The Tutor (12 page)

silently as a casket lid to reveal more darkness. I held up my lamp and stepped inside.

See? Nothing to fear here. It’s just an empty room.
The ceiling vaulted into a peak, an intersecting framework of beams supporting the conical roof. No wreaths of cobwebs occupied by fat spiders were spun here. No rats, mice, or even pigeons or roosting bats.

A single straight-backed wooden chair stood near one of several windows cut

through the thick stone walls. These five narrow windows hardly allowed any light to enter the chamber. I frowned and looked from one window to the next, all the way around the circular room. Literally almost
no
light, which was very odd. Certainly the day was cloudy but there should have been some weak beams illuminating the room. Yet, though I could see the light outside, none seemed to pierce the interior darkness. The hair on my neck prickled with unease at the unnatural phenomenon.

I’d come too far to simply flee back down the stairs. I’d have one good look

around the room, then never come here again. I padded over the stone floor, skirting an irregular dark stain in the center of the floor, and stopped by the chair near the south window. This was the same window I’d seen a light shining from on my first night here.

Which begged another question. With five windows, why had light shone only

from this one? And who would have been up here to light a lantern?

I rested my hand on the chair back, feeling smooth wood as I gazed around the

barren space. That dark stain on the floor. Was it lamp oil? Blood? What had spilled, and had it happened generations ago or more recently? I tore my mind away from wild imaginings and went to look out the window. A card of some kind rested on the sill. I touched a fingertip to it and left an imprint in the dust.

As I picked it up and blew off the dust, a feeling of pure desolation rolled through me in a wave. My entire body tensed, trying to fight it off. Tears spilled down my cheeks, and I caught back a sob. What the
hell
was happening to me? Emotions not my own invaded me. I seized hold of myself, recalling who I was—a man who could make light of anything, a man who never gave in to adversity and joked in the face of troubles. I was not a creature of sorrow but of, if not joy, then at least an affable disposition. This sadness did not suit me.

I wiped away the barrage of sudden tears and opened the folder. Inside were two

photographs facing each other. Nearly mirror images, but I knew immediately the babies were Clive and Whitney. Amazing that the children had held still long enough for clear photographs to be taken.

My boys
. Another powerful emotion filled me with an instinctual possessiveness at the sight of their chubby, somber little faces. I would protect them. I would stand between them and anything that threatened them. It was more than a duty. My heart demanded it.

The feeling subsided, leaving me empty and shaken and utterly perplexed. True,

I’d grown quite fond of Whitney and Clive but they weren’t mine to love in such an intense way. Besides, what evil threatened them? Not their father. I no longer believed he’d harmed them or ever would. Nor had he done away with his wife. So, what in the world was I meant to protect them
from
?

I shook off the residue of that blaze of emotion and placed the folder with the

boys’ photographs on the vacant chair, where I was quite certain Lavinia had sat for hours on end, thinking her morose thoughts. Whatever had happened in this room, I no longer wanted to know about it.

I turned to leave, and my blood froze to ice in my veins. The door was closed.

Less than a minute before, I’d entered the room, leaving it wide open. I’d never heard it shut. I
knew
I would find it locked—or held closed in a more mysterious way. I was trapped in the tower room. No one knew where I was. I would die like one of Poe’s hapless victims, the man in “The Cask of Amontillado” or the wife in “The Black Cat,”

both sealed into walls to slowly starve to death or suffocate. No one would hear me screaming for help.

Beyond the edge of my sight, something with no discernable shape moved. I

couldn’t begin to describe it, and perhaps it was more of a
feeling
than a movement.

Something pitch-black and formless, something that filled me with dread. Icy coldness seeped into my very bones, making my body tremble and my teeth chatter. The cloying stench of decay filled the room. And I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that an entity devoid of any emotion other than destruction wanted something from me.

My heart thundered, and my blood unfroze to rush through my ears. I hurtled

myself at the door to grasp the handle and haul on it with all my strength. When the heavy door immediately and easily swung open, I stumbled backward. Nearly sobbing with relief, I plunged down the spiral staircase, taking steps two and three at a time.

Would I reach the bottom only to find
that
door closed?

But it remained ajar as I’d left it. I raced through, not bothering to close it behind me, and pounded down the hallway as if the hounds of hell chased me.

Not until I was back in what I’d come to consider the safe part of the house did I slow down and draw breath. Foolish, fanciful man to believe “ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night” existed. I truly was a victim of my own overactive imagination. I’d given myself heart palpitations over an empty room and a couple of doors that reacted to sagging hinges, gravity, and warped frames.

My logical mind had to explain it all away, because the alternative—that

something or several things lurked in the tower, or perhaps in this entire cursed place—

was untenable. Those powerful, almost maternal emotions I’d felt had to be a strange figment of my mind and not the ghost of a dead woman. And that threatening darkness that began to take shape at the periphery of my vision was nothing but a trick of the light.

I splashed the perspiration from my face and changed the shirt I’d sweated

through before returning to the schoolroom. If the boys weren’t there, I’d tidy up, prepare for future lessons, and maybe work on my would-be novel.

But both Whitney and Clive lay on their stomachs on the floor, playing with tin

soldiers like little angels.

“Did you have a good break?” I asked sarcastically before settling cross-legged on the rug between them. “I understand it’s no fun being cooped up inside. I feel the same way. We can’t do lessons all the time.”

Whit glanced up, at least acknowledging my presence. Clive didn’t.

I sighed. Forward two steps and back four. I wasn’t gaining any headway with

Clive, and my mentioning his mother today had only made things worse.

Take them to their father
. The simple, clear message dropped into my mind

without my summoning it.
What?
I asked. But the directive only grew stronger, more implacable.
Take them now.

I gazed from one towhead to the other and at the twins’ busy hands moving their

troops into position for battle. Sir Richard had given me one directive—keep the boys occupied and learning. He’d never once suggested he wanted to see them or even be informed of their progress. In fact, it was almost as if he’d like to forget they existed. His negligence frustrated me and flared hotly now. I’d take them to him, all right. Force him to acknowledge their presence.

I scrambled to my feet. “Boys, what say we go on an expedition? Like Stanley in

Africa, we’ll see what we can discover.”

Both boys looked up at me. I’d hooked their interest that much.

“It’s raining outside,” Whit pointed out.

“It is. But the expedition I propose is a literary one. Has either of you ever read
Robinson Crusoe
?”

Two blond heads shook in unison.

“Then your lives have been sorely lacking. It’s the most thrilling adventure tale

ever, about a man shipwrecked on an island, struggling to survive and facing incredible dangers. I propose we go in hunt of this book in the library. It must be there somewhere.”

Clive clicked his tongue, and the flicker of excitement in both pairs of eyes

dimmed. “That’s not a real expedition,” Whitney scoffed.

“It is if we make it one.” I tapped my temple. “Use your imagination. Come on.”

They were still young enough to be fooled by a little bit of theater. We all suited up as if going on a real expedition, using whatever props we found among the boys’ toys.

Coiled rope, wooden guns, a lantern—which we actually needed in the dimly lit corridors

—and a packet of biscuits for provisions to eat along the journey.

We started out, taking many side trips along the way, past a carpet of quicksand

we must navigate around, a sofa crocodile that lurked in the parlor, and a mirror of doom which would turn one to stone if he looked into it.

Whit abandoned his worldly-wise attitude and joined in my inventing. “Shh, I

hear natives coming!” We hunkered down, flat against the wall, and waited for the

footsteps to pass.

The maid, Molly, came around the corner and shrieked at the unexpected sight of

us squatting on the floor. She dropped the stack of sheets she was carrying.

I put my hands up. “Have no fear, native woman. We will not harm you. We are

but explorers in this strange land. We come in peace.”

The boys and I quickly gathered her laundry and delivered it back into her arms.

Molly gazed at us as if we were quite mad before hurrying on her way.

At last we reached our destination and opened the library door. Would we find the

tiger in his book-jungle lair? Or must I hunt him down in another part of the house, perhaps his study or the billiard room? Because the insane command continued to hammer in my brain.
Take them to him.

I didn’t immediately see Allinson in his chair near the fire, but there were enough bookcases and alcoves where he might be hidden. This truly would be a hunt. On my last trip to the library, I’d noted there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the way books were shelved. Finding
Robinson Crusoe
—if the book was even there—would be a hunt in itself.

“All right, lads, we’ve reached the heart of the Congo.” I took off my pack with

the provisions and set it on the floor. “Time to fan out and begin our search.”

I offered them each a piece of paper. “This is how the title is spelled. The path to the prize may be long and arduous. You may have to read many book covers in order to find it, and even then, success is not guaranteed. But we are explorers, men. It is our destiny to search these uncharted lands.”

Whit was on board now and seized the paper before running off to the nearest

bookshelf. Clive gave me a more cynical look and rolled his eyes as he took my note.

“Good luck,” I said.

Clive headed toward the far wall, where a bank of books awaited him. Just as he

reached it, Allinson emerged from the rear of the room, around a freestanding bookcase, with a volume in his hand.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, not angrily but seeming amused by what he’d

overheard. A smile curved his lips and made his dark eyes sparkle. I fell a little bit in love at the beautiful sight.

But Clive stared at his father as if he were a demon conjured from thin air, and

began to back away. Immediately, Sir Richard’s smile disappeared and the habitual air of sorrow settled on him once more.

I’d had quite enough of the whole mysterious mess. I grabbed hold of Clive’s

shoulder as he started to sidle away, gently but firmly not allowing him to leave. “Good afternoon, sir. I thought I’d bring the boys to the library to find a few volumes they might enjoy. Have you a copy of
Robinson Crusoe
, by any chance?”

I felt the tension in Clive’s thin shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze of

encouragement.
Stick by me, boy, and together we’ll face the tiger.
Whatever frightened him so about his father, it was time to confront it. Meanwhile, I noticed Whit had crept as far as the door, but he wouldn’t leave a man behind, so he stayed there.

“Yes, I’m certain there’s a copy, and probably more than one. Let me look.” Sir

Richard turned away to study one of the shelves.

I leaned to whisper to Clive. “Why don’t you help him look?” I gave the boy a

push toward his father, then beckoned to Whit. “You go and help too.”

There! Have I done what you wanted? I’ve taken them to their father.

Feeling smug and satisfied, I watched my handiwork. The two little boys

approached Sir Richard like game hunters sneaking up on quarry, respectful of the wild animal in their midst. Clive stopped at the farthest end of the shelf as he could possibly get and pretended to look at the books. But he kept a watchful eye on the tall man.

“Ah, here it is.” Allinson pulled a brown-covered book from the shelf and read

aloud, The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe of York,

Mariner. He flipped idly through the pages. “It’s been years since I’ve read it. I’m sure you boys will find it quite exciting.”

He walked toward Clive with the book extended, the smile returning to his face.

Clive, with Whitney just behind him, seemed poised to run away but held his

ground. He stared into his father’s eyes as he took the book, and for several moments, their gazes remained joined. Then Clive and Whit backed away slowly, never taking their eyes off their father.

I watched this silent drama play out and felt utterly useless. I didn’t know how to help the boys and Allinson repair what was broken, and it wasn’t my place to interfere.

“Whitney, thank your father,” I said.

“Thank you, sir.” The mumble was so soft, I could barely hear from where I stood

a short distance away. Whit glanced at me as he passed me. “We’ll go back to our room now. We don’t need any more books.”