Part 32 (1/2)

There had been a ball at Heathcrest, for Mrs. Quent had been fond of dancing, and in this as in all things Mr. Quent had indulged her. It was the middle of a greatnight. The entire house was alight with candles and alive with music and breathless laughter. Everyone who was anyone in the county was in attendance, and a good number of n.o.bodies were there as well.

No one minded; there was room for all. The musicians played without stopping, and Mrs. Quent danced every reel and round, while Mr. Quent-who admitted he had no talent for dancing-took his joy by watching her from the side of the hall.

Then a headache came upon her, as they had with increasing frequency ever since he had brought her to Heathcrest. She was quite well, she a.s.sured him; she only wanted for some air. She had gone outside, and he had intended to follow her in a few minutes, to be sure she was well. Only then his opinion was wanted for what should be the next dance. Then he was pulled into the parlor where the younger people were staging a play, and after that another hand was needed for a round of cards. He was handed a drink and put in a chair, and amid the light, amid the laughter, he forgot-forgot to check on his pretty young wife. Forgot until someone asked where Mrs. Quent was.

Had she not come inside? Was she not dancing? No, no one had seen her in an hour or more. He had gone outside and there had seen a sight that froze his blood: her lace shawl, which she had donned against the coolness of the greatnight, cast on the front steps.

He ran inside, bellowing at the musicians to stop, calling for men and lanterns. At once the party ceased, and there has never been another in Heathcrest Hall since that night. Men went out in the dark, searching first around the house, then ranging farther afield. Mr. Quent shouted her name over and over, until his throat was raw and bleeding-indeed, so that his voice was ever low and gruff afterward-but there was no answer.

A mist settled over the moor, hindering their work. It was not until the light of dawn burned away the fog that at last they discovered her. She was lying among the leaves and mold by the stand of Wyrdwood on the hill to the east. Frost had powdered her face, so that it was as white as marble. Her yellow dress was torn, and a sc.r.a.p of the same yellow cloth fluttered in a crack at the top of the wall.

What had happened was plain to all who saw her. She had been attempting to climb the high wall, but its stones were slick with dew and moss. Even as she reached the top, she lost her grip and fell. In an instant, her neck was broken.

”I think you see now,” he said, ”why I did not want you and the children to venture to the Wyrdwood. It was there that she-” He shook his head.

Though he said nothing more, the rest of the story was clear to me, just as what had happened to Gennivel Quent was clear to all who had seen her there, pale and cold among the fallen leaves. He had blamed himself for not going out to her sooner. He had been distracted by merriment and revelry, and for that he could not forgive himself. As punishment he had made his house a grim and quiet place, even as he made himself a grim and quiet man.

”You cannot blame yourself still,” I said at last.

”Can I not, Miss Lockwell? I brought her here to live with me, so near to the thing from which I knew she must be kept. I even knew it fascinated her. The painting in the room upstairs, which I know you saw, was done by her own hand. I thought I could watch over her, that I could keep her safe.” His left hand clenched again inside his coat pocket. ”Instead, I laughed and played at cards while she walked out into the night and fog.”

He turned away. I should have felt horror or sorrow at what I had heard. Instead, a kind of resolve came over me. I stood and took a step toward him.

”It was not your fault.”

”You should not pity me,” he said. ”If you think me blameless, Miss Lockwell, you are mistaken.”

”I do not pity you, Mr. Quent!”

He turned back to look at me, as if to see for himself. At last he said, ”It was a long time ago. I told you only because I thought, after what happened, you should know.”

I nodded.

”She is buried there.” He pointed toward the ruins of the old chapel beyond Burndale Lodge.

I told him I should like to visit there, and he said I would, but not that day. By then the sun was low, and he gave me his arm as we started back for Heathcrest, walking in silence.

S OLDIERS CAME DURING the night and called Mr. Quent away. However, he returned after the pa.s.sage of two middling lumenals and a brief umbral. Over those next several days, we ventured out on more walks. Or, when the weather was inclement, we strolled in the front hall as he told me stories of the people in the various portraits: members of the Rylend family, whose last earl he had served, and whose house this had been.

While before I had wished to avoid him whenever possible, now I looked forward to his company. Our meals were no longer wordless affairs but rather lively with conversation. He had seen much of Altania in his travels-he had even been over the sea to the Princ.i.p.alities once-and I had so many questions about other lands and peoples, things I had read about only in books, all of which he obligingly detailed.

In my first months at Heathcrest, I had hardly noticed when he was gone; now, when his work called him away, I felt the weight of the shadows pressing in, and the silence rang in my ears. Often I sought solace in writing to my sisters. I had been four months at Heathcrest now, and I had saved nearly enough to arrange the opening of the house on Durrow Street. I a.s.sured Lily that she would have to endure Mr. Wyble only a little while longer.

I had yet to resume my studies with the children. They had relapsed when the fever settled in their lungs, and though it had been a half month since that night at the Wyrdwood, they remained convalescents upon the doctor's orders. I would often read to them, but they tired quickly, so when Mr. Quent was gone I spent most of my time alone.

While my opinion of Heathcrest had changed, I could not say the same was true of Mrs. Darendal. The housekeeper seemed more reticent around me than ever. I received barely a word from her, only sharp looks, and she would quickly depart a room if I was to enter it, no matter if she had been in the midst of some task.

The next time Mr. Quent returned (again from a trip that was briefer than usual), he invited me into his study on the second floor. I confess, I was both surprised and hesitant. I recalled the way I had transgressed upon his privacy the last time I was in the room, and I could not forget how I had been overcome upon looking at the painting of the Wyrdwood. But I had hardly been myself then. I had been so lonely, my head filled with phantasms and thoughts of ghosts. This time I was invited, and I knew my mind to be sound.

All the same, I could not help but feel some relief when, upon entering, I saw the painting had been removed.

”I thought you might wish to play, Miss Lockwell,” he said, gesturing to the pianoforte. He wore the blue coat again, with its old-fas.h.i.+oned but handsome cut. His brown hair had tumbled over his brow despite his best efforts to comb it. ”I have been told that all young women are accomplished at music these days.”

I laughed. ”Not all, I'm afraid. It is my sister Lily who received the musical talent. She is very skilled. I wish you could hear her play! Though she does have a proclivity for ominous pieces. My mother always asks her to play brighter things. Asked her, I mean.”

I felt a sudden ache in my heart, and I turned, making a pretense of examining the pianoforte.

”I confess, I do not know if she had ability or not,” he said behind me. ”I have little ear for music. I know only that I could have watched her for hours as she played.”

I turned to see him gazing at the pianoforte, and then the ache I felt was no longer just for myself. I sat at the pianoforte, and while my skill was no more than rudimentary, he listened intently, and when I was finished he applauded my efforts with what seemed such genuine appreciation that I could only turn away to hide the warmth in my cheeks.

”Are you all right, Miss Lockwell?”

I looked at him. ”Yes, I am quite recovered from my illness.”

His brown eyes were grave. ”That is not what I meant. I mean are you all right here, at Heathcrest? I know you want for your family, that you were parted from your father and sisters so soon after all of you were parted from Mrs. Lockwell.”

So addressed, I could only speak the truth. ”I do miss them, very much. And I will not deny that, at first, I felt terribly lonely here. I wanted nothing more than to go back to the city.”

”At first, you say.” He hesitated, then moved closer, standing on the other side of the pianoforte. ”Do you mean that you have a different opinion now? That is, do you think differently about Heathcrest Hall?”

”I do.”

”And is your opinion of it lessened or improved?”

”Oh, improved! It is, I see now, the n.o.blest and strongest of houses, and the landscape is anything but forlorn. It is beautiful in the most elemental manner. It has no need of adornment or decoration to make it handsome. Rather, it is so in its very simplicity.”

”I see.”

He was silent for a time. I did not know what to say. I thought maybe I should play more, but my fingers had forgotten what little art they knew and lay motionless upon the keys.

”You say your opinion of the house has changed,” he said at last. ”And what of its master, I might ask? I know you must have thought him grim and stern-that he could only be regarded, by one of sound judgment, as silent and removed, even hard. How could you not think him such? I know better than anyone that he was all those things. What a repulsive being you must have thought him! One to be pitied no less than avoided.” He was more animated than I had ever seen him; as he spoke, he placed his hands-both hands-on the pianoforte. ”Has your opinion changed in that regard? Or is it unwavering, grounded in impressions that cannot be altered by the pa.s.sage of time or by any change of circ.u.mstance?”

I looked at his hands, the right whole and strong, the left maimed. However, the one was no more repellent or pitiable to me; it was as much his as was the other.

”No,” I said. ”My opinion in that regard is much changed as well.”

I looked up and saw an expression on his face that I could only think was pleased. However, his look suddenly changed to a grimace as he glanced down and saw his left hand as naked and exposed as the right. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, tucking it into his coat pocket, and retreated from the pianoforte.

I rose from the bench. ”It happened a long time ago, didn't it?”

He frowned. ”How can you know?”

”From this.” I moved to the portrait that hung on the wall, next to the portrait of Gennivel Quent. In the painting his face was not so solemn, his brow not yet furrowed, but even then his left hand was tucked in his pocket.

”I was a boy,” he said behind me, the words low. ”It was the year I turned twelve.”

”How did it happen?” Perhaps it was rude of me; it was certainly forward, but I could not help wanting to know.

”I told you, Miss Lockwell-the more you fight against it, the more it fights back.”