Down Like A Stone

John Sullivan appeared at the back door, kicked it open with one swift motion and crossed the kitchen into the living room room before the door had swung closed. He carried Miss Hilda, riding boots, walking stick, tweed coat and all as if she weighed no more than a feather. Alice! he yelled Spirits of ammonia!

My grandmother - a practical and wise woman who knew enough to trust John Sullivan not to stride through her house unannounced without good cause - snatched the smelling salts and dashed downstairs. Miss Hilda was horizontal on the divan, her head resting on one end and her boots hanging over the other. John had unbuttoned her jacket and loosened her collar and was in the process of applying a cold washcloth to her forehead. Before Nana could brush him aside, Miss Hilda woke up. Bloody hell, John Sullivan, she shouted, her usual distinguished upper class British accent taking a decided turn toward the Cockney, What do you think you're about? Get your bloody hands off me! John backed up, trying to hide a smile and Nana took the old lady's shoulders with a firm grip and forced her back. Breathe, dear, she said calmly, Nice deep breath before you try to stand. Miss Hilda glared at her and I was reminded of one of Rowena's yearlings after a run, slightly sheened with sweat, impatient, nostrils flaring and a trifle dangerous if you got too close. My grandmother held her ground, insisting Hilda breathe and relax for a few more minutes, speaking mildly but firmly and not paying the slightest attention to the wail of protests emanating from the divan. Now, dear, Nana advised her quietly, Why don't you tell me what happened? Miss Hilda set her formidable jaw and struggled upright, adjusting her collar and smoothing her tweed skirt with as much dignity as she could muster but she said nothing, studying the worn linoleum at her feet with intense concentration.

Fainted, John Sullivan volunteered from across the room, Went down like a stone.

The very idea! Hilda snapped, I am not a woman who faints and most certainly not one who would require assistance if I should!

Down like a stone, John repeated stubbornly.

Hilda got to her feet, replaced a loose hairpin in her silvery hair, cleared her throat and rapped her walking stick against one polished boot. You, sir, she said clearly, her upper class accent restored and cutting cleanly, are misinformed. I am a woman of fortitude, endurance and independent means. Your efforts at chivalry, commendable as they may have been, were entirely unneccessary and in future will be regarded as intrusive. When John just shrugged, she rapped her boot more sharply, I am also a woman who is accustomed to being answered by those I address, she said curtly, Kindly accommodate me.

John straightened, nodded, struggled not to laugh. Yes'm, he finally managed but his voice was shaky and Nana gave him a sharp prod in the ribs. Miss Hilda gave them a final, withering look and turned on her heel, striding out, head held high, shoulders squared. One stray strand of hair curled defiantly from under her tweed cap, a small concession to her injured pride and British reserve.

She was not a woman to be taken lightly, not a woman who would afford herself the luxury of a fainting spell or a debt of gratitude. My grandmother and John Sullivan laughed themselves silly then each vowed to protect Miss Hilda's pride and never mention the incident again. Despite a world of temptations - most brought on by Miss Hilda herself - it was a promise they honored without a second thought.