The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (52 page)

“What business is it of
yours
when the master returns?” she said without looking at me.

I was startled by the scorn in her voice. “I cannot claim it to be my business in any way,” I said. “For whatever business he is on, it is entirely his own. Rather, I wished only to know.”

“It seems you wish to know a great many things, Miss Lockwell.” A rabbit became the recipient of a vigorous dusting that removed as many hairs as specks of dust. “Do not think I have not seen the way you creep about the house. You have skulked and spied about since the first day you came here. No secret is safe from you, not even behind locked doors!”

Her accusation was anything but fair. However, I could not defend myself, as the housekeeper well knew.

“Be careful what you seek to know, Miss Lockwell. If you pry too much, you may uncover things you wish you hadn’t. There are yet secrets in this house that would make your blood go cold—things
he
will never tell you.”

The housekeeper turned her back and took her work to the other end of the hall. Her words left me agitated, and I retreated into the kitchen to take a cup of tea.

What could she mean? What secrets did she speak of? My mind was filled with vague shadows. However, after some consideration, I banished such thoughts. That Mrs. Darendal did not care for me had long been clear. True, I had never known her to speak anything other than truth. However, she had implied that Mr. Quent was keeping something of a terrible nature from me, and that I could not believe. He had told me all about the awful night he had lost Mrs. Quent. When he had revealed such intimate and painful recollections, why should he keep anything else from me?

Mrs. Darendal could not have known that he had granted me such confidences, and I had no reason to tell her. She could think of me what she would. It was not
her
opinion of me that mattered.

My mind soothed by such thoughts, I finished my tea and went upstairs to see if the children wished for a story. However, when I opened the door to their room a crack, I saw them making a game with a collection of tin soldiers and peg dolls. They were playing in the most charming manner, fashioning such innocent little stories with their toys as only children can conceive, and so much like angels did they appear, still clad as they were in their night robes, that I was loath to disturb them. I shut the door without a sound and left them.

My smile soon vanished. What a dreary day that was! The lumenal was not long; still it seemed to pass slowly. I went outside, but the weather was ill and drove me in. The children had no need of me, and I did not wish to wander the house for fear of being further accused of lurking. With nowhere else I could go, I retreated to my room and, as the wind lashed at the gables, wrote a great many of the preceding pages, Father.

The day had long since expired when I set down my pen, my hand stiff from writing. I realized I had never had any supper, and I decided to go down to the kitchen to see if anything might be left on the board.

Upon leaving my room I found all dark and silent. However, as I reached the second floor, I saw a glimmer of light, and following it I came to the door of Mr. Quent’s study. There was a smell of rain on the air, and I saw the door was open. The light of a lamp spilled out, so that the illumination of the candle I held could not have been detected within the room.

I peered through the door, and at once my heart leaped. Mr. Quent was within; he had returned to Heathcrest. I thought to make myself known to him—I realized it was not food that I hungered for at all but rather conversation. However, even as I opened my mouth, I comprehended that he was already speaking, and I detected the utterance of my name. Had he seen me? No—his broad back was to the door, and he stood beside the pianoforte, touching but not pressing the keys.

“You tell me your opinion of Heathcrest and its master has changed.” His words were low but carried on the still air. “You cannot know how pleased I was to hear that speech from your lips! Surely there could be no higher praise than to earn the good opinion of the sensible Miss Lockwell.”

His shoulders heaved, and at first I thought him to be laughing; only then he spoke again, and there was a tightness to his voice that brought to mind a grimace rather than a grin.

“Yet your opinion might yet change again. Indeed, how can it not? And when it does, you might not find it to be improved—not if you knew how selfish I had been. Not if you knew what peril I have placed you in by bringing you here to suit my own purposes.”

I retreated from the door, for I did not want to hear anything more. Thoughts of supper and companionship had fled me. My mind fluttered and wavered like the shadows cast by my candle. All I could think was that once again Mrs. Darendal had spoken the truth. There
was
some secret he had kept from me.

But what could it be? My brain was filled with all manner of lurid thoughts and phantasms, conjured half from shadows and half from recalling Lily’s descriptions of the books she had read, with their villainous dukes and duplicitous barons. I hurried up the stairs to my room, and in a fit of wild dread I thrust the bent-willow chair against the door.

I huddled in my wrought-iron bed, watching the candle burn as the wind growled over the eaves, and it was long before I slept.

I
T WAS AN hour after dawn when I ventured downstairs (though I had some trouble dislodging the chair from the door, for it had gotten wedged somehow). Outside was clear and cool: the perfect morning of what was to be a middle lumenal. However, I thought not of riding my horse, or going for walks, or seeing if the children were well enough to be taken out to sun themselves on the steps. Instead, my legs felt weak as I descended the stairs, and my stomach was hollow as I tried to take in a bit of tea and dry toast.

I had consumed little of either when Mrs. Darendal came to tell me I was wanted by the master in the front hall.

At this I felt no surprise. After what I overheard last night, I had expected a summons. All the same, the dread I had felt last night grew in me again as I walked with slow steps to the hall. Of what would he speak to me? Was he going to reveal what peril he had placed me in? Would that I could tell him not to, for I did not wish to know! That he had concealed something from me was terrible enough. That such knowledge should be worsened with the particulars was something I could not bear.

I perceived that Mrs. Darendal followed me as I went. I said nothing; it was all I could do to place one foot before the other. At last I stepped into the front hall. He turned from a window and bowed to me. As he straightened, his beard parted in what seemed a wolfish grin. He wore a black coat.

“Miss Lockwell, I am glad you are here, for there is something I must tell you.” I could do no more than nod and grip the back of a chair.

He closed the distance between us and said, “As you know, this part of the country is not what it was. There are all manner of brigands, as well as—that is, it is no longer safe here for the children.”

And am I safe here
? I wished to say. He paced back and forth—or prowled, rather, it seemed to me.

“As recent events have demonstrated,” he went on, “it is in their best interest that Clarette and Chambley not remain here at Heathcrest. That is why I am happy to report I have at last been able to make arrangements with their aunt and uncle in Highward.”

Understanding came to me, and now my dread was no longer for myself. I stepped away from the chair. “The children are going to Highward? But when?”

“The carriage comes to take them to their aunt and uncle this very day.”

I thought I might fall back into the chair. “So soon!” I said.

“It is too dangerous for them to stay here a moment longer. You know that as well as I, Miss Lockwell.”

“Of course,” I said. But all I could think was that they would not be the only ones leaving Heathcrest. I thought also of you, Father, and my sisters. I had planned to save five months of wages before removing you all to Durrow Street, but I had been here only a little more than four months; and even if the amount I had accumulated was enough to open the old house, how should we all live there afterward without any regular source of income?

Yet there could be no changing it. I had heard the firmness of his tone. Mr. Quent was not one to alter a decision once it had been made. The children would be leaving; nor could they be the only ones. What purpose did a governess serve with no children to govern? I could not help but notice Mrs. Darendal’s expression. It was triumphant, I thought.

“Do you understand, Miss Lockwell?” he said to me.

“I understand very well, Mr. Quent.” I did my best to keep my back straight and my voice steady. “I will gather my things at once. I do not know when the mail is set to depart, but if Jance will take me to the village, I will be glad to wait for the next coach there.”

“I will tell Jance,” Mrs. Darendal said. She made no effort to disguise the gloating in her voice.

“That will not be necessary, Mrs. Darendal,” Mr. Quent said. “Please leave me with Miss Lockwell, if you would. I have something else to speak to her about.”

The housekeeper stared at the master of the house, her mouth open.

“I said, please leave us.”

Her mouth snapped shut, and after one last glare at me she turned with a swish of gray and departed the hall.

I thought almost to follow her. I could not imagine what was to come next and so could think of nothing to say. Mr. Quent approached me, his expression very serious, but not, I thought, grim. Rather, there was a light in his brown eyes as he looked at me.

“Mr. Quent!” I was induced by his attention to exclaim at last, and bowed my head under the force of his gaze.

“You know it is for the best that the children go,” he said.

I nodded; I could not deny it.

“However, though it grows perilous in this part of the country, especially for those in my household, all the same I would ask you to consider staying, Miss Lockwell.”

I looked up at him, astonished. “But why?”

“Do you not know?” He hesitated, then reached out to take my left hand and enfolded it within his right. “Can you truly not know the reason?”

He ran his thumb over the back of my hand and looked at me with the most solemn expression. I realized I
did
know, that I had perhaps known for some time now. Thus it was, as he spoke those next words, I could not feign surprise. All the same, I felt a shock go through me at his speech, and I felt it again at the words that tumbled from my own lips in reply, seemingly spoken by another than myself.

In two minutes, it was done. What little trouble it was, it turned out, to completely alter one’s life forever! It was no more than the smallest thing, reduced to a few scant words, like the buying of a loaf of bread. He bowed to me. I know not if he smiled as he rose; I could hardly see him. Then he took his leave, and I was alone in the hall.

I sank into a chair under the watchful eye of other quarry he had conquered over the years. I could not tell if they pitied or mocked me. One or the other surely, for I was now to join them.

Those thoughts were absurd. My head was aflutter and my nerves abuzz, that was all. Gradually, the full comprehension of what he had asked, and of what I had said in return, came over me. As it did, a laughter welled up within me, one that could only be given release and that rang off the beams above. To think, those beams, this hall, this entire house was soon to be mine. For I was to be his. I was to be Mrs. Quent!

What must you think of me, Father? Not many pages prior to this, I was writing about how awful I thought him, how stern and silent and unforgiving. You must think I consented to this for one reason only—for the benefit of you and my sisters.

I would be deceiving you if I did not admit the thought at once occurred to me. The moment he made his proposition, all fears I had at the thought of losing my employment were banished. By becoming Mrs. Quent, I would assure the well-being of my family forever. While the full extent of Mr. Quent’s wealth is unknown to me, I understand from Mrs. Darendal that it is considerable. I will not want for any funds needed to open the house on Durrow Street and to place you all there in the most comfortable manner.

Only I will not be with you! Yet, while that thought causes me sorrow, I confess I already feel growing in me another happiness, one that must supersede any sorrow or regret. It was not only because I knew it would assure the future of my family that I accepted Mr. Quent’s proposal.

I will not deny that my heart has long occupied itself with the most tender feelings for another. So strong were these impulses that I indulged myself by thinking that if I could not have him whom I admired—whom, I will admit it now when I would not before, I loved—then I would never want another. However, those are sentiments best saved for one of Lily’s romances. The heart is a far more practical thing and in its life is happily capable of more than a single attachment.

To this day, my regard and affection for Mr. Rafferdy are unwavering; my feelings for him have not changed. I hope—no, I utterly demand—that Fate allows us to meet again and be friends. However, the possibility of any deeper connection between us was never more than a fancy. No doubt, at this very moment, he is already married and utterly content.