The Burying Ground. Janet Kellough

Cherub tethered the horse to the gate. He saw Mrs. Van Hansel into the hall, then turned to Cherub, who stood waiting, one hand stroking the horse’s head.

      Luke smiled and held the door open, gesturing her inside with one hand. She blinked a couple of times, then stepped along the short walk and into the front hall. He showed both women into the small, musty parlour at the front of the house.

      “Please, sit down. I’ll just be a moment.”

      He knew there was no point in ringing the bell that connected the parlour with the kitchen. Mrs. Dunphy ignored bells and when reproached by Dr. Christie for her negligence retorted that she wasn’t a trained circus animal and had no intention of jumping at bells or whistles.

      Just as he reached the kitchen door, it flew open and there stood Dr. Christie in his blood-spattered apron.

      “Oh! Luke! It’s you!” he boomed. “I didn’t expect you back quite so soon.”

      “I got a ride,” Luke said. “And I’ve brought people home for tea. Do you think Mrs. Dunphy could provide a pot?”

      Christie turned and bellowed over his shoulder. “Mrs. Dunphy! Tea! And cakes if you have ’em.”

      “What? Tea at this hour? And cakes? Of course, I’ll just conjure ’em out of thin air. It’s the easiest thing in the world to come up with cakes when you’re least expected to. I’ll just wave my hand and —”

      Christie slammed the door shut against the muttering and strode down the hall toward the parlour.

      “Visitors, eh?” he said. “I must say, Luke, I hadn’t thought that you’d be such a social creature. It might take me some time to get used to the notion of having company.”

      Luke scrambled after him. “Don’t you think you should take your apron off first?” he said. But Christie had already reached the parlour doorway.

      “Hello! Hello! Welcome!” he boomed into the room, in spite of the remarks he had just made about sociability. “I’m Stewart Christie. How do you do.” And he strode forward, his hand out.

      Luke had no idea what either of his guests made of the loud man with the filthy apron, for he could discern no astonishment on their faces. Christie, however, made no attempt to contain his surprise at the presence of Cherub.

      “An Ethiopian! How do ye do, miss, how do ye do? Now there’s something you’d never see in Edinburgh. An Ethiopian in the parlour. And a very pretty one at that! You would be an addition to any Scottish sitting room, I can tell you that!”

      Luke thought he would die of embarrassment, but Cherub seemed to take Christie’s remarks with good grace, and Mrs. Van Hansel positively beamed.

      “It’s true,” she said, “Cherub is an ornament wherever she finds herself. I’m Lavinia Van Hansel.”

      Christie bent to take her hand, but at that moment must have realized what an impression he must be making. He stopped and peered down at his stained apron.