The Roswell Legacy by Frances Statham (parable of the sower read online .TXT) 📗

Her husband sailed back and forth to China. He was gone at least six months at the time. And it turned out that he had a Chinese wife and eight Chinese children, as well as the English family.”

Ginna slipped on her dress. “Close your mouth, Clara, and button me, please. And promise me you won’t let: Mummy know I told you.”

“Is it all right if I tell my friend Minnie?”

“Just so you don’t tell her where you heard it.”

Once Ginna was completely dressed, she went downstairs to the dining room where the breakfast toast was hidden under a napkin. Quickly, she filled her coffee cup from the silver urn and took several sips. It was tepid.

“I’ll get some hot coffee for you from the kitchen, Miss Ginna.”

“Never mind. This will do fine. Barge is already waiting with the carriage.”

Ginna took one last bite of toast, another sip of coffee, and then rushed to the mahogany clothes tree for her hat and parasol.

“You need me to do anything else for you?” Clara inquired.

“Oh, I almost forgot. My artist’s bag. Could you get it for me, Clara, while I write a quick note to Mummy? She needs to know I won’t be coming home until late this afternoon.”

While Ginna sat down at the desk, Clara trudged up the two flights of stairs to Ginna’s attic studio. But when she opened the door she lost all thought of her errand.

As if demons had flown into the open window that night to do their mischief, the once neat studio was in shambles. Clara stood just inside the door and her hand reached up to her throat. “Lordy, Lordy, sweet Jesus,” she moaned.

Everywhere, ugly paint had been dribbled over the paintings. The little watercolors thumbtacked to the wall were no longer of delicate wildflowers, but strips and ribbons of dissonant color that didn’t stop at the edges of the paper but continued down the walls to form dried pools at the baseboard. It was not a matter of one jar accidentally spilling over. Like a whirling dervish of mischief that twirled about the room, wreaking havoc, someone had come into the room, deliberately removed all the tops, upset every paint pot, and poured the contents onto every example of Ginna’s work.

Clara shuddered. She was afraid to look about the rest of the room, especially at the oil painting directly under the skylight.

“Clara, did you find it?” Ginna’s voice called out from the landing below.

“I’m comin’, Miss Ginna,” she replied, and hurried to take the bag from the peg. What was she going to do? The girl had awakened so happy that morning, and telling her now would only spoil her entire day. Maybe she should wait. It wasn’t as if the mess was going to go anywhere before she came home.

Carefully, Clara closed the door and began to retrace her steps. “Here it is, Miss Ginna. Now you run on and have a real good day.”

“You’ll see that Mummy gets the note? I left it on the table in the dining room.”

“I’ll be sure to put it on her breakfast tray when I take it up in a little while.”

With a quizzical expression, Ginna looked into Clara’s face. “Are you feeling all right, Clara?”

“Just a little touch of rheumatism, Miss Ginna. It’ll pass.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I should have gone after my bag myself.”

“Now run along and stop apologizin’. That’s what I’m here for.”

Ginna hoisted the bag onto her shoulder, stuck on her hat, and hurried toward the back door, while a shaken Clara went back to the kitchen and sat down.

A half hour later, she heard Araminta’s bell. Carefully, she poured the hot chocolate into a cream pot, took the sweet rolls out of the warming oven, and set them on the bed tray. With Ginna’s note carefully laid beside the plate, Clara climbed the stairs again.

“Good mornin’, Miss Araminta.”

“Yes, it is a good morning,” Araminta agreed. She plumped up her pillows and waited for Clara to set the tray across her lap. “Did Ginna get off to school all right this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am. She was in a big hurry, though. Overslept because of last night. But that’s her note to you on the tray.”

Clara watched Araminta. She made no attempt to read the note. Instead, she picked up the cup of chocolate and daintily sipped it. The telltale smear of black India ink was still on her thumb. Clara saw it and she knew then who had been in Ginna’s studio.

“You need anything else for the moment, Miss Araminta?” Clara asked.

“No, Clara. That will be all.”

“Then I’d better get back to the pots and pans.”

“Well, stop staring at me and go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Araminta frowned and set down the chocolate. She began to butter a sweet roll and then she became aware of the stain on her hand. Quickly, she dropped the knife and hid her hand under the counterpane. She did not resume eating until Clara left the room, closing the door behind her.

She would have to do something about the stain before Ginna came home. It didn’t matter that Clara had seen it. The woman was far too stupid to connect her to the devastation in the attic. Or so Araminta thought.

Midmorning at the institute, Ginna stared down at her own hands, dirty with the telltale residue of her charcoal pencil. Absentmindedly, she took out an old white cloth from her bag and wiped them clean. In front of the drawing class, the lush still life of fruits and flowers caught the light as the class continued to capture it in studies of black and gray. But Ginna had lost interest. Of far more importance to her was Martha’s empty chair.

She had waited impatiently for her friend to arrive at school. Ginna had so much to tell her. She was used to keeping disappointments to herself, but happiness was a different matter. It had to be shared for a person to savor its full measure.

The bell finally rang, indicating the end