Furmidable Foes

8

May 28, 2019

Tuesday

Books piled on Harry’s desk in the tack room of the stable. She preferred her office there rather than in the house. The quiet of the tack room, interrupted by the sounds of the horses snorting, snoring, eating, helped her concentrate.

Large, the glorious smell of oiled leather filling the air, clean saddle pads piled neatly on the floor, and one old tack trunk pushed against the wall added to the allure for her. The saddle rack against one wall held her two saddles and Fair’s one. The gleam from polished bits in bridles reflected the overhead light. On the desk, an old, heavy schoolhouse desk, squatted her computer. A pullout section for writing turned the desk into an L. The pullout was small, meant she didn’t need to move the desk computer. Most times she pushed the computer back. So much of what Harry needed could be found in old books.

With the computer moved to the rear of the desktop, Harry crossed her legs in the large padded chair, rollers underneath. A notebook, opened to her right, meant she was serious.

“Not a peep.” Pewter, sprawled on the fleece saddle pad, lifted her head.

Mrs. Murphy, curled up next to her on the inviting fleece, yawned. “You know how she gets.”

Two large gardening books sat to Harry’s left elbow, while a smaller book concerning gardens in the colonies was opened before her.

Murmuring as she read, Harry lifted her head, speaking to her pets. “Who would have thought that gardens could be political?”

Bursting through the dog/cat door, Tucker stopped, poked her head back through, facing into the aisle. “Ha.”

“No fair,” Pirate, too large for the door, complained.

“Please, my repose.” Pewter glared.

Harry rose, walked over, opening the door so the ever-growing Pirate could enter.

“I can outrun you.” Tucker was full of herself.

Pirate plopped down. “You can outrun me? You can’t outrun me.”

Pewter giggled. “Better watch out, Bubblebutt. The puppy is starting to talk back.”

“He’s at that age. You never got out of it.”

“Tucker, if I weren’t so comfortable, I’d get up and bloody that nose you stick in everybody’s business.”

“Pipe down. I can’t hear myself think.” Harry returned to the smaller book. “Climbing roses. M-m-m, patriotic colors. Makes sense. Dolley Madison liked roses twirling around her columns. She must have been so much fun.” She looked down at Pirate, who seemed very interested in what his human was talking about. “It does make sense. Your garden signaled your political leanings to friends and passersby but a British soldier walking by would have no idea.”

“What does a British soldier have to do with anything?” Pewter, irritated, grumbled.

Mrs. Murphy, who often read over Harry’s shoulder, answered, “It takes time to change people’s minds. To organize change. The English ran the show.”

“English?” Pirate’s ears lifted up. “What is an ‘English’?”

“A form of human. Don’t worry about it.” Tucker thought that an excellent answer.

“How many forms are there?” the innocent fellow inquired.

“I’ll see if I can get Mother to take you to Walmart someday,” Tucker replied, putting her head on her paws.

Making notes, Harry flipped pages, studied photographs and drawings.

Picking up the phone, for she’d rather talk than text, she dialed. “What are you doing?”

Susan’s voice came over the line. “Sitting in the sunroom with a cup of coffee to start the morning. Did you finish your chores?”

“I did. Can’t believe we passed Memorial Day. Where does the time go?”

“Goes fast. What are you doing?”

“Looking at gardening books. Janice and Mags talked about eighteenth-century gardens.”

“Right.”

“I don’t think we should tear up the plants added after the building of the church. I can’t think of a way to be totally eighteenth-century without moving much of what we have. What we have is beautiful. St. Luke’s is under no obligation to uproot the work of generations.”

Susan, voice firm, said, “I agree. It’s disrespectful. But neither of them has suggested uprooting.”

“But I need to be reasonably well educated on the period, you know. The last thing I want is some kind of uproar because there’s no way to go backwards, my thinking, without destruction.”

“What’s your idea?”

“Will you call Kat Imhoff and ask if we can visit the Montpelier gardens?”

Mrs. Imhoff was the director of Montpelier.

“Of course.”

“Thanks. You know everyone better than I do.”

“Ned. Helps to be married to a delegate.”

“Yes, and it helps to be the granddaughter of a governor.”

“Miss him. There are so many questions I wish I had asked.”

“Funny, isn’t it? We all feel that way about mothers, fathers, relations, dear friends who have gone on. Stuff pops into your head and you think, ‘Dad will know.’ ”

“Any special time you want to go over there?”

“No. You pick or let Kat pick. Hey, what’s going on with the graves under the shed?”

“We can’t do a thing. The sheriff’s department has to come out. If this doesn’t look like a pressing crime, then Grandmother and Mom can call the historical society and they can determine how they want to date and possibly identify the bones. It may well be that, even though these are probably one or two hundred years old, the medical examiner must still be contacted and take charge.”

“Red tape.”

Susan sighed deeply. “Tell me about it.”

“Aren’t you surprised anything gets done?”

Susan laughed. “Maybe that was by design. Our Founding Fathers figured those legislators would argue, slow down the entire process. Government by paralysis.”

“Ha.” Harry reached over to pet Mrs. Murphy, who had leapt onto the desk. “Those brakes seem to be wearing out.”

“Seems to be.” Susan changed the subject. “I wish we hadn’t found those skeletons. Big Rawly’s had enough turmoil over the centuries. It’s unfortunate they didn’t keep better records.”

Harry took a breath. “There must be three bodies at least. I only saw three depressions. Three people were laid peacefully to rest. All with burial. However, if I don’t fortify myself with study, including any notes in St. Luke’s files of, say, bulb purchases, I may have a fight on my hands. Sorry, my usual non sequitur.”

“Do you really think that many people will care about eighteenth-century authenticity?” Susan shrugged, long accustomed to Harry jumping from one subject to another.

“Give anyone the chance to express himself and I truly believe no problem is so small it can’t be blown out of proportion.”