The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (39 page)

“You have been trying doors, then?”

My cheeks colored, but I stood straight. “Heathcrest Hall is very grand. I’ve been enjoying making an exploration.”

“There is nothing in there,” Mrs. Darendal said.

“Of course,” I murmured. I started past her toward the stairs. “But…” I gripped the banister and turned to look at her. “But if there’s nothing in the room, then there can be no need to keep the door locked, can there?”

The housekeeper moved to the stairs. She laid her hand on the banister near to mine. She smelled of dry things: wool and ash.

“You asked me not to tell you how to manage the children, Miss Lockwell. And I will ask you not to tell me how to manage the house. No one is to go in that room, save for Mr. Quent alone.”

“Of course,” I said, and hurrying past her so she would not see the way my cheeks glowed, I went to find the children.

W
E WOKE THE next day to discover Mr. Quent gone. Not that this affected me or the children in any way; we continued our lessons and walks as before. Nor did our habits alter when Mr. Quent returned at the end of a short, blustery lumenal, for it was hardly more difficult to avoid him when he was there than when he was not.

As my second month at Heathcrest passed, he was gone as often as he was in residence—or even more, perhaps, for I seldom knew when he had left. One time I had assumed him to be at the manor, only to look out and see him ride up, boots and coat and horse all mud-spattered, his hair wild from wind.

He should wear a hat!
I thought.
His face shall become even more ruined by the weather than it already is.

We were generally able to avoid encountering the master of the house. However, there were occasions when it was too dark to venture outside, yet the almanac and our weariness of sleep forced us to make a day of it. At such time the children grew restless, even unruly. I did my best to control them, but I could not be with them at every moment.

Once, after rising in the midst of a long night, I went to fetch our tea and upon returning found my charges not in the parlor where I had left them. At that moment I heard a crash from the front hall, followed by the shrill sounds of argument.

Upon entering the hall, I saw that one of the mounted animals—a fox—had been knocked from its stand. Lanna knelt beside it, attempting to put the stuffing back in its middle, while Clarette and Chambley pointed and shouted at each other.

I felt a chill draft and saw that a nearby window was ajar. The night flowed in, unimpeded. I hurried to the window and latched it, then asked the children what had happened. Their voices were so high-pitched I was forced to shout in an attempt to gain their attention. However, before my efforts had any effect, Mr. Quent appeared at the foot of the stairs.

He did not say anything. All the same, the weight of his presence was felt at once. The children fell silent and looked up, their faces going pale. I did the same. Lanna ceased her work, clutching a handful of fluff.

At last I managed to speak. “Clarette, Chambley, go to the parlor. Take up the chapbook and read Chapter Fourteen. I will expect you to provide me with a summary when I return.”

The two slunk away without a sound. Mr. Quent said nothing further, so I knelt beside Lanna and examined the fox. It was old, getting bare of fur in places, and after its fall was coming apart at every seam.

“I am no doctor,” I said, “but the prognosis does not seem good.” I looked up at him with an attempt at a smile.

His expression did not alter. “What took place here?”

“I did not witness it myself. I was coming back from the kitchen. I suppose the children were playing and knocked it over, and they were arguing over who was to blame.” I stood, smoothing the pleats of my dress. “It has been rainy and dark these several days, you see, and we have not been able to get any exercise or go—”

“Lanna, did you see what occurred here?” He looked down at the young woman.

She stared up at him, rigid lines in her neck.

“Answer me, child.” His voice was gruff, even hard. “I heard you working in the hall. Tell me what took place. If it is not as Miss Lockwell thinks, then I must know.”

She opened her mouth. It seemed, in her dread of him, the poor creature even attempted to speak, only no sound came out; she hung her head. The stuffing slipped from her fingers, falling like snow.

I could not speak myself; I was astonished. No, I was appalled. That
I
did not know of Lanna’s condition upon first meeting her was understandable. But that
he,
after having her in his house for so long, could still be insensible to her state was confounding.

“Miss Lockwell,” he said, addressing me in his low voice, “I thought I had made myself clear in our prior conversation. It is a requirement that we live quietly in this house. Because of—that is, it is necessary that Heathcrest be a solemn and thoughtful place. Commotion and loud disturbances cannot be tolerated.”

“Of course, Mr. Quent,” I murmured. But inwardly I cried out,
Oh, grim and dour man! You do not know poor Lanna cannot speak, because you expect muteness of everyone around you! You would buy silence at the price of any sort of contact with a fellow human creature.

“Go fetch Jance,” Mr. Quent said to Lanna. “I will have him take the fox out to the coach house. I imagine Miss Lockwell’s diagnosis is correct. Her father was a doctor, and no doubt she has inherited something of his ability.”

I hardly heard his words, so consumed was I with my outrage. Lanna hurried from the hall. I started to go myself, but I halted as he knelt and picked up the stuffed fox. He stroked it with a hand—a tender gesture such as I had never seen him give the children.

“I shot this one myself, many years ago,” he said, his voice low.

He touched the fur of its head, and it was only as he did this that I noticed, for the first time, that his left hand was missing the last two digits. A thick scar covered the place where the ring finger and littlest finger should have attached to his hand. I marveled that, in all our prior interactions, I had never noticed.

I think he became aware of my attention, for he stood and slipped his left hand into his coat pocket. I realized then that I had often seen him that way.

He fixed me with his dark gaze. “You must give me your word, Miss Lockwell, that you will not allow the children to engage in another outburst like today’s.”

His gaze was so intent, his presence so heavy and brooding, that my every instinct was to demur. However, I forced myself to look at him directly. “I cannot make a promise for myself based on the actions of others, Mr. Quent. But I will promise to redouble my efforts to engage the children’s minds and energies, especially on days when we cannot go out. Toward that end, I must see how their reading is progressing.” Without waiting for his reply, I hurried from the hall.

I did not press the children for an explanation of what had happened; to be seen as their accuser would not help my cause with them. Nor did they offer any account on their own. All the same I could only believe that something
had
happened, for after that day, the openness they had shown me since my arrival was reduced.

I more often observed them whispering to each other, only to cease when I drew near. They often stared out the window, when a glance confirmed there was nothing outside. To make them pay attention to a book was a feat. Clarette was all sighs, and Chambley jumped at every sound. I started to despair that I would ever be able to occupy their attentions—in which case another incident like what had happened in the hall was inevitable. I began to really fear that Mr. Quent might dismiss me.

That would be a disaster. I had received letters from home. They were few and too short for my taste. However, Rose was no more voluble when writing than speaking; as for Lily, writing was like sewing: a chore done for the benefit of others.

Still, I had written many times to encourage their replies and so in bits and pieces had managed to gather some news of the situation on Whitward Street. Even allowing that Lily’s dislike for our cousin colored her descriptions, it was clear that Mr. Wyble intended them all to be gone from the house the moment the law allowed, now but four months in the future.

Nor could it be too soon for Lily. She had not been able to play the pianoforte, as Mr. Wyble declared the sound adverse to his concentration. The garden out front was all withered and brown, and there was never any chocolate or oranges to be had.

But what of our father?
I wrote several times. At last I got an answer from her, though it was hardly better than no answer at all.

He does not speak but makes noises,
Lily wrote.
He is dreadfully ill without you. Rose cares for him.

My heart ached to read these lines. I wanted nothing more than to run to the village, to ride with the mail back to the city, to see my sisters and to see you, Father. But I could not. That our only hope was to remove ourselves to the house on Durrow Street was clearer than ever. To do that would be impossible without my income from Mr. Quent. Thus I renewed my efforts to govern the children and my own spirits as well.

For our lessons, I chose those subjects I thought would be of most interest to them. When the weather at all allowed, I bundled them against the damp air and took them on a walk outside. The exercise seemed to benefit them, but I did not like the way their gazes ranged to and fro, as if seeking some particular thing.

I tried to keep our walks close to the familiar grounds of the manor so that the children might find nothing in our excursions to excite their imaginations. But one day, after telling myself we should turn back, I found myself continuing onward, toward the eastern edge of the ridge—then even a little bit past, going down the slope, following a bridle path through the gorse.

I felt a growing resistance on either side; the children’s hands sought to wrest themselves free from my own. I tightened my grip and moved down the slope, toward the uneven dark line that clung to the downs to the east. A little nearer, that was all; then I would have a better view of it.

A few shreds of mist had crept into the hollow at the foot of the ridge. Dew pearled on the heather, and the air had a greenness to it. The ground began to rise up again. Above, I made out wispy crowns above knotted trunks.

One of the children—Chambley, it had to be—made a small sound, like a moan. I felt them try to pull away from me, but I clamped my fingers around their little hands. Disheveled branches reached over a high stone wall. Just a little farther…

A pounding rang out behind us. The children cried out, and I turned, not knowing whether to be relieved or alarmed when I saw a horseman riding down the path from the house. In a moment he was upon us. He did not dismount but rather glared at us from the saddle.

“What are you doing out here?”

I felt that Clarette was going to say something; I squeezed her hand so that she let out a soft gasp instead.

“We are out for some exercise, Mr. Quent,” I said. “This is the first day in several that it has been dry enough to venture much from the house.”

The horse—a massive beast—pranced and snorted; Mr. Quent controlled it with a flick of his right hand. “I have just returned to Heathcrest. Do you know where you go? Had I not looked down as I rode up to the house, had I not happened to see you—”

“Then we would have turned back in a few moments ourselves.”

“You have already come too close.”

“Too close to what?” Chambley said, then swallowed. “Too close to what,
sir
?”

“To that.” Mr. Quent pointed to the line of shabby trees behind the stone wall. The mist had melted away. The wall was, I realized with a start, closer than I had thought—no more than a furlong.

“It’s just an old patch of forest,” Clarette said.

His cheeks darkened above his beard. “Your education is lacking. It is a stand of Wyrdwood, and you can have no cause to go near it. In fact, it is best that you stay as far from it as possible.”

Chambley looked up at him, his eyes large. “Is it dangerous?”

“Dangerous? Yes, it is dangerous, but only to those who are careless and who do not heed its warnings.”

“But it’s only a lot of trees,” Clarette said.

“Only trees?” His left hand was in his pocket, but I could see motion beneath the black cloth, as if he clenched and unclenched those fingers that remained. “Yes, as you say, they are only trees. But they are older than you—older than any of us. They were here in Altania before the first men were, and you’ll not find a house or croft in this county that stands within three furlongs of such a grove. It isn’t for no reason that we build walls around them.”

A shudder passed through Chambley’s thin body. Clarette looked over her shoulder, eyes narrowed, back toward the wood.

Mr. Quent seemed about to add to his speech, but he had already said more than enough, in my opinion. “Come, children, let us go back. It’s almost time for our tea.”

I said no words to my employer but instead led the children back up the hill, keeping to a stiff pace, so that by the time we reached the house all of us, not just Chambley, were panting. I sent the children to the parlor and told them I would be in with their tea directly. While I had not looked, I had been aware that Mr. Quent rode behind us all the way and had heard his boots follow us into the hall. Once the children were out of sight, I took off my bonnet and turned to him.