at the carpet.
“Please go to your room for a moment. I’d like a word with your teacher.”
“Yes, sir,” Whit mumbled.
Sir Richard entered the room, and his sons skirted around him as if he had the
plague before disappearing out the door. I braced myself for the tongue-lashing I’d earned for telling horror tales rather than teaching Latin.
There we were again, two men alone in a very quiet room. My heart pounded in
my ears. It was an odd sensation, caught halfway between fear and outrageous
temptation. Allinson had the power to dismiss me, but I had some power over him too. I could see it in the widening of his eyes and the flare of his nostrils as he drew near. There was something silent yet undeniable between us.
“I interrupted your story,” he said at last.
“The boys worked hard on lessons today, and I thought they’d earned some
entertainment. Just a little tale I concocted.”
“A very spooky one, from the sound of it.” He wandered over to the wall where
the boys’ drawings were tacked and bent to study each one.
“As a boy, I liked nothing better than a chilling story. I guessed Clive and Whit…
ney would feel the same.” I watched the tall, handsome man prowl the room. He paused to trace a finger over the womanly shape facing off against the black, threatening presence in Clive’s drawing.
“Given their mother’s death, dwelling on the otherworldly and bizarre hardly
seems wise,” Allinson said.
“Perhaps not. I didn’t really think…” I trailed off. “But it seems such worries are already in their minds. A very wise man I once knew believed that expressing one’s fears through the arts was a healthy way to dispel them.”
He looked at me. “Your father?”
I shook my head. “No. My father died when I was quite young. This was…a
friend.” More than a friend. Sylvester Leighton had been lover, mentor, paternal figure, and more, for several very crucial years of my life.
Allinson resumed studying the drawings, moving on to Tom’s portrait of the
house. “Fathers and sons are often at odds. My own sons…” He paused for a long
moment. “My boys have not been the same since Lavinia’s death. I confess I don’t know how to reach out to them. I believe they blame me…”
As if realizing he’d offered too much personal information to a servant, Allinson
abruptly straightened and started toward the door. “Carry on as you have been. Teach them indoors or out as you see fit. I haven’t heard either of my sons laugh in months.
Today, as I approached this room, their laughter echoed down the hallway. I was happy to hear it.”
He didn’t look at me as he spoke, but I accepted the compliment all the same.
“They’re very bright, high-spirited boys,” I responded. “I’m pleased to be
teaching them.” And I realized that I was. Despite growing tired of having to invent and engage and entertain, I did enjoy working with Whit and odd little Clive.
I wanted to talk further with Sir Richard, to point out, in case he’d missed it, that one of his boys refused to speak a word, that both of them needed him to give them more attention and maybe put an arm around them once in a while, that he definitely needed to get to the root of why they might blame him for their mother’s death. But none of this was my business to discuss. I was merely a servant. The most I could do was teach the boys to the best of my ability.
Allinson paused in the doorway. “Did you read ‘The Copper Beeches’ mystery?”
“Nearly finished. I’m enjoying it very much. Thank you for the loan of the book.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment and then, as shy and standoffish as Clive,
he slipped away.
I released a breath, and my hammering heart began to slow. Oh, the effect that
man had on me, and how I wished something could come of it.
I began to tidy the room. Intending to add the boys’ new artwork to the wall, I
gathered their drawings. When I actually took a look
“Please go to your room for a moment. I’d like a word with your teacher.”
“Yes, sir,” Whit mumbled.
Sir Richard entered the room, and his sons skirted around him as if he had the
plague before disappearing out the door. I braced myself for the tongue-lashing I’d earned for telling horror tales rather than teaching Latin.
There we were again, two men alone in a very quiet room. My heart pounded in
my ears. It was an odd sensation, caught halfway between fear and outrageous
temptation. Allinson had the power to dismiss me, but I had some power over him too. I could see it in the widening of his eyes and the flare of his nostrils as he drew near. There was something silent yet undeniable between us.
“I interrupted your story,” he said at last.
“The boys worked hard on lessons today, and I thought they’d earned some
entertainment. Just a little tale I concocted.”
“A very spooky one, from the sound of it.” He wandered over to the wall where
the boys’ drawings were tacked and bent to study each one.
“As a boy, I liked nothing better than a chilling story. I guessed Clive and Whit…
ney would feel the same.” I watched the tall, handsome man prowl the room. He paused to trace a finger over the womanly shape facing off against the black, threatening presence in Clive’s drawing.
“Given their mother’s death, dwelling on the otherworldly and bizarre hardly
seems wise,” Allinson said.
“Perhaps not. I didn’t really think…” I trailed off. “But it seems such worries are already in their minds. A very wise man I once knew believed that expressing one’s fears through the arts was a healthy way to dispel them.”
He looked at me. “Your father?”
I shook my head. “No. My father died when I was quite young. This was…a
friend.” More than a friend. Sylvester Leighton had been lover, mentor, paternal figure, and more, for several very crucial years of my life.
Allinson resumed studying the drawings, moving on to Tom’s portrait of the
house. “Fathers and sons are often at odds. My own sons…” He paused for a long
moment. “My boys have not been the same since Lavinia’s death. I confess I don’t know how to reach out to them. I believe they blame me…”
As if realizing he’d offered too much personal information to a servant, Allinson
abruptly straightened and started toward the door. “Carry on as you have been. Teach them indoors or out as you see fit. I haven’t heard either of my sons laugh in months.
Today, as I approached this room, their laughter echoed down the hallway. I was happy to hear it.”
He didn’t look at me as he spoke, but I accepted the compliment all the same.
“They’re very bright, high-spirited boys,” I responded. “I’m pleased to be
teaching them.” And I realized that I was. Despite growing tired of having to invent and engage and entertain, I did enjoy working with Whit and odd little Clive.
I wanted to talk further with Sir Richard, to point out, in case he’d missed it, that one of his boys refused to speak a word, that both of them needed him to give them more attention and maybe put an arm around them once in a while, that he definitely needed to get to the root of why they might blame him for their mother’s death. But none of this was my business to discuss. I was merely a servant. The most I could do was teach the boys to the best of my ability.
Allinson paused in the doorway. “Did you read ‘The Copper Beeches’ mystery?”
“Nearly finished. I’m enjoying it very much. Thank you for the loan of the book.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment and then, as shy and standoffish as Clive,
he slipped away.
I released a breath, and my hammering heart began to slow. Oh, the effect that
man had on me, and how I wished something could come of it.
I began to tidy the room. Intending to add the boys’ new artwork to the wall, I
gathered their drawings. When I actually took a look
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