The Tutor (18 page)

Disapproval vibrated from him in angry waves.

“It’s all right, Clive,” Whit said aloud. “Mother would have liked Mr. Cowrie.

She’d
want
him to see her garden. She’d want us to get along with him.”

Clive shot a look back and forth between us before reluctantly backing off. He

continued to watch me warily as I walked through the gap in the hedge wall.

Of course I must pretend this was my first time seeing the garden, but it wasn’t

hard to appear awed by the charming little sanctuary. Though the ornamental trees were untrimmed and the beds overgrown and nothing was in bloom, I could imagine how it might have looked at one time, when pruned to perfection. We walked under an arch that supported climbing roses, and I could picture them in abundant bloom. Come spring, there would be white and pink blossoms lacing the trees, and colorful flowers would push their way through the decay of past seasons.

“Pan,” I remarked as we passed the mossy, goat-legged god.

Whit nodded. “The god of nature. He played the flute a lot. Mother said he did

some not nice things too, but she wouldn’t tell any of those stories.”

“No, I should think not.” I recalled Pan’s lecherous nature. Most tales about the

god didn’t lend themselves to sharing them with children.

“Come here.” Whit took my hand and led me, with Clive marching stolidly

behind us. I risked a glance back, like Lot’s wife, but his grim face didn’t turn me to a pillar of salt.

Whit stopped in front of the stone grotto in which the marble statue stood. “Here’s where we keep our things.”

I looked at the filthy blanket and pillows, the toys and the tin box I’d examined

the contents of. “You’ve got a nice camp here.”

Clive watched me from beside the statue.

“Beautiful angel.” I rested my fingertips on her white toes. “She looks as if she’s watching over you while you play.”

“Like Mother,” Whit agreed.

“Thank you for sharing this place with me. It’s very beautiful, and I can

understand why you keep it a secret. When I was a boy, I used to—”

The sound of footsteps crunching on dry leaves turned all our heads. Sir Richard

approached, his flapping black coat a stark cutout against the brown-and-gold tones of nature as if a man-sized raven had flown into the garden.

His expression was far more benign than his imposing figure. He smiled in

greeting. “I didn’t expect to see anyone here. I haven’t visited Lavinia’s garden in a long time, but today, for some reason, I felt inspired to come.”

Something raced past me, Clive hurtling toward his father, planting both hands on

Richard’s stomach, and shoving against him. “Go!” he screamed.

I blinked in astonishment as the first word I’d ever heard Clive utter was

wrenched out of him.

“You don’t belong here.” Clive pushed again, driving his unresisting father back a few steps. “You killed her!”

Richard appeared as shocked as I felt. He continued to stumble backward when

Clive drove all his weight into him. Regaining his composure, he took the boy by the shoulders and held him steady, bending to look his angry son in the eyes. “I didn’t, Clive.

I swear I didn’t. What happened to your mother…wasn’t my fault. She took her own

life.”

I exhaled a pent-up breath. That admission had been hard-won. Richard had

grappled with guilt and self blame for many long months, but it seemed he’d finally accepted he truly wasn’t responsible for Lavinia’s suicide. Now, could Clive do the same?

Father and son remained locked in a silent duel of gazes, while Whitney and I

held back, mere observers to their battle.

At last, Clive jerked away from his father’s restraining hands. “I
hate
you.” He imbued the word with such malevolence, it chilled me. “You didn’t protect her. You didn’t stop
it
.” He spoke as if
it
meant more than her suicide and included the thing that had driven her to the hanging.

Before Richard could reply, Clive ran past him along the path and out of the

garden. Richard started after him, then stopped as if uncertain whether to press the issue or allow Clive more time to be angry.

“You tried,” I said. “That’s a start.”

Whit trotted over to stand by his father and touch the sleeve of his coat. “Clive’s stubborn. We fight sometimes too, but we always make up in the end.”

Richard looked down and grasped Whitney’s hand. “I’m sorry I did nothing to

prevent her.”

Whit didn’t answer but pulled his father over to the shrine the boys had set up. He pointed out the dried flowers and colored stones they’d placed around the feet of the statue.

Now Richard stroked the angel’s toes with his fingertips. “Your mother would

appreciate this tribute. It’s lovely.” Abruptly, he dropped to a crouch and put his arms around Whitney, drawing him into an embrace that would’ve melted a colder heart than mine. My eyes stung from the tears, and I quickly wiped them dry and moved away a few paces to give father and son some privacy.

At that moment, I swore I felt a hand against the center of my spine, propelling

me forward with a strong push. Richard and Whit looked up as I stumbled toward them.

“I should go after Clive.” I gestured in the direction of his retreat.

Richard rose to his full height, and why did that height never cease to thrill me?

He held out his hand to shake mine. “Thank you again, for helping me make amends.”

My hand slid against his, palm to palm, and I never wanted to let go. “I’m glad if you feel I was of some use.”

Richard released first. “I’ll see you this afternoon as discussed, and we can

address those concerns you have.”

I dipped my head in acknowledgment, then hurried away to see if I might find

Clive and sort him out. But my heart and most of my mind was back in the garden with Richard and Whit. I wished I could be a part of their reunion, but that wasn’t my place. I floated in some nebulous region, something more than an employee, but certainly not family. A facilitator, more than anything.

How I wished I could be more.

I found Clive again, but not until he was ready to be found.

Or I should say, he found us. Whitney and I had already begun eating our lunch

when Clive drifted back into the schoolroom. He plunked down in his seat, uncovered his tray, and began to eat. I didn’t reprimand him for being tardy. What was the point?

Schedules and manners hardly applied to our little group. I addressed him as if he hadn’t recently screamed the first words I’d ever heard him speak.

“Have you seen Tom? He’s usually the one to deliver lunch, but Molly brought it

today.”

Clive shrugged. I was torn between wanting to cuff him in the ear and hug him for

being the pathetic, melancholy, annoying little arse he was. Why couldn’t he have simply accepted his father’s apology? But logic and graciousness have never been part of a child’s code of conduct, and Richard couldn’t expect instant forgiveness after allowing this distance between them to exist for so long.

I discussed our latest chapter of
Robinson Crusoe
with Whit, asking him which part he’d found most exciting. Soon, he and I were mentally on a tropical island, marshalling our meager forces to battle attacking cannibals. If Clive was with us, he gave no sign.

After lunch, I set the boys to doing division problems and turned my attention to

my latest story.

“When are you going to tell us what happens next?” Whit asked.

“After it’s finished. I’m still figuring things out.”

An hour passed during which I wrote little, and then it was time for my

appointment with Richard. “Boys, I’ll leave you to entertain yourselves. I have something to attend to.”

I hurried downstairs, my heartbeats drumming along with my footsteps. I’d tried a

number of different beginnings in my mind but still wasn’t sure how I was going to broach the subject of a possible supernatural force with Richard. Would he believe my far-fetched tale? And what if he actually did? I wish I came armed with an intelligent course of action to resolve the trouble.

Getting the family moved to their London house, closing up Allinson Hall

permanently, and posting signs saying “Death to all who enter here” didn’t seem like a viable option. Burning down the place and salting the earth also sounded extreme.

I reached the door of the study and paused to get myself under control before

knocking.

“Come in.” Richard sat behind his massive desk.
To keep distance between us
, I thought. Smart man.

He gestured me to a chair, and I sat across from him with my hands in my lap. He

finished whatever he was writing before regarding me.

“How can I help you, Mr. Cowrie?”

Back to formality again, as if I hadn’t witnessed the poignant scene in the garden and received his heartfelt thanks for prompting him to reach out to his sons. The speed with which this man switched between propriety and intimacy made my head spin.

“Well, sir…”

I froze. My hypothesis about a dual haunting seemed utterly ludicrous. I couldn’t

dare suggest it.
I believe your wife’s spirit won’t rest until there is accord between you
and
both
your sons. And, by the way, there’s a second malevolent entity that haunts your
house and thrives on unhappiness. What do you think we should do about it?

I hesitated for so long, Allinson spoke for me. “If you’re still in fear of losing your position, you needn’t worry. I’m afraid we’re more in need of you than you are of this job.” A small smile curved his normally grim mouth.

His assumption of the topic I’d wanted to discuss derailed me. “Ah. I’m pleased

to hear that, sir.”

He studied me over his interlinked fingers. “I’ve listened in on your lessons on

occasion, and though your teaching methods are unorthodox, to say the least, I believe you are teaching my sons all they need to learn.”

“I appreciate your confidence and apologize for the deception I perpetrated.”

“Joe Green,” he mused. “Why the change in name? A record you wanted to

expunge?”

“Nothing quite that dire, sir. It merely seemed too plain and low-class a moniker.

I thought Graham Cowrie had a more distinguished ring to it.”

He hid his mouth behind those laced fingers, but I saw his smile grow wider.

Now what? I simply couldn’t bring myself to tell him my intimations of

something evil and dangerous in this house. But I could try to get the family away from its influence. I chose my words carefully.

“I’ve been considering all you told me about your wife’s death and Clive bearing

witness to the aftermath. I’ve wondered if a holiday might be beneficial to you all. Get the boys away from someplace that represents such a grave loss and allow some time for healing. A Mediterranean clime this time of year would not be unwelcome. And after that, return to your London home for the holidays.”

Richard sat back in his chair. “I suppose
you
would accompany us on this trip in order to continue the boys’ tutelage?”

His rather amused tone annoyed me. For once, I’d offered a suggestion that

wasn’t self-motivated. I hadn’t pictured where I fit into the plan that had only just come to me.

“You mistake my intention. I’m not angling for a free excursion to Italy or Spain.

I’m honestly worried about Whitney and, especially, Clive, who seems to grow unhappier by the day. You could also do with some sunshine and relaxation in blue waters.”

That small smile curved his lips again. “I do believe you’re telling the truth. Your concern for my sons touches me. I will seriously consider your suggestion, although I couldn’t take the time until after the holiday season. There are year-end matters here which require my attention. Perhaps later in January.”

No. Now. Another few months might be too late. Even another week!
I wanted to warn him of my fears, but he’d view me as unhinged. I’d made some progress. Now I could only keep a close eye on Clive and give him little opportunity to go off on his own.

“Is there another matter you wish to discuss?” Richard asked.

Oh, there was plenty, and not all of it to do with the boys or ghosts. I wanted to chat with him about anything other than the doom and gloom of this place. But I shook my head.

“No, sir. I did want to thank you for the loan of books from your library. I enjoyed the Holmes’ mysteries immensely and eagerly await further adventures of the detective.

Do you know if there are more books planned?”

“I’m not certain. But if you also enjoy mysteries in a lighter vein, I’ve ordered a collection by Oscar Wilde,
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories
. An amusing diversion, I’ve been told.”

“I would appreciate reading it after you’ve finished,” I said. “And may I

recommend to you another Wilde story—a novel which was first serialized in

Lippincott’s Monthly
a couple of years ago.
The Picture of Dorian Gray
is terribly sinister and thought provoking. However, for the uncensored version, one must locate back issues of
Lippincott’s
. The publishing company saw fit to hack out what they considered objectionable bits before releasing the novel.”

Richard’s smile grew broader. “I
have
those issues of the original story in its entirety. As a matter of fact, I have a signed copy of installment three.”

“By Wilde himself? When did you meet him? May I see?”
Inappropriately

informal
, I reminded myself, but I was too excited to care.

“He was present at a party I attended. A very entertaining man with a razor-sharp

wit. The periodicals are in the library. I could”—Richard hesitated and frowned—“show the signed copy to you.”

I understood his hesitation to tread down this path again. Now we were speaking