The Wizard of London (37 page)

Finally,
the whispers ceased, and the rude one planted a fist on either hip and looked
him up and down. “Sarah sez I hev to call you ‘sir,’ even
though you come through from the other side of thet door, an’ I
ain’t niver seed you ‘ere. So,
sir
,” she somehow
made the word a title of contempt. “We got permission’t‘ be
’ere. We’re a-stayin’ at th’ Big ‘ouse. You got
permission’t’ come ridin’ through thet door onto this
land?”

“Actually,
little girl,” he said, carefully coating his words in ice, “I have.
By mutual agreement between the gentleman with whom
I
am staying, and
the master of these lands, the guests of my host may ride here whenever they
choose.”

Not
that it is any business of yours
, his tone said, though his words did not.

The
little girl snorted. “Awright, then,” she replied ungraciously.
“You kin go.”

She
and her little friend cleared off to one side; he mounted, but was no longer in
any mood to ride. Instead, he made a show of a brief canter in the meadow
beyond the door in the hedge, cleared the brook a time or two, then trotted his
horse back through the door, shouting as he did so, “Shut the door behind
me!” and giving it the force of an order.

The
little girl slammed the gate so hard the hinges rattled.

And
it was only at that point that he reined the horse in and realized that those
had been no ordinary children. Ordinary children did not have ravens and parrots
perching on their shoulders and acting like playmates.

They’d
had no hint of Magic about them, but in that flash of understanding, he had no
doubt that they had some sort of psychical gift.

The
second girl hadn’t spoken loud enough for him to hear her voice, but the
first girl had been a plain street-sparrow Cockney. And how did that come
about?

David’s
host had said that the master of Highleigh was “an odd duck,”
though he had given no details. Now David wondered if that was a simple
description of eccentricity, or if the man was part of one or more esoteric
circles. He could think of no other reason why a Cockney child of dubious
ancestry and obvious psychical gifts should be on that property…

There
was one way to find out, certainly.

He
rode back to the house, to ask his valet to make inquiries.

An
hour later he was possessed of interesting—and
disturbing—intelligence. Interesting, because it seemed that the master
of Highleigh was also the owner of that dangerous property in Berkeley Square
that his own Master’s Circle had been forced to cleanse.

Disturbing,
because the gentleman in question had turned over his home and land to the
pupils and teachers of a school for the children of British expatriates for the
summer.

Now,
David knew of only one school likely to harbor psychically gifted children in
London. He knew of only one reason—guilt—why a well-to-do London
gentleman would have allowed the masters and children of that school to make
free of his property for the summer. And he also knew that two
children—two little girls—in that school were the keepers of pet
birds.

The
conclusion was inescapable. Isabelle Harton was living just on the other side
of that hedge, along with her pupils.

All
other considerations, all other concerns vanished in the apprehension of that
knowledge.

She
was here. She was, if not alone, without the oversight of her husband. He could
go and speak to her if he liked.

He
could. And in so doing, he could make an utter and complete fool of himself.

Or
he might rid himself of the memories that continued to intrude on him, no
matter what he did.

A
dozen times he made up his mind to go back down to the stable and ride over and
be done with it. A dozen times he reconsidered. And in the end, the silver
chime of the first dinner bell, warning guests that it was time to dress,
rendered it all moot. He had been able to escape his obligations for the
afternoon, but he dared not shirk them further, and to abandon his place at
dinner with no good excuse would be a
faux pas
he would be months in
living down.

He
permitted his valet to enter and dress him for dinner, in the stiff evening
shirt, formal black suit, and tie that was considered necessary here, even in
the midst of summer. The ladies of the party glittered in their jewel-tone gowns
of satin and lace, ornamented (since none of them could even be remotely
considered ingénues anymore) with small fortunes in gems. And as he made
polite conversation and worked his way through the extensive menu, memories
kept reintruding, of those times that seemed a world and a lifetime removed
now. Times when the dinner menu was restricted to simpler fare than caviar and
quail’s eggs on toast, roast pheasant and baked salmon, and a dozen more
courses before the end of it all. Times when no one dressed for dinner, or if
they did, the young men wore light-colored linen suits, loose and casual, and
the young ladies in their muslins and flowers looked far happier than these
prosperous dames in satins and rubies. Times when the after-dinner
entertainment would be to gather around the piano or read aloud to each other,
or for engaged couples, to stroll hand-in-hand in the garden—not for the
men to split off in one direction to smoke cigars, drink brandy, and talk into
the night while the women went off (again) to their own parlor to do whatever
it was
they
did while their husbands conversed about “important
business.”

Suddenly,
a feeling of intense dissatisfaction washed over him. But oddly enough, it was
not a vision of Isabelle that accompanied that emotion, but the contemptuous
eyes of the little street urchin he had seen this afternoon.

He
knew instinctively what she would call him, with her voice dripping with scorn.
A “toff,” a “guv’nor,” a “stuffed
shirt.” Someone who did nothing and consumed everything; who deserved
nothing and helped himself to everything. Who had never actually
earned
anything he had gotten in life—

He
wanted to protest that he had, in fact, earned this place at the table, this
glittering company, and the promise of power to come.

Oh,
yes
, said those eyes in his memory, glittering with their own malicious
pleasure.
You’ve earned them, right enough. Enjoying them
?

Well,
no—

He
could hear her laughter, and the raven’s contemptuous and dismissive
quork.

In
fact, in a kind of ghostly echo, he heard them all night, whispering under the
important conversation, a counter-melody of disdain.

***

“I
feel sorry for him, whoever he was,” Sarah said, as the two of them
slipped into their nightdresses and turned down the bedclothes.

They
had been discussing the pompous and self-important man who had nearly ridden
them both down this afternoon. Nan was still of the opinion that he had no
right and no invitation to ride the meadow of Highleigh Court; that he had
merely pretended to it. She had not liked him, not at all, and neither had
Neville. It wasn’t just that he was an arrogant toff, it was that there
was something very cold, something not right about him. As if someone had taken
away his heart and put a clod of frozen earth where it should have been.
He’d nearly trampled both of them, and not one word of apology! No, he
was too busy showing two poor little girls how important a fellow he was.

Never
even asked if we was all right
, she grumbled to herself.

“Well,
I don’t,” she replied, climbing into bed. “Not even a little
bit. Hope that fancy nag of his throws him inter a mud puddle.”

“Nan!”
Sarah replied, but giggled.

“Better
yet,” Nan continued, starting to grin, “Inter a great big cow-flop.
A fresh one. Still hot.”

“Nan!”
Now Sarah could not stop giggling, and that set Nan off, too. The thought of
the fellow with his dignity in rags was just too much for her sense of humor.
And once she started laughing at him, some of her anger at him cooled. Not that
she was going to forgive him for almost trampling them
and
being rude,
but she wasn’t quite as angry at him anymore.

“So
why d’ye feel sorry for ‘im?” she asked, as Sarah blew out
the candle and the soft, warm darkness enveloped both of them.

“Because—because
he’s unhappy, and he knows why, but if he actually admits that he’s
unhappy and why, he’ll have to admit that he’s wrong and he’s
been wrong about everything,” Sarah said softly, as Nan heard the first
soft whirring of bat wings from up near the ceiling.

“Ev’thing?”
Nan said, surprised. “That’s a lot.”

“It’s
his whole life,” Sarah said solemnly. “He made a wrong turn, and
he’s never going to get it right unless he gives up most of what
he’s done.”

Whatever
Sarah knew or had sensed that led her to that conclusion, it hadn’t been
granted to Nan. Still, she didn’t doubt her friend. “Money?”
Nan asked, not able to imagine anything in a grown-up’s life that was
more important than that.

“Not
money, but—” Nan could almost hear Sarah groping for the words.
“—I can’t explain it, but it’s all things he thinks are
important and really aren’t. It’s like he’s throwing away
real diamonds for great big pieces of glass.”

“Huh.”
Nan considered this. “Must’ve been some’un convinced
‘im those chunks uv glass was wuth something.”

“It’s
very sad, because he’s never going to be happy,” Sarah whispered,
then sighed.

“Well,
he ain’t our problem,” Nan replied resolutely. “He
ain’t our problem, and he ain’t gonna be. He ain’t no ghost
and he ain’t no bad thought.”

“No,
he’s not,” Sarah agreed, sounding sad. “I wish I knew of a
way I could help him, though. It kind of feels as if I ought to.”

Crickets
outside sang through their silence, and a moth flew in the window, wings white
in the moonlight.

“Why
d’ye reckon yon Robin he’ped us out, ye think?” Nan asked.

She
figured by changing the subject, she would be able to get Sarah to talk about
something other than that so-dislikable man, and she was right.

“I
think Robin likes us,” Sarah said at last, after a long moment of
silence. “I’m not sure why. I think he likes Mem’sab too.”

“I
think ye’re right,” Nan replied, and sighed happily.
“It’s a nice thing, ‘avin’ some’un like that like
ye.”

“I
think
he
admires you, Nan,” Sarah replied, admiration in her own
voice. “I know he thinks you’re brave.”

“Eh,
‘e thinks you’re pretty brave, too!” Nan countered, but
couldn’t help feeling a bit of pride at the thought. “I mean, you
stood right up’t’ that shadow lady! Not many would
‘ave.”

“They
would if they knew it was the right thing to do,” came the soft reply out
of the darkness.

Nan
thought about that as she drifted off to sleep. Sometimes it was hard being
Sarah’s friend—because she would say things like that, things that
part of Nan knew weren’t really true—or at least, that everything
Nan had ever learned in her short life told her weren’t true. But then,
just as she had made up her mind, another part would at least hope for the
opposite, for Sarah’s words, and not Nan’s feelings, to be the
right one. So part of her wanted to contradict Sarah, while the other part
wanted to encourage her.

Eh,
what’s it hurt to let her think it
? she finally decided, as sleep
took her.
She’s a queer little duck, and mebbe if she believes it
long enough, it’ll ac’chully happen someday
.

A comforting
thought, and a good one to carry into the night.

CRICKETS sang outside
the window, and a bat flew into the room, patrolled for insects, and flew out
again. Isabelle Harton relaxed in the embrace of her husband’s arms.
While she was deeply enjoying this sojourn in what was the next thing to a castle,
with far more servants than she could ever dream of employing herself, the
pleasure was flawed by not having Frederick with her for most of the time.
“Good gad, I have missed you,” she said, contentedly, and yet with
some sadness, knowing that on Sunday night he would once again take the train
back to London.

She
felt him smile in the darkness. “What a scandal!” he replied,
contradicting his own words by pulling her closer. “Wives aren’t
supposed to miss the carnal attentions of their husbands. They are supposed to
endure them for the sake of children.”

She
chuckled. “And what idiot told you that?” she responded. “Not
the Master, that’s for certain.”

He
laughed. “Something a well-meaning clergyman told a young officer a very
long time ago, in an attempt to persuade the young officer that his pretty wife
would be happier living in England. He swore that women would rather, on the
whole, be left alone by men, and that she was merely being dutiful when she
told him she didn’t want to leave.”

“And
what young officer was that?” she asked, curiosity piqued.

He
chuckled deep in his chest. She felt the sound vibrate through him and smiled.
Of all of the things she loved about him, hearing him laugh was one of the
best.

“Myself,
of course,” he said. “Who else?”

She
arched an eyebrow, though of course he would not be able to see it in the dark.
“I was never pretty.” It was an old “disagreement.”

“I
thought you were. And I think you are beautiful now. Since I am the one who
looks at your face more often than you do, I think I should be the one allowed
to make the judgment.” The usual argument.

She
wasn’t going to win it. She never did. “I wish the business would
run itself.” She sighed.

She
felt his hand stroking her hair. “And I wish the school would run itself,
or that you and I could build a little hut on the beach of a tropical island
and raise goats like Robinson Crusoe. But goatskins make dreadful gowns, or so
I’m told.”