Tiny

Fiction - by William Wandless

His Lordship swore he meant it as a kindness, as a reward for my many years of service at Hazelton Hall. The Hall would always be my home, he insisted, but the labor of seeing to its upkeep had become too much for me. And—he added, in the conspiratorial whisper he had used since he was a boy—he wanted to give his Primrose, the new Lady Talbot, a chance to establish her authority, which would of course be impossible so long as I dwelled among them.

So I was cast out of the Hall, the only home I had known since I arrived on the doorstep with my two scuffed and shabby suitcases, and sent to live on the grounds of the estate in this little cedar box. 

At my request the workmen towed my tiny house behind the orchard, to a site that would not spoil the vista that appeared when one rounded the curve and could at last see past the birches that lined the drive. The Hall deserved that much. The driver was kind enough to turn my home so the sun would wake me in the morning and I could gaze upon the lights of the Hall as I drifted off to sleep, singing myself my little lullabies.

My box was accommodating enough, though it was designed more for cleverness than for comfort. Every stick of furniture had two or three purposes, and every household article had its own dedicated cupboard, cabinet, or hiding place. Not a single inch was wasted. 

The steward, the cook, and the head gardener all commiserated with me in the kitchen, taking offense on my behalf, and all the maids lamented my departure, especially after they were introduced to Mrs. Waite, my successor. She knew little of keeping house, but she cut a fine matronly figure, one suited to Lady Talbot’s domestic vision for the Hall. “We all must make the best of it,” I told them with a serene smile, and I hummed for them a simple song about the certainty of change as we went about our duties in the old way.

Little Julia wept for a week when she learned I had lost my place in the household, sure she would not see me so often, sure Mrs. Waite would not love her so well as I did. But little Jack, lordlier than his Lordship, said he was “glad to be rid of that old crone,” making a point of saying so whenever Mrs. Waite was near enough to hear him. She purchased his love with sweets and fond words. When I learned how cheaply his love could be bought, I confess I did not miss it.

For the better part of a month I tried to teach Mrs. Waite the ways of the estate, but she was at best an indifferent learner. Her housekeeping emphasized attendance on Lady Talbot, who took her on as a collaborator, confidante, and sometime spy. She was perfectly suited to keeping her Ladyship abreast of household intrigues, though the management of the Hall suffered for it. Mrs. Waite resented and resisted the gentlest correction, holding firm to the belief that a properly staffed manor ought to run itself. “Any faults in the service of the domestics,” she liked to say, looking at me over the rims of her round spectacles, “can only arise from imperfections in their training.”

That night I learned I could produce a writing desk from the wall beside my slender bed by releasing a hidden latch, which makes my tiny house much more pleasant. Though this little cedar box is not the home I would choose for myself, it is not without its virtues. It has little songs all its own, and I will gather them up.

Mr. Davies, the steward, met me in the garden in the midst of one of my midmorning walks just a week after my retirement had officially begun. “Mrs. Vulpe,” he said, studying the manicured beds, “her Ladyship was wondering if you could take your constitutionals a bit earlier or later in the day, perhaps at sunrise or sunset.” By his manner I could tell the proposal embarrassed him; we had worked too long together, he and I, for me to misunderstand him. Though I was as vigorous as ever, my years at the Hall had left me weathered, worn, and rather bowed—he was asking me, in essence, to keep out of sight.

I smiled at poor Davies. “Of course,” I said, and I revised my rounds accordingly, humming songs about the dawn and the dusk. And I learned I could widen the windows of my little house by making use of cunning accordion panels that slipped into recesses cut into the walls. The place is too small to suit one grown accustomed to the grandeur of the Hall, but I cannot help but commend the ingenuity of the architect.

For perhaps a week more I persisted in my new routine, slipping out to wander in the gardens early on mild mornings, well before the dew burned off, lingering in the cool arbors beyond the hedgerows as each day came to an end, murmuring old melodies. The grounds of Hazelton Hall are extensive, and I am perfectly versed in all its nooks, retreats, and hiding places. Avoiding the notice of Lady Talbot and Mrs. Waite was none too difficult, save for my visits to the kitchen to share tea and meals with the serving staff, which obliged me to traverse a small patch of lawn where one might catch sight of me.

I must confess I was not caught unprepared when those visits, too, were forbidden, thanks to the attentiveness of a guest who thought he had spotted a beggar-woman crossing the lawn and slipping into the Hall. Though I always breakfasted at home, poor little Lacey from the kitchen was tasked with bringing me my noonday and evening meals in a wicker basket, some small share of the fare Mrs. Dawes had prepared for the other servants. On Sundays Mrs. Dawes herself would come sit with me, though we agreed not to speak unkindly of the family. We soon found we had not that much to say.

Even so, retirement suited me. I was unstintingly fed and warmly housed, and I still had the pleasure of seeing the sun rise over Hazelton Hall. I think the senior members of the staff expected more for me—no doubt seeing in my retirement some suggestion of their own portion when they grew too old to work—but I had all that I required.

I was not entirely surprised when her Ladyship began to economize, which in itself did not strike me as a fault. When the Talbots only summered at Hazelton we were in the custom of closing up portions of the Hall, spurred by Mr. Davies’s prudence and frugality. Lady Talbot, however, summarily dismissed a fifth of the housekeeping staff, one of Mrs. Dawes’s under-cooks, and a handful of our most reliable gardeners. I thought the measures might betoken the return of the Talbots to the city, but in truth she had simply conferred with Mrs. Waite and determined that the staff had grown unwieldy and rather unruly.

I noticed the little differences at first: untrimmed hedges, for example, or Lacey’s lateness when she came to deliver my dinners. The servants I encountered in the midst of my meanderings seemed harried and disheartened, though their efforts were indeed enough to keep up appearances at the Hall. I sang for them a half-remembered tune about half-remembered things, about unfortunate change and bravery in the face of it.

Shortly after her Ladyship thinned the ranks I chanced to encounter his Lordship walking the grounds with Mr. Graham, the head gardener. We spoke only of indifferent matters, for I did not feel it was my place to remark on the management of the Hall any longer. We walked back to my house and took our tea on a convenient table that slid out from underneath it, Mr. Graham helping me to manage the spindly legs that telescoped down to support it. It was an altogether agreeable afternoon.

Her Ladyship, however, took offense. At the end of one of my morning rambles I returned to find my little cedar box in motion. The foreman of the towing crew indicated that her Ladyship had decided the pretty spot behind the orchard was ideally suited to a scheme she had in mind. My home was to be moved to the northern corner of the estate, well out of the way, where the gardeners had their sheds, supplies, and compost bins. Her Ladyship simply couldn’t think of anywhere else to put it.

In truth, I was not at all put out by my unexpected relocation. My family had long been foresters and foragers before I took to service, and my home now stood at the edge of a vast wood. While I could not see the Hall itself from my new vantage point, I could hear the wind whistling through the treetops, which was nearly as pleasing—an old song sung by the finest singers. Moreover, I found the scent of turned earth and moldering plants as pleasant as ever. And when I tidied up all the items that had fallen in transit I discovered a drawer beneath my bed, hidden by a retractable façade and deep enough to stow several blankets. Even after several months my little home still found ways to surprise me.

My chief pleasure during those late summer and long autumn days were the visits of little Julia, who would sometimes persuade her nanny to escort her to see me or, when she was feeling more spirited, would slip away on her own. Her naughtiness cost her, however, and when she came to see me on a wet October evening her dress was torn and her cheeks were stained with tears.

“They took them away!” she cried, “They took my little loves!” Julia threw herself into my arms, and I brought her into my tiny house and endeavored to console her as well as I could. When she composed herself I had the whole of the story.

Julia had slipped from her nanny to walk in the garden, as she had often done while in my care, and her flight had earned her a scolding. Her willfulness might have amounted to nothing had Mrs. Waite and little Jack not united against her. Mrs. Waite intimated that a girl who fancied herself grown-up enough to wander the estate alone could certainly do without all the childish things that cluttered up her room, especially her collection of dolls. Jack had naturally taken up the hint. “Such common little things,” he had added, standing at his mother’s side. “Homely and horrid as she that made them!”

Lady Talbot had given her assent, and together Mrs. Waite and Jack had marched into Julia’s bedroom and collected the dolls I had made her over the years, ten in all, one for every birthday. Julia’s nanny had held her tight and tried to soothe her, only releasing her when her Ladyship grew tired of her wailing. Julia had run first in search of Mrs. Waite and Jack, but they were nowhere to be found. Then she had appealed to her father in his study, but Lord Talbot had turned her away, deferring to the wisdom of his Primrose.

I held my little Julia and thought on the matter, recalling the soft songs my mother taught me and her mother taught her, songs about unkindness and the limits of good grace, the songs they sang when they were exiled and wandered the world until they found where they were wanted. I dried my little Julia’s tears and took both her hands. And then I sang for her, sang a true song, a subtle, longing song. For a moment it became quite warm in my tiny home, and although it was a moonless night, moonlight spilled through my windows.

When I was done Julia considered me with something like wonder, something like understanding. She might have asked me many questions had we not been interrupted by the knockings, giggles, and whispers that came from the many recesses and alcoves in my home, from the drawers and cabinets and cupboards above and below and all around us. She looked a question to me, and I smiled and nodded, just like a mother might.

Julia opened up each hiding place one by one, and out tumbled Iliana, Margareta, Violeta, Ruxandra, and the others, all her little, laughing loves one by one. They formed a ring around her and danced and sang for her, a song about being lost and found and home again. In the midst of her delight, as they embraced her and she embraced me, I sang a song about sleep and dreams. She drifted off, surrounded by her little loves, swaddled in the piled quilts on my little bed.

One by one I closed all the drawers and cabinets the dolls had opened, humming to myself, imagining what I might do to address the faults and flaws of the family. And when I reached the cupboard that held my luggage, the two well-worn suitcases I had borne to the Hall those many years ago, the right songs came to me.

Bearing those cases I returned to the Hall, leaving Julia snug in her sleep. I met Miss Espinosa, Julia’s nanny, in the garden, earnestly searching for her ward, calling the name of her own little love. I sang to her a sweet, sentimental song, a song of homecoming and home-going, and off she walked to the south, her gaze fixed on some distant destination only she remembered. I lifted my voice when I arrived at the drive that surrounded the Hall, and out they filed in their bedclothes, one by one—Mr. Davies, Mrs. Dawes, Mr. Graham, Lacey, Mrs. Waite, and the rest, followed by Lord Talbot, Lady Talbot, and little Jack, who seemed to me not so little any longer. All the servants save one I sent away, off to their far-flung harbors. The Talbots and Mrs. Waite I kept with me, to listen and to witness.

The next song I sang surged and soared, roared and rose above the Hall like a gale over the gables. I thought of my tiny, clever home, of its intricate, ingenious design, and improvised measure after measure, remaking the manor to mirror my vision, line by line, verse by verse.

The overture of my song saw the east and west wings meet in the middle like long, reaching arms, and the first verse fitted the study into the sunroom, the rows of old books flapping flat against the windows. With gratings and groanings the cellars slipped into the servants’ quarters, the kitchens retracted into the chapel, and the pantries snapped into the attic. The bedrooms tucked into one another like nesting dolls, and they dropped into the drawing room with a whisper and a thump. I folded and flattened Hazelton Hall brick by brick and plank by plank until all that remained when the song was sung could be stowed in my little leather valise. I put it away, closed the clasp, and looked out over the field where the Hall once stood. Nothing remained but the gravel paths and bent blades of grass that glittered with gathering dew.

Then I turned to the Talbots, to the Lord and the Lady, the heir and the housekeeper. I began a fateful, final song, a fell melody once sung by my mother when her own home was taken from her. Bones coiled and curled with hushed, muffled crunches, and sinews ripped and twisted as I sang them into strange shapes. I wrapped Jack around his father’s throat like a cravat and tightened him into a knobbly knot, then pressed Lord Talbot’s toes to his shins, his shins to his hips, and his hips to his chin, raising my voice above his cries as his backbone gave way. With a rising rhythm I wrenched open Lady Talbot’s jaw and tucked in her teeth so Mrs. Waite could slide easily inside with her shoulders folded and her heels turned and tucked to touch her bust. When she was properly stuffed down the gullet of her mistress, I wound the Lady around her Lord in a tight, climbing spiral. It took an especially fervent verse to tuck the tangle of Talbots into the waiting case, but when the final syllables were sung the work was utterly done.

I waited there for a while, swaying in the silence and the light of the new moon that had bloomed from my music, and let the family blood seep from the seams of the suitcase and into the soil. I waited until darkness gathered back around us, then claimed the valise that held Hazelton Hall and left the other behind for some visitor to find.

The following morning Julia and I breakfasted on fruit and porridge, cleared my little foldaway table, and began walking westward. I sang a traveling song, a lilting and lovely song, and by the time we reached the trees Julia was humming in harmony. She stood in my shadow, and my tiny home followed us on long, spindly legs.