Red Hart Magic (16 page)

Mr. Battersley paid no attention; instead he looked directly at Chris once more. “Were you approached to steal the exam?”

“Yes.”

“Did you accept money for this?” He twitched the sheet lying on the desk before him.

“No.”

“He's a liar! Ask Jimmy Baxter—Harvey—DeTenbus—” flared Canfield.

Again Mr. Battersley paid no heed to that interruption to his questioning.

“This examination represents a lot of complicated work. It could only have been done by someone who had a driving purpose. You admit that you did it, Fitton; now I am going to ask you why?”

Chris knew there was no escape; he had been driven into a corner, and truth was the only way out. But suddenly, as it had come to him in the inn when he knew that no lie could ever serve and that he must face himself as he was, he answered, “Because I was afraid.”

Those four words fell into a silence which grew more awful as every second ticked away. But he had said them, and they were the truth.

“I am not going to ask you of what you were afraid, Fitton—oddly enough I don't believe that you are any more.” The precise voice reached Chris with the same authority that Harry Hawkins' strong rumble had carried.

“This matter must go to the Headmaster and I do not
know what his decision will be. I shall make my own report. However, I am convinced of one thing; this was not done for any gain. Canfield"—he made that name snap like a whip— “you never gave any money to Fitton. Now, did you?”

There was a silence as deep as before.

“I—” It was as if Canfield had tried and failed.

“At least you have not lied yourself in any deeper. I will tell you now that Harvey Reed has admitted that no money was passed. And the rest of his story differs quite a bit from what you told me yesterday. You did not pick your confederates very well, it would seem. But for the rest—it is entirely up to Dr. Stevens.”

Chris drew an uncertain breath. He did not know whether what he felt was relief or not; he certainly could not be as sure of the future as he had been when the Bow Street runner had taken charge. But today it had been his word against theirs—and Mr. Battersley had believed him. And the Batman had been right, too: Chris was not afraid any more. Canfield had shrunk—he was no longer a dictator who had full control over Chris's well-being.

He heard Mr. Canfield still protesting. Aunt Elizabeth, for once, had said nothing at all, to both Chris's surprise and relief. Now she might even be ready to find her tongue again. But none of that mattered. He did not even care that he would have to face Dr. Stevens and might even be kicked out of the Academy. Nothing mattered except that he had said he was a coward—and then had found out that it was not true! A sudden warmth filled him. It was like standing before the fire on the inn hearth out of the freezing chill of the winter night.

Because he had never faced up to his fears before, he had twisted and tried to evade, told himself he just wasn't going to be drawn into anything. Because he did not want to face himself as the timid coward he was—or had thought he was.

And was no longer. Nan had told him—the inn had told him—and now he knew.

9

A Family—Maybe

“What happened?”

Nan came into the apartment as if she had been running a race. Chris looked up from his book.

“I got suspended—for the rest of the week, or until Dr. Stevens makes up his mind.”

“But they believed you!” That was no question, rather a statement.

‘The Batman did.” Chris did not want to talk about it; he had heard enough from Aunt Elizabeth. Yet—he owed Nan this. Slowly he described that sorry scene in the office; at least he saw it as a sorry one. He still cringed inside whenever he thought of admitting that he was afraid—afraid of Canfield and his gang.

“You weren't afraid"—Nan broke in swiftly as if she could read his thoughts—"at least not so much afraid you couldn't say so. You—you were braver than I was. I should
have taken that pin back to the counter—told them everything. But—then I couldn't.”

Chris eyed her curiously. “You say, then you couldn't. Why?”

“Because now I think I could.” She laid her book bag down and flopped into the chair nearby. “I never told Grandma things—not really. Because I was always afraid I would disappoint her, and then maybe she wouldn't like me so much. And she was the only one I had. So"—she drew a deep breath— “when Grandma wasn't here, I felt I didn't really have anybody. Only, you don't really need others to tell you what is right and what is wrong. You know it somehow—inside you know it.

“I knew that Uncle Jasper was using me to do bad things to people who trusted me. I knew that Aunt Prudence was doing right when she wouldn't let the smugglers get your father—” Nan plunged on.

His father—Chris remembered that fever-flushed face on the thin pillow in the inn bed. It was a stranger's face now, but he could remember the fear and the anger that had filled him then.

“And I knew that the Squire was going to use a lie to hurt you—so I—that time I was strong enough to go and tell. Though I was afraid all the time I did it. If he had found out—” Nan paused and shivered. “I wonder if he ever did find out and what happened to that other Nan. I hope he never did. Never!”

“So do I!” Chris surprised himself by saying. And then he added more slowly:

“You know, I've always felt alone. There was always just one—me. Dad was away all the time—I'd be shipped around. Once to Uncle Pete's. They didn't really want me—you sure can tell. And then here. And I thought maybe—when I got old enough not to be a bother the way a little kid is—then Dad would want me.”

He was hardly aware he was telling Nan things he had locked inside until the hurt never quite faded away. It was as if some gag had been torn from his mouth, so that now he could not stop that flood even if he wanted to.

“Dad would send money. Money! But—”

“But he didn't come himself,” Nan finished for him softly when Chris did not continue. “But you got letters. Maybe he couldn't help it.”

“It was like—” Chris shook his head. “I don't know—like we were talking different languages—even when he came. He'd ask questions as if he didn't know just what to say. I'd save up things to tell him, but I never did. There was a dad I thought I knew, but when he came, that was never him.”

“I was luckier.” Nan was not looking at him but staring at the thick carpet. “I had Grandma for a while. But it's true— mostly, I guess, I was just one, too. Like I was one with Uncle Jasper, and with Aunt Prudence, and when I was Miss Mallory. It's awfully lonely being just one.”

“I wasn't one,” Chris burst out to interrupt her, “not at the inn, I wasn't! I wish, I wish I could go back.”

Nan sat up quickly, gazing at him with a kind of fear. “No! Chris, you have to be yourself—Not those other Chrises—
the self that is here! If you try—that is running away. I don't know if you could—but it is running. Don't ever, ever try!”

“You think I could do it?”

“You mustn't try!” Nan was begging him now. “You must never try! I have a feeling, truly, I do, Chris, that that would be wrong. You would lose the real you and never, never find yourself again if you do that.”

“I would rather not be the one I am now.”

“We would all rather not be ourselves sometimes,” Nan said slowly. “But we have to be. I don't like myself much at times. I didn't like what I did for Uncle Jasper—it was horrible! And sometimes I do things like that now. Oh, I don't mean listen to people and then tell soldiers what they are doing. But I don't always stand up for what I believe is right. Not the way Aunt Prudence did. Not the way you did, Chris.”

He laughed scornfully. “I'm no prize. I told you, I'm no hero.”

“You don't have to be a hero—just Chris Fitton as he's always been.”

Now he stared at her. “You, you got something you—No, don't keep thinking that about me!” He got up and went to stand looking out of the apartment window, his back shutting her out.

But Nan refused to be shut out. Whenever she looked at Chris, those other Chrises seemed to melt in and become a part of him. She did not see the usually sullen-faced boy she had—yes, she thought, she had hated him then. It was all
a part of the breakup of her calm and peaceful life with Grandma. The inn had forced her to act more positively than she had ever believed she could. It had proved something to her. Now she was certain that one could change inside. It would be hard work, and she would probably try to dodge other choices, she knew that—because she was still the person she had been. But she was not going to stay that person, and she would fight all the way, fight the fear and the loneliness, and the wanting to be more than “just one.”

“I am going to remember all those Chrises,” she said now quietly. “And maybe you'll remember those Nans. The other ones who could do things—the right things—”

Chris swung around. “I didn't want you for a sister,” he said abruptly. “I didn't want you here—” He paused; it was hard to choose the right words now. “I—Aunt Elizabeth said we were all a family now. I didn't believe that.”

She was nodding. “I didn't either,” she answered him promptly, so promptly and with such empathy that he was a little shaken. He had so long only considered—and tried to keep hidden—his own feelings that it was startling to know his dislike had been reflected by her.

“All right. Maybe we were both wrong.” The words were twisted out of him. All his runaway speech of a few minutes before was fast drying up. “We can start over—” He made that effort, and it was an effort.

“I'm willing,” Nan returned.

Chris came slowly away from the window. “I'm not good at making friends,” he warned her.

“I never had any—close ones—except Grandma. So I'm not either.”

“Wait!” Chris had a sudden inspiration. He hurried out of the room.

Wait for what? Nan wondered. She stared at the tips of her shoes where they scuffed up the long pile of the carpet and thought about Chris. Hard to be friends? She was not quite sure that she could be one—not a real friend. Oh, she had known girls and gone around with them back in Elmsport and called them friends. But she had never shared with any of them what she had shared with Chris—those strange too real dreams and what they had said so openly just minutes before. She felt that she knew Chris, the real Chris, better than she knew anyone—maybe even Grandma—now.

And would the time come when Chris would resent her knowing? Nan thought about that in turn. It could be true. But that would be another thing she must learn to face when it came—if it came. No more hiding away from things that must be faced.

Chris came banging back into the room. He was carrying the inn, and now he stood directly before her, setting the tiny building down on the edge of the coffee table. It was so real, even in its smallness, one might be looking at it through the wrong end of a magnifying glass, one which made things look smaller instead of larger. She half expected to see Aunt Prudence peering out of one of the diamond-paned windows, or a coach pulling through the archway into the courtyard.

“People swear on things,” Chris said. “They use Bibles to swear on in court—when they say they are telling the truth. All right, we'll swear on the Red Hart, swear we'll give each other a chance to be friends!”

Nan no longer felt that strange feeling of discomfort and fear which had been hers when she had first seen the inn. Now it was as familiar, and somehow as welcoming to her, as had been the old house at Elmsport. She did not know why they had dreamed and had spent such troubling hours in it. No, they could not have been in this! But had Chris not said that models were often made of real ships or planes— and perhaps, too, of houses? Was there a real Red Hart and perhaps one day could she and Chris find it?

“Do you swear?” Chris's tone was impatient, drawing her back to the here and now.

“Yes, I do.” Nan put out her hand to lay two fingertips on the roof of the inn. “I swear I want to be friends.”

Chris was right behind her making the same promise. Then he added, “Might not be too easy—sometimes.”

Nan smiled. “Yes. But we can keep trying. We can even be a family—maybe.”

Chris looked very thoughtful. Then, as he picked up the inn and balanced it on the flat of his palm at eye level as if he hoped to see something within, he said, “Might not be bad at that. And I think we'll have a chance to prove it. Dad wrote about a surprise—”

“So did Mother,” Nan interrupted.

“Could be,” Chris considered thoughtfully, “we're just going to have a real home.”

He gazed at the Red Hart. In a way, that had been home. He wondered if any other would be as welcoming. There again, they would have to try. He looked at Nan, and for the first time the sullenness was gone from his face, and he smiled. Tentatively, then openly, she smiled back.

Acknowledgments

The writer wishes to express her appreciation to Ms. Marge Geddes, the present owner of “Red Hart Inn,” who very kindly permitted the use of one of her treasures for the background of this story. And she wishes to express her appreciation also to Ms. Marian Maeve O'Brien, in whose book
Collectors’ Guide to Dollhouses
and
Dollhouse Miniatures,
the writer first came across the photograph and story of the inn.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1976 by The Estate of Andre Norton

ISBN: 978-1-4976-5660-4

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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