Monday, July 29, Townsend Cottage, Morning

 Except for the intermittent clicking sounds my boots made as I walked from plush carpet to cool tile in the Townsends’ grand hallway, early-morning silence permeated the cottage. Muffled conversation and an occasional clash of metal on metal reached me from the basement as the staff readied for breakfast. I stole an apple from the fruit bowl in the middle of the enormous dining-room table and headed toward the rear of the cottage. I had no time to waste. By now, someone in the area had seen Ethel or Albert, I was sure. By the end of my first full day in Lenox, I would know where the two criminals were hiding.

I threw open the glass, intent on finding the carriage house where the Townsends’ driver moved the Model T last night. But instead of hurtling down the marble stairs, as I intended, I stopped short.

From the garden, a cardinal’s cheer-cheer-cheer mixed with the clear-throated fee-bees of chickadees and the peter-peter-peter of titmice. There were others—robins, sparrows, gray catbirds. I had heard all these birds in isolation, of course. Central Park is full of Passeriformes. But the sweet conversational rise and fall of these small creatures as they trilled to each other overwhelmed me.

At a slower pace than I initially planned, I walked through the hedgerows, the humid air thick on my skin. As I listened to the surrounding chattering, I noticed a cupola peeking through the leafy branches of oak trees.

I spotted the wrong building. When the path opened up, instead of vehicles waiting in a driveway, I stared at a line of curious equine faces poking out over the dutch-style doors of a grandiose horse barn. Chocolate-colored cedar shingles covered the expansive two-story building. I walked along the outside wall, stopping when I reached a magnificent black horse with eyes that gleamed as if it knew the ending of every good story. My experience with horses involved swerving the Model T around slow-footed nags hauling fruit carts, but even I could tell the black beauty was special. I extended a hand to stroke the white blaze running down its nose.

“Do you know the way to the carriage house?” I crooned.

Just as the horse bared its teeth, someone wrenched my shoulders back. I turned to see who accosted me, and for once, had to look up. Dressed in dark blue overalls, the handyman who pulled me away was a few years older than me. The cap he wore was the same walnut color as the thick hair jutting out, the dimple carved into his square jaw even with my gaze. As he steadied me, a look of irritation narrowed his eyes, which wore the shadows of a man who hadn’t slept well in a month. His expression only relaxed when he turned and whispered to the high-strung animal.

Me, he ignored. Without saying a word, he picked up a discarded toolbox, then strode toward the large double doors that divided the barn into two wings.

“You’ve a strange way of introducing yourself,” I shouted after him.

He glanced over his shoulder, but did not stop. It was my turn to be irritated. I followed him as he passed a wooden frame where a bright red emergency bell hung.

“I can’t believe you would walk away without a civil response.”

He headed into the barn, with me trailing half a pace behind.

“Men and women ought to treat each other with respect, in word as well as in deed…”

He pivoted so suddenly, I had to reach out an arm to keep from plowing into his chest.

“Do you like your fingers?” he asked.

I was pulling down my shirtwaist with as much decorum as I could, so I didn’t answer. He held up his free hand and wiggled five digits in front of my face.

“These things here. You like them?”

“Of course,” I huffed.

“So does Nightmare. For breakfast.” He pivoted and set down his toolbox in front of a stall.

“Next time, I’ll be sure to ask her if she’s eaten.”

He rolled his eyes as he jostled a loose latch. “He, not she. Can’t you even tell the difference?”

Flames rushed into my cheeks. “I live in the city. We don’t focus our attention on such matters.”

The handyman retrieved a wrench from his toolbox. “I’ve lived in cities, too. The fundamentals don’t change because of geography,” he said as he twisted a nut.

“You’re hardly one to lecture me, Mr. Whoever-you-are. The fundamentals of polite society don’t change because of geography, either. Granted, I’ve been to places where there are differences in opinion about the handshake versus the…”

“Anything to get on with my day,” he cut me off. “I’m High. High Child.”

“What a delight it must be to have a name that matches one’s description,” I said.

He straightened and tipped the brim of his cap. “And who do I have the pleasure of conversing with?”

I lifted my chin. “Petra Wood. I’m with NAW…” I stopped. “I’m Petra Wood.”

“Petra. That means stone, right?”

“Rock, actually. There’s an important difference, you know.”

“Mm hmm…”

“And whatever you’re thinking is incorrect. Petra was the name of the painting my parents were looking at when they met. No need for you to jump to the wrong conclusion.” I don’t know why I felt the need to continue speaking to this man.

“I keep my life simple, Miss Wood. No assumptions.” He lifted his hand, wiggling his fingers at me again. “Do the same and you’ll always be able to count to ten. Excuse me, I need to check on Dainty Dorothy.” He grabbed the toolbox and shuffled down the corridor on the right.

“Well, unless you can tell me how to get to the carriage house, I’ll have to spend the foreseeable future with you and your lady horses,” I said.

“They’re called mares.” High pointed to the left. “Follow that path to the driveway. If it takes more than five minutes, you’re lost again.” He disappeared down the corridor without another word.

I walked away, the blood pounding in my temples. That handyman must work for pennies or be someone’s no-account nephew—or both. What other reason could the Townsends have for employing such an infuriating know-it-all? Even as I fumed, however, another voice whispered to me that he was at work, freshly shaven, and wearing a clean shirt before anyone in the cottage threw their legs out of bed. If he was a lout, at least he was a diligent one.

I hated that I noticed. 

NOTE: The header image shows a spacious bedroom in Ventfort Hall, a Jacobean-style mansion and Gilded Age museum in Lenox, Massachusetts. The photograph is from the Carol M. Highsmith Archive at the Library of Congress. Carol M. Highsmith has stipulated that her photographs are in the public domain.