Nanny Eleanor
When Nanny Eleanor suggested a jaunt to the seaside, there wasn’t anything one could say that would sway her mind, not even natural disasters or pandemics.
“Sariah is sick,” Mother said as sweetly as she could muster. “Her lungs—”
“And what doctor would not suggest a seaside? Why, it’s a near medical fact that saltwater and fresh air will make any child better.” Nanny Eleanor busied herself with packing a bag for Sariah without even waiting for her daughter’s permission—or querying as to which outfits were her granddaughter’s favorite.
By some stroke of luck, though, Nanny Eleanor did pick the dark pink divided skirt and the flower shirt to match.
“Mother,” Father said as calmly as possible. Sariah had once asked her father why he called Nanny Eleanor “mother,” when, in fact, she was his mother-in-law.
“Because, Sariah,” he said, with not even a twitch of the mustache to betray him. “It’s much more polite than you old witch-hag.”
“Really,” Father continued in the present. “I don’t think it’s good for Sariah to be away from us.”
“Hmph!” Nanny Eleanor threw in a large hat she’d bought Sariah three birthdays ago...that the young girl actually despised. But she kept her mouth closed and only picked at the page of her book. One of Nanny Eleanor’s favorites, but Sariah thought the characters insufferable. “You both are welcome to come, but one of you said he could absolutely not come away from the bank during tax season, and the other of you won’t bear to be separated from her husband and the rest of her litter.”
Mother pinched her mouth together. “My children are not my litter. I am not some breeding animal.”
Nanny Eleanor looked around the room. It was stuffed with articles from two other girls, Sariah’s older sisters who had made themselves scarce when the bell rang announcing “the old witch-hag’s” arrival.
“You could have fooled me.” Nanny Eleanor smoothed over everything in Sariah’s suitcase and inspected the items scattered about the room. “Now. I have a large library at the cottage, so you won’t need to pack any books, except that one.” Nanny Eleanor motioned for the one in Sariah’s hand.
Since it was dull, Sariah had no trouble surrendering the hardback.
“Now! All set for a summer holiday. And you’ll be feeling much better by the time you’re back,” Nanny Eleanor remarked firmly—as if there was to be no arguing with her, even from a Higher Power or Sariah’s infirmity.
So without further ado, Sariah was stuffed into a white dress with a pink sash—wouldn’t you know that was Nanny Eleanor’s favorite, and a lady must always look “respectable”—and a sun hat that was much too large for her head. Then she was shoved, herded, and kissed by all her siblings and parents right up to the train.
Sariah clutched the metal railing, meant to assist ladies in boarding the train, and halfway leaned out onto the platform.
“Be strong!” Lizzie grasped her younger sister’s hand and leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re going to need it.”
Lizzie, at fifteen, was the eldest child of the six and the most like their father, with his dark hair and eyes. In between Sariah and Lizzie was Frances, who, at thirteen and two years older than Sariah, was the sole redhead in the family. She inherited her coloring and freckles from Nanny Eleanor and nothing else. Her head was hardly ever on her shoulders, and so there was a good chance, even now, that she had no clue what was going on. But she came up and gave her sister a quick peck on the cheek anyway.
“Pick lots of seashells for me!” Frances chirped. She must have had some inkling of what was going on, then. “I want to make us all necklaces and bracelets. Get lots of pretty ones.” Her eyes skittered to Nanny Eleanor. Whatever she saw must have frightened the middle sister, because she gave a kiss to the other cheek and darted behind Mother’s skirts, which blew in the wind.
The two boys came next, greatly due to the fact that Mother ushered them onward and threatened them within one inch of their life if they dared misbehave in front of Nanny Eleanor. Fitz, at seven, and Connor, at four, both mumbled something, kissed their sister on the cheek, and immediately darted off to wave their wooden sticks at each other until one fell and was promptly beaten by the other. Mother colored at this but dared not scold them in front of Nanny Eleanor. To do so would only open up her parenting techniques to critique, and the train was on a short time-table.
Baby Rosalie said nothing, but she rarely did, seeing as she was only eighteen months. She only reached out a skinny little hand to wave goodbye, added a few babbling syllables which probably professed how much she adored and would miss her elder sister.
“Goodbye!” Sariah yelled.
She leaned further out and almost wished she’d lose her balance, topple over, and crack her head on something so she’d be forced to go to the hospital. But there was no such luck, and no sibling made a last minute grab for her. Not even Lizzie, who, with those dark, shrewd eyes, was usually able to pick up on surreptitious, nonverbal messages.
And Sariah’s was quite clear: don’t let me go! Grab my hand one last time! Injure me! Kill me! Just don’t let me go!
Lizzie only waved with more fervor and blew some extra kisses. “We love you!”
It didn’t feel like love at the moment. It felt like condemnation, especially when Nanny Eleanor put her hand on Sariah’s back and drew her into the cart. “Come now, child. We need to find our seats before you inhale too much of the dirty train smoke. I did promise your mother that I would see to your lungs, even if I think their supposed weakness is balderdash, to put it lightly.”
Sariah lugged along her heavy suitcase. It smacked against one of the leather chairs, but even that didn’t phase Nanny Eleanor, and she didn’t stop to help, either, as Sariah huffed and puffed along. “But it isn’t balderdash, Nanny Eleanor. I—I have asthma, see, Mother made sure I had my inhaler in my little bag here.” Sariah gave the pouch that hung to her hip a nudge. “And I’ve had pneumonia and bronchitis many times in my life, you know, you’ve seen…”
“I’m well aware of your bouts with illness, as to be expected, in the conditions you’ve grown up in.” Nanny Eleanor selected a seat in the far back and ushered her granddaughter in. There was a table between them, and Nanny Eleanor sat facing backwards, while Sariah struggled to get her suitcase up onto the seat. She finally accomplished her goal and managed to hear Nanny Eleanor expound upon her theory. “But I also do not hold the sentiment that there are any repercussions to your stints in the infirmary. I do believe that your mother has intermittently babied you and forgotten your existence in her brood; the latter only serves to make the former worse.”
Sariah ruminated on what Nanny Eleanor could possibly mean, and then debated whether or not she should feel offended.
“I do hope that this summer will be good for you. I think it shall.”
Nanny Eleanor looked out the window. There was suddenly a look in her eye that made Sariah feel that Frances had inherited a good deal more from their grandmother than the older woman would like to admit. But it was hard to accuse Nanny Eleanor of sentimentality or daydreaming when she was more inclined to reprimand than romanticize.
Although Nanny Eleanor chastised Mother for forgetting about her offspring, once the older woman’s attention was on the scenery, she, too, failed to remember her granddaughter.
Sariah leaned her chin against her table and blew a loose sprig of ash brown hair from her eyes. This would be a long summer, indeed.
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