Correction of Drift: A Novel in Stories

In the Sitting Room

Although interrogation of the Lindbergh staff of cooks, butlers and groundskeepers has failed to yield any new leads in the case, Miss Violet Sharpe, the family maid, will be detained for further questioning regarding her previous employment and her relationship with the missing boy. The Baltimore Monitor June 9, 1932 In the Sitting Room Madame rings: “Violet, dear!” as if this were a manor house on the Continent or the cottage in Sussex or the residence in Devonshire or York: “Oh, Violet!” and not stuck way out here in what they call “the colonies” back home. The Colonel had explained it all as she was shown about: a system of speaking tubes, a series of wires and bells permitting the staff to be summoned from anywhere in the house— “buzzed” or “rung” was what the Colonel said, so she—Violet —could be called, for instance, if he had misplaced his razor 120 Pamela Ryder in the second-story bath, or downstairs dinner guests were waiting for dessert. Or, the Colonel said, up in the nursery, the boy—the baby—their little Charles—was wanting his porridge hotter, or Madame, dressing in the master bedroom, needed help with a clasp or hook. This was, of course, when Madame had taken the trouble to dress. When dinners were still given. When there used to be a baby wanting his porridge hotter. Back when Madame would sit at her stitching, evenings after the baby had been bathed and tucked and the lamps were lit against the early dark of winter woods at every window. “Privacy,” the Colonel said. Reporters, photographers— there was always someone lurking somewhere. Flying buffs and fanatics—someone always out there hoping for a glimpse. “Admirers,” Madame called them. “Troublemakers,” said the Colonel. Sightseers. Snoops. Crowds with binoculars, cameras. “Hey, Colonel Lindbergh!” someone would call from a carload of day-trippers. “Give us a peek at that baby boy of yours!” “Aw, Lindy,” someone would say, being hauled off the property . “How ‘bout a look at the missus?” “Lunatics,” said the Colonel. Someone trying to sneak past or sneak in. “Violet!” “‘Reliable,’” the Colonel read, reviewing her letter of reference . “‘Efficient,’” Mrs. Willoughby had written when the cottage was closed and the staff was sent off, services no longer required. “‘No vices.’” In the Sitting Room 121 (It was the cook—thank goodness—who eventually confessed about the sherry. Or was it the port?) “‘Fond of children.’” “How kind of Mrs. Willoughby to say,” Violet said. How very kind, considering. Of course, no mention was made. Not of the boy—Mrs. Willoughby’s boy—young Master Paul. (Poor Master Paul.) It was absolutely irrelevant, what had happened in Sussex in her last place of service, in her last situation, in her summer with the Willoughbys, in the cottage, in the country, at the close of the summer. Absolutely, everyone said. There was no need to mention the Willoughby boy or the pond behind the cottage where there were peepers singing every evening. Or the willow on the bank. Or the larkspur blooming on the path. No need to speak of faded roses or shouldered picks and shovels. The fresh-turned earth of churchyards. The pitch of it flung from the hole: pebbles, soil, old bones, the little worms. The grit in her hair. “Careful, Mum,” the digger had said when she stepped too close and closer. The spark and clang of spaded stone. The seep and dark she could see down there in the hole. Mist. Damp. No need to speak of English afternoons of clotted cream and tea. After all, the boy—the Willoughby boy—had not been in her charge. And Mrs. Willoughby wanted scones. Mrs. Willoughby 122 Pamela Ryder wanted marmalade. Mrs. Willoughby wanted the madeleines arranged on the serving dish just so (“Don’t crowd them, Violet. A dozen is plenty!”) and sprinkled with cinnamon. And the trifle filled with gooseberry jam and sweetened cream, not sliced oranges and custard. And the silver service pattern of forget-menots . (“Violet, not the fleur-de-lis.”) “Silver polish for that platter, please.” “A sprinkling of salt on that spot.” “Use the teacups with the rosebuds.” “Fetch the sugar tongs and matching teaspoons.” “Oolong, Violet, not the Pekoe!” “Pots de crème beside each plate.” Mrs. Willoughby wanted the roses displayed in a nicer vase (“Violet, goodness, use the crystal”), the lemons cut in slices (“Never wedges...