The Magicians And Mrs. Quent Part 26

I could not speak for my complexion, but that the exercise and fresh air had done me good, I was certain. My mood had improved; the malaise I had suffered under-without really knowing it-had lifted. I was sure the fit I had experienced in the room upstairs would not happen if I were to enter there today. It had been an effect of melancholy and a weakened spirit.

"Tell me, Clarette, Chambley, how do your studies go?"

I looked up. Mr. Quent had addressed the children. However, Clarette was not looking at him but rather at me, her mouth open. Chambley clutched a piece of bread.

I set down my fork. "Tell Mr. Quent what you have been reading, Clarette." My voice was encouraging, but I could hardly have been more surprised than the children. However, once I prompted them to discuss what we had been learning of Tharosian history-their favorite topic-they chatted and chirped, and Mr. Quent listened for a quarter of an hour to accounts of ancient battles and the treachery of emperors.

At last I gently urged the children to finish their meal. Then I sent them upstairs with the promise I would follow.

"Thank you, Miss Lockwell."

I turned in the doorway. I could not read his expression or the look in his brown eyes. "For what, Mr. Quent?"

"For your work with the children. They are much improved since you came. I fear my instinct was always to be stern with them, but a gentle word from you achieves more than all my most serious lectures."

These words took me aback. That he should be thanking me after what I had done was hardly comprehensible-that after I had violated his will and trespa.s.sed upon his most private sanctum he could express grat.i.tude was almost unbearable.

"I must see to the children," I said, and hurried from the dining room.

As I climbed the stairs, I could not feel so certain as the master of the house that my charges were improved. It was true they had been quiet since the day of their argument in the front hall, even subdued, but I did not take that as a sign of their well-being.

Riding had improved my condition, but I could not think what could be done for them. They seemed to grow more wan by the day, and Chambley's breathing had become a constant labor. However, I could rarely convince them to go out of doors. Clarette, I felt, might have been coaxed, but she would not let herself be parted from her brother, and he was reluctant to leave the house except for the briefest intervals.

"Please, let's stay inside," I overheard him whisper to Clarette one day as I returned to our parlor with their coats. "It can't be a good thing to go out. Not if she wants us to do it." For some reason I did not think it was me he was speaking about.

Now I opened the door to their room. As I did, Clarette turned suddenly from the window. Outside, a lingering twilight draped the moor. Chambley sat on his bed. He was s.h.i.+vering, though the room was warm. I hurried to sit next to him and put my hand to his forehead. It was clammy with sweat.

"Clarette," I said, "what happened? You brother was very well when I sent you upstairs."

She did not move from the window. Her eyes appeared black in the fading light.

Chambley let out a whimper and leaned against me. "Did something happen just now, Clarette? Answer me at once."

"But I can't answer you!" she burst out.

"On the contrary, you can and will."

"You said I was never to say again that I saw things outside."

"No, I said you were not to tell a falsehood, Clarette."

"But you'll say it's a lie, even when it isn't. So I can't tell you what happened. You'll scold me!" Her back had gone rigid. I could not tell if she was frightened or angry. Chambley threw his arms around my neck.

"Clarette," I said, making my voice low but firm, "I will never scold you for speaking the truth. Now tell me what happened."

She turned and pointed to the window. "We saw her. Standing out there below our window."

"Whom did you see, Clarette? Was it Mrs. Darendal? Or was it Lanna?"

"No, it wasn't them. It was her."

Now I was growing angry. I had had enough of this behavior. Chambley could not stop shaking. "Who do you mean, Clarette? It was not myself. And if it was not Mrs. Darendal or Lanna, then who could it be?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I told you that you wouldn't believe me."

"I will believe you, Clarette, if you tell the truth."

She only shook her head, taking a backward step toward the window.

My voice rose. Such open disobedience could not be tolerated. "Clarette, answer me at once. Who did you see out the window?"

Chambley pushed away from me. "It was her," he cried out. "It was the Pale Lady. She was standing outside the window and looking up at us. Clarette said she wanted us to come down, but I said I wouldn't go." He leaped off the bed and glared at his sister, his small hands clenched into fists. "I don't care what she says to you. I won't go out to her. I won't!"

At last I understood. Clarette had been telling him stories again, frightening him. I stood and advanced toward Clarette.

"Is this true?" I said. "Is this what you told your brother?"

She looked up at me. "Yes. It is true. We saw the lady in white outside the window. We watched her run from the old wood. She came from the trees on the other side of the wall."

Now I went cold. For a moment I was back in the forbidden room. I saw again the painting of the trees, and the woman in a pale, tattered dress caught among the branches...

I took a breath to clear my head. Clarette must have seen into the room after my collapse; the door would have been open. She had seen the painting. She was being cruel, that was all, teasing me as she had her brother.

I fixed her with my gaze. "You will take back your words, Clarette. Tell your brother you are sorry for what you said."

"But I'm not sorry!"

She started to turn away, but I caught her wrist.

"Tell your brother you are sorry for frightening him."

She said nothing. I tightened my grip around her wrist. I saw her face go white; I knew I was hurting her.

"Tell him, Clarette!"

Her jaw was set, her mouth a thin line. Behind me I heard Chambley sniffling. A haze descended over my vision. I do not know what I might have done in that moment; I fear it might have been something terrible, something I would have regretted ever afterward. However, before I could act, something moved outside the window. It was pale in the gloaming below.

Like a flutter of white cloth.

I let go of Clarette's wrist and was dimly aware that she rushed away from me, to her brother. The window drew me forward. I leaned on the sill and bent close to the gla.s.s.

I had not imagined it! Something moved in the gloaming, away from the house and toward the east. Was it a sheep strayed from its field? No, it went upright, threading over the ground, white tatters streaming behind it. Then, in the time it took to blink my eyes, it was gone. Full dark fell. I saw nothing in the window save my own startled expression.

I turned around. Clarette and Chambley sat on the bed, their arms circled around each other, their eyes wide as if they beheld some horrific sight. Only they were not staring at the window. They were staring at me.

I drew the curtain over the window with a trembling hand. "It is time for bed," I managed to say. Unable to utter anything more, I left them alone in the room.

T HE NEXT MORNING I carried a breakfast tray up to their chamber. It was early; the night had been short, and the sky bore just the faintest blush of dawn. However, I had not been able to sleep all night.

I knocked gently and entered. They lay without moving in their beds. Chambley was fast asleep, his small face at peace, his breathing deep and steady. Clarette, I felt, was not sleeping, though her eyes were shut. I set the tray down on the table in the corner, opened the curtain, and sat on the bed beside her. With a hand I smoothed her hair; it was soft and dark, as if spun from shadows.

"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."