said Nancy. “It feels a bit rum planning for nothing to happen instead of stirring things up, but that’s what we’ve got to do. There’s one thing about it. It’s easy.”
“It’s going to be perfect,” said Dorothea.
And then, soon after they had finished breakfast, the blow fell.
A bell rang somewhere in the house, followed by a double knock on the front door.
“Postman,” said Peggy.
She and Nancy ran out into the hall.
“There won’t be a letter for us yet,” said Dick.
“There might be,” said Dorothea, and they went out after the others.
The postman was just handing the letters over. “Nay,” he was saying, “they’re not all for your mother, nor for your uncle either. There’s a postcard for each of you … Bergen postmark … Fine-looking place … And a letter for Miss Ruth Blackett … Eh? I’m glad to see you back and hope you’re well … ” He smiled cheerfully at Dick and Dorothea, whom he remembered from the year before.
“Thank you very much. I hope you are, too,” said Dorothea.
“Nowt to go back?” said the postman.
“Not to-day,” said Peggy, and the postman went trudging off to his bicycle, which he had left by the gate.
“Is something the matter?” asked Dorothea.
Nancy had hardly glanced at the picture-postcards. She had dropped the letters for her mother and Captain Flint on the table in the hall. She was staring at the letter addressed to herself.
“Something is the matter,” said Dorothea, and Dick, who had been looking at the postcards with Peggy, glanced up at Nancy’s face and saw that Dorothea was right. Nancy was holding the envelope in her hand almost as if she were afraid to open it.
“Harrogate postmark,” she said, “and calling me Ruth … It’s a letter from the Great Aunt.”
“Open it. Open it,” said Peggy. “Let’s get it over. It’s bound to be beastly. Like her nosy telegram,” she explained to Dorothea. “The Great Aunt never writes to us except for birthdays to hope we’re turning over new leaves.”
Nancy opened the letter. Her face went crimson. She stamped her foot. “But I told her we weren’t alone,” she said. “Whatever are we to do? Cook!” she called. “Cooky! The most awful thing has happened ….”
Dorothea stared at her. How could a letter from an aunt be so upsetting to an Amazon Pirate? She thought of other aunts they knew, most friendly, kindly creatures. Were Great Aunts somehow different? Dorothea could not believe it. She thought a Great Aunt must be something like Mrs. Barrable, with whom they had been sailing on the Broads. And a letter from Mrs. Barrable was always good fun for everybody with the little pictures her pen kept making when she let it run away. But there was Nancy, at first afraid to open the Great Aunt’s letter, and then looking as if it had brought dreadful news.
“Is someone dead?” said Dorothea.
“Ten times worse than that,” said Nancy.
“What is it?” said Cook, who had come to the kitchen door.
“Read it,” said Nancy.
“Nay, I can’t read it,” said Cook, “not without my spectacles.”
“Well, listen,” said Nancy. “It’s Aunt Maria. She’s coming here.”
“She can’t do that, with your mother away,” said Cook.
“That’s why she’s coming,” said Nancy.
Nancy read the letter aloud:
My dear Ruth,
I have just learnt with surprise that your mother has chosen this time to go abroad with your Uncle James. Neither of them has thought fit to let me know of their intentions. I am horrified at the idea that you and Margaret are alone in the house. I cannot consider Cook sufficient guardian in your mother’s absence. It may have been from a wish to spare me anxiety that your mother did not tell me she was to be away from home when you returned from school for your vacation. A little more thought would have shown her that I should have preferred to hear from her than to receive such disturbing news at second hand. However that may be, my duty is plain. Inconvenient as it is for me to disarrange my plans, I cannot permit you two children to be thus abandoned to your own devices. You tell me your mother returns on the thirteenth. On that day I am expecting a friend whose visit l cannot defer. I have, however, cancelled all my engagements until that date, and am coming to Beckfoot to-morrow to take charge of the house till the eve of your mother’s return, when I shall have to leave you to prepare for my visitor at Harrogate. I shall be glad if you will ask Cook to air the spare-room bed for me. I have made, by telephone, my own arrangements for a conveyance to meet me at the station, and expect to be at Beckfoot between six thirty and seven o’clock.
Believe me, my dear niece,
Your affectionate Aunt,
Maria Turner.
“Beast! Beast! Beast!” said Nancy. “And we can’t stop her. We can’t do anything. And she’s going to be here to-night.”
“If Miss Turner thinks I’m not fit to look after you, I’d best be packing,” said Cook. “I’ll not stop in the house with her.”
“Is she very awful?” asked Dorothea.
“She jolly well is,” said Nancy. “You ask the Swallows. They know what it’s like when she’s here. She spoilt everything for all of us. We had to be in for meals and learn poetry and wear best frocks and be seen and not heard and all that sort of rot. Ask Cook. She knows her, too. She fairly danced when she went away. Yes, you did.”
“I wasn’t sorry to see the back of her,” said Cook. “Sitting down to meals before I had ’em ready. Looking at her tumbler and wiping it with her napkin. She’s one of them that can’t keep their eyes off the clock when other folk are a bit behind. If she hadn’t gone when she did she’d have had your mother in bed with all her worrying.”
“Last time she was here,” said Nancy, “Uncle Jim told Mother she must never have the G.A. here again except in term time. And Mother said she never would.”
“Let’s take to the hills,” said Peggy. “Let’s clear out to the island. Cook can come, too. We’ll leave the key for the G.A., and she can stew in Beckfoot all by herself.”
Dorothea looked at Nancy. This was the sort of plan that Nancy herself might have made in ordinary times. But Nancy, in charge of Beckfoot, was a different Nancy.
“We can’t,” she said. “No camping till Mother comes back. “
“She’ll ruin everything,” said Peggy.
“I know,” said Nancy. “But it’s not that that matters. Can’t you see? It’s
