Lessons After Dark (2 page)

At any other time, she could have handled the question.

Oh, it would have thrown her a bit. Olivia hadn't expected anyone to remember her from her past life. In her experience, a significantly different way of dressing or doing one's hair would fool most people, and she wasn't so distinctive looking as to be an exception to the rule.

At any rate, she'd been dimly aware the possibility existed, and the last ten years had made her good at thinking on her feet. She could have brushed off the speculation firmly, asked Dr. St. John what gave him license to presume he knew a lady's given name, or even acted puzzled and innocent. No. She thought she had a cousin named Margaret, the closest English equivalent, but she hadn't seen that branch of the family in a while. It wouldn't have even been quite a lie, though she and Margaret Drew had looked nothing alike in their youth, and Olivia doubted time had increased the resemblance.

“I—” she began now, watching Dr. St. John turn away from her.

He glanced back, impatient and distrustful and…hopeful, perhaps, that she had an explanation? Or was that wishful thinking on her part?

Olivia didn't know what she was going to say. Talking itself was an effort, after the strain of gradually pulling power from Elizabeth and grounding it, after trying to seem as if the process was completely familiar to her, when she'd done it only a few times before and only once with someone's natural power. Her mind felt colorless and sticky, almost half a moment behind where it should be.

It was part of the reason, she knew, she'd botched her response so badly, and it would do nothing to help her attempt to explain herself, if, that is, there was any explanation Dr. St. John would accept.

Nevertheless, she had to try. “I'm certain it—”

Through the open doorway, she heard the sound of rapid footsteps on marble and of another door firmly closing. Voices rose from downstairs: one male, two female, none of them particularly familiar.

“That will be Simon,” Dr. St. John said. He drew himself up, and whatever hope Olivia had seen or imagined vanished from his gaze. “If you'll excuse me, madam, I believe I should speak with him.”

She was still doing a very good imitation of a landed fish when he bowed, very slightly, and headed out. The door closed behind him, and the sound of the latch clicking felt like a blow. It wasn't a hard hit or one from which she couldn't recover, but a slap was a slap.

There was a chair by one of the narrow beds. Like the thick carpet and the patterned wallpaper, it was a rather ludicrously ornate clue that this room hadn't held students for very long. The chair was upholstered in brown plush and overstuffed. More importantly, it was at hand.

Olivia mostly fell into it.

She sat with her fingertips pressed against her closed eyes and told herself various reassuring things. The Grenvilles had known about her past before they hired her. She hadn't deceived them. Dr. Gillespie could assure them—and had, Olivia thought—that she actually could work magic. Dr. St. John could tell them nothing they didn't already know.

He could, very easily, force Mr. Grenville to choose between retaining Olivia and retaining him. Or his disgust could simply make the Grenvilles reconsider their decision, no ultimatum required. If one of the staff reacted so strongly, what might others think if the truth came out? What would the students' parents do if they got news of it? Olivia had never been particularly famous, or tried to be—Helena Blavatsky could have all the Theosophical Societies and published books she wanted—but she had always been content with rent for the month and an occasional roast dinner. But this afternoon had been proof enough that she wasn't anonymous either.

I
should
have
dyed
my
hair.
But she'd been trying to stop practicing that kind of deception.

She wondered if that had been part of the reason she'd fumbled.

Not that it mattered.

The room was more comfortable than the parlor she'd kept as a young wife in London. Nonetheless, she could have been back there, sitting on a tiny sofa and working out her accounts, trying to ignore the doctor's murmurs overhead and the sound of her husband's coughing. Waiting for the tread of footsteps on the stairs and the doctor's judgment of how much worse Tom was ailing this time. Preparing for bad news never seemed to get any easier.

Olivia took a breath, held it, and let it out slowly, trying to calm herself the way she'd helped Elizabeth relax. The process had been easier in some ways for the child, who was as yet free from such distractions as tight corsets and too many hairpins. Then again, Olivia wasn't hanging in midair.

Not literally.

***

Gareth had been hoping to talk with Simon alone. He didn't have anything against Mrs. Grenville, though the woman did remind him of several sergeants he'd encountered not always on the best of terms. However, the situation concerning Mrs. Brightmore was delicate. Even he knew that, and he hadn't been moving precisely in Polite Society in the last few years.

He found himself strangely reluctant to embarrass the woman publicly, much as she might deserve it. It was far better to have a quiet word with an old friend and put the matter in his hands. Discretion is the better part of valor, and all that.

So he'd hoped. On the other hand, Simon had not picked his wife for her overabundance of feminine delicacy. On most occasions, so far, Gareth had thought Simon's judgment sound. On this, however, he could have wished the new Mrs. Grenville had been altogether shrinking and dainty, although her presence in Simon's study was largely his own fault. Mrs. Grenville had said she'd heard the new teacher had dealt with Elizabeth. Gareth had cleared his throat and said he'd actually like to speak with Simon about the teacher in question…

…and here they were. The Grenvilles sat in chairs by the fire, Gareth stood while trying not to put his hands in his pockets like a nervous schoolboy, and the Turkish carpet stretched between them like a small sea of good red wine.

Or fresh blood.

“Mrs. Brightmore is—” Bluntness, Gareth decided, would probably serve him well. If it wouldn't, he was still not capable of anything else at the moment. “She's a fraud.”

Mrs. Grenville frowned. When she spoke, her accent—vaguely American, though Gareth didn't have the ear to place it—made a startling counterpoint to Gareth and Simon's voices. “She didn't get the Donnell girl down?”

“Yes, she did. Through some trick of the mind—useful, I don't doubt. But I recognized her. She wasn't using the same name then.”

“I didn't know the two of you had met before. I would've said something.” Simon was leaning back in his chair, almost lounging, in sharp contrast to his wife's straight back and intent look.

“We hadn't,” Gareth said more sharply than he'd intended. “One doesn't
meet
fake mediums.”

There it was. Except the statement hadn't provoked the shock or dismay Gareth had thought it would. Mrs. Grenville actually relaxed a bit.

“I wasn't suggesting you'd signed her dance card or taken her for a carriage ride,” Simon said, half-smiling. “Though I must say I thought the Army made a man less alive to distinctions of class, not the reverse.”

Gareth felt himself flush. “I hardly meant it like that. I wouldn't take issue with a colleague's birth or wealth, but she was a confidence trickster or the next thing to it. She hasn't admitted to it in words, but, Simon, I would swear I'm right about this.”

“Yeah,” said Mrs. Grenville, “you are.” She shrugged. “We should've told you earlier, but we didn't think it'd come up.”

“What?” It was hard to be proper with Mrs. Grenville under normal circumstances. Surprise made Gareth blunt. “You knew?”

Mrs. Grenville lifted her blonde eyebrows in her own rather sarcastic version of surprise. “You didn't think we'd check her background?”

“It was good of you to inform us,” Simon interrupted, “but yes, we had some idea of her past.”

“And you hired her?”

“I said
past
.” Simon smiled in a way Gareth recognized from university, a smile that said he could be patient because he was right and you were wrong and he was just about to show you how. It had always made Gareth want to push him into a mud puddle, though there had never been any puddles convenient. “She was a charlatan for several years, and I'd wager you met her then. Now she isn't.”

Gareth snorted. “What proof has she shown you?”

“The same sort I showed you that evening after the Boat Race. I can ask her to demonstrate, if you'd like.”

“No, thank you.” Gareth repressed a shudder. The window Simon had opened for him in their youth hadn't shown him anything
bad
, precisely, but what he'd seen had made his mind hurt. “Simon, are you absolutely certain? There must be someone else.”

“Nobody willing to drop their own lives and teach a pack of odd youths out in the countryside,” Simon replied. He glanced over at his wife. “Besides, it's been…suggested…certain of the lady's other skills will be useful, given the end we're teaching toward.”

Students, Simon had said when he and Gareth had first discussed the school, and then agents. People to stand against the dark forces of the world when they appeared. Gareth supposed a certain amount of deceit might, under such circumstances, be a necessary evil.

He wasn't at all certain about trusting a woman who'd turned to it in order to make an easy shilling.

“I'm willing,” Simon added slowly, “to take quite a few chances in this endeavor. The school, the students, my ability to teach what little I know and find out more…one woman hardly seems like much of an obstacle.”

“And I suppose she can't do a great deal of harm here,” Gareth admitted slowly. The town was small, the housekeeper had relatively sharp eyes, and Simon knew what he was doing.

“You'll be able to work with her, then?” Simon smiled hopefully. “We do rather need you here.”

There were lines at the corners of Simon's eyes Gareth hadn't seen before he'd left. No gray in his friend's hair, not yet, but he moved and spoke more slowly, with more purpose, as if he were climbing some mountain in his mind.

Gareth wondered if Simon knew how the years had changed him. He wondered what alterations he had yet to notice in himself.

Better a little bad company in a good cause than a little good company in a bad one.

“Certainly,” he said. “I can be civil to the woman. After all, you want me to mend cuts and inspect sore throats, and she's to be a teacher. It's not as though we'll have much to do with each other.”

***

A clock downstairs chimed the quarter hour, jolting Olivia out of her thoughts and making her realize two things. The first was she had about reached her limit as far as waiting was concerned. The second was she was sitting in a bedroom, even though there was nobody else in it.

Making herself move briskly, she got to her feet and brushed her skirts into some semblance of order, then checked her reflection quickly in the small mirror on the wall. Acceptable, she decided, if tired. At least she'd kept herself from weeping. If she was to stay, after all, it wouldn't do for her students to see her so discomposed.

If she wasn't—well, with any luck the Grenvilles would pay her train fare, and she could still earn a living back in London. Regardless, she wouldn't break down when she heard the news. She wouldn't impose herself on the Grenvilles that way, and she certainly wouldn't give Dr. St. John the satisfaction.

Olivia lifted her chin, straightened her back, and stepped out of the room.

At the other end of the hall, an older woman in a dark dress started as she saw Olivia then hurried toward her. “Mrs. Brightmore? I've been looking for you.”

“Oh?” Olivia struggled to keep her voice neutral and pleasant. “I'm sorry to be so hard to find. I'd just sat down to catch my breath for a moment.”

“Of course,” said the woman. Tall, noted the part of Olivia that had spent the last few years reading people for a living, and neither thin nor stout. About forty but well preserved, and not badly off. The dress was plain, but the broadcloth was good material.

The rest of Olivia tried not to beg for information. She smiled politely. “I hope I haven't been any trouble.”

“Not at all. I'm Mrs. Edgar, the housekeeper.” The woman curtsied. Hers was practiced and stately, very far from Violet's uncertain bob. “Mr. Grenville sent me to tell you he and his wife are dining by themselves tonight, as he assumed you'd want to do as much after such a tiring day.”

That sounded almost promising. “It
has
been a little long,” Olivia ventured.

“I don't doubt it. Violet's been unpacking your belongings, and we'll have a tray sent up to your room.”

“That's very kind of you,” said Olivia but didn't let herself relax yet. A room could be temporary. “The students?”

“They'll eat on their own. God willing,” said Mrs. Edgar with the first real emotion Olivia had heard from her, “there won't be any more incidents tonight. Mrs. Grenville said she'd introduce you tomorrow and take you 'round the place as well.”

It was an utterly offhand comment, but it almost made Olivia slump against the wall with relief. “That would be very kind of her,” she said, fumbling for words. “Please thank her for me. And thank you too.”

“Of course, ma'am,” said Mrs. Edgar, neither smiling nor frowning. “Just follow me, and I'll show you your room.”

Olivia followed, half-blind with joy. She could stay. She could teach and learn in her spare time; more than that, there'd be a steady wage, ready meals, and a roof over her head she needn't worry about losing every month.