The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (32 page)

The buzzing of the fly ceased. Outside, the sun fell behind a cloud, and darkness took the room.

I
T IS NIGHT as I write these words, and as is so often the case here at Heathcrest Hall, I am alone.

My little room, which I have to myself, is situated on the uppermost floor at one end of the house. A larger chamber was offered to me on my arrival. Its furnishings were rich: an old Murghese carpet, a fortress of a bed, and a desk roomy enough, I am sure, to have borne King Atheld and his squire from the shores of Altania to the Isle of Night in some degree of comfort.

I expressed to the housekeeper, Mrs. Darendal, that I did not feel my position warrented such appointments. While the words came from politeness, I can only think they caused insult, for the room I was shown to next—this room—was in every way the opposite of the other. But having made a point of finding the first chamber too grand, I could not in turn complain that this one was too austere.

Nor do I regret it. Here I have but a wrought-iron bed and a table not much larger than this sheet of paper on which I write. Yet this room suits me. I like the way it is tucked into the corner of a gable, so I can hear the rain drum against the roof. I like the chair someone left here long ago, crafted from willow branches woven together in the most subtle pattern, so that it seems it was not made at all but rather sprouted into being. I like that the window looks east toward Invarel.

In daylight, I have a picturesque view of the heath and downs surrounding the house. On a clear day (of which we have few), I like to pretend that the ragged shapes I can just make out atop the next ridge are the roofs of the houses in Gauldren’s Heights and the towers of the Citadel. However, what I see, I am told, is a stand of old Wyrdwood several furlongs distant. Imagine—a stand of primeval forest within view of the house!

How I wish it were closer. To see the Old Forest rowans and hawthorns would be like seeing an ancient tale come to life. I should, quite easily, be able to picture Queen Béanore slipping among them. Besides, it would give my eyes something green to behold. Currently I am deprived of any such sight. There is no garden at the house, and there is little that grows naturally close by, save for heather and gorse. There is not a single tree, Old or New, within a half mile of the house.

It is more than twice that distance to Cairnbridge, the closest village, and as a result we are seldom disturbed here at Heathcrest. At present it is the eighth hour of the fourth night since the new month. It is a longish umbral, and the house is quiet. I can hear the hiss of the candle and all the small scratchings of pen against the paper. I can almost fancy that I am an inhabitant of one of Lily’s romances, penning a secret letter in the deep of a greatnight. Only I do not know to whom I write this. It is not to some young duke or dashing soldier who I hope will come rescue me; I am here by my own choice.

All the same, this letter
is
secret. For it is my intention, I think, to write a bit each day (or night) as time allows and to set down all those things that concern my thoughts but that I can tell to no one. Not to my employer, for the master of Heathcrest is a serious man—stern, I might say—and does not take well to being disturbed. Nor can I tell them to the woman who keeps his house. Mrs. Darendal, whom I have mentioned, though efficient in her business, seems little disposed toward talk of any sort.

As for the children, they must not be troubled by such things. It is my duty to be a steady influence upon them, a source of dependable comfort. And while my heart craves nothing more than to tell my sisters of all that weighs on my mind, I must resist.

After all, it is easier for me than for
them.
I have gone to a new place, with new duties that occupy me. Rose and Lily have remained behind in a dwelling whose very familiarity must, rather than console, serve to remind them at every turn of the beloved mother they have lost. Even worse, they must see the home they have known all their lives ruled by another and themselves relegated to the periphery of it, turned into objects that cannot be wanted even as they are told they are welcome to stay.

No, my letters to them must be filled with hope and cheer. And what do my concerns matter compared to theirs? My time is well occupied. My charges, while they are awake, require all of my attention and energy. If at times, in the dark of a long umbral like tonight, when the children are asleep and I am wishing for company, then I have only to take out my pen and write, and I am close to you, Father.

For I realize now it is to
you
that I write this letter. You are the only one I can bother with these odd little thoughts, these small worries that occur to me. Even if these words never reach you or can have little chance of being read in the event they are placed in your hands—even so, you help me more than you can know. For I have only to think of you, of all that you have borne, and I know that I will overcome any difficulties my current situation presents.

But this is all turned around! I am not telling things in their proper order.
To understand a tree, one must study its roots,
wrote Telarus in the
Lex Altania
. I must explain how I came to be here, Father. That my situation can have changed in so short a time, and that it can have been altered so completely by the simple act of answering a letter, is a thing I can scarcely comprehend. Yet so it has; and if I can endeavor to explain it to you, perhaps in the effort I will grasp it myself.

T
HE FIRST THING I knew was that we could not long depend upon the charity of our cousin Mr. Wyble.

It was plain to me, from the moment he arrived to offer us his condolences, that he intended to suffer no delay in establishing the house on Whitward Street as his own in habitation as well as in title.

“I have always felt I was coming home every time I paid you a visit,” he told us as we took tea in the parlor. “And now it is true not only in feeling but also in fact. Is that not remarkable, Cousin Ivoleyn?”

“I agree, it
is
remarkable,” I said to him. Remarkable that the man would arrive so quickly. Surely, in the wake of a tragedy that had cost us so greatly and that had benefited him so much, a small delay on his part could not have resulted in much trouble for him. But the law has no compassion, Mr. Wyble often told us, and in that regard the lawyer seemed much the same. It had been only a quarter month since that terrible day.

“Of course you are welcome to stay, dear cousins, until you are situated elsewhere,” he said, making a magnanimous gesture with a biscuit.

“You are very kind,” I said when it was clear he waited on a reply.

“Do not think there must be any sort of hurry on your part,” he went on. “I am aware, after such a drastic change of situation, that it will take some time to make arrangements for yourselves and your father. You must not worry. You will find me exceedingly patient on the matter. More tea?”

He directed his gaze at Rose. She gave a startled look, then stood to pour him another cup. I took it from her gently and delivered it myself. Rose has a tendency to spill things, and the tea was very hot.

I thanked him on behalf of my sisters and my father, though he had granted us nothing the law had not already. The terms of the entailment gave us half a year to quit the house. And I had no doubt that, however great its initial surplus might be, by then Mr. Wyble’s patience with us would be exhausted. That we must remove to the house on Durrow Street as soon as possible was my only thought.

“I am sure we will all get along most agreeably,” Mr. Wyble said. “We shall dine together, of course; we are family. And I have formulated a plan for the arrangement of the house. I have concluded that you should take the fourth floor for yourselves. True, it has the largest room in the house, which I know to be exceedingly comfortable and pleasant. However, logic must supersede any little want or desire I might feel. For that floor is closest to the attic, which I know is your father’s place. The new servants will have the first floor, and I shall make the second and third floors my apartments.”

Lily looked up from her empty cup. “But what of the parlor?” She turned to me, her eyes widened in fear. “How shall I play the pianoforte? You know I have to play! Mother told me to keep practicing.”

I spoke before Lily could become more agitated. “Your arrangement sounds very impartial, Mr. Wyble. But you do not mean, I am sure, that we are not to have any use of the parlor.”

“Of course I mean no such thing! I would never deprive you of such a comfort. On the contrary, I was thinking you could have the parlor for a full two hours once each quarter month. What do you think of that, cousin?” he said with a smile toward Lily.

She clapped a hand to her mouth, stood, and fled the room.

Mr. Wyble looked to me. “Is the poor child ill?”

“No, I am sure she is well,” I said. “But you must know how—that is, it has been a difficult time for her.”

He affected a solemn look. “Difficulties are the trials in which God judges us, cousin. We must be strong when faced with adversity so as to better represent our own case before Him. Do you not agree?”

I gave him a smile in answer. “Rose,” I said, “I see Mr. Wyble’s cup is empty again. Would you take him another cup of tea?”

S
EVERAL NIGHTS LATER I sat at the dresser in what had been Mother’s room, going over the household ledger. I sought to draw up a budget, and though it would not be easy, it seemed to me we would be able to use the sum I had managed to accumulate over the years to pay for the expense of opening the house on Durrow Street. After that, your small income, Father, would be enough to keep us—but only if we lived in the most frugal manner.

My eyes ached from reading in the candlelight. Indulging in a sigh, I shut the ledger.

“I know where Mother kept the letters, you know,” Lily said.

I looked up. Rose sat on the edge of the bed while Lily braided her fine brown hair.

“What letters, dear?” I said.

Lily did not look up from her work. “They’re in the dresser, in the bottom drawer, under her wedding lace. I saw her put them there.”

It is not right to spy on others!
I wanted to chastise Lily. Instead, I hesitated, then knelt and opened the drawer. I removed the bits of lace that had been carefully folded away, and there, just as Lily said, was a cache of papers. I recognized the letters on top at once. All were addressed to you in that same cramped, formal hand. None of them was opened.

It seemed wrong. Yet what had been hers was
ours
now. She had not been able to pass on the house, but this wedding lace had been her own, and these letters. I took out all the papers and laid them on the dresser. I opened the first letter, then the next, and the next. There were more than I had thought. All of them were from the same Mr. Quent.

The one I had read that day before replacing the wax seal was among them. The others were similar in tone and nature. All were polite but also implied a past friendship, as well as what seemed a genuine interest in helping the Lockwell family. The most recent letters all bore the same hope, that one of the daughters—myself, in particular—would consider serving as a governess to the gentleman’s two young wards, who would be coming to live with him soon, or, indeed, now were doing so.