“Just at present I am doing only light work,” she said. “A few hours each day: more, perhaps, during the night. With so many in the house I can scarcely seclude myself altogether. But I do not want to be continually troubled with household matters. I shall, of course, interview the cook each morning, to arrange the daily menu. Otherwise, Miss Earle, I shall be glad if you will endeavour to act as my buffer.”
I was not very certain that I had been trained as a buffer. How did one “buff,” I wondered? I tried not to look as idiotic as I felt.
“If I can, I shall be very glad to help,” I mumbled. “You must tell me what to do.”
She sighed.
“Ah, that is where your extreme youth will be a handicap, I fear,” she said. “I should have preferred an energetic woman of about forty: and yet, Judith and Jack have such an aversion to what they call ‘old frumps,’ and have contrived to cause several to resign. And I liked your letter: you write a legible hand, for one thing—a rare accomplishment nowadays. I can only hope that things will go smoothly. Just try to see that the house runs as it should, and that the children do nothing especially desperate. You will need to be tactful with the servants; they resent interference, and yet, if left to themselves, everything goes wrong. Should emergencies arise, try to cope with them without disturbing me. I want my elder son and daughter to enjoy their visitors; fortunately, their main source of delight seems to be an extraordinary liking for picnics, and the basis of a successful picnic would appear to be plenty to eat. Try to get on good terms with Mrs. Winter, the cook; her last employer told me that she possessed a heart of gold, and you may be able to find it. Tact does wonders, Miss Earle.”
As she delivered this encouraging address her gaze had been wandering about: now raised to the ceiling, now dwelling on the roll-top writing-desk. Towards the latter she began to edge almost as if she could not help it.
“And now, I begin to feel the desire for work,” she said. “It comes upon me like a wave. Just run away, Miss Earle, and do your best. It is possible that I may not be down for luncheon.” And the next moment I found myself on the landing, and heard the click of the Yale latch behind me.
I went downstairs torn between panic and a wild desire to laugh. It seemed to me that my employer was a little mad—or it might merely be a bad case of artistic temperament, a disease of which I had read, but had never before encountered in the flesh. In any case my job was likely to be no easy one. I was only eighteen; and my very soul quailed before the task of unearthing the golden heart of the cook.
In my bedroom I found Julia, the housemaid, flicking energetically with a duster. She was an Irish girl, with a broad, good-natured face. I decided that I might do worse than try to enlist her as an ally. But I was not quite sure how to begin.
I looked out of the window, seeking inspiration.