Part 26 (2/2)

”I know what it is like to be on one's own,” I said in a quiet voice. ”My father is very ill. He does not know who anyone around him is, not even me. And my mother pa.s.sed away not long ago.”

There was a rustling across the room as Chambley sat up in bed, his face bleary. ”But it's not the same for you,” he said. ”You're very old.”

I could not help a smile. ”I'm not so much older than you, really. Besides, it is hard to be left by one's parent at any age.”

He rubbed his eyes with a fist. ”I want Mother to come back.”

”You know she can't, Chambley. But she's watching over you and waiting for you. One day-a long time from now, but one day-you'll see her again.”

”You mean in Eternum.”

”Yes, in Eternum.”

He shook his head. ”But I don't want to go there. It's full of ghosts.”

Clarette sat up and looked at her brother. ”You'll be a ghost too, silly, so what will it matter? They can't scare you if you're one of them.”

While I could not argue with Clarette's logic, I did not entirely appreciate her encouraging discourse on the topic of ghosts. However, Chambley laughed.

”Yes, I shall be a ghost too!” He wrapped the bedclothes around himself and made groaning noises while Clarette giggled.

I indulged them for a minute in this play, then held out a hand and urged Chambley to come to me. I put my arm around him as he sat on the bed.

”I owe you both an apology,” I said. ”I am very sorry for being so cross with you last night. It was wrong of me. I know you were doing your best to tell me what had happened.”

Clarette looked up at me, frowning. ”Do you believe me, then?”

Before I could answer, Chambley was on his knees, bouncing on the bed. ”You saw her, didn't you? You saw her out the window.”

I chose my words carefully. I did not want to excite their emotions unduly. ”I confess, I did see something-though I could not tell exactly what it was or even if it was a person. Yet it was white and moving east away from the house.”

”I told you,” Clarette said. Her expression was, I thought, a trifle smug.

I did not correct her. ”You did tell me you had seen something, and I should have taken your words seriously. I promise to do so in the future. But I need you to promise me you will always tell me exactly what you see, no more and no less. Do you promise?”

”I swear it,” Chambley said, crossing his heart.

I looked at Clarette. For a moment she did not move. Then she gave a mute nod. If that was all I was going to get, I would take it.

”You do not need to be afraid,” I said. ”You are not alone. If you ever see something that frightens you, you have only to let me know. Do you see? We will keep one another safe.”

I drew them in close on either side of me, though I cannot say whether it was my intention to give comfort or to receive it. Chambley threw his arms around me, embracing me with fierce affection. However, while Clarette did not attempt to pull away from me, neither did she return my embrace. She was stiff beside me.

At last I let them go. I poured them their tea at the table in the corner and told them we would begin our lessons after breakfast.

”I will speak to Mr. Quent,” I said as I prepared to leave them. ”I will let him know we've seen something outside the house.”

”No, you can't!” Clarette said, setting down her cup and jumping up from her chair. ”You can't tell him!”

These words shocked me. ”But don't you want him to make sure all is safe around the house?”

She licked her lips and glanced at Chambley, then looked again at me. ”It's only...Mrs. Darendal said we're not to bother him.”

”I am quite certain he would not find the matter of intruders on his property to be a bother,” I said.

However, the children appeared genuinely distressed at the thought of telling Mr. Quent. As I thought about it, I decided it would be better to know exactly what I had witnessed before concerning him with it. I still did not know what it was I had seen, and it would make the claim that there was a trespa.s.ser more credible if I could provide more specific details.

”Very well,” I said. ”I will not tell Mr. Quent-yet. But I will be keeping watch, and I want you both to be vigilant. If you see anything unusual, tell me at once. And by no means respond to anything someone you do not know might say to you. If someone asks you to do something-someone other than Mr. Quent, or myself, or Mrs. Darendal-you must come to me at once.”

I smiled at them to dispel the solemn tone; I wanted to rea.s.sure them, not frighten them. ”In the meantime, I cannot see that we have any cause for worry, or to alter our habits in any way. We will go for a walk this afternoon.” Chambley started to protest, but I quieted him with a look. ”We must have exercise if we wish to remain in good health. Come downstairs when you finish your breakfast, and we will continue our work with Tharosian grammar.”

A FTER THAT DAY the behavior of the children was greatly improved; in truth, they were better mannered, more studious, more eager to do what was asked of them than at any time since my coming to Heathcrest. They recited their lessons dutifully, moved quietly through the house, and did not once disturb the master with their activities when he was in residence.

Mr. Quent again remarked at their improved demeanor. Even Mrs. Darendal, while not evincing any sort of kindness toward me, had at least ceased her frequent criticisms and seemed resigned to my presence. I had every cause to be happy, yet I could not claim that I was. For as the lumenals pa.s.sed, long and short, an unease crept into my mind, just as the mist crept into the hollow places on the moor and pooled there.

I could not pa.s.s a window that looked eastward without either resisting or giving in to the urge to gaze at the tangled shapes atop the far downs. Nor could I walk along the corridor on the second floor without feeling a pressure close in around me, as if the shadows were pus.h.i.+ng me along, trying to direct me toward that forbidden room.

The children, too, for all their good behavior, had begun to cause me unease. Not Chambley to any degree. He, I thought, had truly warmed to me; he often held my hand as we walked, and he would kiss my cheek after supper and, in the most endearing manner, say to me, ”Good night, Miss Lockwell.”

Clarette, though her manner was always obedient, never showed me such little affections. I often had the sense that she was watching me, and I would glance up from the book I had been reading aloud just in time to see her turn her gaze from the window. Often, as I approached our parlor, I caught the sound of whispering, and always I was certain it was Clarette who spoke in a sibilant voice. However, by the time I stepped through the door, they would be smiling, their hands clasped before them, attention directed at me.

At such times I wanted nothing more than to question them, to demand to know what they were speaking about; however, I refrained. I wanted them to trust in me. Only then could I be a.s.sured they would come to me if they saw something again. Thus I did not question them regarding anything outside our lessons, nor did I speak to Mr. Quent about the intruder I had glimpsed.

While I could not ask questions of Mr. Quent, or the children, or Mrs. Darendal, there was still one person I could speak to-though her ability to respond was limited.

”Did you know the mistress of the house?” I asked Lanna one afternoon as I sat in the kitchen, taking a quiet cup of tea. The children were in their room, and though I would have liked to go out for a ride, the short day had succ.u.mbed to a dreary rain.

Lanna looked up from the loaf she was kneading and gave me a puzzled look.

”I'm sorry,” I said, setting down the cup. ”I mean Mrs. Quent. Did you know her when she was mistress here?”

Lanna hesitated, then nodded.

”You must have been young when you came to work here. I imagine it has been long since...that is, I wonder how long it has been.”

”It has been twelve years,” answered a voice behind me, ”since Mrs. Quent dwelled in this house.”

I was thankful I had set down my cup, for otherwise I would surely have spilled it. Mrs. Darendal came into the kitchen and set down a bowl of potatoes. Lanna bent over her loaf, kneading the dough with renewed energy.

”So long ago,” I said. I looked at her directly, determined not to let her think she had caught me gossiping. ”They must not have had long together.”

”No, they did not.” The housekeeper took up a knife and began peeling potatoes. ”It was just four years to the day after they were married when she left us.”

I could not help a gasp of dismay. ”To the day? How dreadful to happen on that day, and after so short a time.”

Mrs. Darendal's face, usually so hard, seemed to soften a degree. ”It was a sorrow, to be sure. Everyone had such high hopes for this house-that it would be occupied by a great family again, as in the old days, and that it would bring life to the county. For a time we still held hope the master would take another wife. But he is forty-three now, and his work engrosses him completely.”

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