The Tutor (5 page)

Someone or some
thing
lurked on the other side. Not two little boys, but a powerful force blocking me from entering the tower. I felt it in the most primitive part of my being.

There was something malevolent residing on the other side of that door. I let go of the metal handle as if it were hot iron and stumbled back several steps.

My mouth was so dry, I could barely gather enough moisture to speak. “Boys,

enough of your games,” I croaked. “I expect to see you in the schoolroom within ten minutes. Do you hear me?”

With that querulous command, I scurried away like a rat, back down the corridor,

which was becoming quite familiar, and all the way to the schoolroom without pausing.

I stopped short in the doorway. Whit and Clive looked up from the table at which

they sat with plates of food before them, lumps of something floating in gravy.

I caught my breath and clung to the doorway to keep my legs from crumpling.

There was no way they could have reached this room ahead of me if they’d been in the tower. Not as fast as I’d run.

Perhaps some other member of the household? I tried to explain away my

certainty that there’d been a presence on the other side of that door. But who, and why would anyone be there?

I couldn’t shut out the persistent voice that whispered in my head,
You know it
wasn’t a flesh-and-blood being. You
know
it was something else.

I reined in my galloping imagination and shook off my superstitious

apprehension. Someone had locked the door. That was all. Anyway, there were more

immediate and concrete things to deal with right in front of me.

I managed to enter the room smiling. “Good day, boys. How’s the meal? I see you

waited for me. Good of you.”

I took my place at the small table and uncovered the unappetizing-looking meal.

But the smell wafting up made my stomach growl, and when I tasted a forkful, the stew was surprisingly good.

Whitney and Clive exchanged another of their looks, then both pairs of eyes

settled on me, making me not the least bit self-conscious or uncomfortable.

“Did you get sacked?” Whit asked.

“Your father merely wanted to discuss your education.” I chewed and swallowed

another bite. “By the way, I found both of your stories very interesting, each in its own way. I hope you’ll write more.”

Gimlet eyes drilled into me. The boys simultaneously took another bite of food

and a sip from their glasses of milk. Their unison movements were more than a little unsettling, especially since I was already on edge.

“I thought after lunch we’d have a crack at arithmetic.” I lowered my voice

confidentially. “Not my strong suit, I must admit. Perhaps we can invent ways to make numbers more entertaining.” I fired off a dazzling smile, which was met again with disappointing results—blank stares. Apparently my charm would do nothing for me here in this grim house.

All of us had apparently worked up an appetite running around outdoors earlier.

In a trice, all plates were emptied and the trays set aside. It was time for me to engage my students once more. Learning times tables could be deadly dull, so I determined not to fossilize my students by making them recite the tables aloud.

The scattershot teaching method I’d invented outdoors seemed to have gained

their attention, so I employed something similar. I wrote simple addition, subtraction, and multiplication problems on the chalkboard and rewarded points toward a prize to the first boy to come up with the correct answer—on paper, since Clive wouldn’t speak. I was relieved that the boys’ hands shot up rapidly as they raced to outdo each other.

It seemed Clive was better with numbers, or at least faster, and in the end, he won the prize—the only thing from my luggage remotely appropriate, a small bag of candies.

Clive took the paper sack, opened it, and poured his booty on the table. Then he carefully split the hard candies into two piles, keeping mints for himself and pushing a smaller pile of butterscotches to his brother.

“Well done!” I approved his sharing and fished around in my mind for a way to

fill the next segment of time. A movement at the door caught my attention. The footman who’d carried my luggage the previous night hovered in the doorway. Pinheaded Tommy goggled at us, then silently came in to remove the lunch trays.

“Do you like to draw?” I asked the boys. “I’ll admit it’s one of my favorite ways

to pass the time. If you like, I can show you the technique for perspective drawing.”

I passed out sheets of paper and the pens and inkwells from the supply shelf and

began to demonstrate setting a horizon point and using a ruler to draw buildings receding into the distance. The boys set to work, blond heads bowed, pen nibs scratching at paper, and I turned to my own notebook, intending to jot down at least the beginning of my story in case they should ask to see it. I didn’t want my ruse to get them to write to be uncovered.

Tommy still lingered over picking up the trays, a job which should’ve taken no

more than a moment. His gaze roamed over the stark black lines the twins made on the white paper. I could see the eager interest in his eyes, as well as more intelligence than I’d suspected upon meeting him.

“You like to draw too?” I asked. “Sit down. I’ll get you some paper.”

I knew my offer to let him draw with the young masters was inappropriate.

Tommy was a mere footman—and apparently the only one in the house from what I’d

seen so far. But it could do no harm to indulge the lad in a moment’s leisure. Whatever tasks he had waiting for him couldn’t be that pressing: blacking shoes or polishing silver, perhaps beating the carpets. The staffing at this place seemed very strange. Shouldn’t they have more than a meager handful of servants? And wasn’t it unusual to hire someone like Tom in a grand house such as this?

At first, it seemed Tom would flee at my offer. He shook his head and reached for

a tray. But when I laid a blank sheet of paper and another bottle of ink on the table, he sank into the chair on Whit’s left and picked up the pen.

Both boys glanced at him, then returned to their own projects, which had

apparently enthralled them.

I showed Tommy how to hold the pen, dip it in the ink, and draw on the paper. I

wasn’t going to bother with the bit about perspective, certain he couldn’t grasp the concept.

“Draw whatever you like.” I returned to my seat and focused on my own blank

sheet, filling it with sentences about a highwayman and some buried treasure. If Clive and Whit ever read it, no doubt it would spur a bout of the twins digging into the garden beds.

When I finally glanced up, I froze with my pen nib dripping ink. Tommy’s sloped

head was bent over his work and a nearly architectural rendering of the Allinson estate flowed from his hand to the paper. The sketch was stunning, technically correct but also hauntingly beautiful as he’d depicted a storm of black clouds billowing over the house and grounds. His nose nearly touched the paper, and his pen flew. I watched in entranced disbelief.

At last, I realized the boys had both stopped drawing, so I turned my attention to their work. Whit’s drawing was what I’d expected to see, an elemental drawing of a house-lined road receding to a set point.

Ignoring the lesson on perspective, Clive had drawn something quite different. A

nightmare vision exploded across his paper. A dark, swirling, not quite human figure dominated half the page, while a small, vaguely feminine shape appeared about to be engulfed by the looming darkness. Behind her sheltering body, just outside the dark thing’s grasping arms, two little figures stood hand in hand. It wasn’t hard to guess they were meant to be the twins. The sense of sheer menace in the boy’s drawing was undeniable.

What the
hell
had happened in this house to rob Clive of his voice and give him waking nightmares? And why didn’t it seem to have affected Whit as much? Was their father meant to be the sinister monster in the drawing? I hadn’t felt anything menacing, merely miserable, in Sir Richard’s demeanor. But then, I’d only just met the man. I wasn’t a small child living under his rule, and every family had secrets. A monster of a man had lived in my house for a time.

Tommy lifted his head, seeming to return from a trance. I complimented him on

his meticulous depiction of Allinson Hall and the storm clouds that threatened it. The lad bolted from his seat, grabbed the stacked trays, and hurried from the room.

I addressed Whit and Clive. “Very good drawings, boys. Shall I pin them up on

the wall?” I searched for thumbtacks in a desk drawer while continuing to talk lightly as if the nightmarish vision Clive had depicted was completely normal.

There were hours to go before teatime, and I’d already run out of ideas. I came up with the best way to pass time I could think of, reading aloud from a book of Arthurian legends. It could be considered a history lesson if one squinted and looked at it a certain way.

As the light pelting of rain on the windowpanes turned to a steady stream, I built up the fire on the hearth and settled with the boys on the carpet, pillows at our backs.

They’d stopped running away from me—a good sign—and seemed content to listen to

the tale of Sir Kay and his stepbrother and squire, Arthur, who, of course, pulled a certain sword from a stone to become king.

I read until I grew hoarse, asked Whit to take over. His reading was slow and

halting, but no more than any other nine-year-old’s might be. He stumbled over some of the more difficult words, and I asked Clive to look up the words in the dictionary. I wouldn’t force him to speak, but he needed to do his share as a student.

After we’d worked our way through a couple of tales, I gave the boys leave to

play for a while, suggesting they build a city from blocks. Again they seemed quite amenable. I felt a little smug. It seemed these boys had been waiting for a kind teacher such as myself to guide them. I really was rather good at this.

I settled to work on my writing and quite lost track of time. The boys were so

quiet in their play on the far side of the very large room, it was almost like being alone.

The pendulum of the mantel clock ticked. Fire crackled on the hearth. Rain pattered on the casement. And I capped my pen, set my journal aside, and allowed myself to drift into a doze in the comfortable armchair.

But the dreams that filled my sleep were not comfortable at all. When I jerked

awake, my heart beat quickly, and I gasped for breath as if I’d been running. I couldn’t recall what I’d dreamed of, but a sense of darkness filled me, a mournful feeling of hopelessness completely at odds with my normally equitable disposition.

I shook it off and glanced over to check on the boys.

A village built with large wooden blocks, curved arches, and triangular rooftops

filled the floor, but Whit and Clive were nowhere to be seen. They’d escaped again.

Did I really need to go after them? If they wanted their tea, they would return. On the other hand, I couldn’t afford for them to pester the staff and someone to report to Allinson that his new tutor exercised no control.

Reluctantly, I grabbed the pair of shoes I’d taken off for comfort’s sake and slid my feet into them. Rather than smooth leather, prickles and pain met my feet.

“Ouch! Damnation!”

I dragged off the shoes and upended one. Bits of thorny barberry twigs and green

stuff that might have been nettle sifted from them to land on the floor. Another boyish prank from the twin imps. I cursed the boys under my breath as I cleaned up the mess and checked to make sure every bit of nature was removed from my shoes.

I’d thought I had them in the palm of my hand, that I’d created a bond with them

already after only one day. But apparently it had been a temporary truce. The war was not yet over.

The rest of the day ticked by slowly. I was used to the bustle of London and the

companionship of friends. This solitary existence in a quiet backwater was going to take some getting used to. How winter would drag with just me and a pair of brats getting along together. I felt sorry for myself and moped for a while. But I’m nothing if not resilient. I stiffened my upper lip, and by the time tea arrived and the twins straggled back into the room, I’d regained my composure. I behaved as if their coming and going at will did not bother me and acted as if no prickly bits had found their way into my shoes.

We ate, and after the meal, I took out a deck of cards and board and offered to

teach them cribbage. As I dealt, I explained the complicated game, which should

mathematically challenge a pair of young children. They’d learn statistics and quick addition in order to calculate their points. The game filled the rest of the evening, and when I called an end due to bedtime, Clive was far ahead.

The shy maid who’d been cleaning the floor earlier came to get the boys ready for

sleep. I retired to my own room for a much-needed break. But I could hear the sounds of washing up from the other room. The boys seemed surprisingly compliant.

Was I meant to tuck them in and say good night? I wasn’t sure what my duties in

this strange situation actually included, hired as a tutor but expected to do much more than teach. Ultimately, I chose to leave the boys in Molly’s care and sat to scribble a bit more on the story I’d become quite invested in.

After I’d written for a while, I thought I’d read, but the few books I’d brought

along I knew nearly by heart. Again I felt homesick for the many entertainments and friendships of my city life. Figuring the library must be extensive in a house like this, I decided to go in search of it as a distraction for my restlessness.

I walked down the hall, past the twins’ quiet bedroom. The impenetrable silence

in the huge house made me imagine that there was no other life there. Everyone had died or disappeared, and I was all alone. I drew my robe around me like a suit of armor that would protect me and plodded on. With a candle from my room blazing a tiny trail in the darkness, I might have slipped through a crack in time into another century.