Part 24 (2/2)

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 ch.o.r.e 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 ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sed 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.

”That sort of talk is not acceptable, Mr. Quent,” I said. ”I will not have it around the children.”

His expression could not have been more astonished if I had struck him. He took a step backward.

”You may be as stern as you wish with me, Mr. Quent. I can bear it, I a.s.sure you.” My cheeks glowed with heat after stepping from the cool outdoors into the hall, but I held my chin high. ”Reproach me in the strongest terms. Speak to me in the most alarming manner you choose. I can and will endure it. But I will not allow the children to be witness to such a talk as you gave us out on the moor.”

At last he found his voice. ”I only warned them of the wood.”

”Warned them, yes. And terrified them as well! And gave them new tinder to fuel every little shadow and phantasm that creeps into their minds. I felt their hands-they were cold as ice. They could not stop shaking all the way back to the house. You say you wish them to refrain from making another commotion, to be quiet and studious. Yet with one speech you have undone, I am sure, every effort I have made these last days to engage them and direct their thoughts in proper directions.”

Furrows creased his brow. ”What would you have me do? Would you have me deceive them and say that all of you were not in peril today?”

”I would have you not frighten them any more than they already are, Mr. Quent! They have lost that which was dearest to them and are far from all they have known. Their state is already one of agitation. Any more speeches such as you gave today will serve only to make the task you have given me impossible. It will put them beyond my or any control.” I dared to take another step toward him. ”And I a.s.sure you, we were not in any sort of danger today.”

He made no effort to defend himself against these words. Instead, he stood with his hat in his hand, an expression on his face I found peculiar. It was not anger or rebuke but something else. A thoughtfulness, or rather a kind of resignation.

”You are right, Miss Lockwell,” he said in his low voice. ”I should have spoken to you alone, and not in front of the children. For that, you have my apology. All the same, I will ask you to not venture near the Wyrdwood again, with or without the children. Do I have your word on this?”

I could only give it to him. ”Of course.”

He made a stiff bow and, as he rose, seemed about to say something more. But then he turned on a heel and departed the hall. I managed to wait until he was gone, then sank into one of the horsehair chairs, clutching both of its arms.

That I had dared to scold my employer, a man nearly twice my age-a man who could, with little effort, I was sure, toss me away with a single arm-came cras.h.i.+ng down upon me. The weight of the thought pressed me into the chair. Had I doomed myself? Had I a.s.sured my dismissal?

No, I thought. He had agreed to my terms, and I to his. Slowly, by degrees, my heart slowed its beating. I found I could move again and rose from the chair to fetch the children their tea.

T WO NIGHTS LATER, deep in a long umbral, I woke to the clatter of horses outside. I s.n.a.t.c.hed a shawl around my shoulders and crossed the cold floorboards to the window. Brightday had just gone, and outside all was lit by a gibbous moon, its light tinged just the faintest red by the new planet.

I could see nothing and so left my room and went to the landing at the top of the stairs. From there I could look down into the front courtyard. I watched as two figures dismounted from their horses. They wore regimental coats, and though the crests on their hats looked black in the moonlight, I knew by day they would be red. Sabers hung at their sides.

They strode toward the house with purpose, but before they reached the steps, Jance came hurrying down to them, wild shadows scattering before the lantern in his hand. He sketched a bow, and the men followed him up the steps, disappearing from view. I heard a distant echo as the front door opened and shut far below. I gathered the shawl around myself and hurried back to my room.

When I went downstairs in the gray before dawn, I asked Mrs. Darendal about Mr. Quent and learned he was gone again. The housekeeper did not say where, yet that he had left with the soldiers was certain. I wondered what could have called him away with such haste in the middle of a long night.

”What is your intention with the children today?” Mrs. Darendal asked as I prepared a tray for their breakfast.

I paused, tray in hand. ”It is the same as any day.”

She nodded. However, as I neared the door she said, ”But you will not take them toward the Wyrdwood.”

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