The Tutor (2 page)

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and I eagerly looked toward the sign of another

living soul inhabiting the house. A young man entered bearing my valise and trunk. His forehead sloped straight into his skull, leaving little room for a brain, and the vacant look in his eyes suggested he was feeble-minded. The youth set down my luggage while sneaking furtive glances at me.

“Thank you. I’m Graham Cowrie. How do you do?” I greeted him, sticking out

my hand to shake.

The footman stepped back as if I might slap him. I dropped my hand.

“Don’t mind Tom. He’s slow-witted but harmless. He will grow used to your

presence.” Smithers dismissed the youth with a jerk of his head, and Tom scurried out.

After that, Smithers showed me the way to the water closet—thank God for that

amenity. I’d feared I was in the land of chamber pots and no proper plumbing. Then he led the twisting, turning way down to the kitchen. I sat at one end of the large servants’

hall table and studied my surroundings as I ate the cold plate of meat, cheese, and bread. I tried to imagine the place crowded with maids, footmen, a cook, and a housekeeper, but couldn’t manage it. The room was silent and empty, and I felt the entire house was peopled only by ghosts. It didn’t help that mysterious sounds came from all around: creaking wood, wheezing pipes, wind rattling window frames, icy rain pelting the panes.

I was in the belly of an enormous beast settling down for the night—and preparing to digest me.

Smithers informed me of the schedule of meals in the house. “Yours will be taken

with the boys in the nursery.”

I’d expected that. Other than lessons, I’d have little to do with the boys and would have many hours to relax. Perhaps I’d chip away at writing that novel that had never gotten beyond the fantasizing stage. I frowned. “But I’m their tutor, not their nursemaid.”

Smithers’s lips moved without awakening his dead eyes at all. “You might find

procedures at Allinson Hall a bit unorthodox. The boys’ nanny left some time past, and since then, they’ve been rather left to their own devices. It will be your duty to give the boys a more structured regimen. Your room is near theirs so you may be more aware of their comings and goings.”

Smithers’s curled lip displayed a whiff of emotion. He disapproved of the boys

running wild and wanted someone to control the little blighters. I wasn’t merely going to be teaching a few classes but acting as jailer to a pair of motherless, nannyless ruffians.

The pieces shifted into place as I saw the picture of why I’d been so easily accepted for this position with little interviewing or examination of my history.

I swallowed a bite of meat that stuck in my throat. “I understand.”

Smithers rocked back on his heels. “I recommend you retire directly after your

repast. The young masters wake early and will be eager to meet you, I’m sure. You may begin their lessons tomorrow morning.”

The butler left me to finish my meal alone and find my way through the labyrinth

of a house back to my room. Good God, what had I fallen into? I’d pictured myself

explaining equations and world history to two bright-eyed cherubs eager to soak up the knowledge I imparted. Now it sounded as if I might be in charge of the spawn of Satan if Smithers’s lip curling was any indication.

I finished every crumb of my meal, put the plate in a sink and pumped a glass of

water from the tap. Gaslights, indoor plumbing,
and
running water—this place had all the modern amenities, I chided myself. A bloke could do much worse, and I had in the past.

How bad could the little urchins be anyway? I’d run with a vicious mob of street

rats as a lad. Clive and Whitney Allinson would seem princely little nobs in comparison.

I returned the way Smithers and I had come. I thought I’d paid attention when he

led me to the kitchen, but I must have taken a wrong turn in one of the passageways, for I could not find my way to my room. I padded down one darkened hallway after another, passing closed doors I feared to open.

I grew ever more lost and stopped worrying about walking in on someone, since

all the rooms seemed empty. I peeked into one and found a study dominated by a dark mahogany desk. I held up the lantern Smithers had given me to study several shelves of books—titles concerning agriculture and land management that looked dull as dirt. Then I noticed a portrait hanging above the fireplace.

A fair-haired woman with a rather round face stared back at me: Lavinia Allinson

as a new bride just beginning her abbreviated life, the poor thing. Though she’d smiled for the artist, a vague sadness haunted her blue eyes, and I wondered about this woman who seemed unhappy despite all she possessed.

I’ll do my best to teach your tykes
, I promised her before backing out of the room.

Beginning to enjoy my late-night exploration, I moved up a floor and peered into

several bedrooms and sitting rooms with cloth-draped furniture. Moving deeper into the original fortress portion of the house, I came across a medieval chapel. I imagined lords and ladies praying here, living their lives for generations before the Allinsons took possession. The weight of time and history felt profound in the quiet night in a tiny chapel with several wooden pews and a granite altar. If I were a religious man, someplace like this might move me to speak with God.

I left the room and continued my tour, climbing another flight and heading in the

direction I believed the inhabited chambers lay. The next corridor seemed familiar. I walked more confidently, until a sound stopped me. I held my breath and listened. A soft sobbing wafted through the air.
Wind in the eaves
, I thought, but damned if it didn’t sound like a woman crying.

A frigid draft blew down the hall, and I hurried on. The scent of coal smoke and

light from under a door signaled I’d nearly reached my destination. But footsteps seemed to echo my own, pattering after me. I halted again and looked over my shoulder. Nothing but shadows in the hall behind me. This time, eerie whispering drifted down the passage.

Quiet little voices. Children, perhaps?

My momentary jolt of panic subsided. It seemed my new charges were following

me, perhaps simply trying to get a look at their tutor, but probably trying to give me a scare. Little scamps. I couldn’t let them know they’d affected me, or they’d be out of control with their tricks. I continued nonchalantly to my room and went inside.

“Good night, boys,” I called softly down the hall before I shut my door.

My trunk and a couple of valises sat on the floor of the room. Far too wide awake

to think of settling down in that tall, lumpy bed, I unpacked everything and put my clothes in the wardrobe and bureau. Some were my own cheap suits. Others I’d purchased as a wardrobe I deemed more appropriate for Graham Cowrie, a young

gentleman whose family had been financially ruined.

My own background was considerably less sophisticated. I’d emerged from the

cocoon of Joe Green by meeting someone who gave me a helping hand, studying hard

and changing my accent. I’d been Graham Cowrie for a while now, but I’d given this new incarnation of Graham a more prestigious lineage. Would’ve been wiser to keep the story slightly closer to the truth, but I couldn’t resist the faded gentility of the man I’d created.

I set my brush, comb, and shaving kit on top of the bureau, stuffed the valises

inside the empty trunk, which neatly fit under the bed, and added another lump of coal to the fire. Then there was nothing left to do but change into my nightshirt and climb into bed.

I’d barely pushed my bare feet and legs between chilly sheets when something

scratched my bare skin. Prickling sharp things tore at my flesh. I threw back the covers to find the forest floor arrayed on my bed—a smattering of pine needles, twigs, and a rather large bramble with nasty hooked thorns, one of which had snagged my shin. I carefully unhooked it, leaving a blood-oozing welt behind. I got up, swept nature’s bounty off the mattress, and disposed of it in the fire.

Watching the dried needles and briars burn, I cursed the jackanapes who’d played

the prank. I could hardly wait until morning to meet them. This was exactly the sort of prank I’d gotten up to as a lad. If the twins thought they could best me, that I was a lily-livered, weak sort, I’d take ’em down a peg.

Whitney and Clive Allinson’s worst nightmare was coming for them.

When I finally pried open my reluctant eyes, the light streaming in my window

told me I’d greatly overslept. Smithers had warned me I was expected to take breakfast with the boys and see they washed and dressed themselves neatly. My easy winter of playing a tutor was apparently not going to be easy at all.

A knock at the door interrupted my lounging and worrying, and I leaped out of

bed and pulled on my robe before answering.

A woman stood on my doorstep. No. Not a woman. An Amazon. She towered

over me. The abundant hair swept into a pile on her head only made her appear taller and as if she were wearing some sort of massive turban. She gazed down at me disapprovingly, telling me silently how much she despised slugabeds.

“Mr. Cowrie. I am Mrs. Growler, the housekeeper.”

I bowed slightly, then offered my hand to shake. I wasn’t sure what a man in my

position was meant to do. Was she my superior or more of a peer since a tutor’s duties didn’t directly fall under the housekeeper’s jurisdiction?

Mrs. Growler, an apt name, ignored my hand and glared into my eyes. “The boys

are already up and outdoors, playing in the gardens. It’s my understanding you’ve come here to take their behavior in hand. I suggest you get to it—if you can catch them.”

“Yes, ma’am. I apologize for rising so late. It won’t happen again. I had a taxing journey.” I offered my widest, most appealing smile. It usually worked to soothe ladies’

ruffled feathers, and many a man’s as well if they were inclined to be swayed by boyish charm.

But Mrs. Growler wasn’t moved. “I hope you’re up to the task.” She sniffed and

stalked away.

After pouring chilly water from the pitcher into the basin, I shaved and washed as clean as one could in a basin. The brown tweed suit I’d planned for my first day suggested sober studiousness. I’d considered adding gold-rimmed spectacles to complete the picture, but that had seemed a stretch. Pretending to need glasses only added unnecessary complexity to my role.

I regarded myself in the shaving mirror. Serious blue-gray eyes stared back at me.

Before leaving London, I’d had my brown hair cut well above collar length. I wore a sharp side part and slicked the bangs to sweep just above my forehead, a much more clean-cut, spartan style than I would normally wear. Men loved a curly headed lad, and I enjoyed feeling a strong hand comb through my locks.

I’d also begun to cultivate a thin moustache, but it was coming in so light and

sparse, I thought I might give up and shave it off.

I nodded at my reflection. “Definitely a schoolteacher’s demeanor. Now to find

and capture my students.”

What does every boy know and every man forget? That having fun is the prime

purpose of life. I recalled Mr. Twain’s Tom Sawyer, who convinced all the boys in town to play a game of whitewashing a fence and pay him for the privilege. I would entice my quarry by inventing a game they couldn’t resist. The best way to get Whitney and Clive to come to me was to suggest I’d unlocked some secret to fun, and, if they were lucky, I might teach it to them.

In that case, the sober teacher attire was not the costume I needed. Instead I put on a thick knit jumper and corduroy trousers, donned my warmest pair of socks and the Wellington boots I’d wisely purchased before heading into the northern wilds. I would go outdoors, where my prospective students might spy on me from a distance while I played the most exciting, energetic, amusing game imaginable. The rules I invented didn’t have to make sense, so long as the boys believed I was having much more fun doing my activity than they were having at theirs. I’d woo them close, then clobber them with learning.

Downstairs I found Smithers, who retrieved my coat. If he had any opinion on the

casual attire I was wearing, he didn’t express it as he pointed me toward a back door leading to the gardens.

I stepped out into a breeze balmier than the previous evening’s sleety wind,

though still cold by any stretch of the imagination. I walked along leaf-drifted paths, past dried-up fountains and an occasional moss-covered bench or statue. The summer’s plantings had gone to seed and rattled like dry bones at my passing. The wind mourned through naked branches, and I fastened the top button on my too-thin coat.

Beyond the gardens was wilder land. Not yet the moor but a wide-open patch

where one might play cricket or some other athletic game, if the grass were properly mowed. I began to pace out this overgrown field, all the while sneaking looks around for my two young charges. I caught a glimpse of a blue jacket, which quickly disappeared behind a toolshed. A fair head bobbed up above a low hedge and disappeared again like an agitated gopher.

I dropped the ball I’d brought with me onto the ground and began to waffle it

back and forth between my feet. What subject might interest two nine-year-olds? Most boys, like their adult counterparts, loved playing with armies of soldiers and fleets of ships. As I kicked the ball high in the air, then caught it, I called out the names of famous battles and the dates they’d occurred. I clapped my hands and caught the ball before running to the next base I’d trampled into the grass. This time I shouted the names, in order, of as many kings of England as I could remember and again tossed the ball high and bellowed a war cry before catching it. I howled as I charged toward the next base.

Behaving like a madman, I indulged in the sort of loud, insane game only young children would invent or understand.