Collinwood: Parts Seven-Nine

Seven

David squirmed. "Do I have to wear this?" he asked.

Daphne clipped the tie to his collar. "Yes," she said. "Your father doesn't come home everyday. You haven't seen him in a while."

He inserted a finger in his collar. It was too tight and way too uncomfortable. He was thankful that his dad didn't come home every day. It was bad enough that he didn't have time to prepare for it; but this was nothing new; his father was always throwing surprises out like this, and none of them pleasant. He was only thankful that he would be gone as soon as he arrived, no doubt back to Europe within a week. "How come you're so dressed up?" he asked.

She stood up and walked over to the mirror. "Because I have to make a good impression. You wouldn't want your father to fire me, would you?"

The boy drew his breath in sharply. He wouldn't dare fire Daphne, would he? She was the only one who partially understood him, even if she was an authority figure. Daphne was the only person who ever tried to understand him or be nice to him. "He wouldn't do that, would he?" he asked worriedly.

Daphne patted her hair and then looked at the boy. "Of course he won't David, but just in case, we have to be on our best behavior tonight." She said this absently. She was just as worried as David. No doubt the whole story would come out that she was the one who talked Elizabeth going back to Paris, and then where would she be? Back in Boston, waitressing, no doubt, and living in the same dingy apartment one block from Philip and Megan Todd's. She made a mental note to call her friends the next day.

"I'm going to put a pot of coffee on. Will you be okay on your own?" she asked. David nodded his head, but she was already on her way downstairs.

David ran over to the window. The day matched his mood perfectly; gray and rainy. Of course his dad would pick this of all days to come home. He pressed his nose against the window and made breath marks on it. He had a perfect view of the front drive. Mr. Jennings, who always brought him some candy whenever he came to the house, would drive in the circle, pull under the awning by the front door, and get his father's things out of the trunk. Meanwhile, his father would get out of the back seat with his briefcase and head into the house, with Jennings trailing behind him. It had happened that way so many times, though not always with Jennings.

Eight

The car pulled up under the carport. The rain was cascading down in sheets now, and Chris had trouble trying not to run into the urns filled with flattened flowers. Maybe he'd be able to talk Quentin into hiring another man for gardening and doing odd-jobs. The place was beginning to look as old as it was.

He pulled the suitcases out of trunk as Mr. Collins got out of the backseat. After taking a gander at how much luggage the man had returned with, Chris knew inevitably that Mr. Collins was home to stay.

"Come in for some coffee, Jennings," Quentin said absently. It was an order, not a request, and Chris wouldn't dream about backing out of it. He wanted to see Quentin's reaction to the lively governess. Of course, that coffee would have to wait until he brought the bags up to Quentin's room. Elizabeth's timing was terrible he thought. Today was Mrs. Johnson's day off. Then again, maybe it wasn't--Mrs. Johnson made a lousy pot of coffee.

Of course he didn't think of holding the door open, Chris thought sourly. That made two trips into the house from the wet and cold outside. He let the door slam behind him. Mr. Collins was in the front hall, looking over the mail that lay on a silver tray on a delicate end table. None of it was important, apparently, since most of it went back on the table.

"Go ahead and bring that upstairs. Once I find Miss Harridge, we'll have coffee in the drawing room," Quentin said. "Unless she's run off on me, too."

Nine

David sneaked down the stairs. He could see his father talk to Mr. Jennings, who was bogged down with suitcases, in the front hall. He slid into the gallery and hid behind the door as Mr. Jennings, mumbling the whole time, came up the stairs while with David's father's suitcases. The boy scowled and came to the same conclusion as Chris had; his father was here to stay. He gave the wall a savage kick and left a scuff mark in the paneling. Why did he have to come back? He was happy here with Daphne, just the two of them. He'd even take Aunt Elizabeth and Mrs. Hoffman back, with their respective nervous and sour ways. But now that he was back, all those ugly memories wouldd resurface of his mom and dad screaming, arguing, throwing priceless breakables across rooms toward each others' heads. And then he'd remember seeing his mother crying because his father was never home--and then her funeral. All the black and the relatives and the crying. The memories came rushing out in a torrent that he couldn't stop. He drew a ragged breath and then peeked out the door. Mr. Jennings, sweat shining on his brow, was heading back from his father's room. David ducked back in and waited until the footsteps receeded and went down the stairs.

He slipped out of the room and ran to the back of the house, where the servants' stairs led to the kitchen. Daphne was still in the kitchen, watching the coffee maker drip into the decanter. He pushed the door open quietly and called her name.

She jumped at the sound of his voice. "David, what is it?" she asked.

"Dad's in the drawing room," he said quietly. His eyes darted over to the table, where a porcelain coffepot sat with four matching cups turned upside-down on their saucers. A little bud vase with a red rose was nestled in among them, along with the cream and sugar bowls.

"He is?" Daphne yelped. "Did you see him? What kind of mood was he in?"

David shrugged his shoulders. "I saw them pull up, and Mr. Jennings bring his stuff up."

Daphne closed her eyes and counted to ten. Of course he wouldn't have had the decency to call from the airport; she expected that. But walking into the house and not announcing his arrival? That was a tad presumptiuous, she thought, but before she recalled what kind of man she had heard he was.

"Well, David, it's judgement time," she said as she poured the last of the coffee from the decanter into the pot. She picked the tray up and headed to the swinging doors. "Let's go greet your father. And please try to be happy that he's back." Even though I know you're not she refrained from adding.