The Tutor (11 page)

him sleeping with them for that matter. But one doesn’t interfere with families.”

“No.” I understood all too well. After my father died and Mum took up with the

horrible Roger Dwyer, when things got loud and violent, no neighbor tried to help us. It wasn’t their place.

“Honestly, it was a blessing when Tom’s father drove him off to fend for himself.

I was finally able to lend the boy a hand, give him a job and a place to live.”

“That was very kind of you.”

He shrugged off my praise. “It was my responsibility.”

“The boy is smarter than people think,” I said. “And he’s an incredibly gifted

artist. You truly saved him.”

“An artist? How would you know that?”

“The first day he came to fetch the lunch trays, the boys were drawing. He

seemed so intrigued that I allowed him to join in. Since then, I’ve been giving him lessons in the evening—in our spare time. I’m not taking him away from his work,” I explained. “I hope that’s all right.”

Allinson had moved around to my side of the horse to brush Jackdaw’s neck. He

gazed down at me. “He draws well?”

“Astonishingly well. Lithograph quality. Certainly better than anything I could

do.”

Any more words dried up in my mouth as I gazed at Allinson standing right in

front of me. Our positions couldn’t have been more suggestive. I was still on my knees, eye level with his groin.
Good evening!
I greeted the bulge in snug riding breeches.

I tore my gaze away from his crotch, praying he hadn’t noticed my bald stare, and

looked up to his face. He
had
noticed. No doubt about that. Allinson’s face flushed, and his jaw worked, clenching and unclenching rhythmically. He was either about to strike me across the face for my impertinence or, God, with any luck, grab my arm, pull me to my feet, and kiss me until neither of us could see straight.

I saw it in my mind almost as if it had already happened. I swore I could feel his crushing arms around my body and the desperation in his kisses. As devoted as Allinson seemed to be to his dead wife, I surmised he had never followed through on his inclination toward men. He seemed the type who’d deny those perverse needs to the

bitter end of his days. I envisioned a scenario in which I was the first man to tap those hidden desires, to show him what could be, and to tutor him in the ways of male loving.

Between one breath and another, I’d already played out the entire scene in my head.

Our gazes remained entwined in a silent wrestling match. Who would give in first

and look away? Who would give in and reach out for what he wanted?

Allinson’s shoulders rose and fell with his breathing. He gripped that currycomb

as if it were a life preserver. His lips parted slightly and I held my breath, waiting.

“No.” That was all he muttered. Just the one word.

It was a dagger of disappointment to my heart. But lust still swirled in the air

between us, so powerful and palpable, it felt almost like another presence in the room. I rose slowly to my feet and cocked my head slightly. “No?”

Confusion knit his dark brows over eyes that gleamed with desire. Oh
yes
, he wanted me, and I knew how to make him want me even more. I could easily steer this situation to its natural conclusion. A heated look, a teasing smile, my hands unfastening those tight breeches, and then back on my knees and…

I could also find myself out of a job come morning. Hell, I probably would

anyway. Having gone this far, why not push further? I took another step closer to

Allinson. So close I could smell his delicious sweat, hear the creak of his leather boots as he shifted, practically taste his salty skin when I inhaled.

Allinson swayed a fraction, his body inclining toward mine as if drawn by a

magnet. Then he pulled back.

“No! Not here. Not now.” He seemed to realize his mistake. “Or
ever
,” he gritted between his teeth, his shocked eyes going narrow.

As he turned away, I heard another whisper meant only for himself. “Not again.”

My ears pricked.
Again?
So he wasn’t completely inexperienced as I’d assumed.

There was a story there, a loss of something precious, another thread in a tapestry of tragedy. Another question to add to my long list.

I had darted my fingers through flames for long enough. Time to draw back

before I got a serious burn. Allinson had made his feelings clear. Even if he was

interested, he wasn’t interested. I should respect that and stop playing the coquette.

I resumed drying the already dry horse. “So, Jackdaw. How did you come to

choose that name?”

Allinson threw me a look over his shoulder as he strode toward the oat bin. “I

should think that would be fairly obvious.”

“Yes, of course. He’s black and glossy like a crow. I guess Crow or Raven would

be an odd name. Jackdaw sounds better.” I began to babble, the confidence I displayed in flirtatious situations abruptly dispersing. “There was an old peg-legged sailor used to live in my building. He kept a raven in a cage. Seemed cruel to me. I snuck into his place and let it out one day.”

Recalling that I was meant to be a genteel man who’d only recently been forced to

assume teaching positions, I snapped my mouth closed on any more stories of the

colorful inhabitants of the shabby tenement where I’d most recently lived. My accent was slipping too. I righted it like a woman adjusting her hat and jabbing in a couple of pins.

Sir Richard poured oats into Jackdaw’s feedbox, and the horse moved away from

me to docilely enter his stall. His master stroked the beast’s neck and didn’t turn toward me again as he said, “Thank you for your help. You may go now.”

“Yes. All right. And thank
you
again for saving me from a long, wet walk.”

I had no more excuse for lingering. I put on my coat and headed out into the rain, jogging swiftly toward the house.

I mentally ran through the events of the last hour, with some imagined

embellishments, and realized that something had shifted. In telling his worries about old Albert McGrew, Sir Richard had opened a door through which confidences might be exchanged.

And in that magnetic moment when we’d been a breath away from giving in to

temptation, that door had been taken off its proverbial hinges. I couldn’t help but believe that sooner or later, one or the other of us would walk through it.

Over the next week, the weather announced that winter truly was just around the

corner. Every day was overcast, blustery, and sometimes rainy. The boys and I couldn’t spend more than five minutes outdoors before freezing wind drove us back inside. With that loss of freedom and sunlight, a gloom settled over me again.

This despair was much deeper and longer lasting than the previous brief bouts I’d

experienced since coming to Allinson Hall. In my life, I’d known hard times and had lost loved ones, but I’d never experienced such a debilitating hopelessness. It took every ounce of my strength to drag my body out of bed and adopt a cheery demeanor for the twins’ benefit. My responsibility to those boys was the beacon that kept me from wallowing in darkness. I was there for them, and to me that meant much more than their education. I’d grown quite fond of the lads and protective of their wellbeing and happiness.

Everyone in the household either accepted or ignored the fact Clive never spoke.

At first, I’d been too new to bring up the subject, particularly with the master of the house. But as I grew more confident in my position as the boys’ teacher and caretaker, I decided it was time to address the issue.

I resolved to seek out Sir Richard and discuss both of his sons’ welfare, whether

or not he wanted to hear what I had to say. But first I would try to learn just a little more about the center of this storm of intense emotions, Lavinia Allinson. Such a sensitive topic must be broached carefully with the twins.

An opportunity presented itself one day during our afternoon art time as I looked

over Clive’s shoulder at his drawing—yet another depiction of a woman haloed in light facing a sinister entity. Whitney had gone to use the WC, and Clive and I were alone in the schoolroom.

“Who is the woman, Clive? Your mum?”

He ignored me and scrubbed with the side of his pencil to make the dark being

even blacker. But then he inclined his head slightly.

I squatted so I was on his level. “And this?” I pointed to the darkness. “What is

this thing?”

Of course he didn’t answer, so I elaborated. “Something bad happened?”

His hand stopped moving.

I lowered my voice. “I understand. My father, brother, and two of my sisters died

almost all at once. Death felt like a monster that snatched them away. But it’s all right to talk about it. You might feel better if you did.”

He viciously blackened the figure still further.

I tried again. “Death is not—”

He crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room.

“Clive…” I touched his shoulder, to try to offer some small comfort, but the boy

bolted out of his chair, knocking it into me so I lost my balance and nearly fell over.

By the time I scrambled to my feet, he’d left the room. I was frustrated and

disappointed. He seemed to tolerate my presence better these days, and I’d hoped to reach him, but it seemed we were back to square one. Maybe I’d get a better response from Whit.

Except neither boy returned. I waited nearly twenty minutes before admitting

they’d done a runner on me. If they hadn’t braved the bad weather to hide out in their secret garden, then they were lurking in any of the hundred and some rooms in this ridiculous place. I was reminded how little control I actually had over my charges. I might have won their interest and trust for a short while, but keeping it was another thing.

With nothing better to occupy my time and feeling that I ought to at least
attempt
to keep track of the boys, I set out to hunt for them. I guessed they’d head for the older part of the building, so I walked the now-familiar path into the fortress that was the heart of Allinson Hall. A chill rose from the unforgiving stone to envelope me.

I carried a small lamp in my hand, which did little to dispel the somber gloom that filled not only the corridor but my spirit as well. Every step took me farther from the present and into the past. I explored bedchambers and the chapel, where I half hoped I might encounter Sir Richard again. But the darkness there was undisturbed, no candles burned, nor did any presence flit at the corner of my vision.

I moved on, not really expecting to find Whit and Clive, who knew how to keep

out of sight and might be spying on me as I searched. Like cats, they’d show up when they wished.

I turned a corner, and there it was—the door to the tower. Slightly ajar once more.

My stomach thudded into my shoes as I stared at the slice of darkness and recalled the sensation of something—not a lock—holding the door shut against me. I told myself to go back. I had nothing to prove here. No one would consider me braver because I’d gone up those stairs. And if something should happen, if I should trip and fall all the way down, I might break my neck, and it could be days, if ever, before anyone found me.

However, the boys might be playing up there. If they were, there was no way for

them to get past me. I’d have them cornered and coerce them into returning to the

schoolroom where they belonged.

If they weren’t there? Curiosity went a long way toward getting my feet moving

again. I
had
to see. I had to know what the room or rooms at the top of the tower looked like. I had to see the view for myself.

“You’ve faced down bullies and been in pub brawls. This is not a real danger. It’s just a dark, cobwebbed, ancient, eerie, creepy, possibly haunted place. Now go!” I ordered myself aloud.

I reached out a shaking hand to grasp the handle and pull the door the rest of the way open. I shone my lamp into the narrow passage to reveal nothing but the stairs. Then I set my foot on the first step.

Any time in my life I’ve had to face fear, I’ve done it by counting. I would tell

myself,
In a mere X amount of minutes, this will be over, so why indulge in being upset?

Get through the next several seconds, and this will become a part of the past, an artifact
to be remembered but with no power over me.
The method worked quite well when Dwyer was beating the snot out of me.

One step, two steps, three steps, four.
No cold air—at least not any colder than the rest of the fortress—and no whispering voices disturbed the stillness. Nor did I hear the giggles or pattering feet of children from overhead. Whit and Clive probably weren’t up there.

I peered ahead into the well of darkness that seemed to absorb my little light. I

couldn’t see a damned thing beyond the few steps in front of me. How many stairs were there to the top of the tower—and what awaited me there?

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.
I could go back down any time. Just turn around and trot down those stairs—not run because nothing was after me, but—
eighteen, nineteen,
twenty
—I was almost at the top. What was the point in going this far and giving up? A quick peek around a probably empty guard tower, one look at the view of the land below, and my curiosity would be satisfied once and for all.

The backs of my legs ached, and I was out of breath from the climb as much as

my own superstitious nerves when I reached the top landing. Another door confronted me. Closed this time. Did I have the nerve to creak it open on what would surely be a pair of rusty hinges? Every skeletal specter from the many ghastly stories I’d read haunted my mind as I reached for the handle. Nothing would expel them quicker than facing whatever lay on the other side.

I took hold of the metal grip, turned, and pushed. The door swung inward as