It was a cold, rainy sort of Tuesday—the sort of day that felt restless and stuffy to anyone with any kind of imagination. It was raining just enough to keep you indoors, but nowhere near hard enough to be considered a "good storm", which, in Henry Caldwell's opinion, was the only sort of storm really worth having.
As Henry stared out of the nursery window and watched the grass droop and melt into a mess of muddy puddles, he felt the day with all of the misery and disappointment that his young heart could bear. It had been such a promising night too—with stars that cut clearly through the darkness like beacons, and a fat, yellow moon that hung in the sky and filled the nursery with a queer, golden glow. Recalling this, he resented the dreary weather all the more, and Henry felt very much that life was not worth living if one was not free to run outside and enjoy the last few weeks of holiday.
As he reached up to close the curtains, he saw a little black car creep towards the house and totter to a halt just at the end of the drive. A hunched figure, cloaked in black, emerged from the cab. As soon as he caught sight of the slouched woman's face, his rainy-day attitude did not improve.
Moaning, he turned to Lizzy who was currently too busy playing with her dolls to be properly miserable. How she could stand the dull chore of dressing and undressing the silly little things for so long, Henry could never know. Disagreeable as he found her, however, she was still the only person in the house who could truly appreciate his predicament.
"Ms. Mooney is coming up the walk," Lizzy grimaced and she looked up gloomily. She stood and placed her dolls carefully on her bed before she joined Henry by the window.
Peering out the curtain, she sighed moodily enough to please even Henry before she turned to address her older brother, "She was only just here the other day." Pouting, she played with a loose string on her dress, "You don't suppose Grandfather has taken ill again?"
Henry shifted his weight uncomfortably, "I wish he could do a better job of keeping well," he mumbled, "Saddling us with such a woman on such a horrid day…it doesn't do much good for anyone." Grandfather, they both knew, had never fared well in this sort of weather. Even in his youth, it had never seemed to agree with him. Lately, however, it was worse than it had ever been. Just the other week, he had gone into such a violent coughing fit that it seemed to shake the great house down to it's very foundations—Lizzy was a mess for days.
She continued to worry the bit of thread, "He'll be all right, won't he Henry?"
"Well how should I know?" said Henry hotly, "You know I don't know. That was a stupid question." Lizzy's bottom lip started to tremble, but Henry didn't care—he couldn't stand crybabies. "Oh hush up, if Ms. Mooney catches you crying again, she'll give you something to cry about." Lizzy dried her eyes hastily—Ms. Mooney had less patience than Henry when it came to tears.
The doorbell rang, as they knew it would, and so, dragging their feet, they made their way down the winding staircase to the front door where they knew Ms. Mooney would be waiting to meet them.
Henry opened the door, and in walked Ms. Mooney—looking just as ill tempered as ever. She was a stern old woman with cold eyes and a ruddy complexion, giving the children the impression that she was always angry about one thing or another, which to be quite fair, she usually was.
The children looked on drearily as the prim old woman scuffed her muddy boots on their grandfather's favorite rug. Just as they felt they could hardly be more miserable, Ms. Mooney unbuttoned her overcoat to reveal an old leather suitcase, which she handed to Henry before promptly turning and walking upstairs to the guest bedroom. Henry and Lizzy stared hopelessly as the suitcase. To be left alone with the dreadful woman was enough to make any child unhappy, but to be under her command long enough to validate the suitcase made the Caldwell children feel as though they were the most unfortunate creatures that ever lived.
And so Henry, struggling with the weight of the bag, proceeded to drag the suitcase up the stairs. As Lizzy trailed behind him, she couldn't help the horrible, familiar feeling that a particularly unpleasant week was waiting to meet them.
Neither Henry nor Lizzy were thinking that moment that anything strange or fantastic could ever find them on such a gray afternoon. Such a notion was ridiculous and out of bounds even for Lizzy, and if it had been you looking into the steely eyes of Ms. Moody on that most unpleasant of Tuesdays, I have trouble believing that even you would have been inclined to think any differently.