Authors: Bonnie

The Tutor

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Chapter One

Yorkshire, England 1893

When I first saw Allinson Hall looming dark and foreboding in the distance, I

feared I approached a lunatic asylum rather than a family home. The sprawling gray building appeared hewn from the great rocks that littered the moors and as ominous as the threatening clouds overhead.
What a lovely place to raise children
. Little did I know that an even bleaker darkness than the house possessed resided in the manor’s owner, Sir Richard Allinson.

My heart kept time with the horses’ hooves, moving faster now that the animals

approached their warm stable and hay. The carriage wheels banged over a rut in the road, making my teeth click together painfully. I pressed my cheek against the cold glass of the carriage window and squinted into the gathering gloom, trying to get a better view of my future home. As the carriage rolled down an incline, the manor house disappeared in a fold of land. These moors might appear level but were actually rolling, not quite the open vista I had imagined.

I sat back on the barely padded seat that offered no protection to my travel-weary bones and reviewed the history I’d embroidered for myself. What would my new employer think if he knew how little experience I’d had as a tutor—which is to say, none? Based on falsified references, I was about to take up a post on a North Country estate imparting knowledge to twin boys. How difficult could it be to teach two nine-year-olds the basic subjects? Meanwhile, I’d be living in the lap of luxury through winter, which could be cold and harsh in the grimy London neighborhood where I’d previously resided.

My communication with Richard Allinson had taken place through letters and his

solicitor. I had yet to meet this widowed father in person. My tension at the rather large lie I was about to perpetrate grew with each passing mile. I became convinced he’d take one look at me and see through my paper-thin story. The Graham Cowrie I’d created via testimonials and letters of recommendation reflected little of the real me, but I would embrace this role and climb a new rung of the ladder out of the slum where I’d been born.

The carriage bounced over another jarring rut. My back twinged from far too

many hours of riding in train cars and then this rickety carriage from some bygone era.

Every time I looked out the window, there was nothing to see but grassy moors and folds of billowing gray clouds. What family would choose to settle in such a place? But apparently, the Allinsons had occupied the manor for generations, a lineage stretching back to the Tudors, I believed. The family owned land worked by tenants, factories in other parts of England, and Lord knew what else to keep the great beast of an estate fed.

Now several lighted windows winked in the gathering darkness. I couldn’t make

out the details of the sprawling house, which again jutted from the land, but its hulking shape against the twilight sky fostered an air of foreboding. Distant thunder rumbled and lightning flashed like a portent of danger. A cold shiver raced through me. Though I pretended to scoff at tales shared by my several spiritualist friends, in truth I believed in ghosts and spirits. And if ever a building appeared haunted, it was this one.

I wrapped my arms tight around my body and pulled my chin deeper into the

turned-up collar of my coat. The fabric was too thin for winter, but I couldn’t afford to buy another. The house loomed closer until it filled my vision, blotting out the horizon.

My heart raced as if I were running alongside the horses.

Only a few lighted windows signaled anyone lived in this monstrosity. It was

composed of the stone walls and turrets of the original medieval fortress with more recently cobbled-on wings,
recent
being a relative term that probably encompassed the last few hundred years.

High in the largest tower—which no doubt would’ve been the guard tower in a

bygone era when attacking armies threatened—a single bright beam of light drew my

attention. But when I looked up the cylindrical column, there was no light after all.

Perhaps window glass had reflected a lightning flash.

The carriage passed through a gap in a stone wall. I had no more opportunity to

ponder strange lights or eerie fantasies of the spirits that might dwell in a building so steeped in layers of time. I must focus on presenting myself to Sir Richard Allinson and bringing complete confidence to my exaggerated history. He would believe my lies only if I believed them myself.

The horses’ hooves clattered on stone as the carriage reached the grand courtyard, and the coachman brought them to a halt. I reached for the door handle. Before I could grasp it, the coachman, who’d introduced himself as Drover, opened the door. He spoke not a word, merely stood like a sentinel, waiting. What a jolly welcome to my new home.

I sucked in a lungful of the bracing air before climbing out of the shelter like a moth emerging from its cocoon. Once I left the carriage behind, I must embrace my new life and identity completely. A terrifying thought.

The moment my shoes hit the flagstones, icy wind swirled my coat around my

legs, binding them so I could scarcely walk. It blew my hat from my head, and scoured my face with grit and sleet. Drover hurried to retrieve my hat, his black coat flapping around him like a sail.

I gazed at the wide, ornately carved door under the imposing portico resting on

stone pillars. This would be the largest, grandest building I’d ever been in, barring museums and a tour of the Tower of London. I must behave as if I were used to working in a house like this, as if the surroundings didn’t impress me and my knees weren’t knocking together.
Play the part. Become the tutor.

The coachman returned to hand me my hat just as one side of the double door

creaked open on mighty hinges with the slow majesty of a drawbridge admitting entrance to a castle. Light spilled from inside to illuminate the wet flagstones.

“Best hurry in,” Drover said at last.

“Yes.” I forced my weak legs to march across the courtyard toward the doorway,

where a black-suited figure waited. A butler, of course. My coworker, so to speak. I knew little of the hierarchy of the staff in a country estate, but had reviewed some of the protocol with my friend Annie, who used to be in service. With luck, I wouldn’t make any huge gaffes to reveal I’d had no experience.

“Good evening, Mr. Cowrie.”

My bold steps faltered at the butler’s funereal tone and gaunt, jaundiced face,

hardly more than skin stretched over bone. He appeared more of a talking skeleton than a living man.

“Good evening.” I managed not to cringe away from his frightening figure as I

passed. And then I lost all power of speech as I gazed around the museum of a hallway.

Worn and faded tapestries covered the walls. Two full suits of armor faced one another like ghostly sentries. One had to walk past their raised double-bladed axes in order to proceed. This place was in every aspect the gothic monstrosity of the pulp novels I’d read. In those novels, the ingénue inevitably regretted her decision to take a governess position at an isolated estate on a windswept moor. I gave a little grimace of a smile at the thought.

If I’d stayed in my job at the print shop, I’d be enjoying the end of a work day in the pub next door about now. But my typesetting position had offered little possibility of advancement, which was why I’d responded to an advertisement requiring the services of a tutor. I’d been seduced by the prestige such a job would add to my résumé
and
by the higher pay and a chance to winter in rich accommodations. Hah! The hall was drafty and cold. The stone walls and flagstone floor beneath a thin carpet radiated the chill of a tomb. It was highly doubtful the rest of the old pile would be any more welcoming, and I’d be lucky if I was given a lump of coal to heat my bedchamber.

I turned to ask the butler his name and found the man had evaporated. No. Not

evaporated, but shifted position with feline swiftness, for when I faced forward again, he was right in front of me. I jumped and nearly squeaked in surprise before I asked, “Shall I get my bags, Mister…?”

“Smithers.” His bloodless lips barely moved, and his face remained masklike.

“The boy will bring in your luggage.”

Gaslights illuminated the hall. At least that much technology had made it into this mausoleum. But Smithers carried a paraffin lantern as he led me down a narrower and very dim hallway. We passed darkened rooms, which would no doubt be a parlor, a sitting room, a dining room, and all the other extra rooms wealthy people required in order to live to their satisfaction.

I felt like I should ask him questions about the household, but Smithers’s silence was so intimidating, it stalled the words in my throat. I plodded after him, a refugee taken in from a storm and begrudgingly offered a room for the night. In a novel, that traveler might not live until morning, or he’d have to battle the evil force in the eerie mansion.

My wild imagination made me shiver as I followed Smithers up several flights of

stairs and down another hallway. The butler stopped in front of a door, and I nearly ran into him.

“This will be your chamber. Master Whitney and Master Clive share the bedroom

just over there. The schoolroom is at the end of the hall. You shall meet the young masters and the staff tomorrow. Sir Richard is currently abroad but should return within a week.”

I nearly sighed aloud. At least I would have time to adjust to my surroundings

before meeting the master of the house. Yet at the same time, I wished to have the formal interview over with. It wasn’t too late for the man to send me packing, and I’d be lingering in limbo until I passed muster.

Smithers opened the door, and I entered a small bedchamber dominated by a tall,

old-fashioned bed draped in curtains. Dickens’s Ebenezer Scrooge could’ve rested in that bed while awaiting the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. Coal smoke stung my nose. The fire on the grate puffed wisps of smoke into the room as if the flue was partially blocked. But at least the bedroom was vaguely warmer than the hallway and definitely warmer than my London flat would have been on a night like this.

I looked at Smithers, who stood solemnly beside me, perhaps waiting for my

response, or else he’d died standing with his rheumy eyes wide open.

“Thank you. This is a lovely room.” It wasn’t, but I had to say something. What I

really wanted to ask about was dinner, and the mere thought of food made my stomach growl.

“You may go to the kitchen, where Cook has set by a plate for you.”

“Ah. That would be greatly appreciated. I was afraid I might have to wait for

breakfast.” I chuckled, and the smoky air swallowed the mirthful sound. I stopped

laughing.