The Tutor (16 page)

“No,” Whit said. “Not even on Smithers.”

When I was almost out the door, his voice floated after me again. “I like you, Mr.

Cowrie. I don’t care what Clive thinks.”

I closed the door behind me and shook my head. Clive. He was a bigger nut to

crack than his brother, and no wonder, after what he’d seen. Perhaps my divide-and-conquer strategy might work with him now.

I headed back to the schoolroom, but it was empty. The little squirrel had

scampered off to wherever he and Whit went when they weren’t able to go to their garden hideaway.

With a little free time on my hands, I decided to go to the library and search for books, either occult or family histories. I was disappointed to find the large room vacant, but realized it was for the best as I could search without interruption.

I easily found the family Bible listing generations of Allinsons right back to their origins. But the long roll of names with birth and death dates informed me of nothing.

There was Richard Gerard Allinson. Thirty-three according to his birth date, though his careworn face added a half-dozen years. I traced a fingertip over
Lavinia Allinson, nee
Stewart. Born 1865. Died 1892
. Not yet thirty, the poor sad soul. And there were the twins, Clive Bernard and Whitney Joseph, written in Richard’s bold cursive.

One last time I scanned the genealogical tree, trying to pluck something fruitful

from its branches. But it told me no stories. I closed the Bible and began to search the rest of the library, starting with the dustiest tomes on the top shelves, which required a ladder to reach. Surely any occult books would be hidden there.

If I’d hoped to uncover a fool’s guide to exorcism or some handwritten volume

containing all the shocking truths about the Allinson family, I was disappointed. Instead, I merely got dirtier and thirstier as I glanced at one book after another, getting distracted and reading passages in some.

I was wiping a spider web from my face when a voice came from below.

“May I help you find something, Mr. Cowrie?”

My foot slipped, and I went down a few rungs on the narrow ladder before

catching myself. At the same time, hands gripped my waist until I’d regained my balance.

Those strong hands held me for several moments before letting go.

“Just poking around in these older books.” I climbed the rest of the way down the

ladder and faced Sir Richard. “Good afternoon, sir.”

He smiled, an honest, genuine, beautiful smile. “Good afternoon.”

We both stood grinning at each other. Richard reached out to brush his fingers

through my hair, and I went instantly hard.

He showed me what he’d retrieved from my hair. “Cobweb. Not enough maids to

clean thoroughly.”

“Ah.” I stared at the white strands on his fingers that reminded me of something

else white and sticky.

Finally, Richard cleared his throat. “What book are you searching for?”

“Nothing in particular. I was merely curious what sort of books one might hide

away on the very top shelf. Nothing nearly as offensive as I’d hoped to find,” I joked.

“We Allinsons are a dull lot. I couldn’t imagine some great-grandfather stocking

the library with a secret collection of pornography.” His tiny smile put me at ease. It was the first glimmer I’d seen of the man Richard might be when not weighed down by guilt and sadness.

He stood so near me, I smelled the pipe he must have just put out. Such a rich

tobacco aroma, it made me want to grab the lapels of his coat, lean in, and simply inhale.

Silence fell but for the slight creaking of the wood floor and the ticking of the mantel clock.

Magnetics at work again, my body inevitably inclined toward Richard, and he

bowed his head slightly toward me. We vibrated on the edge of possibility. My mouth ached for a kiss, and my body for much more than that.

A book I’d placed nowhere near the edge of the shelf suddenly tumbled from high

above to hit me on the head with a sharp blow.

Help them!
the familiar inner directive came.

Yes, Lavinia. Your message from beyond the veil is received loud and clear, you
annoying bint.

I rubbed my injured cranium and bent to pick up the book at the same time

Richard stooped for it. Our heads cracked together, and I saw stars. But after recovering from the pain, I began to laugh. Miracle of miracles, Richard did too.

We squatted on the floor, chuckling like fools, and I thought I’d never heard

music as sweet as this man’s laughter, perhaps because it was so hard-won. Hell, if I’d known pratfalls made Richard laugh like that, I’d have entertained him with pants-falling-down buffoonery before now.

When I’d caught my breath and rose with the book in hand, I addressed him

seriously. “Sir, I should tell you Whitney is feeling poorly today.”

His lingering smile vanished. “He’s sick?”

“A stomach ache and slight fever. Likely not worth a doctor’s visit, although if he doesn’t improve by tomorrow…” I shrugged. “But the poor little fellow’s quite wretched.

A visit from you would cheer him up.”

Richard continued to frown. “I’m not so certain it would.”

“It
would
.” I leveled my sternest schoolteacher glare at him, the one I’d been perfecting on Whit and Clive for all the good it did in getting them to obey me. “You must go to him. It’s long past time you cleared the air with both boys.”

He swiped a hand over his chin. “I do check on the twins, you know. Many nights

when they’re sleeping, I look in on them.”

Which explained what he’d been doing near my room the other night. Not coming

to see me at all, but watching over his sons.

“Fat lot of good that does when they don’t even know you’re there.” I spoke

boldly, no longer feigning deference. “They must be shown you care,
and
you must reassure them the loss of their mother is not your fault—even if you don’t believe it yourself.”
There, Lavinia! I batted for our side. Let’s see if I score a point.

The master of the house stared at me as if unable to believe my presumption.

“You are far too outspoken and very confident in your opinions, Cowrie. Hardly the model employee. In fact, I believe you have no experience in a household such as this, have you? No teaching experience at all. I had my agent in London look into your references, and they do not bear close scrutiny.”

My bravado burst like a popped balloon, and fear rushed out. I’d been caught.

Foolish to believe I could pull off this charade for long. Allinson would have the law on me for fraud. And yet, he’d learned this fact and said nothing before now.

“When did you know?” I asked, not trying to deny the truth.

“The other night…” He didn’t have to say which one. “Your accent made your

story of being an impoverished gentleman questionable. I wired my man to check into your credentials more thoroughly, a task I should’ve performed before hiring you. I was so grateful to have any response to my advertisement, I’ll admit I was less than particular.”

“And now that you’ve found out?” My heart fired off bursts of uneven scattershot

beats as I waited to learn my fate.

He cocked his head quizzically. “What
have
I discovered? Who are you really, Graham Cowrie? Tell me. For my agent was able to find nothing about you at all.”

I held the book clutched to my chest like a protective breastplate. This day had

taken a most unexpected turn. I had no idea how it would end, but I had to tell the truth.

“I worked as a print typesetter and saw your advertisement. I’d been pondering

ways to advance myself in the world, and the situation seemed a tailor-made opportunity to gain prestigious experience for my résumé.”

Richard stood with arms folded, leaning back against a bookcase. “This seemed

like a good idea to you, to falsify references and pretend to a skill you don’t possess?”

“Well, I
have
taught a few other blokes to read. I figured I was well-educated enough to impart knowledge to a couple of tykes.” I gauged Richard’s reaction. He seemed more gobsmacked than angry at my cheek. Did I actually detect a twinkle in his dark eyes?

“How did you gain this education? What is your background?”

No more hiding behind prevarications or half truths. He’d have it all from me. I

drew a breath.

“My name, once upon a time, was Joe Green, son of a bricklayer and a

washerwoman, but I’ve been Graham Cowrie for a number of years now. The gentleman

I told you was a particular friend of mine, Sylvester Leighton, took me in when I was a youth. He taught me manners, culture, and refinement and furthered my education in every way.” I recalled my mentor Leighton with bittersweet regret. “But, as happens, he lost interest in me over time and went in search of a fresher bud for his lapel.”

“Mm.” Richard gave a small grunt either of understanding or sympathy, perhaps

both.

I shrugged to show the abandonment hadn’t hurt me, although when Leighton

first tossed me to the winds, it had felt like the end of the world.

“Armed with my education and improved accent, guv’nor, and with a parting

reference letter from Leighton, I secured the job at the printing press. I toiled there for a couple of years with no seeming chance for advancement, which led me to…” I extended a hand, indicating the room where we stood. “I’m sorry I lied to you, but not sorry I took this position, for I’ve grown exceedingly fond of both Whit and Clive.” I ducked my head and coyly looked at Richard from beneath my eyebrows. “Not to mention the master of the house.”

Sir Richard cupped his chin in hand, covering his mouth—maybe to hide a smile?

—and shook his head. He withdrew his hand to speak. “You are outrageous, Graham

Cowrie. I ought to fire you on the spot. I
ought
to send for the constable and have you arrested.”

“But you won’t?” I suggested hopefully.

“You know I won’t, cheeky bugger.” He stepped away from the shelves. One step

toward me that made my pulse quicken. I was positive he was going to grab me and kiss me.

“I’m not sure what I’ll do about you,” he continued. “But I do know that right

now I must go and see my sick son.”

I exhaled my disappointment. “Yes, of course.”

Allinson brushed past me, our shoulders bumping, and I almost reached for his

hand, pulled him to a halt and into my arms. But I’d probably pushed my luck as far as I dared already today.

I watched him leave before climbing the ladder to reshelf Lavinia’s book grenade.

Maybe it had fallen all by itself. I tried to believe that, but it was no longer possible to overlook all the strange occurrences adding up. And I
really
couldn’t ignore the still small voice of an anxious mother in my head.

Help them. Heal them. Give them love.

Check. Check. And check,
I promised her.

Wanting to give Richard time alone with his sons, I decided not to head straight

back up to the children’s rooms in the house. I took a moment to write a letter to Madame Alijeva, outlining what I’d been experiencing and asking her advice, which I put with the outgoing post. Then I decided a breath of air to clear the dust from my nose, the lust haze from my body, and the haunting voice from my head was what I needed.

As I passed the kitchen, I offered a chipper hello to dour Cook and her shrinking

scullery maid, whose name I still hadn’t learned.

I went out a side door into the kitchen garden, which would be redolent of herbs

in summer but was now as crusty and dead as the rest of the gardens. Tom sat on a bench in a corner protected from the breeze, polishing shoes.

“Hello there,” I greeted him and sat on a low stone wall to soak up the few weak

sunbeams. I watched his precise movements with the blacking brush and the polishing rag. He currently worked on a pair of Richard’s shoes, which I couldn’t see without thinking of the man’s feet, his large, well-proportioned body, his sculpted features, his…

everything.

I shook off my rising interest and focused on Tom’s homely face, the low

forehead and off-kilter features and his intense concentration on his task. During our evening sessions as I’d worked on my story while Tom drew or painted, I’d tried repeatedly to get him to talk to me, and sometimes he’d spoken a few words. Since I knew he was one of the few people aware of the true cause of Lavinia’s death, I decided to pry for more details.

“Tommy,” I said.

His gaze flicked up to meet mine.

I approached the topic sideways. “What do you know about the tower room? I’ve

seen your drawings, the dark thing you sometimes paint, that scene with the killer. Can you tell me more?”

He returned his gaze to the shoes, but his buffing brush moved slowly.

“Please, Tommy, I’ll believe whatever you say. Something is wrong in this house.

I want to help make things better if I can,” I told him truthfully.

More silence followed. I watched a beetle scuttle across the flagstones and into a crack which must be its home.

“Old Grandda told a tale ’bout a monster in man’s skin.” Tom’s unexpectedly

deep and mature voice startled me. This was the longest sentence he’d yet spoken. I didn’t look at him for fear of frightening him back into muteness.

“How long ago?” I dared to ask. “What did the man do?”

“Old Da’s great-grandda worked here like me. He knew the truth.”

Several generations could mean over a hundred years ago or more. “Go on,” I

prodded gently. “I’m listening.”

“Never tell outsiders, Old Da said.”

“I won’t repeat a word to anyone. But there’s a time for secrets to come out. If

Whit and Clive are in any real danger, I need to know.” I could hardly believe I was suggesting some evil ghost had any power over the living.