The Tutor (7 page)

I hustled the boys through one of the back entrances, determined to avoid contact

with anyone before we’d gotten cleaned up.

Smart enough to understand the need for secrecy, Whit led the way to a narrow

staircase behind a closed door, a route taken by servants in years past to move about the house unseen by the nobility, but it was evidently no longer in use. I sneezed on the dust and cobwebs caught in my hair as I followed the boys up.

We emerged not far from my bedroom. I recalled the whispers and footsteps from

my first night in the house and guessed this was where the boys had hidden after

sabotaging my bed.

After washing and changing, we met again in the schoolroom, where our tea trays

awaited us at the table. Stone-cold soup had turned to an unpalatable gel. But we

devoured it anyway, along with the rest of our meals and the room-temperature glasses of milk. Before we’d quite finished, a shadow fell in the doorway. Tom had arrived to take away the trays.

The lad slunk into the room, head hanging. If he were a dog, I’d think his master

had whipped him. I wondered if someone in this house had done something similar.

“Hello, Tom,” I greeted him, and Whitney followed my example. Clive remained

mute.

Tommy lingered over the task of collecting the remains of our meal, and it

occurred to me he was hoping for a repeat of yesterday’s art lesson.

I obliged him by suggesting to the boys they draw illustrations to go with the

short stories they’d written the previous day.

“Would you like some paper too?” I asked Tom. Moments later, all three boys

were gathered around the table, applying charcoal pencils to paper.

I’d earned a break and took the opportunity to dive into the mystery Allinson had

suggested. Soon my mind was filled with the story of secret identity and a locked wing of an ancient house, which rang far too familiar given my current living situation.

I was so wrapped up in the suspenseful climax of “The Copper Beeches,” I jerked

when an unexpected voice intruded on the story.

“Tommy Smith. So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself this past hour!”

Mrs. Growler stood near the doorway, hands on hips. The housekeeper appeared as large and surly as when I’d first met her. Did no one in this godforsaken place own a smile?

Poor Tom bolted up from the table, dropping his pencil on his half-finished

sketch.

Mrs. Growler pointed her finger like a skewer. “Get back to your duties, you

oafish lout, lest you find yourself out of a job.”

Tom clattered the trays and dishes together in his hurry to obey. I was determined to alleviate the scolding and punishment he might receive.

“Most of the blame is mine, Mrs. Growler. I invited the lad to join us. He has

quite an artistic bent.” I snatched up Tom’s picture and showed it to her.

She glanced and grunted. “You should know better, Mr. Cowrie. ’Tis most

inappropriate, not to mention inconvenient, for Tom to fall behind on his work. Don’t let it happen again.”

Tom might be as mute as Clive, for all I could tell. I hadn’t yet heard him speak a word. But his eyes communicated volumes of dismay as the housekeeper made this pronouncement.

“What about later in the evenings? Would it be all right for Tom to come to the

schoolroom for an art lesson?” As if I, who had the drawing skills of a three-legged dog, might teach this young man anything. But I could provide him with the materials to indulge his creativity.

Mrs. Growler scowled some more. “He couldn’t use the children’s supplies. That

wouldn’t be right.”

“No, of course not, but I have some paper and ink of my own I could let him use.”

I twinkled my dimples at her, a habit I might as well break since it got me nowhere with these hard-nosed northerners. If anything, my attempt at charm seemed to sway Mrs.

Growler more toward saying no. She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes before finally capitulating.

“An hour now and again in the evening will surely do no harm. Lord knows the

lad has little enough joy in his life.”

Did I detect a sensitive chink in her grim façade? Perhaps Mrs. Growler wasn’t

such a termagant after all. Then she clapped her hands together, loud enough to make me and all three boys jump. “Come now, Tom. Back to work.”

After the servants had gone, it was just me and the twins again, me and two

restless children whose attention was ready to be directed toward something new.

Teacher, caretaker, nursemaid, I was already worn out from the responsibility. And this was only my second day! What would it be like as winter shut us all indoors for days on end and there was no respite from sheer boredom?

I gazed back at the two expectant faces watching me, and for a moment, I thought

I might flee. I almost wished Sir Richard had sacked me so the decision would have been taken out of my hands. I could return to London and beg for my job back. My digs weren’t great, and typesetting was boring, but at least I’d have all my free time to myself.

I’d have my friends and occasional dalliances, theaters, museums, pubs, restaurants, all the city had to offer. I’d managed to entertain myself despite low income for most of my life. Was it really worth being in this horrible backwater simply to try to move up in the world? And what place would I reach? A similar isolated position teaching children? I doubted I had the temperament for it in the long run.

“Tell us your story.” Whit interrupted my thoughts. “What’s it about?”

Ah yes, the story I’d promised in order to get them to write one for me. I’d only

scribbled a start, but as long as the boys didn’t ask to read it, I could extemporize.

“All right. It’s a mystery concerning a highwayman called Bloody Bones. Are you

certain you won’t be too frightened?”

Two heads shook in unison and four blue eyes riveted on me like bright tacks.

“If you’re certain. I don’t want anyone having nightmares later.”

“We won’t. Nothing scares us. Not after…” Whit cut himself short, and Clive

jabbed him in the side with an elbow.

Now
that
was interesting. I wanted to press for more information, but any fool knows asking a child questions only makes them close up like little clam shells. I’d have to weasel my way into Whit’s confidence.

“Very well, then. I can see you’re two quite grown-up lads, ready to hear even the most vile and gory of stories. Harken, then, to the tale of
Bloody Bones and the
Nightmare Hearse
.”

I put on my best recitation voice and began the story, which had percolated in my

mind for some time. I’d planned to write and submit to one of the pulp magazines but somehow never found the time. Fear of not being good enough to be accepted even by the cheapest rag kept me from starting the project. But now I’d jotted down a beginning at last, I found I enjoyed writing, and my story was certainly no worse than the sensational drivel I’d read in the penny dreadfuls.

The boys sat at the table, chins resting on their arms, listening intently. It didn’t take long for me to tell the part I’d already written and begin freely spinning the tale to its dramatic conclusion. By the time I reached the climax in which the highwayman with the heart of gold rushes to outrace the devil’s hearse and save the fair maiden from her deadly fate, I was on my feet, describing the action with hands as well as voice. When the round-eyed boys appeared a little too caught up in the scary chase, I mimicked riding a horse, which made them both laugh.

Just as the chase reached a fever pitch, with Bloody Bones forced off the road and crossing a gully, I glanced up to see a more frightening sight than the devil himself standing in the schoolroom door.

Sir Richard leaned against the frame, arms crossed. His dark hair was windblown

and his face flushed. Coupled with the breeches and tall boots, his appearance suggested he’d just been riding.

I faltered, forgetting my place in the story, and the boys looked to see what had

caught my attention. Their reaction was like two turtles snapping heads and limbs back inside their shells. The giggles died in their throats, and their expressions smoothed into blankness. They got up from their chairs as if ready to sidle away, but there was no place to go since their father stood in the doorway.

For a moment, we all remained in tableau, unable to move or speak. Then Sir

Richard inclined his head. “Go on. Finish the story.”

I could hardly deny my employer’s direct request, but my tale limped to a rather

pathetic conclusion. My heart was no longer in the telling of how the highwayman

outwitted the devil and won the heart of the lady far above his station. Nor did I have the attention of my audience. The boys shifted from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable in their father’s presence. Why did they seem to fear him so? I couldn’t help but resurrect my first guess that he had hurt or threatened them in some way. But I could hardly reconcile that with my other impressions of him. When he’d said he couldn’t bear to send his sons to boarding school while they still mourned the loss of their mother, I’d been convinced he cared.

Now he cast his gaze on one boy, then the other. “Whitney. Clive. I hope you’re

behaving well for Mr. Cowrie.”

Neither answered, shuffling their feet and gazing down at the carpet.

“Please go to your room for a moment. I’d like a word with your teacher.”

“Yes, sir,” Whit mumbled.

Sir Richard entered the room, and his sons skirted around him as if he had the

plague before disappearing out the door. I braced myself for the tongue-lashing I’d earned for telling horror tales rather than teaching Latin.

There we were again, two men alone in a very quiet room. My heart pounded in

my ears. It was an odd sensation, caught halfway between fear and outrageous

temptation. Allinson had the power to dismiss me, but I had some power over him too. I could see it in the widening of his eyes and the flare of his nostrils as he drew near. There was something silent yet undeniable between us.

“I interrupted your story,” he said at last.

“The boys worked hard on lessons today, and I thought they’d earned some

entertainment. Just a little tale I concocted.”

“A very spooky one, from the sound of it.” He wandered over to the wall where

the boys’ drawings were tacked and bent to study each one.

“As a boy, I liked nothing better than a chilling story. I guessed Clive and Whit…

ney would feel the same.” I watched the tall, handsome man prowl the room. He paused to trace a finger over the womanly shape facing off against the black, threatening presence in Clive’s drawing.

“Given their mother’s death, dwelling on the otherworldly and bizarre hardly

seems wise,” Allinson said.

“Perhaps not. I didn’t really think…” I trailed off. “But it seems such worries are already in their minds. A very wise man I once knew believed that expressing one’s fears through the arts was a healthy way to dispel them.”

He looked at me. “Your father?”

I shook my head. “No. My father died when I was quite young. This was…a

friend.” More than a friend. Sylvester Leighton had been lover, mentor, paternal figure, and more, for several very crucial years of my life.

Allinson resumed studying the drawings, moving on to Tom’s portrait of the

house. “Fathers and sons are often at odds. My own sons…” He paused for a long

moment. “My boys have not been the same since Lavinia’s death. I confess I don’t know how to reach out to them. I believe they blame me…”

As if realizing he’d offered too much personal information to a servant, Allinson

abruptly straightened and started toward the door. “Carry on as you have been. Teach them indoors or out as you see fit. I haven’t heard either of my sons laugh in months.

Today, as I approached this room, their laughter echoed down the hallway. I was happy to hear it.”

He didn’t look at me as he spoke, but I accepted the compliment all the same.

“They’re very bright, high-spirited boys,” I responded. “I’m pleased to be

teaching them.” And I realized that I was. Despite growing tired of having to invent and engage and entertain, I
did
enjoy working with Whit and odd little Clive.

I wanted to talk further with Sir Richard, to point out, in case he’d missed it, that one of his boys refused to speak a word, that both of them needed him to give them more attention and maybe put an arm around them once in a while, that he definitely needed to get to the root of why they might blame him for their mother’s death. But none of this was my business to discuss. I was merely a servant. The most I could do was teach the boys to the best of my ability.

Allinson paused in the doorway. “Did you read ‘The Copper Beeches’ mystery?”

“Nearly finished. I’m enjoying it very much. Thank you for the loan of the book.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment and then, as shy and standoffish as Clive,

he slipped away.

I released a breath, and my hammering heart began to slow. Oh, the effect that

man had on me, and how I wished something could come of it.

I began to tidy the room. Intending to add the boys’ new artwork to the wall, I

gathered their drawings. When I actually took a look at Tom’s, I gasped.

Again he’d drawn the house, but this time the tower filled the page. The stone

walls were etched with precision, and the conical roof appeared exactly as it was in reality. But what seized my attention was one of several windows high in the tower. Tom had drawn a face, a woman’s pale face against an obsidian blackness, tiny yet so detailed, I could
feel
her emotion.

The woman’s eyes were wide, and her mouth was open in a silent scream.

I needed to know more about Lavinia Allinson, dead wife and mother. Who was