The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (35 page)

“This is a perilous place,” came the gruff voice again. The sound was emanating from the wolf.

“I have no doubt that it is,” I said. I made sure to appear properly alarmed, as one should when addressed by such a creature.

“You should go back to the city at once,” the wolf said.

“You seem a very clever wolf. How do you know I’m from the city?”

“You smell like government.”

“I am sure my nose is not so discerning as yours,” I said to the wolf. “All the same, I’ve traveled very far to reach this place. Why should I leave when I’ve only just arrived?”

“Because we’ll eat you if you don’t!” cried a badger that stood on a nearby end table. It proceeded to roar in a manner that was distinctly unbadgerlike.

“Chambley, I told you not to say anything!” the wolf complained, its voice rising several octaves.

“I can say anything I want,” the badger replied crossly. “If you’re a wolf, then you can’t be my sister, and that means you can’t tell me what to do.” There came another fierce roar.

“Chambley!”

I had played this little game long enough. I stepped around the stuffed wolf and gazed down at the girl crouched behind it.

“Good morning, Clarette,” I said.

She frowned and looked up at me. I guessed her to be nine or ten. “You’re not supposed to know my name.”

“Why is that?”

She scowled, stroking the wolf’s fur. It was worn and patchy. “We haven’t met. You’re not supposed to say my name if we haven’t met. Mother says—she said it isn’t proper.”

I nodded and took a step back. “I am Miss Lockwell,” I said, and held out my hand.

She stood and solemnly shook my hand. “I’m Clarette Davish.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Clarette,” I said, but she had already released my hand and was stroking the wolf again.

“What about me?” growled the badger. A small hand stuck out from beside the table on which it perched, waving.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Sir Badger,” I said, giving the hand a firm shake.

A boy suddenly appeared on the other end, standing up from behind the table. His eyes were very large in a small face. “My name is Chambley Davish. I’m not really a badger, you know.”

“I see. Thank you for telling me. I confess, I feel some relief at this revelation.”

“You shouldn’t pretend like that,” he said. “I know you didn’t really think I was a badger.” He climbed onto a horsehair chair and slouched backward. His feet did not touch the floor.

“She was only being nice,” Clarette said. “Adults say all sorts of things that aren’t true just to be nice. Don’t they?”

Her eyes were dark, like her hair, and very sharp. I could not deny the truth of her words. “I suppose they do.”

“Mother said we shouldn’t ever lie. But how is saying something that’s not true just to be polite any different than lying?”

I considered her words. “It’s different because it’s not intended to harm or do any sort of wrong. Sometimes one says something that’s false in order to avoid saying something that’s hurtful. But a lie…” I nodded. “A lie is something you say when you know you
should
say the truth, only you don’t.”

Chambley looked at his sister, but she only petted the wolf and said nothing more.

“Well,” I said at last, “I have had a long trip, and I believe I’m ready for some tea. Would you two like to join me?”

“Oh, but we can’t,” Clarette said.

“Why not?”

“Mrs. Darendal says we’re not allowed to have tea. She says it’s bad for children, that it will make our bones grow crooked and rot out our teeth.”

“Does she indeed?” It appeared I was going to have to have another conversation about saying things that weren’t true, only this time with Mrs. Darendal. “Well, I’m in grave want of a cup, and it would be rude of me to take tea while you had nothing at all. So we’ll just have to not worry about your bones and your teeth this once.”

The two children exchanged startled looks.

“Well, then,” I said, holding out both hands, “who would like to show me to the kitchen?”

Upon which my hands were seized from either side, and I was tugged across the hall.

T
HE KITCHEN WAS a low, rambling room with a fireplace nearly as cavernous as that in the front hall. There was no sign of the housekeeper, though there was a woman—somewhat older than me—scrubbing the table, her face all but lost beneath a large bonnet.

I introduced myself as the new governess and asked if she might fix a kettle for tea for myself and the children. However, my words received no response. Instead, she ceased her work, took up a bucket, and without looking up departed through the kitchen door.

“Her name is Lanna,” Clarette said. “She won’t speak. She never does. Lanna used to talk and talk, but Mrs. Darendal told her Mr. Quent won’t put up with servants who chatter. She said Lanna would be dismissed if she spoke even one more word, and Lanna’s family is terrible poor. She hasn’t said a thing since that day.”

“But that’s remarkable!” I said, taken aback. “To never say a word—what sort of person could order such a thing?”

Chambley folded his arms and leaned on a sideboard, staring at a loaf of bread. “Do you think we could have toast with our tea?”

“We’re very hungry,” Clarette said.

Their faces
were
thin, and Chambley seemed as much a bird as a boy as he alighted on one of the large chairs at the table. His hair was dark like his sister’s, which made his small face look all the paler. I wondered if they were ever fed.

“Yes, you may have toast,” I said, and with that I rolled up my sleeves, put on the kettle, and found a knife for the bread.

Though I was tired, our little tea revived me greatly, and I found I was able to use the opportunity to gain some knowledge of my charges before I was officially installed as their governess. It was difficult for me to fathom why Mr. Quent had thought them in such dire need of guidance. True, the little game they had played with me upon my arrival indicated some lack of restraint in their behavior, a bit of willfulness even, and suggested a prior indulgence.

However, given what I knew of their situation—how their mother had died after a long illness, how over a year later their father was still not in any state to be able to care for them, and how they had been transferred among a succession of distant relatives—I could only think they were surprisingly good.

I quickly saw that Clarette was the leader of the pair and that her brother, who was two years her junior, would follow her in anything. She was a clever girl, always thinking up games for them, like their little play in the front hall. Hers was a vivid imagination, if occasionally morose. However, given her experiences over the last year, this could only be understandable. As was Chambley’s nature, which was oversensitive. He seemed aware of every little sound or flicker of light and often started in his seat if a creak was heard or the shadow of a bird passed outside the window.

In all, I was not displeased. Here were two young minds that I was confident could be engaged if interesting material was presented to them with proper attention and zeal. I poured another cup of tea as the children made a game with the spoons and bread crusts. What its rules were I was not immediately able to grasp, but they played it very intently, and occasionally crusts or spoons were removed or returned to play.

There was a groaning of wood. Chambley jumped in his chair.

“It is only the house settling,” I said.

But Clarette had set down her spoon and was staring at something behind me. I turned and could not help a small gasp. A woman stood in the door of the kitchen. Her hair was pulled back in a knot the color—and indeed, by its look, the hardness—of iron. Her dress was the same hue, and without any adornment. Her mouth was a flat line.

The children slouched in their seats and gave the teacups guilty looks. At that moment I felt like slouching as well, as if I were a child myself, caught in an illicit act. But that was absurd! I stood up, willed my shoulders back, and gave a smile as I introduced myself.

“You must be Mrs. Darendal,” I said.

She looked at the things on the table, as if cataloging each item. Her eyes were deeply set above high cheeks. She must have been striking in her youth, but age had shown little kindness. What might once have been beautiful had gone sharp. Her glances cut the air.

However, if she thought ill of what I had done, she did not speak of it and instead said only, “I will show you to your room, Miss Lockwell. You must take some rest after your journey. The master says you will begin with the children tomorrow.”

I cast a smile back at them. “Really, I need only a little rest. I am sure we can begin our lessons today.”

“Mr. Quent said you would begin tomorrow. I am certain if that is his recommendation you will follow it. That is, unless you feel it is your place to correct him, Miss Lockwell.”

I could not help wincing. “Of course not.”

We went first to the room I described earlier, which was far too grand, as I remarked, then came to the little room beneath the gable. I expressed my belief that it would do very well.

“Jance will bring up your bags,” Mrs. Darendal said from the door. “Dinner will be served promptly at two o’clock. Do not expect anything more than a simple meal. Nor should you plan on there being anything more later. I am sure you are used to dining as late as you please in the city, but here in the country we do not fix supper on short lumenals.”

At these words a bit of impertinence came over me. That her manner was stiff I might almost forgive, as I did not know her. But that she should presume, after such a brief acquaintance, to know
me
was something I could not accept.

“I assure you, I expect nothing of the kind,” I said. “I am quite used to dining but twice on short lumenals, for they are, you can be certain, every bit as brief in the city as they are in the country.”

The housekeeper made no reply. She turned and reached to pull the door shut behind her.

“Did you tell the children they are not allowed to have tea?” I said, taking a step forward.

She halted, then looked back at me over her shoulder. “Is that what little miss told you?”

This reply startled me, but I did not let it deter me from continuing. “Yes, just as she told me how Lanna was ordered never to speak a word. I know I am new to this house. Yet I can only wonder when I hear such things.”

“Indeed, I can only wonder as well,” Mrs. Darendal said. “For the children have tea and toast every breakfast, though often they turn their noses up at it. And I have known Lanna all her life, and she has not spoken a word since she was a girl. The doctor says she has lost the capacity for speech. She is mute. Is there anything else you wish to tell me, Miss Lockwell?”

However, at that moment I was incapable of speech myself.

The housekeeper nodded. “Then I suggest you take your rest until dinner.” And she shut the door behind her.

M
R. QUENT WAS not at dinner that day or at the breakfast we took in the middle of the long umbral that followed.

“The master sends his welcome and asks that you begin your work,” Mrs. Darendal said as she entered the small parlor on the first floor, at the back of the house.

“So you have spoken to Mr. Quent,” I said, surprised. “Then he must be in residence. But where is he? I should think he would like to meet the person he has taken into his employment.”

Mrs. Darendal’s face was all lines and angles in the light of the sole candle that lit our meal. “The master’s business often takes him away at a moment’s notice. He arrived well into the umbral but then set off again over an hour ago. Nor should you expect to see him often even when he is here. He is a busy man and cannot be concerned with domestic affairs. That is why you were hired, Miss Lockwell.”

“Of course” was my reply.

However, I was beginning to wonder if what had seemed formality in Mr. Quent’s letters had instead been the product of coolness and distance. A man who hired the likes of Mrs. Darendal to keep his house could not be concerned with matters like kindness, comfort, or warmth. From what I had seen so far, Heathcrest Hall was well organized and scrupulously clean, but the fireplaces were all barren, and the few candles could do little to keep it warm or drive away the shadows.