The Tutor (4 page)

Heart pounding, I trotted faster toward the inhabited portion of the sprawling old pile. The masonry grew fresher, the fusty smell of mold and age diminished, and soon I stood in front of the door to Sir Richard’s study, the room I’d looked into the previous night.

With the trepidation of a schoolboy facing the headmaster, I rapped at the door.

“Come in.”

A simple enough command that set off an oversized reaction in me.

Predominantly fear that I would lose my post, or worse, that Allinson had learned my credentials were a lie and would turn me over to the authorities, but also an undercurrent of excitement and a ridiculous frisson of lust at the timbre of the man’s voice. He spoke with the cultured accent of aristocracy, yet there was a sort of roughness in his deep voice that somehow suggested to me a man who worked with his hands and wasn’t afraid to get them dirty. The best of both worlds, educated intellect coupled with a workingman’s raw strength and vitality.

“Idiot!” My insane musings had no basis in fact. I tended to indulge myself in

little fantasies that real life mostly didn’t measure up to.

I opened the door and entered.

The master of the house was not behind his desk as I’d imagined he would be. He

stood facing the fireplace that barely took the chill off the air. Drafty old house. No wonder that door to the tower had swung shut.

I glanced at the portrait of Lavinia above his head and wondered if he had been

addressing his dead wife. Did he miss her terribly? What had their marriage been like?

Allinson remained with his back to me, staring into the fire for a moment. I had

plenty of opportunity to study his backside, the cut of the jacket that stretched across his shoulders and the length of his trouser-clad legs. The tall boots he’d worn outdoors were gone. I missed them. A pair of wingtip shoes took their place. Sir Richard was a trim, fit figure, but not the romantic paragon I’d imagined at first sight.

Then he turned to face me. My mouth went dry. The thick shock of dark hair with

an errant lock or two falling over his forehead and those solemn brown eyes haunted by grief would’ve put Lord Byron to shame. He was indeed a poetic figure.

I cast myself as a penitent employee and dropped my gaze to the floor. “I would

like to apologize for my earlier rudeness. I tend to joke when I’m nervous.”

“Please sit.” He gestured to one of the two chairs before the fireplace.

I took my place and waited for my scolding. Allinson strode restlessly from the

fireplace to the brocade-draped window where he struck another dramatic pose, looking through the mullioned panes at the garden below.

“My sons are quite distraught from the loss of their mother last year. Their grief was so deep, I couldn’t bear to send them to boarding school as scheduled. With their nanny already gone, I should have hired a caretaker, but…” He fell silent, appearing to be lost in sadness and memories.

This wasn’t the reprimand I’d expected. I shifted, uncomfortably aware that my

mad attraction to this man grieving the loss of his wife was wrong, not to mention pointless. Desire had hit me like a bolt from the blue, unexpected, unwanted but undeniable. Time to shake it off.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, sir. If you give me another chance, I would like to try to provide a better example for the boys. They’re both bright and eager to learn. I’m certain I can prepare them to join a class of their peers by next year.”

Sir Richard gave a small grunt. “Is any lad ever prepared for that battlefield?”

I’d never been to boarding school and wouldn’t have offered a comment even if I

had, since he clearly spoke to himself. I breathed softly, disappearing into the chair while waiting for him to make up his mind about me. I studied his classic profile, the strong nose and chin, the sharp cheekbones, the deep-set eyes under heavy brows.

“Your references and education are beyond reproach.” His breath steamed the

cold window glass. “Finding another likely candidate for the position might prove

difficult.”

His gaze finally turned to me. I sat straighter, not quite smiling since I didn’t want him to think I took this lightly, but trying to appear bright and amenable and like someone who would be a positive influence on children. It was quite a juggling act.

A flicker of something I couldn’t quite read passed over Allinson’s eyes before he spoke again. “Very well. Prove to me your progressive methods will bear results, and I’ll revisit the matter after a period of a month.”

He continued to gaze at me as I registered I was being put on probation. I must

prove my worth by teaching the boys something measurable, quickly.

“You may go now,” Sir Richard prompted.

I leaped up from the chair. “Yes. Yes, sir. You can count on me.” I bobbed my

head and backed out of his presence as if he were royalty. “Thank you for this

opportunity. I won’t fail you.”

“That remains to be seen.” He stared at me even harder until it seemed impossible

he wasn’t looking right into my head and seeing the truth about who I was. “If you feel inclined to fall in with the savages again, I recommend you restrain yourself.”

The straight line of his lips trembled slightly. Was that a smile caught in the

corners? Just in case it was, I smiled back, though I continued to nod and agree. “Yes, sir.”

For a mere fraction of a moment, our gazes locked as if in a silent wrestling duel.

I felt the power of his presence invade me. A low throbbing in my groin coaxed my cock to stiffness.
No. Not that. Not here.

I hurried out of the study, but those glowing eyes stayed with me. I couldn’t erase Allinson’s countenance from my mind. He’d been far easier on me and more forthcoming about his sons than I’d expected, while still maintaining an aura of reserve. This man of contradictions intrigued me, and I wanted to know more about him.

Not that I’d be seeing much of Sir Richard around the schoolroom. Even a lowly

slummer like me understood the aristocracy’s relationship to their children was different than that of the lower classes. Children remained in their own area and interacted with their parents only once or twice a day. Nothing like the sort of household where I’d grown up, in which we all piled on top of each other in a very confined space.

When my father and three of my siblings were felled by influenza in one grand,

crushing blow, my family had gotten much smaller and life became tougher and colder.

Years later, my remaining sister married and moved north, taking Mum with her, and I’d remained in London with the man who’d educated me above my station. No more slums and their diseases after I evolved into Graham Cowrie.

Now I’d moved up again, from my typesetting job at the print shop to a teaching

position on a grand country estate. I wouldn’t jeopardize that. From here on out, I’d do what was expected with the boys and not spare so much as a lascivious thought for the master of the house—no matter how much I’d felt a flash of something earthy shooting back and forth between us.

It was time to take my role of tutor seriously and earn my way to an even better

position in the future.

By the time I returned to the schoolroom, I’d lost my students again, but Whitney

and Clive had left behind pages printed in childish hand. Whit’s letters were round balloons, Clive’s were cramped and spidery, and the stories contained in several paragraphs were as different as the twins. They might share some elemental bond,

perhaps even the ability to transmit thoughts to one another, but they were definitely two very different boys.

The corps reeched out skeltal fingers to grab the grave rober and pull him into
the grave to meet his dume. The end!
Whit’s just desserts to a man who’d planned to steal diamonds from a dead woman ended with a jaunty flare and a very fat exclamation point.

The teecher disaperred and no one ever new what happened to him. The pupels

rejoyced over tea.
Clive’s sinister ending warned me what might be in store for me if I remained here.

“Lovely, children.” I gathered the papers and put them in a notebook. We would

have to work on correcting spelling at some point, but right then, since I’d missed breakfast, I was ravenous. I’d introduce myself in the kitchen and see what I could find to eat before searching for the twins again.

This time I found my way unerringly downstairs with no detours into neglected

wings of the house. On the way, I passed the maid I’d met earlier dust mopping the floor in a hallway. She looked up at my approaching footsteps then quickly bent her white-capped head again.

“By the way, I’m Graham Cowrie, the new tutor,” I introduced myself, since I’d

forgotten to on our first meeting.

She mopped the dark aged wood with silent intensity, refusing to acknowledge

my presence.

Another standoffish, slightly odd character to win over in this godforsaken place.

“You’re doing a wonderful job,” I added, fairly certain she’d never been complimented on her work in her entire life.

The girl darted another glance at me.

“And your name is…?” When no answer was forthcoming, just more frantic floor

polishing, I moved on.

“Molly Barrett.” A whisper floated after me.

“Pleased to meet you, Molly.”

In the kitchen, which was three times the size of my entire flat in the city, there was more activity going on than in the rest of the house put together. A large, red-faced woman in an apron and mobcap stirred something in a pot on the enormous stove while shouting orders at a scullery maid who poured milk into glasses.

“Good morning, ladies,” I greeted them. “Preparing lunch?”

The cook glared at me, and the long-jawed scullery maid gaped as if she’d seen an

apparition. New additions to the staff must be a rare sight.

Cook stabbed a knife into a blob of some sort of jellied thing that sat before her on the counter. “What do you want? The young masters aren’t here.”

“No. I’m afraid I’ve misplaced the boys.
And
I’ve missed breakfast. Not starting off on the right foot, I’m afraid. Would you happen to have a crust of bread or spot of tea to hold me until the next meal?”

I gave her my most winning smile, but it didn’t earn a simper or blush. In fact,

Cook scowled all the harder. Tough audience in this house.

“We have our work to do, and you have yours. You’ll eat when lunch is delivered

to you—upstairs in the schoolroom with the boys. Three meals a day is all I’m required to provide.”

She returned to stabbing at that poor slab of meat. I exchanged glances with the

horsey-looking maid and gave an exaggerated shrug. She showed just a glimpse of a

snaggletooth in a smile, shot a glance at the angry cook, and quickly returned to her work.

Such a friendly lot to spend my entire winter with, I thought as I retreated from

the kitchen with a grumbling stomach.

I had no more excuse not to hunt for Whit and Clive, though I couldn’t begin to

guess where they were. The grounds beyond the gardens included woods, meadows, and streams. Two energetic youngsters accustomed to running wild might be anyplace. But the day had turned cloudy and rain spattered the windowpanes, so I suspected the boys might have squirreled themselves away somewhere within the enormous house.

My own sense of adventure led me to explore once more the ancient fortress at

the heart of the newer wings. If I were a boy, that was where I’d spend my time. I could only assume Clive and Whit might play the same sorts of games, climbing to the highest battlements to survey the land below, imagining a legion of soldiers marching to attack the fortress, and coming up with counter strategies. Or perhaps pretending the tower was the eagle’s nest of a pirate ship they captained. Either way, these flights of fancy would take place in the highest point, that grim tower. Taking into consideration the light I’d seen upon my arrival, the sound I thought I’d heard on the stairs, and the door that swung mysteriously closed, it was a good bet the boys utilized the tower as a play area.

I wended my way past many closed chamber doors and paid another visit to the

medieval chapel with its dark wooden pews and single stained glass window. A solemn aura of gravitas shrouded the room, but I found it peaceful rather than sorrowful—a completely different sensibility than that dreadful tower.

As I approached the entrance to the north tower, my logical conclusion that the

twins played there began to crumble, and a sense of foreboding crept through me like early morning mist. My pace slowed, and I didn’t want to take another step closer. Again a weight of hopeless despair settled on me, and I hadn’t been feeling particularly melancholy until that very moment.

I inhaled and reached out to grasp the door handle.
It’s just masonry. Don’t be a
nancy, Nancy.
I turned the handle and pulled, but the door wouldn’t open. I turned and tugged again. The mechanism seemed to operate smoothly. I could only surmise the wooden door must be swollen into its frame. Very odd since it had been ajar less than an hour before.

I grabbed with both hands and pulled with all my strength. It felt almost as if the door were bolted on the other side. Perhaps the children had latched it to keep adults out of their private domain. Likely they stood on the stairwell even now, holding back their giggles at my vain attempts to breach their sanctuary.

“Whitney. Clive,” I called. “Come out now. It’s nearly time for lunch.”

If the promise of food couldn’t lure them out, I didn’t know what might. The truth was I had no control over my charges and didn’t know how to impose order. Sooner or later, I
would
be sacked and probably should be.

I gave one last try, hauling with all my strength, and in that moment, a feeling

swept over me like an ocean wave. I wasn’t fighting against a latch or a stuck door.