat much of anything. “Ah! Your native cuisine!” he exclaimed as Molly spooned some boiled potatoes onto his plate. She smiled and resisted the urge to tell him that the potatoes she grew up on had been black and slimy—sick with blight.
    Bertrand appeared to be the sort for whom silence was uncomfortable, and he made it his mission to furnish the meal with conversation—mostly by telling jokes he had learned in town. “Th-th-the one gentleman says to the other: ‘My wife’s always after me for money. When I wake up, she says,
Give me five pounds!
And then when I come home that night, it’s the same thing,
Give me five pounds!
’ The otherfellow asked what she does with all her money. And the first one says: ‘I don’t know, I haven’t given her any!’” He chuckled, shaking his head.
    Penny looked up from her peas, pointing at Molly. “I like her stories better.”
    Molly smiled modestly. “I thought it was very funny, sir,” she said.
    And so it went for the rest of the meal. Master Windsor stumbled through a series of bons mots and “corkers” (a word he had picked up in town). The less interested his family acted, the more eager he became to please. No one appeared more irritated with his performance than Constance, who made repeated attempts to change the subject to something more sensible. “I should like to hear a bit more about the men from the bank, darling,” she interjected at one point. “Did they seem receptive?”
    “Ah! That reminds me,” he declared, “I overheard the most amusing story about two bankers trapped in a nunnery. How does it go? Let me see …”
    “Let us
not
.” Constance dropped her silverware against her plate, rose from her seat, and marched from the room.
    Master Windsor smiled weakly at his children, who were now watching him. “Indigestion, p-p-perhaps?” he said.
    Constance’s abrupt departure shattered any illusion of this being a happy family reunion, and the children soon excused themselves, leaving Master Windsor to eat alone. The sight was too much for Molly to bear, and she waited in the kitchen as he finished eating before returning to clear the dishes.
    It wasn’t until later that evening that Molly got a clearer idea of why her mistress had been so upset. She had just dried and hung the pots in the kitchen when