Lessons After Dark (5 page)

“Going into the village?”

At Charlotte's voice, Olivia looked up from buttoning her walking jacket. “I thought I would. I've a few errands there, and honestly, I'd like to get a look at the place. Care to join me?”

“Wouldn't I?” Charlotte laughed, gesturing to her elegantly styled coat and hat. “As long as you don't mind my trailing along. I promise I can keep up. I'd rather have someone to talk with, and I couldn't go with Waite and Fitzpatrick this morning, you know. Scandal and all that rot.”

“I'd be glad of the company,” Olivia said, smiling. “Especially company that looks as good as you do.”

Charlotte's dress was a rich green-and-brown wool, made along much more flowing lines than was common in popular fashions. Some of the ladies who'd come to see Olivia in London had worn similar styles, but few had worn them as well. As far as she could tell, “artistic dress” was reform clothing for those who didn't want to take the plunge into bloomers. Ribbons, some brown and some green, trimmed Charlotte's hat, and her brown coat looked considerably newer than Olivia's faded gray one.

At the compliment, Charlotte laughed again. “Thank you, and thank God you don't twit me about dressing like a normal female. I was scared to death of a lecture the first time I saw you.”

“I find it hard to imagine you ever being really frightened,” Olivia said as they went out the door. “Besides, you're not the first girl I've seen in such clothing.”

“Oh, yes, you lived in London, didn't you?” Charlotte sighed a little theatrically. “I've never been. Well, not really. Passed through a bit on the way here, you know, but all I saw of it was the inside of the station, and that very briefly. My first train was late, and I had to move like anything to catch the second, and that's the very devil to do in skirts and a crowd. Er, sorry about the language.”

“Quite all right.”

Good humor was easy just then. Outside was one of those cold but brilliant days that came in late September, where the sky was almost a sharp shade of blue and the trees blazed golden and red beneath it. Autumn in the countryside. Olivia hadn't known until just then how much she'd missed it in London, where the only change of the seasons was the thickness of the fog and the frequency of the rain.

The money in her purse didn't hurt either. Money, in Olivia's experience, had come in the form of rather battered coins. What notes she'd handled had been crumpled and stained more often than not. Those she'd received that morning, in a discreetly wrapped paper bundle, had been crisp and new. Not a significant detail but one that made her happy nonetheless.

She'd put half her pay into a small wooden box in her room, as she'd always done, but that had still left her with enough to order some new clothes.

As she walked, Olivia looked down the road, smiled, and then looked back at Charlotte. “You might have to be immensely proper later on, you know,” she said. “I don't know what…well, what you'll be doing once you've had an education here.”

“Oh, I can act the lady when I have to,” Charlotte said easily. “Papa saw to that. Well, the governesses he hired, mostly, but he always said a man, or a woman, ought to be able to fit into any society necessary. He said we're adaptable creatures, and we should act like it.”

“A follower of Mr. Darwin, then?” Olivia asked.

“A little. He's quite a naturalist when he has time for it. When we were in Egypt, he used to take me out to look at the crocodiles.” Another laugh as Olivia's eyes widened. “From a distance, of course, and with a rifle. Is your papa much for nature?”

“Not crocodiles,” Olivia said. “He fished a great deal, though, and he was very fond of gardening.” Had Stephen and Mariah, her cousin and his wife, kept his design for the gardens at Redford, her childhood home? They must have. They were very kind, and there were Mother's feelings to think of. But then, Mariah was very fashionable, and Father had been rather the opposite. Olivia cleared her throat. “I think he proposed to my mother because she was the only woman he knew who preferred irises to roses.”

“I'm sorry,” said Charlotte, hearing the past tense. “I didn't know—”

“Not at all. It was several years ago, and he went peacefully. He'd had his threescore and ten.”

Charlotte gave her a long look. “Did—may I ask an impertinent question? You can slap me or walk ahead if it's
too
impertinent. I'll understand.”

“Yes, you may,” said Olivia, and read the question in Charlotte's face. It could be nothing else, Miss Woodwell's curiosity being what it was. “No, I never tried to talk with him afterwards.”

“Oh.” To her credit, she didn't ask why not.

Olivia wasn't sure
she
knew. At first, she'd known very well she couldn't actually speak with anyone's spirit. After she'd discovered a way to really do so, she just hadn't thought of it. In any event, he'd probably passed beyond by then. People did. “I suppose I didn't want to disturb him.”

Charlotte thought for a moment, dark brows drawn together, and then nodded briskly. “Makes sense enough to me. You were dealing with the spirits of everyone else's relations. Naturally you'd want a rest when it came to your own. I asked about Mama once,” she added, more slowly than usual. “A few years ago. We were back in England by that time, and there was a woman who said she could talk to the dead for a few shillings.”

Her eyes were on the road ahead of her. Olivia tried to keep her gaze ahead too, and not to tense. “What happened?”

“She twitched a lot and spoke in a different voice. Said she was Mama and she was very happy where she was, but nothing specific.” Charlotte shrugged. “Then again, I didn't go in with much. Mama died when I was very little, you understand.”

“And your father doesn't talk about her often?” Olivia asked, relieved and sad at the same time. In the ten years since her father had died, every letter from her mother had mentioned him in some way.

On the other hand, she barely even thought about Tom anymore, and what did that mean?

If Olivia's emotions showed on her face, Charlotte didn't notice. She merely shrugged again. “Not in any tiresome Gothic sort of way. He hasn't covered her portrait or forbidden me to mention her or anything. It's just…been a while. Life goes on. He married again,” she added. “Two years ago. That's part of the reason I'm here. She's kind and all, but—”

“I'd imagine it's difficult having another woman in charge of your house after all this time.”

“That's it exactly. I wish her and Papa well, I truly do, but if I'm not going to be mistress of the place I live, I might as well get an education out of it.”

Olivia smiled. “No wicked stepmother either, then.”

“Afraid not!” Charlotte said cheerfully. “The only fairy tale about me is the godmother. Unofficial godmother. I've two official ones, very respectable, but they didn't do anything interesting for me.” At Olivia's blank look, she continued. “When I was born, Papa's regiment was up north, on the coast. He did a favor for one of the local families, took their side against one of his men in some kind of dispute. Papa wouldn't ever tell me what exactly, so I think it was a pretty nasty business.”

Tom had alluded to similar nasty business when he'd been alive, skimming over the parts he'd thought a lady shouldn't hear. Olivia had guessed them later, when she'd started working in London. “Quite probably,” she said.

“The day after, an old woman came to see Papa—the grandmother or great-grandmother or something of the family he'd helped. She said he'd made an effort to understand, and so his children would always be able to understand others.”

“And what does that mean, practically speaking?”

Charlotte stopped, held up a hand, and looked around. They stood alone in the road, with the village just around the bend. There were a few farmhouses in the distance, but mostly the road was lined with trees.

“Please come down,” said Charlotte, and there was a strange not-quite echo about her voice. “We won't hurt you.”

There was a brief flurry of wings from a nearby tree, then a shape winging down. Olivia stood staring for a moment before she recognized the shape as a blackbird.

“Hello,” Charlotte said to the bird as it lit on her hand. “No nipping off anyone's noses, right? We're not nearly the right rank, and nobody's tried to put you in a pie.” The strange quality remained in her voice.

“Does it understand you?” Olivia asked.

“More or less. Birds are harder than mammals or reptiles. I can't talk to insects at all, or the smaller sort of fish, and even the bigger ones are difficult.” Charlotte stroked the bird briefly then lifted her hand again and watched it fly off. “I've a theory it's to do with the elements, but I really don't know.”

They started walking again. “Do you command them?”

“Hardly! That's why I picked a blackbird. They're curious enough most times, as long as they know nobody's going to hurt them. The gift works on human languages too,” Charlotte added, “only I didn't think you'd be as impressed if I understood you speaking Latin.”

“I don't know about that,” Olivia said, laughing. “My Latin still isn't very good. It's probably the worst part about studying magic. So many books are written in Latin or Greek, and the translations aren't very good even when they do exist.”

“Maybe you should ask Dr. St. John for lessons,” Charlotte said offhandedly. “Doctors have to know Latin, don't they? And I'm sure he'd be glad to help.”

“I'm sure,” Olivia said and tried not to sound sarcastic about it. She looked ahead to where a neat row of houses lined either side of a small, cobbled street. “And I think perhaps I should start trying to find my destination.”

Navigating proved to be fairly easy. The dressmaker's shop was small, but her sign was in good condition. The cold weather kept most people indoors, so there weren't crowds to deal with, and Charlotte and Olivia didn't even get many curious looks as they headed down the street.

Inside the shop was a different story. When Olivia opened the door, three women were leaning over a table of fabric, studying various weights of black wool. At the sound of the bell, one of them, a slim brown-haired woman, looked up. When she didn't greet the new arrivals familiarly, or perhaps when her face didn't show any recognition, the other two turned to look.

Farmers' wives, Olivia thought, casting a quick glance over them. One middle-aged, one considerably older, probably mother and daughter or daughter-in-law. Not hostile, but definitely curious. She smiled politely at them and hung back with Charlotte, waiting until they'd finished talking with the seamstress.

Not that the women left. They simply concluded their conversation and then lingered to “think it over.” Olivia approached the dressmaker—a Mrs. Simmons, as it turned out—introduced herself, and discussed the possibility of a dress for evenings. “Nothing too elaborate,” she said and smiled. “I'm a teacher, after all, so I'd best look plain and stern.” Part of Olivia still wasn't sure she'd have anywhere to wear even the plainest silk, but there might be village concerts or parties, and it would look well to have people from Englefield attend.

“We've got some wine-colored silk,” Mrs. Simmons said, moving briskly to take down bolts of fabric. “It should make up nicely and wear well, and you're young yet to be too severe.” She glanced over her shoulder at the other two women who were going through the dance of introductions with Charlotte. “Are you from Englefield, then? We'd heard there was a school starting there.”

“Yes,” said Olivia, “we both are.”

“Strange notion,” said the older of the two customers, “starting a school all the way out here. Or coming to one, though I'm sure the two of you had good reasons.”

“It's good for young people to be out in the fresh air, Mama,” said the middle-aged woman, “and away from, the sort of thing that happens in the cities. Especially now.”

“Mm,” said her mother and turned her gaze back to Olivia and Charlotte. “Do the two of you teach there?”

“Mrs. Brightmore does,” Charlotte replied easily. “I'm a rather overgrown student, but they've been kind enough to take me nonetheless.”

The younger of the two customers smiled. Her mother shook her head. “My father used to tell stories about that forest, you know.”

“Oh?” Olivia looked up from examining the silk.

“Mm. Lightning on clear nights sometimes, he said. And a white bird with gold eyes, once, that acted…queerly.” The woman gave Olivia a somewhat rusty smile, then glanced from Mrs. Simmons's blank face to her daughter's nervous frown. “Fireside tales, I should say, and he had most of them secondhand. Probably no more than a barn owl and some lads setting off fireworks.”

“I wouldn't be at all surprised if the fireworks started up again these days,” Olivia said, “though I'll do my best to prevent it.”

She tried to sound simply amused and thought she did a good job. After all, the woman's father probably had been in a condition to see things. Olivia refrained from asking what precisely he'd been doing in the forest at the time. Stories got exaggerated in the telling. She turned back to examining the silk, said a polite farewell to the women, and didn't ask any more questions.

Still, the fittings gave her time to wonder and to think that if the weather held and she could find a map, she might go for a walk in the forest sometime soon.

When it started raining, Gareth thought there was probably something wrong.

Granted, that was no sure thing. It was autumn in England, and the last few days had been sullen and drizzly, enough so he'd been keeping to the flagstone paths in the garden rather than risk his leg on the wet ground. He'd been expecting to feel a drop or two any moment and to go inside when they became steady.

Instead, the clouds overhead opened.

By the time Gareth reached the shelter of the house again, he was muttering under his breath, curses he'd picked up from his men and which, therefore, he cut off quickly as he glimpsed a female figure at the end of the hall. Wiping the water away from his face, he saw it was Mrs. Brightmore, gripping Fitzpatrick's shoulder firmly and glaring sideways at Fairley.

Outside, he heard the rain already beginning to slack off.

“Because other people aren't there for our convenience, that's why,” Mrs. Brightmore was saying. “Even—especially if we can do things they can't.”

“So I shouldn't bother—?” Fitzpatrick began, his voice muffled and nasal. Now Gareth saw he was holding a handkerchief to his face. Blood had already liberally spotted the white cotton.

“That's entirely different.”

“Why?” asked Fitzpatrick.

“I'll explain later. When your nose isn't broken.” She turned back toward the hall, saw Gareth, and gave him a look that mingled relief and apology. She didn't quite hide her resentment at feeling both. “Dr. St. John,” she said, “I'm so sorry to disturb you, particularly now, but we seem to have a situation.”

“So I see,” he said and repressed a sigh.

“We can, however, wait for you to”—Mrs. Brightmore waved a hand—“to be more comfortable. Michael, go upstairs and have one of the servants bring some towels. And a pot of tea. Then go to your room and wait for me there.”

“But—”

“I really don't think—” Gareth began even as Fairley opened his mouth to protest.

“
Now
, please,” said Mrs. Brightmore.

The tone sent Fairley up the stairs without further ado and even made Gareth flinch. Inwardly, of course. He cleared his throat. “I'm much obliged, ma'am, but I'll see Fitzpatrick now. I have,” he added in response to the dubious look on her face, “worked under far worse conditions.”

The nose was indeed broken, Gareth saw once they'd gotten into his office, and bleeding copiously, as such things often did. Fitzpatrick was bearing the pain decently well for a boy his age, but he stifled a yelp when Gareth touched his face. There was some bruising as well, or would be. “Will I be seeing the other fellow after this?”

Fitzpatrick shook his head. “Not a fight,” he mumbled. “Practicing.” He glanced over at Mrs. Brightmore, straightened his shoulders, and added, “Broke a lamp too. One of the round ones with pendant things.”

“Having trouble telling the difference between the library and a cricket ground, are we?” Gareth asked, recognizing the description. From where Mrs. Brightmore was sitting, hands folded very properly in her lap, he heard a sound that might have been suppressed laughter. He fought back a smile of his own, reminding himself he didn't actually like the woman and therefore didn't want to join her in anything so comradely as humor.

“We'll pay. Pocket money and that.”

“Mm.” Not really his concern. Gareth placed one hand under the boy's chin. “Hold still. This is going to hurt.”

Straightening a broken nose was, by now, one of the tasks he could perform in his sleep. To Fitzpatrick's credit, he didn't cry out, just sucked in air and grimaced. Gareth had seen worse from men twice his age.

“That's the worst of it,” he said and shifted his hands, putting one on each side of Fitzpatrick's face, fingertips pointing to the nose. He tried to be careful of the bruises. “This is just going to be a bit odd.”

Had there been another sound from the side? A sound a woman might make perhaps if she were shifting her weight to get a better view? No matter. Mrs. Brightmore wasn't his concern either.

Gareth closed his eyes. Shifting his focus was easy—he'd done it since he was younger than Fitzpatrick or even Fairley—and correcting the injury would be almost as simple. Child's play, one might say, certainly compared to what he'd been doing a few years ago.

When he opened his eyes and looked at Fitzpatrick, he saw a man-shaped web of gray-and-silver threads in all different sizes, thickest near the boy's heart and brain, thinner out near his hands and feet and on the surface of his face. Now a few of the latter were broken, the thickest running down the bridge of his nose. It hadn't snapped entirely, Gareth saw as he looked closer, but it was worn away in parts, and the rest was unraveling.

It didn't take much effort at this point, or even much thought, to reach out and weave part of his energy into the threads, shoring up the unraveling parts and bridging between the broken ends. He worked, carefully aware of how long he'd been out of practice, making sure all of the fastenings joined snugly to one another. He pulled his senses back a little and saw the threads were whole again. Not as good as new—he could still see the edges—but they'd heal the rest of the way soon enough. He closed his eyes again and refocused on the world as he usually saw it.

Fitzpatrick's face was still covered in blood, but his nose had stopped bleeding. The straightening had held too, and there was no incipient swelling or even bruising. The boy raised a hand to touch it. “It…doesn't hurt!”

“No,” Gareth said, turning away to run a clean handkerchief under cold water. “It won't. Though I don't recommend hitting it with anything for a little while. Certainly not a cricket ball.”

“I'll take it right out of my plans, sir, I promise,” Fitzpatrick replied, clearly regaining his old self by the minute.

“Right,” said Gareth and handed him the handkerchief. “Wash, and let's make sure there's no bruising.”

Now that he had a moment, he reached for the buttons of his jacket. He'd already gotten rid of his hat. There was only so much he could do about the rest of his clothing until Mrs. Brightmore took herself and Fitzpatrick out of his office. Furthermore, she was a widow. She was, or had been, a fraud, and Gareth didn't feel particularly obligated to retain his soaked jacket for the sake of her theoretical modesty.

Healing always made Gareth hungry and a little cold. Under the circumstances, neither was doing much for his temper.

He glanced over at Mrs. Brightmore, not sure whether it was to warn her or gauge her likely reaction, and found himself meeting her eyes. She'd been looking at him, it seemed, and Gareth thought he saw surprise in her pretty face. Perhaps even astonishment.

A greater man wouldn't have found the realization gratifying. Gareth had no pretense to greatness.

***

Of course he was smug. Wretched man. His smile, polite enough to the casual observer, was only barely on the correct side of a smirk.

Olivia looked straight back at him, refusing to drop her gaze. She couldn't do anything about her blush, curse it, but she told herself she had nothing to be embarrassed about. “I had no idea you were so talented, Dr. St. John,” she said, trying to sound casual and knowing she didn't quite manage it.

“As you said, it's an extraordinary school. I don't think the average doctor would have sufficed.” A lock of his wet hair was hanging in his face. It should have made him seem less equal to the conversation. Instead, Olivia had the purely idiotic urge to brush it back.

She didn't look down at her hands, but she flexed her fingers, making sure they stayed laced together and her hands stayed in her lap. “A sound judgment. And certainly one that's been helpful today.”

No, she still sounded breathless. Damn her stays, Olivia thought. She should have followed Charlotte's example and left them off long ago.

“Much obliged,” St. John said again. He looked away, and Olivia felt a moment of satisfaction, but it was only to continue unbuttoning his jacket. “Towel, please,” he added, and she wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or Fitzpatrick. She passed him a towel anyway.

The jacket came off slowly, not that Olivia was watching, and the white shirt underneath had been considerably dampened by the rain. She caught a glimpse of tan skin and dark hair, and observed that St. John's arms and chest weren't badly developed, for all that he was thin. Not badly developed at all.

Not that she was looking.

She swallowed, lifted her gaze to the shelf of books above St. John's head, and found an opening. “I hope my classes have been helpful, then,” she said. “I didn't know you were seeking information for yourself.”

St. John paused, towel midway to his head. “I hadn't been,” he said mildly, as if it were a matter of no import, and resumed drying his hair.

A hit, Olivia thought, but a quick recovery. She pressed what advantage she had. “I beg your pardon,” she replied, trying to echo his offhand tone. “I should've known you'd be well schooled in theory.”

“I wouldn't say that. Practice does well enough for me.” The towel came down, and St. John met her eyes again. “I've had a few years of it, after all.”

“I've washed my face,” Fitzpatrick announced. “May I go now, sir?”

St. John snapped his gaze back to the boy with a speed that made Olivia smile. To his credit, he did provide a quick but thorough inspection before he replied, “You can,” but the words were too quick. There was a retreat there.

“Thank you, Dr. St. John,” said Olivia, rising from her seat. “I'll try to avoid any further interruptions.”

“Please do,” he said. “Or wait until I've dried off.”

Olivia took herself out, wondering who'd won that round. It was a waste of time to consider it, she told herself. Scoring points was childish. She didn't want to fight with the man, and she certainly didn't wish Fitzpatrick hadn't interrupted.

Not at all.