The Tutor (10 page)

“She died of a fever, as we’ve been told, and you lot are too eager to make up

stories to entertain yourselves.” The barkeep headed back to his domain behind the bar.

A few more secondhand tales about the Allinsons and the house were shared

before the topic shifted to the fall harvest. It seemed I’d gathered all the facts I could from these men and had only learned it was difficult to separate fact from wild rumors.

But no one had accused Sir Richard of being a dastardly murderer in any of their stories, whatever they conjectured about Mrs. Allinson’s death. Nor did I truly suspect any such thing, or I wouldn’t have stayed in the house a moment longer.

I bid my new mates good-bye and was rewarded with a chorus of farewells

following me out the door. Whoever said country folk were standoffish with outsiders hadn’t met this lot.

The tiny town didn’t have much to boast of, but I poked around each shop and

examined everything. It felt so good to be someplace other than the Allinson estate.

Comparing prices of two almost identical pairs of black gloves in the mercantile store seemed as exciting as shopping in Piccadilly on a crowded Saturday afternoon.

I found the men at the pub weren’t the only locals eager to talk to the Allinsons’

new tutor and glean whatever gossip they could about the house and its inhabitants.

The baker’s wife, after selling me a fresh hot bun, rested her thick arms against

the counter and leaned in for a chat. “I ain’t the superstitious type m’self, but many say the Hall is haunted. There’ve been tales about the place since my granny was a lass, strange sights and odd occurrences as was told about by those who worked there. And the Allinson family from generations back was always a bit different, a dour and gloomy lot.” She brushed a smudge of flour off her round cheek while I bit into the sweet bun.

“But folks worked there despite the ghosts. A job is a job. Until recently.”

“What happened recently?” I prompted.

“Not for me to say, but the way the young Mrs. Allinson passed so sudden

seemed not quite right somehow. Not like I believe anyone did her in, as some around these parts have suggested,” she scoffed. “Nothing so outlandish. But it’s my thought that maybe she…”

The bell rang over the door, and another customer entered.

The baker’s wife rocked back on her heels and planted her hands on her hips.

“Anything else I can help you with, sir?”

Maybe what? Damn! Now she’d developed scruples about gossiping because

someone else was listening in? Damn, damn, damn!

I lingered, hoping to have the baker’s wife to myself again, but one customer then another came in, all of them eager to meet the stranger in their midst. I finally had to concede my chance with her was over.

I spent as long as I could in the village, returning to the tavern for a last glass of ale before reluctantly trudging toward home in the late afternoon. I’d told Drover not to wait for me after completing his errands, so I had several miles to walk. Not that I minded, but I suddenly realized I wouldn’t make it to the Hall before dark.

Maybe she what?
What did the baker’s wife suspect? If it wasn’t murder, I could only think of one or two other circumstances that would require secrecy. Perhaps Mrs.

Allinson had an unwanted pregnancy and tried to terminate it herself with lethal results.

But more likely, given what I’d learned about her sad moods, she’d done herself in.

Suicide was a stain on a family’s name equaled only by insanity—or a sodomite in the family tree. Hiding such things was common.

That extra layer of misery added to the loss of a beloved mother and wife

certainly explained the strain between the boys and their father. Likely the lads wouldn’t have been told the truth, but they were smart enough to realize something was amiss, and what child doesn’t like to lay the blame for all sadness at their parents’ door.

The last rosy glow colored the western sky and silhouetted the Hall like a doll’s

castle on the horizon. I would walk the rest of the way in darkness under growing clouds, but this wild land at night couldn’t be more eerie than my destination.

The clear day ended as rain moved in, faster than I’d expected. The first fat drops hit my cheeks, and I sped up my plodding pace. Before I’d trotted another quarter mile, the heavens unleashed. I drew my coat collar as high as I could and pulled my hat down hard over my ears. I had a stitch in my side, and my skin grew icy cold. Teeth chattering, I hurried onward toward the creepy house that now seemed like a cozy haven.

Pounding hoofbeats behind me made me spin around, half expecting a headless

horseman to bear down on me as in Irving’s tale. The rider approaching was almost as chilling—or perhaps I meant thrilling.

Sir Richard thundered along on his great black steed, heading right at me. I fought an urge to flee like a fox being chased and instead stood at the side of the road like a drowned rat waiting to board the nearest passing ship.

Allinson drew his mount to a halt with such abruptness, it reared on its hind legs. I stumbled back from the lethal hooves slashing the air.

The master brought his horse under control with a soft command and a hard pull

on the reins. “Whoa. Easy now.” His tone was considerably less kind as he turned his attention to me. “Cowrie, what the devil are you doing walking in the rain?”

I looked up,
way
up, at the man towering above me. “It was my day off. I’m just now getting back from the village.”

I could barely make out his fearsome scowl in the gathering darkness as he

scolded me. “You shouldn’t have started so late in the day. And you should’ve taken a look at the sky first. In this country, you must learn to judge approaching weather.”

I tipped my head back even farther so rain bathed my face. “Yes, I rather see that now,” I replied dryly.

The horse took a few sideways steps, eager to be moving, smart enough to know a

warm stall and oats awaited it. Allinson looked in the direction of the house, at least another half mile away, then at me.

“I’d send the carriage for you, but…” He shook his head in impatience and

extended a hand toward me. “Come. I’ll give you a ride back.”

I blinked away raindrops and gazed at his glove for all of two seconds before

eagerly seizing hold. His strong grip held me fast as he pulled me up behind him. I slung an awkward leg over the horse’s back with too much zest and nearly slipped off the other side, forcing me to grab a fistful of Allinson’s coat to stop my fall. I wrapped my arms around his body as the horse began to move.

Christ, I was going to fall to my death. I was barely seated, and already Sir

Richard urged his mount into a canter. I’d mostly walked or occasionally taken cabs to get around the city and could count on one finger the number of times I’d actually ridden a horse. My teeth clicked together as I bounced against that broad muscular back—and I don’t mean the horse.

Necessity rather than lust made me cling to Allinson with all my strength, my legs pressed against his, the heat of his body taking the edge off my chill. I wished the saddle weren’t in the way so we might be even closer, near enough that my rising erection might rub against his backside. But even with space between us, I felt the flex and flow of muscles in his legs and sides, and I admired how his shoulders stretched the smooth broadcloth coat. He wore no hat, perhaps unable to keep it on given the speed with which he rode—I know my bowler was barely staying on—so his dark hair slicked like sealskin to his head. I longed to cup the curve of his scalp in my palm and feel the heat beneath cool, wet hair.

Heat, indeed. My body was suffused with it from the nearness of the man in my

arms. I thought steam might rise off my chilled skin. Such little games we play in our minds. By the time we’d reached the stable yard, I’d already imagined an entire scenario in which we stripped off our soaked clothing and crashed together naked in front of a roaring fire—on a tiger rug, naturally. But my heated fantasy came to an abrupt end when Allinson drew his horse to a halt and I had no more excuse to cling to him.

I reluctantly loosened my arms. Sir Richard dismounted with the grace of a

cavalry officer, though he’d never been one, while I half slid, half tumbled off with all the grace of a sack of meal. Allinson grasped his horse’s bridle and headed toward the stable.

I stood for a moment, deciding whether to follow him or run for the house. Rain

trickled down my neck, and a roll of thunder and flash of lightning got me moving.
In for
a penny
, I decided. Determined to spend every second I could in the man’s company, I splashed across the yard after Allinson into the dimly lit stable.

“It’s all right, Drover. I’ll put up Jackdaw myself. You may return to whatever

you were doing.” Allinson was already removing the horse’s saddle as he addressed the groom, who’d emerged from his rooms in the rear of the building.

“Are you certain, sir? I don’t mind. It’s my job.”

But Drover seemed happy enough to concede the point when Sir Richard assured

him with a “Yes. Go on now.”

He set the saddle aside and removed his dripping greatcoat, laying it over the door of one of the empty stalls before returning to caring for the horse.

I approached from the shadows near the doorway. “Thank you for giving me a

ride. I’d be walking still and the rain’s coming down harder than ever.” In fact, it rattled on the roof like a million tapping fingers.

Allinson glanced at me. “You may go to the house.”

“I’d like to help. It’s the least I can do to repay you for your kindness.” I shed my coat, snatched up a bit of rough toweling as he had done, and hurried to help dry the horse. I looked at the master across the horse’s back and offered a smile. “Jackdaw?

That’s an unusual name.”

“Yes.” He turned his attention to his task but didn’t send me away, so I stayed.

A paraffin lantern lit the interior of the horse barn, which had been built to shelter a dozen mounts. Now only a few of the stalls were occupied. I recognized the bay which had pulled the carriage that brought me here and the wagon I’d hitched a ride on today. A chestnut with a white blaze gazed at us with soulful eyes from the neighboring stall.

When we’d finished grooming Jackdaw, he would occupy another. I nearly made a

comment about how few horses lived in the large stable, but realized it would seem rude.

Sir Richard had a right to keep as many or as few horses as he wished. If he wasn’t hosting fox hunts and such, what was the point of having the upkeep of a dozen horses?

The silence in the barn was disturbed only by the rain on the roof, the soft

blowing noises the horses made, and their restless movements. It was so quiet, the rasp of sacking against Jackdaw’s steaming side sounded too loud, as did my own breathing. I was never one to be comfortable in silence. After a few moments, I had to say something to fill it.

“Did you have a good ride today?”

“Yes,” Allinson grunted. He dropped the drying towel and started in with a

currycomb.

“That’s nice. Where were you off to?” The moment I blurted the question, I knew

it was too personal. We weren’t mates chatting over ale. One didn’t ask one’s employer about his business.

But surprisingly, Sir Richard answered. “Checking on one of my tenants.”

“Ah,” I replied.

“Albert McGrew,” he continued. “His family has been farming our land as long as

there’ve been Allinsons in the Hall. But the old man is the last of his line. He had only sisters, who married and moved away, and Albert never took a wife. Recently, neighbors noticed he’s neglected his animals and fields, and when they checked on him, the man’s speech seemed slurred and irrational.”

“Age is cruel.” I thought of Clara Weevil, a batty old prostitute I knew who still tried to ply her trade in the pub I frequented. Nothing much sadder to witness than that.

I’d bought her a meal now and then, and when I found her passed out drunk on the street, I’d drag her back to the tenement where she squatted.

Allinson’s low voice flowed through the air and surrounded me like a warm,

rough blanket. “At any rate, something must be done. Albert can’t pay rent any longer nor stay in his cottage unattended. No one seems willing to take the man into their home.

I suppose one can’t blame them. Difficult enough to care for one’s own family.”

“So what are you going to do?” It was apparent Sir Richard needed a pair of

listening ears, which I could supply.

I’d crouched to dry the horse’s undercarriage, and now I knelt in the straw to wipe down its tall legs, hocks, and withers or what have you. The scent of wet horse and dry straw nearly made me sneeze.

“I’m not sure yet.” He moved around the horse’s head and rubbed between its

ears. “The last time I had such a quandary, I brought Tom Smith to work in the house, but I don’t know if I can find work for Albert to do.”

“Maybe he could help Drover in the stables, and the groom could keep an eye on

him. He might even appreciate the companionship.”

Sir Richard remained quiet a moment, and I feared I’d gone too far, offering my

opinion. Then he spoke. “That’s not a bad idea. I shall consider it.”

I beamed as if he’d petted me on the head, and his response made me bold enough

to ask more questions. “What is poor Tom’s story?”

Allinson was focused on Jackdaw, so I could study his handsome craggy features

illuminated in the lantern’s glow. His nose was a sharp blade, and his cheekbones and jaw might cut a caressing hand. Glittering eyes hid in the dark shadows beneath his jutting brow. His mouth was thinned to a line at the moment, but when he relaxed, I’d noticed his lips were full and curved—the only softness to be found in that angular face.

“Tom’s family was not kind. They treated him like one of their farm animals, had