“You’re all such lumps!” exclaimed Mrs. Angelica Hargreave, surveying the current state of her three children, who were all draped upon sofas and stuffed armchairs in a very liquid-like fashion.
“There’s not a thing to do, and it’s raining outside!” said Beatrice, the youngest. “I have read too many books, and it is beginning to hurt my eyes.”
“That’s a lie,” interjected Adelaide from behind the nearest chair.
“I’ve just received a rather peculiar letter. Come rouse yourselves from that horrid stupor you’re all in and open it with me.”
“Where’s it from?” asked Beatrice, sitting up.
“Surrey, evidently.” They followed their mother into the kitchen and gathered around the worn and scratched table (for Frederick had been very reckless as a child), staring at the unopened envelope in question. Frederick, the oldest of the three children, picked it up and held it to the weak light streaming in from the window.
“Doesn’t look terribly suspicious,” he muttered, after carefully examining it from all angles. “But who is Peter Crawford?”
“That is what we aim to find out, isn’t it,” said Mrs. Hargreave, gently removing the now-bent envelope from her son’s hands. “Someone hand me the letter opener, if you please.” Beatrice rushed off to find it. Soon the envelope was carefully opened and the letter removed. “Well! Isn’t that interesting.”
“What is, Mummy? Please read it aloud, the suspense is more than I can bear!” Frederick blurted.
“You read too many mystery novels. It can’t be all that interesting,” said Adelaide, smiling. Frederick elbowed her, and she elbowed him back, until the elbowing had become such a battle that Beatrice decided that she, too, had to engage.
“It appears,” continued Mrs. Hargreave, clearing her throat, “that we are to have new neighbors quite soon.” At this, the elbow war ceased, and the three children looked at each other. “Apparently, a Mr. Peter Crawford and his son are soon to be the residents of 36 Wickham Lane, right beside our dear 37.”
“Son?” remarked Adelaide. “How old is he?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t say, though I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”
“I hope he’s eleven, like me,” cried Beatrice, hugging their mother about the waist.
“Well, I hope he’s sixteen.”
“I just hope he’s not a bore,” Adelaide muttered.
“I’m sure he won’t be.”
“Well, he had better be eleven, ‘cause I haven’t anyone to talk to on this street that’s my own age!” Beatrice pouted.
“What? Yes you have! There are several people who are eleven!” said Frederick.
“But they’re all horrible!”
“I’m sure they’re not all that-” started Mrs. Hargreave.
“Please, Mummy. You haven’t spoken with any of them.” Beatrice said darkly.
“How long will it be before they get here?” started Adelaide, who had been staring out the window.
“About a week, I think. Don’t chew your fingernails, it’s not sanitary.” Adelaide’s hand dropped to her side.
“It’s unfortunate, really,” sighed Beatrice. “I rather liked that building better when it was empty.”
“Well I suppose that’s just too bad.”
Several days later, luggage and furniture began arriving at 36 Wickham Lane under the name of Peter Crawford, which began a small ruckus at 37. “What are we going to do?” cried Beatrice, at least twice a day. By the fourth day of such noise, the rest of the family began to ignore her. Soon, however, the luggage stopped and the Hargreave family went about their business once more. Still, Adelaide spent much time (mostly in school) imagining what the mysterious son would be like. In one picture that her mind created he was tall and dark, handsome in an angular way, with large hands and a malicious spark. She also pictured him as short with a vaguely yellow complexion, squeaky and sickly, waddling about like a lost duckling. In any case, she decided that she probably wouldn’t like him at all.
Soon the much anticipated day arrived in late May, just after Adelaide’s thirteenth birthday. Adelaide was tired, for the school days had become longer since the exams were coming up with the end of the year. She was walking towards home with Suzannah, whom she had known for as long as she had memories. Despite its length, this day had been one where you could feel the promise of summer in the air, and could see it in the way the sun peeked out from behind the clouds more and more each day. June had almost begun, and as Adelaide and Suzannah descended the stairs that climbed the grey cliffs that their dear Hemingshire rested on, the sun was in that perfect place in the sky where it warmed their grateful faces, and then their backs, as they turned onto Wickham Lane.
It was Suzannah who first noticed the two figures standing on the doorstep of the house numbered 37, for Adelaide had been too interested in their conversation about jam. “Who are they?” she whispered into Adelaide's ear. “I don’t think I’ve seen either of them before.”
“I suppose those are our new neighbors.”
“And you didn’t mention them to me before? How rude.”
“Sorry,” she said, laughing. As they continued towards number 37, Adelaide saw that the two strangers were speaking with her mother, and they didn’t seem to be leaving, which sent Adelaide into a slight panic, for she had not had an opportunity to prepare for making the two new acquaintances. The two girls slowed down.
“Goodness! You can practically see through the shorter one, can’t you?” As Adelaide looked more carefully, she saw that Suzannah was right - the boy was so incredibly fair that she was surprised that he was a real flesh and blood human, and not some kind of spirit.
“Yes, I suppose you almost can!”
“Well. I suppose you’ll have lots of fun meeting them,” Suzannah continued.
“Don’t you want to stay and meet them too?”
“Of course, but I’ve got work to do. My father says that if I don’t thoroughly pass these exams he’ll double my chores over the summer, and I wouldn’t be able to bear that, you know.”
“I suppose you’re right. See you tomorrow?”
“See you. And remember,” she said, nudging Adelaide, “you could make a very important new friend today, so be on your best behavior.” She attempted a wink.
“Oh, hush,” Adelaide giggled. “I’m sure the boy’s perfectly horrible.”
“I have a nose for these things, and I don’t think you’re right.”
“Well don’t go telling Winnie and the others that we’re in love, alright? I haven’t even met him yet, and you haven’t either!”
“I wouldn’t do such a thing!” cried Suzannah. Adelaide looked at her smugly. “Oh alright, fine, I would. But I won’t.”
“Good.”
“Alright, Ada. I’d better be off now.”
“See you at school,” said Adelaide, rolling her eyes.
“Good luck,” Suzannah hissed. With that, she trotted down the steps towards her house, and Adelaide was left to meet the strangers alone. She took in a rather impressive amount of air, and headed for the porch.
“Excuse me,” she said, once she reached the two figures on the porch, who promptly moved out of her way.
“Oh, Adelaide, dear, come in and meet Mr. Crawford! He and his son have just come to say hello.”
“Oh, please do call me Peter,” said the man.
“Of course. And this is my daughter!”
“How do you do? My name is Adelaide,” she said once she was inside the door, standing next to Frederick.
“Quite well, thank you. Delighted to meet you, Miss Adelaide. This, as you may have guessed, is my son Edwin, whom I believe is about your age” said the man, gesturing to the boy beside him. The boy said nothing, only nodded.
“Now, Mr. Crawford, are you sure that you wouldn’t like to come in?”
“Thank you, but we should really get more settled in.” The adults continued to chatter about things that Adelaide would, on another occasion, have taken interest in, but she took the opportunity to watch the boy. She regarded him with slight suspicion. He was blond, with delicate, well-crafted features. His posture, she noted, would have made her mother very proud. He was about the same height as she was, but looked smaller. It was his scrawniness that made it so, she decided, as well as the tinge of timidness in his face. He wasn’t terribly handsome, but not bad looking either. He seemed nicer the longer she looked at him, a characteristic which few people she knew had. Even so, she decided that he would not become one of her close mates. He looked as if he had never so much as set foot outdoors, and for Adelaide that simply would not do. The Hargreave family lived by the ocean for several reasons, but an adoration for staying inside was not one of them.
Something in the boy’s expression shifted, as if he had read Adelaide’s thoughts on her face. He looked momentarily hurt, then ashamed. Adelaide realized she had been staring at him very intently while the adults continued their new neighbor talk. She looked away, mortified. But soon, curiosity got the better of her, and looked back, but the boy was staring at the ground.
Soon enough, the Crawfords left the doorstep of 37 Wickham Lane, and went on their own merry way. “Well,” said Mrs. Hargreave, as the trio retreated into the back parlor. “They seemed lovely.”
“What do you make of the boy, Mummy?” asked Frederick, who, having stayed silent for longer than previously thought possible, startled Mrs. Hargreave.
“I don’t know, really. He didn’t say much,” she sighed.
“Well, Ada certainly took an interest in him, didn’t you!” Frederick smirked.
“I did not.”
“Ah, that’ll be Beatrice,” said Mrs. Hargreave, hurrying to the noisily opening door.
“I saw you staring,” muttered Frederick.
“No you didn’t!”
“Yes I did! I think you like him.”
“He’s never said a word to me, how should I know if I do or not?”
Frederick paused. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, actually.”
“I know I am.”
“Still think you like him, though,” whispered Frederick, as he took off towards the stairs, cackling all the way.
“I do not! Frederick, you ignorant piece of potato pie, come back here!” she shouted, tearing after him. But Adelaide was too late - by the time she reached the landing, Frederick had already barreled into his bedroom, nearly knocking over a small table.
❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀
The air continued to grow warmer as the summer continued to set in. In the earliest days of June, four girls could be seen walking down the Hemingshire cliff stairs after school, when the sun grinned down on their shining faces. They walked in silence for a while, listening to the lovely sounds of their feet on cobblestones and brick.
“Has anyone finished the essay for History yet?” said Suzannah, suddenly.
“I have.”
“I expected you would, Adelaide, it being precisely your cup of tea.”
“I’ve barely started,” mumbled Winnie. “I just can’t seem to make the words fit together right. It would be so much easier if we could just..make equations of it all.”
“Easier for you, perhaps, bloody difficult for the rest of us,” said Suzannah.
“I think that words are a bit of a waste of time, really, you can’t make much with them except noise,” said Janet.
“Well, that’s a bit dark, isn’t it, love?”
“I don’t mean to be dark, but there isn’t much you can get out of pretty sentences.”
“I don’t think you’re quite right about that,” said Adelaide. “You can’t put feelings in numbers, really.”
Janet shrugged. “Perhaps it’s better that way.”
Adelaide opened her mouth to argue, but closed it after Suzannah elbowed her.
Once again their steps were the only sounds they heard, until Adelaide spoke again. “You know what bothers me terribly?”
“What?”
“Frederick?” asked Suzannah. The girls laughed.
“Well, yes,” said Adelaide, “all the time. But that’s not what I meant.”
“What is it then?” said Suzannah, looking her friend in the face.
“It’s that women make up half the bloody population but can’t vote. It’s just so awful.”
“Well, yes, it’s all horrid, but things could be worse,” said Janet.
“My father says that this is how things are supposed to be, but I don’t think he’s right. He’s never been a woman, after all,” said Winnie. “And I think my mum sides with me, even though she doesn’t say so.”
“I wish I could go to London and meet the real suffragettes, but Mummy says I’m too young to go alone and she couldn't go with me,” continued Adelaide.
“Oh, that would be such fun! I wish I could go with you,” cried Suzannah. “Perhaps when we are older.”
“But London is so terribly far away!” said Winnie. “How would you ever get there?”
“It would take a long time, to be sure,” puzzled Adelaide. “But if we saved enough money and rode the right trains, I believe we could do it. It would take a few days, I think.”
“I’d like to vote someday,” said Winnie, softly.
“Me too! And not have to wear corsets when we grow up!” Suzannah declared, spinning in circles and flailing her arms wildly. “And not have to sew things all the time!”
“And not have to get married!” added Adelaide, skipping down the stairs after her.
“But I rather like sewing…”
“Oh Winnie, you can sew as much as you like. We just don’t want to have to sew things! I like it too, but I’m so dreadfully bad at it,” Adelaide said, stopping to console her friend. By then they had reached Janet’s house, and said goodbye, but not before Suzannah invited them all over to her house for tea and studying the next day, for it was Friday. They continued talking until they reached Suzannah’s house, then Adelaide’s, until finally Winnie was left to walk alone.
That Friday evening passed with nothing of importance happening, except for a few customary arguments between Adelaide and Frederick, which, as usual, ended with Beatrice retiring early to read. Late that night, had anyone been walking by (which of course no one was, as nearly all the residents of Hemingshire were law-abiding, God-fearing people who did not participate in suspicious activities after dark), they would have seen a rectangle of light spilling from an upper window of 37 Wickham Lane. And in that rectangle they would have seen the shadow of a girl whose face was pressed against the cool windowpane. The girl was wondering about things that she didn’t understand, and things she did. A similar windowpane was being leaned upon by someone in the house next door, and someone else was wondering about many of the same things.
❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀
“How was your afternoon?” sang Mrs. Hargreave, as a soggy Adelaide sidled in through the front door, having just come home from “studying” at Suzannah’s house.
“Perfect.”
“Did you play football?” asked Frederick from his home in the study.
“What? No. I told you, we were preparing for-”
“Can’t have been perfect then,” he finished. Adelaide rolled her eyes and headed toward the kitchen.
“Oh, by the way children. I invited the Crawfords to come have dinner with us a week from tomorrow.”
“Mummy! Why on earth would you do that?” exclaimed Adelaide.
“Because it’s the neighborly thing to do, and in case you haven’t noticed, they are our neighbors.”
“But what on earth are we supposed to do with the boy?”
“...Talk to him?” suggested Mrs. Hargreave, visibly puzzled. “I thought you said he seemed alright.”
“Alright, but not interesting.”
“Now, Ada, that’s a very rude thing to say.”
“Even if it’s true?”
“Even so.”
Adelaide grunted.
The week passed with a quietness that was characteristic to Hemingshire, even though the exams were fast approaching, which sent the students into a flurry of preparation and frantic dread. The day of the dinner party arrived, and the entire Sunday was consumed with preparation. Mrs. Hargreave busied herself around the stove and the pantry, Adelaide occupied herself with the neatness of the house, Beatrice tried to think of things that she could say, and Frederick attempted to be helpful in several ways, and failed miserably. By the time they had all finished their chores, the house smelled fresh, the windows were open (for the sun had shown itself for the first time that week), and everything but the two girls felt prepared.
“You know Beatrice,” consoled Adelaide, “you don’t really have to say anything. There’s nothing wrong with being quiet.”
“But they’ll think I’m dumb!”
“I don’t think they would. And besides, they would be wrong, and would learn to be right, in time.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s quite silly of you.” And so the conversation ceased, and each party retreated back into their nervous selves. By the time the fateful hour was at hand, Beatrice had nearly worked herself into a fit, and Adelaide began to believe that she had never dreaded something so heartily in her life. No one could tell what Frederick was thinking of, as he had escaped to the garden in the backyard, and was not seen by any member of the family until a half hour before the party. Once he did appear, he was immediately scolded for the impressive amount of dirt under his nails, and was sent away to clean himself.
At half past seven, there came a friendly knock at the door, and the two younger children dissolved into (albeit very quiet) hysterics. It was Mrs. Hargreave who finally opened the door to the two guests, who, once formalities were exchanged, were led to the dining room. Naturally, Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Hargreave took the two ends of the table, which left the four children to silently decide on where to sit, which, at the time, seemed as difficult as learning to waltz in thirty seconds. Beatrice, through a series of exaggerated glances, communicated her refusal to be separated from Frederick, which left Adelaide and the boy to take the final two chairs. In a moment, Mrs. Hargreave personally escorted the various trays and dished into the dining room, which brought much relief to certain younger parties, for, as every child knows, mouths full of food are not to be full of conversation.
“I must say, Angelica, this lamb is delightful. Did you season it yourself? What a spectacular combination of flavors!”
Edwin nodded his assent, and Mrs. Hargreave gave some gracious reply, sparking a conversation between the adults about the town, their children, and all the things the children had no interest in. Hoping to engage Frederick in conversation, Adelaide sat suddenly forward and reached out towards the center of the table, but on seeing that he was already occupied, retrieved her hand and reached instead for her water glass, taking a dainty sip. She cleared her throat and set down her glass, choosing to pursue the only option left to her.
“So. You’re Edwin, correct?”
“Right. And you’re Adelaide.”
“Indeed. And...what year are you?”
“In school or age?”
“Well, both, I suppose.”
“I’m fourteen, and a year above you in school.”
“Have you started school here yet?”
“Oh, no. We decided I ought to wait until the autumn.”
“Pardon me for asking, but how would you know what year I’m in if you haven’t….”
He shrugged and blushed. Adelaide took another sip of water.
“Have you been to the seaside- oh, I’m terribly sorry!”
Edwin vehemently shook his head and desperately tried to swallow the bite of lamb that he had nearly choked on in his hurry to answer.
“Have some water, that ought to help,” continued Adelaide. He took a large gulp from his glass, and then mightily coughed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I can usually-” he coughed again, “swallow food properly.”
“Well, I should hope so,” Adelaide chuckled. “But I’m sorry too, it was rude of me to ask you a question when you were trying to chew.”
“Oh, no. Don’t mention it.” He took another sip of water. “And I haven’t been to the sea yet, is it very nice?”
“Oh, it’s wonderful. Cold, but wonderful.”
“I suppose over the summer I shall have to seas the day, then.”
“Did you- was that a pun?” Adelaide grinned.
“Yes, it was. I’m quite sorry, Father thinks they’re awful. But it just...sort of slipped out.”
“Well. I don’t mind them at all. In fact, I’m shore that your puns should be shellebrated.”
“That was very impressive.”
“Mersea.”
“Do you speak French?”
“It was a pun, Edwin. Merci, mersea? But I am learning.”
“Oh. Oh! Your skills are pundeful!”
“Goodness. This is getting quite seavere.”
“I am truly in awe of you.” He laughed.
“Oh, but wait! I just remembered! ‘Mer’ is French for sea, so mersea was actually a double pun!”
“A true work of genius, that,” said Edwin, reverently shaking his head. “I shall have to work very hard to catch up to you, I think.”
“I doubt it, you’re very good yourself.”
“You exaggerate,” he muttered, smiling to himself all the same. A moment of silence settled upon the smiling pair, and both ended up taking sips of water.
“Anyway,” began Adelaide, “Sea puns aside-”
“So sorry, but I don’t sea how they’re a problem.”
“Oh that was quite clever! As I was saying, I beseach you tell me what sort of things you like to do for a bit of fun.”
“Crikey! My puns just can’t hold a candle to yours.”
“Well. Perhaps not yet. But please. What are your hobbies?”
“I don't know, really. I do love reading, and writing things.” he started.
“What sort of things?”
“Stories, mostly. I also like to play football, though I fear I’m not very good at it, I was terribly sick for a long time and had to stay indoors.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sure that Frederick would love to play football with you, even if you were awful.”
“That’s very kind.”
“I would too, for that matter,” she mumbled as an afterthought. “Anything else?”
“I enjoy card games, and going outside. And I play the piano a bit.”
“Oh, really? Do you have a piano in your house?”
“Well, yes, but it’s terribly old and constantly out of tune.”
“If you like you can use ours, it’s in tip top shape, though heaven knows why, none of us play it very well.”
“Are you sure? That’s a very generous offer.”
“Of course I’m sure. I’ll show it to you once we finish eating.” Both resumed focusing on their plates, eating faster than they had before.
There was a momentary lull in conversation all around, as the two parents glowed with pride at the affable natures of their children.
Soon all plates were clean of food, cleared from the table, and replaced with delicate saucers that held rich slices of cake. These, too, were quickly devoured, and finally Adelaide spoke up.
“Mummy, may I go and show Edwin the piano?”
“Ada, what must you say-”
“Please?”
Mrs. Hargreave smiled. “Yes, my dear.” And so Adelaide led Edwin away from the dining room and into the front parlor, where a particularly charming baby grand piano sat nestled among the stuffed chairs and sofa. Edwin saw it and sighed rapturously at once.
“It’s beautiful,” he breathed.
“I know. It’s a shame my father can’t play it anymore, he was very good.”
“Why can’t he play?”
“He died of tuberculosis when I was small.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said softly. “I’m sure he was a delightful man.”
Adelaide nodded. “He was.”
“I know a little how you feel, I think.”
“Oh?”
“My mother passed away as I was born.”
“In childbirth? Oh that’s awful!” She reached out and touched his elbow with the tips of her fingers. “And you didn’t even know her,” she continued, more quietly.
“Makes it better, though, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know.” They stood in silence for a moment, both lost in the other’s grief.
“Would you like to play something?”
“What?”
“On the piano.”
“Ah, right.” He walked over to it and ran a hand along the cover of the keys. “I don’t...I don’t know. Wouldn’t it disturb everyone else?”
“They might hear, but unless you’re really horrible they won’t be disturbed, I’m sure.”
“Hm.” He slowly sat down at the bench. “I suppose I’ll try something.” He lifted the cover, but paused. “I’m awfully self-conscious, just now.”
“Don’t mind me at all, pretend I’m not here if you like.”
“I don’t know if that will work, but it’s worth a try, I suppose.”
Edwin gently held his long fingers over the keys, and then began. He was rather stiff in the beginning, but soon Adelaide could see him remembering a melody he had played a thousand times, each chord graceful and affectionate. Eighth notes ascended and cascaded in a way that could only be described as ethereal. Adelaide, who was watching closely from where she stood beside him, noted that he had even closed his eyes at certain moments, knowing exactly where each key ought to be, and just how to employ it. The solemn concentration on his face was fascinating to her. She had rarely seen someone so completely consumed by something so simple as a pretty song. Soon the soft melodies of the introduction repeated themselves in the conclusion, and Edwin opened his eyes as the song drew to a close.
When he finally lifted his eyes from the piano, meeting Adelaide’s awed gaze, he promptly turned red.
“That,” she said, “was sublime.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, staring at the ground. “It’s the only song I know without sheet music.”
“What was it?”
“‘Arabesque No.1.’”
“I loved it.”
“Did you?”
“Of course. You could be a professional one day!”
“I don’t think that’s true,” he said, but his beaming eyes thanked her all the same.
“Of course it is. I rarely lie.”
“Oh.” They walked side by side back to the dining room, where Edwin was met with more praise from the others, who had overheard his playing. The evening went smoothly from then on, although Frederick continually raised his eyebrows at Adelaide from across the table, which she found heavily annoying and answered with glares.
Finally, as night had really set in, the guests left the table and headed toward the door. “It was nice to meet you,” said Adelaide to Edwin as everyone else traded goodbyes.
“Likewise,” he said, nodding. “I should like to talk to you again sometime.”
“I’d like that too.”
Later, when the family was finished helping clean up and was comfortably lounging in the back parlor, the inevitable discussion of the evening ensued.
“I think the pair of them will make lovely neighbors,” said Mrs. Hargreave, her hands occupied with her latest embroidery.
“The boy seems too quiet for me,” said Frederick, who didn’t bother looking up from shining his beloved cello.
“Why doesn’t he have a mother?”
“I don’t know, Beatrice, but it’s uncalled for to ask such things.”
“She died when he was born.”
“Ada!”
“What’s the matter? He told me.”
“I see. That must have been very hard on Mr. Crawford.”
“Probably harder on the boy,” muttered Frederick.
“His name is Edwin, use it,” hissed Adelaide.
“Fine.” He continued to rub the body of the cello with a rag. “Since you were the only one who talked to him, what’s he like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He seems...a bit melancholy, but nice. He likes puns.”
“Oh, no,” said Frederick, rolling his eyes. “We really don’t need any more puns in this town, you supply plenty.”
“At any rate,” said Mrs. Hargreave, rising from the sofa, “it’s time for all of you to go to bed.”
“But I’m not done!” cried Frederick.
“You can finish tomorrow morning, if you wake up in time.”
“You know that won’t happen,” he grumbled, carefully placing the instrument back into its case and following Adelaide upstairs.
“You’re sour this evening, what’s got your trousers in a knot?”
“Knot any of your business, Ada,” he said and immediately slapped his hand over his mouth. “Drat!” he whispered, shocked. “You’ve infected me.” Adelaide elbowed him and Frederick began to laugh.
Late that night, as Adelaide stared at her pretty turquoise wallpaper, she thought about all sorts of things. After a while she drifted off, and dreamed of the sea and a woman who could throw fire.
❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀
With that Monday began the time every student dreads. Exams week. Each class had a test of some sort, and no amount of studying ever felt like enough. Adelaide’s fingernails had been reduced to rough pink nubs, Frederick’s hair had been reduced to a fuzzy golden cloud, and Beatrice’s vocabulary had been reduced to “too tired”, “exams”, and “mmrrrggg”. The only thing that kept everyone alive was the promise of ten weeks with absolutely nothing to do.
The week passed slowly, as everyone was exhausted and slightly irritable. That Thursday morning, Adelaide woke early, ate, dressed, and returned downstairs in search of something to do.
“Mummy, are there any newspapers around?”
“One in the back parlor, my dear.”
Adelaide retrieved the newspaper, and entered the kitchen, where a completely disheveled Frederick sat eating. Adelaide sat down and began to read.
“So.” Frederick put another forkful of scrambled eggs in his mouth.
“...Can I help you?” said Adelaide, not looking up.
“School’s almost finished,” he said through the eggs.
“An astute observation, dear Freddie.”
“Are you going to invite the Crawford boy to swim with us?”
“I think if anyone’s going to invite him to come with us, it should be you. It would be more proper.”
“But he’s much closer to you in age,” said Frederick, laying down his fork.
“That may be, but I think he’s more likely to be friends with you.”
“I doubt it.”
“Hurry up, or we’ll be late,” she said, neatly folding the paper, rising from the table, and briskly walking towards the front door. “I’ll leave without you if you’re not ready in five minutes!”
“See you at school, then,” Frederick shouted after her, then continued happily eating his eggs.
At long last, the week ended, and summer vacation began. And, as the final week passed, so did the summer. It was quiet, of course, because that’s what Hemingshire of England always was. Adelaide’s friends went to their various out of town family members or chores, and the Hargreave children were left to entertain themselves, as they always were. Mrs. Hargreave spent her days in the sewing room, as commissions for summer dresses poured in every day. The children went to their usual spot on the River Esk. They spent many hours swimming, lying in the sun, and enjoying the short period of warmth that broke the monotonous fog every summer. If they ever saw Edwin, they cordially waved, but otherwise the Crawfords and Hargreaves ignored each other.
What brought the most excitement was the bout of thunderstorms that always hit in late July. For Adelaide, thunderstorms brought a cozy sense of anticipation that heightened her mood and spirits. She privately cherished the way her insides crackled when she saw the leaves turn upside down, deriving intense pleasure from her preparation for lightning. For Frederick, it was the same, and he was content to share the window seat in Adelaide’s bedroom and stare out into the sheets of rain that eventually fell. Thunderstorms still made Beatrice rather nervous.
“What if the lightning strikes the chimney?”
“That won’t happen.”
“It’s entirely possible!”
“The chances are low,” said Mrs. Hargreave, coming in. The storm that evening was looking to be particularly long, which was very distressing for certain members of the household. Darkness was beginning to grow.
“I believe it’s time for bed, my loves.”
“How can anybody possibly sleep with this mess going on outside?” Beatrice muttered.
“You’ll find a way.”
“I don’t want to sleep either. Much too exciting.” Frederick paused to think. “I could read to you, if that will help.”
“I suppose….”
“Come on then. Adelaide?”
“I’m not in the mood at the moment,” she said, watching for lightning.
No one moved, the motivation having gone stale.
“Alright everyone, into your nightclothes and your own bedrooms.”
Soon Adelaide was left alone on the window seat, pondering nothing at all. It was there that she dozed off, until awakened by a sudden thirst. On her way to the kitchen, she heard soft voices, which, upon later inspection, proved to be one soft voice. She gently opened the door to Beatrice’s room and took in the scene.
“You do realize she’s asleep, don’t you?”
Frederick looked up. “Of course. But I quite like this story.”
Adelaide nodded, then retrieved a glass of water and eventually fell asleep in her ivory sheets.
From then the summer continued in its previous monotony until Adelaide’s friends slowly returned, and the familiar annoyances of school began once more.
❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀
On a Saturday in the middle of September there was a knock on the door of 37 Wickham Lane, and it was Mrs. Hargreave who answered it.
“Since we’ve managed to finish getting the house together, we agreed that it was time we repaid you for the lovely evening we had a while ago.”
“Mr. Crawford! What a lovely surprise!”
“Would you and your family like to join mine on Saturday next for a dinner party?”
“We would very much enjoy that. Thank you.”
“What time can I expect you?”
“Seven, perhaps?”
“Lovely. Have a nice evening, then.”
“You as well.” Mrs. Hargreave closed the door after Mr. Crawford left the porch.
“A dinner party! How nice!”
“Adelaide! Were you spying the entire time?”
She nodded. “I was curious.”
“It is very rude to eavesdrop.”
“Yes, but a dinner party!”
“I see you are not nervous anymore?”
“I suppose the boy doesn’t scare me now. He’s not at all intimidating.”
“Oh, good.”
“I knew it!” said Frederick, emerging from the shadows.
“Knew what, you arrogant turtle?”
“Ada! Such a rude thing to say!”
Frederick continued unbothered. “I knew you would fall in love!”
“I’m not in love, you absolute dimwit.”
“Ada-” Mrs. Hargreave gave up, and shook her head as she left the entryway.
“You will be, mark my words.”
“I shan’t ever. Not with him.”
“Frederick does have a point, you know,” said Beatrice, leaving a similar patch of shadows nearby.
“Frederick never has a point.”
Frederick gasped.
“I know that,” said Beatrice
Frederick gasped louder.
“But this time he might,” she continued. “You two have...you know...biology.”
“...What?”
“Chemistry, Beatrice,” said Frederick, affectionately rolling his eyes.
“Same sort of thing, really.”
“Enough of this, let’s play football,” said Frederick, rummaging in a nearby closet for a ball.
“You’ll only win again.”
“I know,” he smiled.
“Frederick, would you please come inside and dress yourself properly?” shouted Adelaide in the direction of the garden.
Frederick held up the bouquet he had picked and inhaled deeply. The flowers didn’t smell like much, but he did love the scent of healthy soil. A slight buzzing invaded his ears, as a particularly fat bumble bee landed on his nose. He stood there quietly, holding his breath, reveling in the possibility that the bee had mistaken him for another flower.
“Frederick!” It was Beatrice this time.
“Alright, alright! I’m coming.”
“You have dirt on your face,” she said as he came in the door.
“Well you have dirt on your soul, Beatrice.”
“Thank you for stating the obvious. Now go clean yourself up, you look horrid,” said Adelaide, who had returned to the back door in search of her siblings.
“I never look horrid.”
Two sets of eyebrows raised.
Frederick grumbled and finally went to change.
At 6:58 in the evening, Frederick, forcibly dragged by the other Hargreaves, arrived at the Crawfords’ doorstep.
Mrs. Hargreave’s knuckles had barely touched the door when it opened.
“How wonderful to see you again, Mrs. Hargreave!”
“Well, thank you for the invitation!”
Edwin raised a few fingers in salutation from behind his father.
“Please, come in.”
The Hargreaves followed the Crawfords into their parlor.
“My deepest apologies,” began Mr. Crawford, “in our hurry to prepare for the evening we rather neglected the food, so it shall be a few minutes until it is ready. I still haven’t gotten around to putting up an advertisement for a cook, so I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer through what Edwin and I could put together.”
“It’s perfectly alright, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
“Good. Could I interest you in a tour of the house?”
“You most certainly can.” And with that the children were left to their own devices in the parlor.
“Why don’t we all sit down?”
“I suppose that would be smart, yes.”
“So Edwin,” began Frederick once everyone had gotten settled. “What sort of person are you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“Who are you?”
Adelaide elbowed Frederick in the ribs. “Don’t be such a soggy cucumber,” she hissed.
“Can you ask him what sort of books he likes?” whispered Beatrice from Adelaide’s other side.
From the opposite part of the room Edwin looked completely bewildered.
“What sort of books do you like to read, Edwin?”
He sighed, visibly relieved that there was actually a question he could answer. “I like most sorts of books, but I do prefer ones with interesting worlds and fantastical characters.”
“Ask him what his favorite is,” whispered Beatrice.
“Oh, Beatrice, you ask him,” said Adelaide aloud.
Beatrice glared at Adelaide, before inquiring.
“I don’t know, really. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, perhaps?”
“Oh no,” Adelaide blurted.
“What, didn’t you like it?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Beware, Edwin, she’ll go on for hours,” said Frederick.
“Hush, you. It was just so...hypocritical?”
“What can you mean?”
“The part with the big cat that was chasing the mouse. It was the Tin Man, wasn’t it, that said that he couldn’t bear to see a creature hurt?”
“I think it was, yes.”
“But in saving the mouse he killed the cat! It’s isn’t like the cat’s not a creature too. There must have been other ways of saving the mouse. And how did the Cowardly Lion feel about seeing his friend kill another of his species?”
“I suppose you do have a point.”
“I know I have. And the part where Dorothy was explaining what everyone was made out of, for instance that the Tin Man was made of tin and the Scarecrow was made of straw? Then the person said ‘what is your dog made of’, and Dorothy said Toto was a “meat dog”! That was just awful.”
Edwin laughed slightly. “I didn’t like that either.”
“I just think The Wind in the Willows was much better.”
“I haven’t read it.”
“Well! You should remedy that immediately.”
“I haven’t a copy.”
“You can borrow mine, if you like.”
“I would like that, actually.”
“Alright. I’ll deliver it tomorrow then?”
Edwin smiled and looked at his knees. “That would be very nice. Thank you.”
“And you must remember to come play the piano sometime soon, it’s very lonely.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“Anyway,” said Frederick, clearing his throat. “What sort of games do you like?”
“I’ve taken up Patience quite a lot recently, though-”
“I meant things like football, or rugger.”
“Oh.” Edwin looked down again and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” said Adelaide. “It wasn’t clear.”
“I think it was,” muttered Frederick.
“That’s because your head is stuffed with cotton.”
Frederick crossed his arms. “Same to you.”
“I like football most of all,” he said, saw Frederick sit up with renewed interest, and immediately finished with “but I’m really quite awful at it.”
“Well, there’s only one way to improve. You should come join my friends and I sometime. We often play after school.”
“I fear I’m not good enough.”
“Well you could play with just us Ada and Beatrice and I, then.”
“If you’d let me, I think I’d like that.”
“Of course we will,” said Adelaide.
“So, er, what sort of books do you all like?”
“Thrilling mysteries,” said Frederick scandalously.
Adelaide laughed. “You’ve stolen my copy of Anne of Green Gables six times in the last year.”
“Yes, well, it was a thrilling mystery.”
“What about you, Adelaide?”
“I like most things, I think, but I can only stand so much fantasy. But I like softer stories, like The Wind in the Willows, or Little Women, or Pride and Prejudice.”
“Oh, I’ve read Pride and Prejudice!”
“What did you think?”
“It was wonderful. Although, even by the end, I didn’t really like Mr. Darcy.”
“I think he’s redeemable, but I share your opinion. I do love Elizabeth Bennet, though, she’s perfect.”
“You remind me of her, I think.”
Adelaide grinned. “That’s terribly sweet of you to say! But what could I possibly have done to deserve it?”
“You’re...you seem brave, like she is...and….”
“Stubborn,” muttered Frederick, which earned him another elbow to the ribs.
“...And you seem to have your mind made up about what you want and what you think. But you’re kind. Like Elizabeth.”
“I’m glad you think so highly of me.” Adelaide’s smile softened. “I hope I can continue to be like Elizabeth Bennet in your eyes.”
Edwin smiled and blushed. “I think you will.”
“I hope to God that doesn’t make me Lydia,” said Beatrice softly.
Adelaide finally broke her eye contact with Edwin and laughed. “I don’t think it does. I could never see you being so terribly rash.”
“I believe supper should be ready by now,” said Mr. Crawford, who had entered the room at that moment. “Shall we migrate to the dining room?”
The children rose from their various seats and followed the two adults through the small and cozy house until they reached the particularly cozy dining room.
“I do like your wallpaper,” said Adelaide, who had been completely charmed by the warm red paisleys that scampered across the sides of the room.
“Why, thank you,” said Mr. Crawford. “I wish I could take credit for the decoration, but the wallpaper was here when we arrived.”
“Either way,” interjected Mrs. Hargreave, “it’s quite lovely.”
They all sat down and relished the simple meal provided by the Crawfords, as well as the dessert. There was pleasant conversation all around, and, of course, more puns were made and applauded.
“Thank you so much for this invitation, Mr. Crawford, we shall have to make a tradition of these lovely evenings.”
“I quite agree. We are so glad to have such kind neighbors.”
The children waved to each other, and exchanged smiles. On the short walk home, Frederick sidled up to Adelaide.
“I suppose the boy seems alright, don’t you think so?”
“Yes, I think he is quite nice. Especially to compare me to Elizabeth Bennet, what a lovely thing to say.”
“He is a bit...sickly, though, don’t you think?” Frederick had dropped his voice to a whisper.
“He said he was ill for a long time recently.”
“With what?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Curious.”
“Whatever it was, he seems alright now.”
“I think he’s brilliant,” said Beatrice, joining them.
“That’s just because he liked The Wonderful Wizard of Oz too, though heaven knows why.”
“And who likens you to the best book characters in the world after only one conversation?” continued Beatrice.
“Seems like something our Ada would do,” mumbled Frederick.
“But that’s usual behavior for her, not for normal human beings.”
Adelaide scoffed. “I don’t see why I’m not considered normal.”
Frederick’s eyes widened as he looked at her incredulously. “Because...because of everything!”
“Name one-”
“You didn’t like The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,” said Beatrice triumphantly.
Adelaide rolled her eyes. “Surely I’m not the only-”
“You went through a phase where you thought you could control worms, and you kept bringing them in the house and trying to show Mummy that-”
“Frederick, you know that’s a sore spot, there was no need to bring that up.”
“Not normal, though, is it?”
Adelaide grumbled in his general direction.
The autumn and winter of 1912 were simple, as each year had been before. Edwin enrolled in the same school that the Hargreave children attended, and Adelaide lent Edwin several books over the course of the winter. He took good care of them and lent her several others. There were a few more casual dinner parties, a few more gentle neighborly conversations, and much cold. Adelaide spent many more hours snuggled under blankets with her friends, Frederick and his gang refused to stop playing all sorts of outdoor games, and Beatrice continued to go about sneezing and endlessly tending the fire between book chapters. At Christmastime, the Hargreave children forgot their various quarrels and read their respective books on the sofa, and occasionally stared into the fire, until warmed by Frederick’s strong arms and the thick knitted blankets, all three of them fell asleep on each other. There were parties and stockings and presents, as well as the annual Christmas ball at the town hall, which Adelaide religiously avoided. The year ended quietly and happily. The beginning of the new year passed with the children at separate parties, Adelaide at Winnie’s party, Frederick hosting his own, and Beatrice with her dearest friend. 1913 began, as most years did, with the joyful shouts and celebration of children who had stayed up much past their bedtimes.
“There’s not a thing to do, and it’s raining outside!” said Beatrice, the youngest. “I have read too many books, and it is beginning to hurt my eyes.”
“That’s a lie,” interjected Adelaide from behind the nearest chair.
“I’ve just received a rather peculiar letter. Come rouse yourselves from that horrid stupor you’re all in and open it with me.”
“Where’s it from?” asked Beatrice, sitting up.
“Surrey, evidently.” They followed their mother into the kitchen and gathered around the worn and scratched table (for Frederick had been very reckless as a child), staring at the unopened envelope in question. Frederick, the oldest of the three children, picked it up and held it to the weak light streaming in from the window.
“Doesn’t look terribly suspicious,” he muttered, after carefully examining it from all angles. “But who is Peter Crawford?”
“That is what we aim to find out, isn’t it,” said Mrs. Hargreave, gently removing the now-bent envelope from her son’s hands. “Someone hand me the letter opener, if you please.” Beatrice rushed off to find it. Soon the envelope was carefully opened and the letter removed. “Well! Isn’t that interesting.”
“What is, Mummy? Please read it aloud, the suspense is more than I can bear!” Frederick blurted.
“You read too many mystery novels. It can’t be all that interesting,” said Adelaide, smiling. Frederick elbowed her, and she elbowed him back, until the elbowing had become such a battle that Beatrice decided that she, too, had to engage.
“It appears,” continued Mrs. Hargreave, clearing her throat, “that we are to have new neighbors quite soon.” At this, the elbow war ceased, and the three children looked at each other. “Apparently, a Mr. Peter Crawford and his son are soon to be the residents of 36 Wickham Lane, right beside our dear 37.”
“Son?” remarked Adelaide. “How old is he?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t say, though I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”
“I hope he’s eleven, like me,” cried Beatrice, hugging their mother about the waist.
“Well, I hope he’s sixteen.”
“I just hope he’s not a bore,” Adelaide muttered.
“I’m sure he won’t be.”
“Well, he had better be eleven, ‘cause I haven’t anyone to talk to on this street that’s my own age!” Beatrice pouted.
“What? Yes you have! There are several people who are eleven!” said Frederick.
“But they’re all horrible!”
“I’m sure they’re not all that-” started Mrs. Hargreave.
“Please, Mummy. You haven’t spoken with any of them.” Beatrice said darkly.
“How long will it be before they get here?” started Adelaide, who had been staring out the window.
“About a week, I think. Don’t chew your fingernails, it’s not sanitary.” Adelaide’s hand dropped to her side.
“It’s unfortunate, really,” sighed Beatrice. “I rather liked that building better when it was empty.”
“Well I suppose that’s just too bad.”
Several days later, luggage and furniture began arriving at 36 Wickham Lane under the name of Peter Crawford, which began a small ruckus at 37. “What are we going to do?” cried Beatrice, at least twice a day. By the fourth day of such noise, the rest of the family began to ignore her. Soon, however, the luggage stopped and the Hargreave family went about their business once more. Still, Adelaide spent much time (mostly in school) imagining what the mysterious son would be like. In one picture that her mind created he was tall and dark, handsome in an angular way, with large hands and a malicious spark. She also pictured him as short with a vaguely yellow complexion, squeaky and sickly, waddling about like a lost duckling. In any case, she decided that she probably wouldn’t like him at all.
Soon the much anticipated day arrived in late May, just after Adelaide’s thirteenth birthday. Adelaide was tired, for the school days had become longer since the exams were coming up with the end of the year. She was walking towards home with Suzannah, whom she had known for as long as she had memories. Despite its length, this day had been one where you could feel the promise of summer in the air, and could see it in the way the sun peeked out from behind the clouds more and more each day. June had almost begun, and as Adelaide and Suzannah descended the stairs that climbed the grey cliffs that their dear Hemingshire rested on, the sun was in that perfect place in the sky where it warmed their grateful faces, and then their backs, as they turned onto Wickham Lane.
It was Suzannah who first noticed the two figures standing on the doorstep of the house numbered 37, for Adelaide had been too interested in their conversation about jam. “Who are they?” she whispered into Adelaide's ear. “I don’t think I’ve seen either of them before.”
“I suppose those are our new neighbors.”
“And you didn’t mention them to me before? How rude.”
“Sorry,” she said, laughing. As they continued towards number 37, Adelaide saw that the two strangers were speaking with her mother, and they didn’t seem to be leaving, which sent Adelaide into a slight panic, for she had not had an opportunity to prepare for making the two new acquaintances. The two girls slowed down.
“Goodness! You can practically see through the shorter one, can’t you?” As Adelaide looked more carefully, she saw that Suzannah was right - the boy was so incredibly fair that she was surprised that he was a real flesh and blood human, and not some kind of spirit.
“Yes, I suppose you almost can!”
“Well. I suppose you’ll have lots of fun meeting them,” Suzannah continued.
“Don’t you want to stay and meet them too?”
“Of course, but I’ve got work to do. My father says that if I don’t thoroughly pass these exams he’ll double my chores over the summer, and I wouldn’t be able to bear that, you know.”
“I suppose you’re right. See you tomorrow?”
“See you. And remember,” she said, nudging Adelaide, “you could make a very important new friend today, so be on your best behavior.” She attempted a wink.
“Oh, hush,” Adelaide giggled. “I’m sure the boy’s perfectly horrible.”
“I have a nose for these things, and I don’t think you’re right.”
“Well don’t go telling Winnie and the others that we’re in love, alright? I haven’t even met him yet, and you haven’t either!”
“I wouldn’t do such a thing!” cried Suzannah. Adelaide looked at her smugly. “Oh alright, fine, I would. But I won’t.”
“Good.”
“Alright, Ada. I’d better be off now.”
“See you at school,” said Adelaide, rolling her eyes.
“Good luck,” Suzannah hissed. With that, she trotted down the steps towards her house, and Adelaide was left to meet the strangers alone. She took in a rather impressive amount of air, and headed for the porch.
“Excuse me,” she said, once she reached the two figures on the porch, who promptly moved out of her way.
“Oh, Adelaide, dear, come in and meet Mr. Crawford! He and his son have just come to say hello.”
“Oh, please do call me Peter,” said the man.
“Of course. And this is my daughter!”
“How do you do? My name is Adelaide,” she said once she was inside the door, standing next to Frederick.
“Quite well, thank you. Delighted to meet you, Miss Adelaide. This, as you may have guessed, is my son Edwin, whom I believe is about your age” said the man, gesturing to the boy beside him. The boy said nothing, only nodded.
“Now, Mr. Crawford, are you sure that you wouldn’t like to come in?”
“Thank you, but we should really get more settled in.” The adults continued to chatter about things that Adelaide would, on another occasion, have taken interest in, but she took the opportunity to watch the boy. She regarded him with slight suspicion. He was blond, with delicate, well-crafted features. His posture, she noted, would have made her mother very proud. He was about the same height as she was, but looked smaller. It was his scrawniness that made it so, she decided, as well as the tinge of timidness in his face. He wasn’t terribly handsome, but not bad looking either. He seemed nicer the longer she looked at him, a characteristic which few people she knew had. Even so, she decided that he would not become one of her close mates. He looked as if he had never so much as set foot outdoors, and for Adelaide that simply would not do. The Hargreave family lived by the ocean for several reasons, but an adoration for staying inside was not one of them.
Something in the boy’s expression shifted, as if he had read Adelaide’s thoughts on her face. He looked momentarily hurt, then ashamed. Adelaide realized she had been staring at him very intently while the adults continued their new neighbor talk. She looked away, mortified. But soon, curiosity got the better of her, and looked back, but the boy was staring at the ground.
Soon enough, the Crawfords left the doorstep of 37 Wickham Lane, and went on their own merry way. “Well,” said Mrs. Hargreave, as the trio retreated into the back parlor. “They seemed lovely.”
“What do you make of the boy, Mummy?” asked Frederick, who, having stayed silent for longer than previously thought possible, startled Mrs. Hargreave.
“I don’t know, really. He didn’t say much,” she sighed.
“Well, Ada certainly took an interest in him, didn’t you!” Frederick smirked.
“I did not.”
“Ah, that’ll be Beatrice,” said Mrs. Hargreave, hurrying to the noisily opening door.
“I saw you staring,” muttered Frederick.
“No you didn’t!”
“Yes I did! I think you like him.”
“He’s never said a word to me, how should I know if I do or not?”
Frederick paused. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, actually.”
“I know I am.”
“Still think you like him, though,” whispered Frederick, as he took off towards the stairs, cackling all the way.
“I do not! Frederick, you ignorant piece of potato pie, come back here!” she shouted, tearing after him. But Adelaide was too late - by the time she reached the landing, Frederick had already barreled into his bedroom, nearly knocking over a small table.
❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀
The air continued to grow warmer as the summer continued to set in. In the earliest days of June, four girls could be seen walking down the Hemingshire cliff stairs after school, when the sun grinned down on their shining faces. They walked in silence for a while, listening to the lovely sounds of their feet on cobblestones and brick.
“Has anyone finished the essay for History yet?” said Suzannah, suddenly.
“I have.”
“I expected you would, Adelaide, it being precisely your cup of tea.”
“I’ve barely started,” mumbled Winnie. “I just can’t seem to make the words fit together right. It would be so much easier if we could just..make equations of it all.”
“Easier for you, perhaps, bloody difficult for the rest of us,” said Suzannah.
“I think that words are a bit of a waste of time, really, you can’t make much with them except noise,” said Janet.
“Well, that’s a bit dark, isn’t it, love?”
“I don’t mean to be dark, but there isn’t much you can get out of pretty sentences.”
“I don’t think you’re quite right about that,” said Adelaide. “You can’t put feelings in numbers, really.”
Janet shrugged. “Perhaps it’s better that way.”
Adelaide opened her mouth to argue, but closed it after Suzannah elbowed her.
Once again their steps were the only sounds they heard, until Adelaide spoke again. “You know what bothers me terribly?”
“What?”
“Frederick?” asked Suzannah. The girls laughed.
“Well, yes,” said Adelaide, “all the time. But that’s not what I meant.”
“What is it then?” said Suzannah, looking her friend in the face.
“It’s that women make up half the bloody population but can’t vote. It’s just so awful.”
“Well, yes, it’s all horrid, but things could be worse,” said Janet.
“My father says that this is how things are supposed to be, but I don’t think he’s right. He’s never been a woman, after all,” said Winnie. “And I think my mum sides with me, even though she doesn’t say so.”
“I wish I could go to London and meet the real suffragettes, but Mummy says I’m too young to go alone and she couldn't go with me,” continued Adelaide.
“Oh, that would be such fun! I wish I could go with you,” cried Suzannah. “Perhaps when we are older.”
“But London is so terribly far away!” said Winnie. “How would you ever get there?”
“It would take a long time, to be sure,” puzzled Adelaide. “But if we saved enough money and rode the right trains, I believe we could do it. It would take a few days, I think.”
“I’d like to vote someday,” said Winnie, softly.
“Me too! And not have to wear corsets when we grow up!” Suzannah declared, spinning in circles and flailing her arms wildly. “And not have to sew things all the time!”
“And not have to get married!” added Adelaide, skipping down the stairs after her.
“But I rather like sewing…”
“Oh Winnie, you can sew as much as you like. We just don’t want to have to sew things! I like it too, but I’m so dreadfully bad at it,” Adelaide said, stopping to console her friend. By then they had reached Janet’s house, and said goodbye, but not before Suzannah invited them all over to her house for tea and studying the next day, for it was Friday. They continued talking until they reached Suzannah’s house, then Adelaide’s, until finally Winnie was left to walk alone.
That Friday evening passed with nothing of importance happening, except for a few customary arguments between Adelaide and Frederick, which, as usual, ended with Beatrice retiring early to read. Late that night, had anyone been walking by (which of course no one was, as nearly all the residents of Hemingshire were law-abiding, God-fearing people who did not participate in suspicious activities after dark), they would have seen a rectangle of light spilling from an upper window of 37 Wickham Lane. And in that rectangle they would have seen the shadow of a girl whose face was pressed against the cool windowpane. The girl was wondering about things that she didn’t understand, and things she did. A similar windowpane was being leaned upon by someone in the house next door, and someone else was wondering about many of the same things.
❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀
“How was your afternoon?” sang Mrs. Hargreave, as a soggy Adelaide sidled in through the front door, having just come home from “studying” at Suzannah’s house.
“Perfect.”
“Did you play football?” asked Frederick from his home in the study.
“What? No. I told you, we were preparing for-”
“Can’t have been perfect then,” he finished. Adelaide rolled her eyes and headed toward the kitchen.
“Oh, by the way children. I invited the Crawfords to come have dinner with us a week from tomorrow.”
“Mummy! Why on earth would you do that?” exclaimed Adelaide.
“Because it’s the neighborly thing to do, and in case you haven’t noticed, they are our neighbors.”
“But what on earth are we supposed to do with the boy?”
“...Talk to him?” suggested Mrs. Hargreave, visibly puzzled. “I thought you said he seemed alright.”
“Alright, but not interesting.”
“Now, Ada, that’s a very rude thing to say.”
“Even if it’s true?”
“Even so.”
Adelaide grunted.
The week passed with a quietness that was characteristic to Hemingshire, even though the exams were fast approaching, which sent the students into a flurry of preparation and frantic dread. The day of the dinner party arrived, and the entire Sunday was consumed with preparation. Mrs. Hargreave busied herself around the stove and the pantry, Adelaide occupied herself with the neatness of the house, Beatrice tried to think of things that she could say, and Frederick attempted to be helpful in several ways, and failed miserably. By the time they had all finished their chores, the house smelled fresh, the windows were open (for the sun had shown itself for the first time that week), and everything but the two girls felt prepared.
“You know Beatrice,” consoled Adelaide, “you don’t really have to say anything. There’s nothing wrong with being quiet.”
“But they’ll think I’m dumb!”
“I don’t think they would. And besides, they would be wrong, and would learn to be right, in time.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s quite silly of you.” And so the conversation ceased, and each party retreated back into their nervous selves. By the time the fateful hour was at hand, Beatrice had nearly worked herself into a fit, and Adelaide began to believe that she had never dreaded something so heartily in her life. No one could tell what Frederick was thinking of, as he had escaped to the garden in the backyard, and was not seen by any member of the family until a half hour before the party. Once he did appear, he was immediately scolded for the impressive amount of dirt under his nails, and was sent away to clean himself.
At half past seven, there came a friendly knock at the door, and the two younger children dissolved into (albeit very quiet) hysterics. It was Mrs. Hargreave who finally opened the door to the two guests, who, once formalities were exchanged, were led to the dining room. Naturally, Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Hargreave took the two ends of the table, which left the four children to silently decide on where to sit, which, at the time, seemed as difficult as learning to waltz in thirty seconds. Beatrice, through a series of exaggerated glances, communicated her refusal to be separated from Frederick, which left Adelaide and the boy to take the final two chairs. In a moment, Mrs. Hargreave personally escorted the various trays and dished into the dining room, which brought much relief to certain younger parties, for, as every child knows, mouths full of food are not to be full of conversation.
“I must say, Angelica, this lamb is delightful. Did you season it yourself? What a spectacular combination of flavors!”
Edwin nodded his assent, and Mrs. Hargreave gave some gracious reply, sparking a conversation between the adults about the town, their children, and all the things the children had no interest in. Hoping to engage Frederick in conversation, Adelaide sat suddenly forward and reached out towards the center of the table, but on seeing that he was already occupied, retrieved her hand and reached instead for her water glass, taking a dainty sip. She cleared her throat and set down her glass, choosing to pursue the only option left to her.
“So. You’re Edwin, correct?”
“Right. And you’re Adelaide.”
“Indeed. And...what year are you?”
“In school or age?”
“Well, both, I suppose.”
“I’m fourteen, and a year above you in school.”
“Have you started school here yet?”
“Oh, no. We decided I ought to wait until the autumn.”
“Pardon me for asking, but how would you know what year I’m in if you haven’t….”
He shrugged and blushed. Adelaide took another sip of water.
“Have you been to the seaside- oh, I’m terribly sorry!”
Edwin vehemently shook his head and desperately tried to swallow the bite of lamb that he had nearly choked on in his hurry to answer.
“Have some water, that ought to help,” continued Adelaide. He took a large gulp from his glass, and then mightily coughed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I can usually-” he coughed again, “swallow food properly.”
“Well, I should hope so,” Adelaide chuckled. “But I’m sorry too, it was rude of me to ask you a question when you were trying to chew.”
“Oh, no. Don’t mention it.” He took another sip of water. “And I haven’t been to the sea yet, is it very nice?”
“Oh, it’s wonderful. Cold, but wonderful.”
“I suppose over the summer I shall have to seas the day, then.”
“Did you- was that a pun?” Adelaide grinned.
“Yes, it was. I’m quite sorry, Father thinks they’re awful. But it just...sort of slipped out.”
“Well. I don’t mind them at all. In fact, I’m shore that your puns should be shellebrated.”
“That was very impressive.”
“Mersea.”
“Do you speak French?”
“It was a pun, Edwin. Merci, mersea? But I am learning.”
“Oh. Oh! Your skills are pundeful!”
“Goodness. This is getting quite seavere.”
“I am truly in awe of you.” He laughed.
“Oh, but wait! I just remembered! ‘Mer’ is French for sea, so mersea was actually a double pun!”
“A true work of genius, that,” said Edwin, reverently shaking his head. “I shall have to work very hard to catch up to you, I think.”
“I doubt it, you’re very good yourself.”
“You exaggerate,” he muttered, smiling to himself all the same. A moment of silence settled upon the smiling pair, and both ended up taking sips of water.
“Anyway,” began Adelaide, “Sea puns aside-”
“So sorry, but I don’t sea how they’re a problem.”
“Oh that was quite clever! As I was saying, I beseach you tell me what sort of things you like to do for a bit of fun.”
“Crikey! My puns just can’t hold a candle to yours.”
“Well. Perhaps not yet. But please. What are your hobbies?”
“I don't know, really. I do love reading, and writing things.” he started.
“What sort of things?”
“Stories, mostly. I also like to play football, though I fear I’m not very good at it, I was terribly sick for a long time and had to stay indoors.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sure that Frederick would love to play football with you, even if you were awful.”
“That’s very kind.”
“I would too, for that matter,” she mumbled as an afterthought. “Anything else?”
“I enjoy card games, and going outside. And I play the piano a bit.”
“Oh, really? Do you have a piano in your house?”
“Well, yes, but it’s terribly old and constantly out of tune.”
“If you like you can use ours, it’s in tip top shape, though heaven knows why, none of us play it very well.”
“Are you sure? That’s a very generous offer.”
“Of course I’m sure. I’ll show it to you once we finish eating.” Both resumed focusing on their plates, eating faster than they had before.
There was a momentary lull in conversation all around, as the two parents glowed with pride at the affable natures of their children.
Soon all plates were clean of food, cleared from the table, and replaced with delicate saucers that held rich slices of cake. These, too, were quickly devoured, and finally Adelaide spoke up.
“Mummy, may I go and show Edwin the piano?”
“Ada, what must you say-”
“Please?”
Mrs. Hargreave smiled. “Yes, my dear.” And so Adelaide led Edwin away from the dining room and into the front parlor, where a particularly charming baby grand piano sat nestled among the stuffed chairs and sofa. Edwin saw it and sighed rapturously at once.
“It’s beautiful,” he breathed.
“I know. It’s a shame my father can’t play it anymore, he was very good.”
“Why can’t he play?”
“He died of tuberculosis when I was small.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said softly. “I’m sure he was a delightful man.”
Adelaide nodded. “He was.”
“I know a little how you feel, I think.”
“Oh?”
“My mother passed away as I was born.”
“In childbirth? Oh that’s awful!” She reached out and touched his elbow with the tips of her fingers. “And you didn’t even know her,” she continued, more quietly.
“Makes it better, though, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know.” They stood in silence for a moment, both lost in the other’s grief.
“Would you like to play something?”
“What?”
“On the piano.”
“Ah, right.” He walked over to it and ran a hand along the cover of the keys. “I don’t...I don’t know. Wouldn’t it disturb everyone else?”
“They might hear, but unless you’re really horrible they won’t be disturbed, I’m sure.”
“Hm.” He slowly sat down at the bench. “I suppose I’ll try something.” He lifted the cover, but paused. “I’m awfully self-conscious, just now.”
“Don’t mind me at all, pretend I’m not here if you like.”
“I don’t know if that will work, but it’s worth a try, I suppose.”
Edwin gently held his long fingers over the keys, and then began. He was rather stiff in the beginning, but soon Adelaide could see him remembering a melody he had played a thousand times, each chord graceful and affectionate. Eighth notes ascended and cascaded in a way that could only be described as ethereal. Adelaide, who was watching closely from where she stood beside him, noted that he had even closed his eyes at certain moments, knowing exactly where each key ought to be, and just how to employ it. The solemn concentration on his face was fascinating to her. She had rarely seen someone so completely consumed by something so simple as a pretty song. Soon the soft melodies of the introduction repeated themselves in the conclusion, and Edwin opened his eyes as the song drew to a close.
When he finally lifted his eyes from the piano, meeting Adelaide’s awed gaze, he promptly turned red.
“That,” she said, “was sublime.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, staring at the ground. “It’s the only song I know without sheet music.”
“What was it?”
“‘Arabesque No.1.’”
“I loved it.”
“Did you?”
“Of course. You could be a professional one day!”
“I don’t think that’s true,” he said, but his beaming eyes thanked her all the same.
“Of course it is. I rarely lie.”
“Oh.” They walked side by side back to the dining room, where Edwin was met with more praise from the others, who had overheard his playing. The evening went smoothly from then on, although Frederick continually raised his eyebrows at Adelaide from across the table, which she found heavily annoying and answered with glares.
Finally, as night had really set in, the guests left the table and headed toward the door. “It was nice to meet you,” said Adelaide to Edwin as everyone else traded goodbyes.
“Likewise,” he said, nodding. “I should like to talk to you again sometime.”
“I’d like that too.”
Later, when the family was finished helping clean up and was comfortably lounging in the back parlor, the inevitable discussion of the evening ensued.
“I think the pair of them will make lovely neighbors,” said Mrs. Hargreave, her hands occupied with her latest embroidery.
“The boy seems too quiet for me,” said Frederick, who didn’t bother looking up from shining his beloved cello.
“Why doesn’t he have a mother?”
“I don’t know, Beatrice, but it’s uncalled for to ask such things.”
“She died when he was born.”
“Ada!”
“What’s the matter? He told me.”
“I see. That must have been very hard on Mr. Crawford.”
“Probably harder on the boy,” muttered Frederick.
“His name is Edwin, use it,” hissed Adelaide.
“Fine.” He continued to rub the body of the cello with a rag. “Since you were the only one who talked to him, what’s he like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He seems...a bit melancholy, but nice. He likes puns.”
“Oh, no,” said Frederick, rolling his eyes. “We really don’t need any more puns in this town, you supply plenty.”
“At any rate,” said Mrs. Hargreave, rising from the sofa, “it’s time for all of you to go to bed.”
“But I’m not done!” cried Frederick.
“You can finish tomorrow morning, if you wake up in time.”
“You know that won’t happen,” he grumbled, carefully placing the instrument back into its case and following Adelaide upstairs.
“You’re sour this evening, what’s got your trousers in a knot?”
“Knot any of your business, Ada,” he said and immediately slapped his hand over his mouth. “Drat!” he whispered, shocked. “You’ve infected me.” Adelaide elbowed him and Frederick began to laugh.
Late that night, as Adelaide stared at her pretty turquoise wallpaper, she thought about all sorts of things. After a while she drifted off, and dreamed of the sea and a woman who could throw fire.
❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀
With that Monday began the time every student dreads. Exams week. Each class had a test of some sort, and no amount of studying ever felt like enough. Adelaide’s fingernails had been reduced to rough pink nubs, Frederick’s hair had been reduced to a fuzzy golden cloud, and Beatrice’s vocabulary had been reduced to “too tired”, “exams”, and “mmrrrggg”. The only thing that kept everyone alive was the promise of ten weeks with absolutely nothing to do.
The week passed slowly, as everyone was exhausted and slightly irritable. That Thursday morning, Adelaide woke early, ate, dressed, and returned downstairs in search of something to do.
“Mummy, are there any newspapers around?”
“One in the back parlor, my dear.”
Adelaide retrieved the newspaper, and entered the kitchen, where a completely disheveled Frederick sat eating. Adelaide sat down and began to read.
“So.” Frederick put another forkful of scrambled eggs in his mouth.
“...Can I help you?” said Adelaide, not looking up.
“School’s almost finished,” he said through the eggs.
“An astute observation, dear Freddie.”
“Are you going to invite the Crawford boy to swim with us?”
“I think if anyone’s going to invite him to come with us, it should be you. It would be more proper.”
“But he’s much closer to you in age,” said Frederick, laying down his fork.
“That may be, but I think he’s more likely to be friends with you.”
“I doubt it.”
“Hurry up, or we’ll be late,” she said, neatly folding the paper, rising from the table, and briskly walking towards the front door. “I’ll leave without you if you’re not ready in five minutes!”
“See you at school, then,” Frederick shouted after her, then continued happily eating his eggs.
At long last, the week ended, and summer vacation began. And, as the final week passed, so did the summer. It was quiet, of course, because that’s what Hemingshire of England always was. Adelaide’s friends went to their various out of town family members or chores, and the Hargreave children were left to entertain themselves, as they always were. Mrs. Hargreave spent her days in the sewing room, as commissions for summer dresses poured in every day. The children went to their usual spot on the River Esk. They spent many hours swimming, lying in the sun, and enjoying the short period of warmth that broke the monotonous fog every summer. If they ever saw Edwin, they cordially waved, but otherwise the Crawfords and Hargreaves ignored each other.
What brought the most excitement was the bout of thunderstorms that always hit in late July. For Adelaide, thunderstorms brought a cozy sense of anticipation that heightened her mood and spirits. She privately cherished the way her insides crackled when she saw the leaves turn upside down, deriving intense pleasure from her preparation for lightning. For Frederick, it was the same, and he was content to share the window seat in Adelaide’s bedroom and stare out into the sheets of rain that eventually fell. Thunderstorms still made Beatrice rather nervous.
“What if the lightning strikes the chimney?”
“That won’t happen.”
“It’s entirely possible!”
“The chances are low,” said Mrs. Hargreave, coming in. The storm that evening was looking to be particularly long, which was very distressing for certain members of the household. Darkness was beginning to grow.
“I believe it’s time for bed, my loves.”
“How can anybody possibly sleep with this mess going on outside?” Beatrice muttered.
“You’ll find a way.”
“I don’t want to sleep either. Much too exciting.” Frederick paused to think. “I could read to you, if that will help.”
“I suppose….”
“Come on then. Adelaide?”
“I’m not in the mood at the moment,” she said, watching for lightning.
No one moved, the motivation having gone stale.
“Alright everyone, into your nightclothes and your own bedrooms.”
Soon Adelaide was left alone on the window seat, pondering nothing at all. It was there that she dozed off, until awakened by a sudden thirst. On her way to the kitchen, she heard soft voices, which, upon later inspection, proved to be one soft voice. She gently opened the door to Beatrice’s room and took in the scene.
“You do realize she’s asleep, don’t you?”
Frederick looked up. “Of course. But I quite like this story.”
Adelaide nodded, then retrieved a glass of water and eventually fell asleep in her ivory sheets.
From then the summer continued in its previous monotony until Adelaide’s friends slowly returned, and the familiar annoyances of school began once more.
❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀
On a Saturday in the middle of September there was a knock on the door of 37 Wickham Lane, and it was Mrs. Hargreave who answered it.
“Since we’ve managed to finish getting the house together, we agreed that it was time we repaid you for the lovely evening we had a while ago.”
“Mr. Crawford! What a lovely surprise!”
“Would you and your family like to join mine on Saturday next for a dinner party?”
“We would very much enjoy that. Thank you.”
“What time can I expect you?”
“Seven, perhaps?”
“Lovely. Have a nice evening, then.”
“You as well.” Mrs. Hargreave closed the door after Mr. Crawford left the porch.
“A dinner party! How nice!”
“Adelaide! Were you spying the entire time?”
She nodded. “I was curious.”
“It is very rude to eavesdrop.”
“Yes, but a dinner party!”
“I see you are not nervous anymore?”
“I suppose the boy doesn’t scare me now. He’s not at all intimidating.”
“Oh, good.”
“I knew it!” said Frederick, emerging from the shadows.
“Knew what, you arrogant turtle?”
“Ada! Such a rude thing to say!”
Frederick continued unbothered. “I knew you would fall in love!”
“I’m not in love, you absolute dimwit.”
“Ada-” Mrs. Hargreave gave up, and shook her head as she left the entryway.
“You will be, mark my words.”
“I shan’t ever. Not with him.”
“Frederick does have a point, you know,” said Beatrice, leaving a similar patch of shadows nearby.
“Frederick never has a point.”
Frederick gasped.
“I know that,” said Beatrice
Frederick gasped louder.
“But this time he might,” she continued. “You two have...you know...biology.”
“...What?”
“Chemistry, Beatrice,” said Frederick, affectionately rolling his eyes.
“Same sort of thing, really.”
“Enough of this, let’s play football,” said Frederick, rummaging in a nearby closet for a ball.
“You’ll only win again.”
“I know,” he smiled.
“Frederick, would you please come inside and dress yourself properly?” shouted Adelaide in the direction of the garden.
Frederick held up the bouquet he had picked and inhaled deeply. The flowers didn’t smell like much, but he did love the scent of healthy soil. A slight buzzing invaded his ears, as a particularly fat bumble bee landed on his nose. He stood there quietly, holding his breath, reveling in the possibility that the bee had mistaken him for another flower.
“Frederick!” It was Beatrice this time.
“Alright, alright! I’m coming.”
“You have dirt on your face,” she said as he came in the door.
“Well you have dirt on your soul, Beatrice.”
“Thank you for stating the obvious. Now go clean yourself up, you look horrid,” said Adelaide, who had returned to the back door in search of her siblings.
“I never look horrid.”
Two sets of eyebrows raised.
Frederick grumbled and finally went to change.
At 6:58 in the evening, Frederick, forcibly dragged by the other Hargreaves, arrived at the Crawfords’ doorstep.
Mrs. Hargreave’s knuckles had barely touched the door when it opened.
“How wonderful to see you again, Mrs. Hargreave!”
“Well, thank you for the invitation!”
Edwin raised a few fingers in salutation from behind his father.
“Please, come in.”
The Hargreaves followed the Crawfords into their parlor.
“My deepest apologies,” began Mr. Crawford, “in our hurry to prepare for the evening we rather neglected the food, so it shall be a few minutes until it is ready. I still haven’t gotten around to putting up an advertisement for a cook, so I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer through what Edwin and I could put together.”
“It’s perfectly alright, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
“Good. Could I interest you in a tour of the house?”
“You most certainly can.” And with that the children were left to their own devices in the parlor.
“Why don’t we all sit down?”
“I suppose that would be smart, yes.”
“So Edwin,” began Frederick once everyone had gotten settled. “What sort of person are you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“Who are you?”
Adelaide elbowed Frederick in the ribs. “Don’t be such a soggy cucumber,” she hissed.
“Can you ask him what sort of books he likes?” whispered Beatrice from Adelaide’s other side.
From the opposite part of the room Edwin looked completely bewildered.
“What sort of books do you like to read, Edwin?”
He sighed, visibly relieved that there was actually a question he could answer. “I like most sorts of books, but I do prefer ones with interesting worlds and fantastical characters.”
“Ask him what his favorite is,” whispered Beatrice.
“Oh, Beatrice, you ask him,” said Adelaide aloud.
Beatrice glared at Adelaide, before inquiring.
“I don’t know, really. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, perhaps?”
“Oh no,” Adelaide blurted.
“What, didn’t you like it?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Beware, Edwin, she’ll go on for hours,” said Frederick.
“Hush, you. It was just so...hypocritical?”
“What can you mean?”
“The part with the big cat that was chasing the mouse. It was the Tin Man, wasn’t it, that said that he couldn’t bear to see a creature hurt?”
“I think it was, yes.”
“But in saving the mouse he killed the cat! It’s isn’t like the cat’s not a creature too. There must have been other ways of saving the mouse. And how did the Cowardly Lion feel about seeing his friend kill another of his species?”
“I suppose you do have a point.”
“I know I have. And the part where Dorothy was explaining what everyone was made out of, for instance that the Tin Man was made of tin and the Scarecrow was made of straw? Then the person said ‘what is your dog made of’, and Dorothy said Toto was a “meat dog”! That was just awful.”
Edwin laughed slightly. “I didn’t like that either.”
“I just think The Wind in the Willows was much better.”
“I haven’t read it.”
“Well! You should remedy that immediately.”
“I haven’t a copy.”
“You can borrow mine, if you like.”
“I would like that, actually.”
“Alright. I’ll deliver it tomorrow then?”
Edwin smiled and looked at his knees. “That would be very nice. Thank you.”
“And you must remember to come play the piano sometime soon, it’s very lonely.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“Anyway,” said Frederick, clearing his throat. “What sort of games do you like?”
“I’ve taken up Patience quite a lot recently, though-”
“I meant things like football, or rugger.”
“Oh.” Edwin looked down again and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” said Adelaide. “It wasn’t clear.”
“I think it was,” muttered Frederick.
“That’s because your head is stuffed with cotton.”
Frederick crossed his arms. “Same to you.”
“I like football most of all,” he said, saw Frederick sit up with renewed interest, and immediately finished with “but I’m really quite awful at it.”
“Well, there’s only one way to improve. You should come join my friends and I sometime. We often play after school.”
“I fear I’m not good enough.”
“Well you could play with just us Ada and Beatrice and I, then.”
“If you’d let me, I think I’d like that.”
“Of course we will,” said Adelaide.
“So, er, what sort of books do you all like?”
“Thrilling mysteries,” said Frederick scandalously.
Adelaide laughed. “You’ve stolen my copy of Anne of Green Gables six times in the last year.”
“Yes, well, it was a thrilling mystery.”
“What about you, Adelaide?”
“I like most things, I think, but I can only stand so much fantasy. But I like softer stories, like The Wind in the Willows, or Little Women, or Pride and Prejudice.”
“Oh, I’ve read Pride and Prejudice!”
“What did you think?”
“It was wonderful. Although, even by the end, I didn’t really like Mr. Darcy.”
“I think he’s redeemable, but I share your opinion. I do love Elizabeth Bennet, though, she’s perfect.”
“You remind me of her, I think.”
Adelaide grinned. “That’s terribly sweet of you to say! But what could I possibly have done to deserve it?”
“You’re...you seem brave, like she is...and….”
“Stubborn,” muttered Frederick, which earned him another elbow to the ribs.
“...And you seem to have your mind made up about what you want and what you think. But you’re kind. Like Elizabeth.”
“I’m glad you think so highly of me.” Adelaide’s smile softened. “I hope I can continue to be like Elizabeth Bennet in your eyes.”
Edwin smiled and blushed. “I think you will.”
“I hope to God that doesn’t make me Lydia,” said Beatrice softly.
Adelaide finally broke her eye contact with Edwin and laughed. “I don’t think it does. I could never see you being so terribly rash.”
“I believe supper should be ready by now,” said Mr. Crawford, who had entered the room at that moment. “Shall we migrate to the dining room?”
The children rose from their various seats and followed the two adults through the small and cozy house until they reached the particularly cozy dining room.
“I do like your wallpaper,” said Adelaide, who had been completely charmed by the warm red paisleys that scampered across the sides of the room.
“Why, thank you,” said Mr. Crawford. “I wish I could take credit for the decoration, but the wallpaper was here when we arrived.”
“Either way,” interjected Mrs. Hargreave, “it’s quite lovely.”
They all sat down and relished the simple meal provided by the Crawfords, as well as the dessert. There was pleasant conversation all around, and, of course, more puns were made and applauded.
“Thank you so much for this invitation, Mr. Crawford, we shall have to make a tradition of these lovely evenings.”
“I quite agree. We are so glad to have such kind neighbors.”
The children waved to each other, and exchanged smiles. On the short walk home, Frederick sidled up to Adelaide.
“I suppose the boy seems alright, don’t you think so?”
“Yes, I think he is quite nice. Especially to compare me to Elizabeth Bennet, what a lovely thing to say.”
“He is a bit...sickly, though, don’t you think?” Frederick had dropped his voice to a whisper.
“He said he was ill for a long time recently.”
“With what?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Curious.”
“Whatever it was, he seems alright now.”
“I think he’s brilliant,” said Beatrice, joining them.
“That’s just because he liked The Wonderful Wizard of Oz too, though heaven knows why.”
“And who likens you to the best book characters in the world after only one conversation?” continued Beatrice.
“Seems like something our Ada would do,” mumbled Frederick.
“But that’s usual behavior for her, not for normal human beings.”
Adelaide scoffed. “I don’t see why I’m not considered normal.”
Frederick’s eyes widened as he looked at her incredulously. “Because...because of everything!”
“Name one-”
“You didn’t like The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,” said Beatrice triumphantly.
Adelaide rolled her eyes. “Surely I’m not the only-”
“You went through a phase where you thought you could control worms, and you kept bringing them in the house and trying to show Mummy that-”
“Frederick, you know that’s a sore spot, there was no need to bring that up.”
“Not normal, though, is it?”
Adelaide grumbled in his general direction.
The autumn and winter of 1912 were simple, as each year had been before. Edwin enrolled in the same school that the Hargreave children attended, and Adelaide lent Edwin several books over the course of the winter. He took good care of them and lent her several others. There were a few more casual dinner parties, a few more gentle neighborly conversations, and much cold. Adelaide spent many more hours snuggled under blankets with her friends, Frederick and his gang refused to stop playing all sorts of outdoor games, and Beatrice continued to go about sneezing and endlessly tending the fire between book chapters. At Christmastime, the Hargreave children forgot their various quarrels and read their respective books on the sofa, and occasionally stared into the fire, until warmed by Frederick’s strong arms and the thick knitted blankets, all three of them fell asleep on each other. There were parties and stockings and presents, as well as the annual Christmas ball at the town hall, which Adelaide religiously avoided. The year ended quietly and happily. The beginning of the new year passed with the children at separate parties, Adelaide at Winnie’s party, Frederick hosting his own, and Beatrice with her dearest friend. 1913 began, as most years did, with the joyful shouts and celebration of children who had stayed up much past their bedtimes.
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