The Tutor (6 page)

Unsure in what direction the library might lie, I chose instead to go to the chapel, which seemed a peaceful point of refuge. As I drew near, I noticed light coming from the partially open door. I considered running back to my room, but I had to see who—or what—was inside. In the night, it was easy to believe the presence I’d felt in the tower earlier had been real, that something
other
lurked within these ancient walls.

But when I entered the chapel, a very real, solid person occupied the front pew

facing the candlelit altar with its ornate iron cross. Sir Richard knelt with his head bowed, shoulders hunched, hands clasped in prayer. His posture suggested a man in deep mourning, a man begging for forgiveness or understanding from a silent god. My earlier thought that the threatening figure in Clive’s drawing might possibly represent his father seemed ludicrous. Allinson was grief-stricken, not angrily violent—although it was certainly possible for one person to contain both of those emotions and more. But I couldn’t believe he’d committed any sort of violence against his family.

The softer part of me that gave coins to beggars and lent rent money to

unfortunate friends wanted to reach out to the man. It was my nature to try to fix things and offer comfort where I could. But I doubted Sir Richard would appreciate a servant intruding on his very vulnerable moment.

Willing my feet to be soft as cats’ paws, I slowly backed out of the room. A flash of something moved in the corner of my eyes. I whipped my head toward the movement just as a tall brass candlestand fell to the stone floor with a resounding clang. This was no tabletop holder but a stand that stood nearly as tall as my shoulder. I had not brushed against it in any way. There was absolutely no reason for the heavy object to abruptly fall over like that.

But I didn’t have time to ponder the mystery. My gaze shot back to Sir Richard,

who had leaped up at the noise. He stared at me. I stared back, wondering whether he’d do me the kindness of letting Drover give me a ride to the train station, or if he’d put me out immediately so I had to tramp all the way to town in the dark.

The man broke from his still pose and strode toward me with such swift purpose, I

instinctively took a step back.

I dove for the candlestick, intent on setting it back on its base. “Sorry. So clumsy.

Didn’t know anyone was in here. Thought I’d, uh, pray for guidance. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I babbled.

I hauled at the brass creation with all my strength, but it was difficult to lift.

Allinson grabbed hold of it, and together we set the thing upright. For a moment, we both clung to the metal, our hands only inches apart.

“I…”

Words failed me. I had no more apologies to give and couldn’t have spoken them

if I tried. Something very like a high-powered magnet seemed to be charging the air between us. I’d felt that attraction before, many times with many men—gazes that locked, sizzling messages shooting back and forth, the inevitable search for a place to meet in private—but I’d never felt anything as powerful as this.

Allinson’s gaze was the one-two punch in the final round of a boxing match. It hit me in the solar plexus, driving the breath from me and leaving me stunned.

“I…” It came out a whisper the second time. I stopped myself from grabbing my

employer and hauling him to me, and forced out another word. “Sorry. Won’t happen

again.”

I unstuck my fingers from the candlestand and backed away.

Sir Richard blinked. His jaw tightened before he replied. “See that it doesn’t. Stay in your own area, Mr. Cowrie. The estate isn’t yours to explore.”

“No,” I agreed. “But it
is
rather like a museum. I can’t help being interested in the history of the place. Is there a book or a family history of the place? I was hoping to use your library, if I that’s all right. I was trying to find my way there, but got turned around.”

Sir Richard’s eyes widened, perhaps in surprise that I continued to jabber after his clear message to get out of his sight. His lips compressed for a moment but then he said, “I suppose that would be all right. I’ll show you the way.”

He extinguished the candles on the altar, the glow bathing the stark planes of his face as he puffed on each one. Couldn’t help thinking I’d like to have those slightly pursed lips pressed against mine. I knew almost for certain my instinct about his inclinations wasn’t wrong, despite his grieving over a dead wife. I had enough experience to recognize a fellow man lover when I met one. But I filed my attraction under “not to be opened until the twelfth of never” as I followed him and his lamp out of the room and down the hallway.

Several twists and turns and a stairway or two brought us to our destination. It

turned out the grand library was only across the hall from Allinson’s study. And it
was
a grand room lined to the ceiling with books, most of which looked as if they hadn’t been cracked open in years. My fingers itched to get at them, blow the dust off those pages.

Even if many of the old books were boring as mud, there must be some hidden gems

among them.

Sir Richard stood silently off to my left. It took me a moment to pull myself from my examination of the room enough to be aware that he was watching me. “You love books.”

“Always have loved stories. When I was young, I didn’t have access to many

books.” I bit the tip of my tongue as I recalled I was supposed to be a gentleman fallen on hard times. It wouldn’t do to reveal my hardscrabble background. I must remember my invented persona at all times, never let the mask slip.

“In your letter applying for the post, you mentioned your family had been stricken with debt. Who paid for your university education?”

“An uncle, now dead.”

In fact, I’d had no formal education but had read a number of books

recommended by my patron, Sylvester Leighton. Later, a drunken former university

professor who lived in my building had been overjoyed to pour his fount of knowledge over me. The old man had truly loved teaching before he got the boot. I’d had access to his brain and his books. It was a portion of his legacy upon his death that occupied the trunk in my room.

Sir Richard’s questioning made me nervous. Did he suspect something was off

about me? Did he pry to get at the truth? Or was my own guilt making me suspicious of an innocent question? At any rate, I wanted to change the subject from me to anything else.

“Perhaps you could recommend a favorite book,” I suggested. “I’d value your

opinion.”

The question was enough to take Allinson’s relentless gaze off me, which was a

relief. He led the way to a bookcase near the large fireplace dominating one end of the room. The book spines there appeared newer and shinier. I half expected him to pull out a volume of Dante’s
Inferno
. It seemed the sort of dark fare he might wallow in. I was pleasantly surprised when he withdrew a slim blue book and placed it in my hands.

“
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
.” I read the title aloud, as if proving to the man I had the ability. “A new Conan Doyle book! I didn’t know he’d published another.”

“Brand-new. I picked it up in London on my last visit. Fodder for the masses, to

be sure, but I’ll admit to enjoying these detective tales.” Richard’s well-bred drawl reminded me that gentlemen such as he were expected only to admire the classics and not more plebian adventure tales.

I leafed through the pages, as excited as a boy on Christmas morning. “
The Sign
of Four
was a thrilling tale.
A Study in Scarlet
less so, in my opinion.”

“Agreed,” Allinson said, and for the first time, I felt as if I were carrying on a conversation with one of my mates rather than an intimidating superior. “As well as providing more insight into Holmes’s character, which makes him more believable.”

I studied the table of contents. “Which case is the best, or do I need to read them in order?”

Allinson stood near me to read over my shoulder. He smelled of pipe smoke and

soap and his liquor-scented breath wafted to my nose when he replied. “No particular reading order is necessary. ‘The Adventure of the Copper Beeches’ contains quite an intriguing mystery.”

“Excellent. The last shall be first, then.” I closed the book and turned to my

employer with a smile—which quickly died on my lips. He stood so close, I swore I

could feel his heart beating. The evening stubble on his jaw and upper lip and his disheveled clothes made him seem more human, less like the domineering gentleman I’d met earlier that day. Our gazes met in the dim, intimate room, and any one of a number of things might happen if we so chose.

Not a good idea
, I reminded myself.

At the same moment, Sir Richard moved to face the fireplace, as if to warm

himself before the nonexistent fire on the hearth.

“Thank you for the loan of the book. I shall probably stay up half the night

reading it.” I held the book in front of my chest like a breastplate for my robe armor.

Realizing this made me sound irresponsible, I added, “But I shall be certain to rise at the crack of dawn along with Whit and Clive.”

Sir Richard’s head snapped around. “What did you call him?”

I scrabbled around in my mind for what he meant. “Um…Whit? Whitney seemed

too large a name for such a small boy.” I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry. If you don’t approve of nicknames, I shan’t shorten it again.”

He waved a hand, brushing away the apology. “No. It’s just… I never called him

Whit, but his mother did.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say about that. The boy hadn’t shown any sign of

emotion when I used the affectionate version of his name, but it certainly seemed to affect Richard mightily. “I’ll stop, then.”

He shook his head and said shortly, “Call him what you will. It simply took me by

surprise. Enjoy the book.”

He turned from me, dismissing me.

I padded out of the room in my slippers, which were too thin in the soles to keep

the chill from the stone floors at bay. Living in the remains of a castle might sound romantic but was actually quite uncomfortable.

Even though I was hardly paying attention to directions, I found my way back to

my room without getting lost. If I’d been restless before venturing out of my room, my mind was abuzz with energy now. I replayed every second of my time with the master of the house, recalled the details of his face and form, the tenor of his voice, and rejoiced that we both liked mysteries. Of course, I’d never admit to him I also enjoyed penny dreadfuls, the lurid tales from which I’d learned to read. The thrills and chills of pulp magazines were a step down from Conan Doyle’s more sophisticated Holmes stories, which were also considered low-brow reading by the well-educated.

It seemed with mysteries, Sir Richard and I actually had something in common,

other than a perverse attraction to each other we would never give voice to.

I jumped under many layers of covers, planning to create a pocket of warmth and

dive into one of the Holmes mysteries. But the very long day filled with new characters and strange experiences caught up with me. I fell asleep without turning down the wick of my lamp, and when I awoke, the oil was gone and sunlight streamed through the windowpanes.

The next day, I remained dutifully in the schoolroom with the boys as their father had directed for as long as I could stand it. I managed to keep their interest in simple mathematics by pretending their toys were items on a store’s shelves and giving the boys their own hand-crafted currency to purchase with. A read-aloud period was followed by a penmanship lesson in which I had them write words from the story. But by early afternoon, I was as restless as the boys, eager to be outdoors on such a fine day.

“Let’s explore nature and identify the specimens of flora and fauna we discover,”

I suggested.

We all pulled on Wellington boots to march through the mud the previous day’s

rain had left behind and escape the oppressive gloom of the house. Once outside with the sun on my face and the breeze in my hair, my gloomy spirit almost immediately lifted.

Things were going quite well, actually. At least my young charges hadn’t run

away from me today and seemed quite willing to go along with whatever I suggested. No more prickly things in my shoes or bed so far that day either. Perhaps they were enjoying my company a little.

We sloshed around in a boggy area near a stream at the far east corner of the field where we’d played the day before. Whit collected various leaves, and I helped him indentify them with the botany book I’d brought along. Clive came over with a crayfish in hand, its tiny claws clicking as it squirmed, trying to free itself. The boy was muddy and damp all over, but for the first time, he almost smiled.

Whit and I admired his catch for several minutes.

“Very interesting, but since we have no place to keep him, I think you’ll have to

let the crayfish go.”

Clive’s perpetual frown returned.

“The little creature wouldn’t be happy in a jar or even an aquarium,” I pointed

out. “Wild things are best left to live their lives as nature intended.”

Clive looked from the crayfish to me, searching my face before nodding slightly. I felt quite triumphant. For the first time, we’d communicated directly without Clive using Whit to speak for him. He set the crayfish down, and we all watched it scuttle away and disappear into its burrow in the mud.

We spent hours mucking about by the creek, until hunger eventually drove us to

return to the confines of the house. Late in the day, wet, filthy, and contented, we tramped across the field. The looming hulk of Allinson Hall blocked the sun as we approached. When we entered the building’s shadow, nerves tingled along my spine and an inexplicable melancholy invaded my sunny disposition. I had a propensity for the dramatic, but this didn’t feel like anything my imagination had conjured. Sadness flooded through me like a palpable and externally inflicted mood—something beyond my control.