"Martha Wells - Thorns" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wells Martha)

Thorns
by Martha Wells


Coming down the stairs to dinner, I found the governess engaged in battle with my great great
grandnephew. The disgusting little boy was wrestling with the poor woman, apparently trying to thrust her
over the bannister.

"An application of the birch rod would settle that, Miss," I said.

"I would dearly love to, Madame," the governess answered, breathless and more sharply than her wont.
Perhaps the struggle to preserve her life -- we were on the third landing, and the stone-flagged floor of
the Hall was far below -- had overcome her usual reticence. "But I've been instructed to use only modern
methods of disciplining the children..."

The unruly creature's mother, my great grand-niece Electra, was hurrying up the stairs toward them, her
satin skirts rustling like storm wind. She dithered near the struggle, waving her plump soft hands. "Oh,
Malcolm, you mustn't treat Miss Grey so!"

I smiled grimly. Modern ideas. Such notions had succeeded in making the already over-indulged children
a terror to the servants and the rest of the household. But Electra has always had a soft heart.

The boy obligingly released his governess, and with a triumphant grin stooped to seize her workbag
which had fallen to the carpet. I had no doubt he meant to thrust it over the bannister in her place. I lost
patience, and seized the creature by the ear. He desisted with an alarmed shriek -- I'm old, but my
fingers are strong. It was an effort not to squeeze too hard. We have cousins who are maddened by the
scent of a child's blood in the air, or the sight of the dew of perspiration on a downy cheek. It makes
them inconvenient guests at family gatherings. Of course, one can't eat one's own great grandnephews,
however deliberate the provocation.

Electra simpered and said, "Oh, dear, Malcolm, you must learn not to be naughty. Naughty boys die and
are sent to Hell."

"Some more precipitously than others," I added, thinking of the deep well at the bottom of the garden.
Taking my action as tacit permission to apply mild force, the governess seized the creature's other ear as
I released my grip, and herded her charge up the stairs.

We continued down, Electra fluttering at my side. "Auntie, you know Malcolm is really a little dear..."

"I know nothing of the kind." Electra is a small woman, for our family, her wispy blond head reaching
only to my shoulder. Her figure is plump, and requires a corset to keep its shape, and her eyes are mild
and her face cherubic. An odd pair we would seem to outsiders' eyes, for I am grown thin and
cadaverous with the long passage of years, and my features were always rather sharp.

"Now, Auntie..."

We reached the landing above the Hall. Below, Electra's husband, Mr. John Dearing, was personally
receiving a guest, a young man in the act of handing his greatcoat to the butler.
There were no guests expected, and just before the dinner hour is not considered an appropriate time for
casual calls, yet Dearing was greeting this presumptuous fellow as a prodigal son.