Lessons After Dark (9 page)

St. John dropped his hands and stepped back. As Olivia blinked at him, trying to figure out what was happening now, he caught his breath. “I'd rather not use your name, madam,” he said. Clearly he was trying to sound cold. The thickness in his voice didn't do much for the attempt. “After all, I've no way of knowing if it's really yours.”

As icy baths went, the two sentences worked very well. Desire became embarrassment became fury. Olivia drew herself up, gathered the neck of her dressing gown around her, and lifted her chin. “I assure you it is, sir,” she replied and was proud her voice didn't tremble. “You may use it, or not…or go to the devil. I truly don't care which.”

Shortly after the woman walked out, Gareth realized two things. The first was that, regardless of what he'd said, he could no longer think of her as Mrs. Brightmore. The name
Olivia
had gotten a grip on his consciousness, and he couldn't pry it loose.

The second was that he'd been more than a bit of a bastard.

Oh, he hadn't taken advantage of the woman, whatever Society's standards might be. Nothing was wrong with Gareth's memory. Olivia had responded quite willingly to his kiss, willingly enough to make Gareth flush and harden even when he thought about it afterward, as much as he regretted the whole incident. And she hadn't flinched or drawn back from his advances beforehand. She was no innocent girl either. She'd known what she was doing.

So had he.

Half a glass of wine wouldn't have begun to muddle his judgment, not even now. The late hour and the seclusion of the quiet kitchen had certainly helped to lower a few barriers, though. So had their attire, particularly Olivia's. Her dressing gown had been golden-brown wool, nothing that would have even whispered at seduction, but it had outlined the smooth curves of her body in a way her dresses never did. And her hair had hung rippling down her back. Watching her eat, seeing her tongue touch her lips occasionally—

It was a wonder he hadn't acted sooner.

He'd relaxed his normal suspicions under the surprising ease and comfort with which they'd talked, the simple rather than morbid curiosity Olivia had turned on his time overseas. Then he'd wanted to change the subject, and Olivia had mentioned her marriage. It had been a short jump from there to thinking of her with men…with a man…with him.

Everything after that had seemed almost inevitable.

Still, Gareth knew he could have stopped himself. If he was no seducer, neither was Olivia a second Salome. He'd wanted her, he'd showed her as much, and she'd responded. There were men who might have blamed her for that. Gareth had never liked them. He'd remembered her past too late, and he'd turned his anger on her. Whatever she'd been, she hadn't deserved that.

Once she'd walked out of the kitchen and he'd recovered enough of his mind to think properly, Gareth knew he'd been wrong.

The next morning, he wrote her a short note:
I
sincerely
apologize
for
my
conduct
on
our
previous
meeting. I give you my word that it will not happen again.
One of the maids, Violet, presumably brought it to her room. Olivia didn't respond. Gareth hadn't really thought she would. He wondered if she'd go to Simon or his wife about the incident, but the day passed without either of them bringing it to his attention or even acting strangely around him.

Olivia's silence on the matter was a relief, but Gareth couldn't feel any surprise about it, or any real gladness. She hadn't seemed the type to pretend a man had taken advantage of her, and she apparently wasn't, which spoke well of her. But anything that spoke well of her increased his guilt.

If she
hadn't
wanted him, she might still have kept silent. It would have been Gareth's word against hers, after all. Simon was his friend. Olivia was an intelligent woman, and not, from all evidence, a wealthy one.

That line of thought was even more unsettling. Gareth still didn't think she'd let him kiss her out of fear or desperation. She hadn't
let
him kiss her at all. But he didn't like to consider why she might not have complained about his presence in her classes, or how she must have felt when he'd gone off to tell Simon about her the first time.

If Olivia hadn't spent her life making a profit from people's grief, he reminded himself, she wouldn't have had anything to worry about in the first place.

Gareth started taking his meals in his room over the next few days, and he no longer went to Olivia's classes. If she wanted to teach the students confidence tricks, Simon had already said he'd allow as much. Gareth could no longer tell himself she'd corrupt them in other ways, not after he'd seen the fear for them in her eyes. There was no need for his presence.

From time to time, he did see Olivia in the halls or on the grounds. They nodded politely on those occasions and passed a few civil words, as any adults and colleagues might do. Gareth didn't let his eyes meet hers or even linger anywhere on her person. He did wonder if she looked at him.

When the first frost came and the ground turned hard, he started walking, ignoring the pain in his leg, so he could get out of the house and away, in some fashion, from his thoughts. He toured the gardens, dead as they were, and he inspected the stables, feeding a few purloined apples to Simon's horses. The forest was too far, particularly as Gareth didn't know the place. If something did go wrong in the school, it was best if he was on hand.

The dormitory had walls now, if no roof. It stood stark against the green-and-brown landscape, a redbrick square that was no more cheerful for its solidity. Gareth walked around it, tried to imagine students actually inhabiting it, and found his imagination unequal to the task. Ludicrous, when his mind was equal to so many unwelcome things.

In the late afternoon, Gareth was studying a doorway when he heard someone behind him. It wasn't Olivia, he told himself sternly, doing his best to prevent dread and hope alike.

When he turned, Mrs. Grenville gave him an almost grudging nod. She stood with her arms folded across her chest, surveying Gareth or the building or both. “Not bad.”

“The dormitory?” He didn't give her time to answer. “It seems to be coming along. Not that I'm any judge of architecture.”

“It'll hold,” said Mrs. Grenville. “It'll probably look good too, eventually. Simon's hired someone impressive, and I've seen the plans. But it'll hold, and that's the important thing.”

“How many students do you think we'll get?” Gareth asked. When Mrs. Grenville turned sharp hazel eyes on him, he realized he'd said
we
and cleared his throat. “It's an unusual school.”

“And I don't know how many unusual people there are in this world, let alone unusual people who want to learn. Powers forbid we find a lot who're willing to
pay
.” Mrs. Grenville looked back toward the building. “But we can use the space. Classrooms. Practice rooms. Things like that.”

“Like Simon's room upstairs? The one he uses for ‘fencing practice'?”

Mrs. Grenville snapped her gaze back to Gareth and, for just a second, her posture changed. She didn't stiffen, not exactly, but Gareth had seen men preparing to fight. The bright green-and-blue striped dress she wore should have made the pose, or her narrowed eyes, ludicrous. It did not.

Then she relaxed, deciding, apparently, he was no threat. “Something like that,” she said.

Gareth hastily revised certain opinions he'd held considering Simon's adventurous nature or lack thereof. Marriage to this woman would be like keeping a half-tamed tiger in one's drawing room. Beautiful, in a way, benevolent, in a way, but…
better
you
than
me, old man.

“We have,” he said, attempting to smooth things over without being too obviously conciliatory, “known each other quite a while.”

“So he said.” There was a quick smile. The claws retracted. “Sorry. I get twitchy where he's concerned. Especially with old friends.”

“From what I hear, you have reason.”

Mrs. Grenville made a noncommittal sound at that, and studied Gareth for a moment, with the frank consideration another woman might have turned on a hat or a cut of beef. He drew himself up and straightened his shoulders. There were limits, even with terrifying foreign women who'd married his friends.

If she asked to see his teeth, he was leaving.

“You should start teaching your own classes,” she said, which startled him nearly as much.

“On what?” Once again, he forgot his manners. Once again, Mrs. Grenville didn't look as if she'd even noticed. “I can't teach anyone else to use my talent, and I don't know anything about magic.”

“You know medicine. They're going to need that. Especially field medicine. How to stop bleeding and set bones. Cautery. What to do about poison. Whatever they run into, it's not likely to catch them near a hospital. Anatomy too,” she continued before Gareth could ask any of the questions that occurred to him. “I do a little in combat training, but it's probably better to be really sure where the kidneys are. At least in human beings.” A pause. “Well, most human beings.”

The possible questions started with
What?
and went on from there.

Gareth took a breath and tried to organize his thoughts. He did know what the students would likely be doing with other people's kidneys. Anatomical knowledge
was
useful for self-defense. The implication that human beings would not be the only sort of adversary…Olivia had hinted at similar things. He would
not
think about the library. And Simon had shown him an image or two back in university days. Besides, Mrs. Grenville's meaning was self-evident.

That left only one reply. “I've never taught anyone.”

“Neither have any of us.” Mrs. Grenville laughed, a short and sharp sound that somehow had a hint of fondness in it this time. “Not mostly. Besides, you should do new things. It keeps the mind fresh. It also might make you stop glaring at the servants and prevent you from throwing something through a window one of these days.”

“I have no intention of throwing anything through a window.”

“Most people don't. Windows get broken all the same.” Mrs. Grenville eyed him much as Helen had in his boyhood, those times when she'd seen his scrapes and muddy clothes before their parents had. “I don't know what your problem is,” she said. “Not right now, not in general. I'm not a…I mean, your feelings aren't my business. The school is. You've done a good job so far. Keep doing it.”

“Thank you,” said Gareth, not sure whether the praise or the warning unnerved him more. “I will.”

Then Mrs. Grenville coughed and, in a considerably less firm and more embarrassed tone of voice, added, “If you'd like to talk about anything, that's fine. I'm sure Simon feels the same way.”

“No,” he said hastily. At university, he and Simon had often discussed women, but none of them had been a colleague. Gareth couldn't imagine bringing up the subject of Olivia with Mrs. Grenville, who was even now letting her breath out in what sounded like relief. “Thank you. I should be going. I'll talk with you tomorrow about scheduling the classes.”

Mrs. Grenville nodded. “Be well,” she said.

Gareth had taken a few steps toward the house when he stopped and turned back. “I'm sorry—” But Mrs. Grenville waved a hand at him:
go
on
. He did. “You said…whatever they encounter? Do you know—?”

“What's likely to be a problem?” Mrs. Grenville shook her head. The wind made the blue-dyed plumes of her hat dance, a merriment quite at odds with the knife-edged purpose in her face. “No idea. Might not even be anything. But if something does come up, we'll damn well be ready for it. Whatever it is.”

“They're coming along nicely,” said Mr. Grenville, looking out at the brown-and-gray expanse of the main garden and the students who were wandering through it. “ As far as I'm any judge.”

“
Someone
must be,” Olivia replied, smiling. “You're the best qualified by far, and so I'm gratified to hear your good opinion.” Lightly as she spoke, she'd felt her shoulders lift at the praise, and the brisk day seemed a little warmer as she glanced over at the students.

In that moment, they could have been young people anywhere. Charlotte was laughing with Michael and William, pointing out some feature of the statuary with brisk and exaggerated gestures. Nearby, rather to Olivia's surprise, Arthur was talking with Elizabeth, both looking very interested in a group of now-dead plants. As Olivia watched, Arthur reached over and tweaked one of Elizabeth's red braids, and the younger girl actually giggled.

“Be gratified if we all survive the winter. That's all
I'm
asking. With all of us in one house, I wouldn't dare tempt Fate by requesting more.”

Olivia laughed. “More people have endured with less room, I'm certain. You must have been at school yourself. I know my cousins were, and their dormitories were far more crowded than we'll be. Have a seat,” she added, gesturing to the expanse of stone bench beside her.

Obligingly, Mr. Grenville sat down “They were. And ships at sea have less room still. Neither schoolboys nor sailors can command the storms, though. Not for the most part.”

“I'll keep an eye on Michael, and keep him busy, as much as I can.”

“Oh, Joan and I will do our parts,” said Mr. Grenville. “Have no doubt of that. Gareth, too, if he's amenable.”

Olivia kept her face pleasant and calm. She hadn't spoken to St. John in days, except for a few chance and formal encounters in the halls or on the grounds. When she'd gotten his note, she'd torn it to small shreds, dumped the shreds into the fire, and then wondered which aspect of his conduct he'd meant.

“How's he managing now?” Mr. Grenville asked. “Delaying the storms, that is?”

“I—oh. Michael?” Olivia cleared her throat. “Not badly. His moods still disturb the clouds a little, whether he's intending to do anything or not, but now he's able to make contact without making it rain immediately. It's very encouraging.”

A most unmanly yelp broke the air. Olivia glanced over to see if there was cause for alarm, and saw Arthur clutching at the back of his neck while the other students succumbed to various degrees of laughter.

“A spider, I think,” said Mr. Grenville cheerfully, “and Fitzpatrick as the agent. I shouldn't worry about it. Boys, you know.”

A few words crossed the garden to Olivia's ears:
perfect
beast
and
get
you
for
this
. However, there was laughter in Arthur's voice, and she thought Mr. Grenville's advice was for the best. None of the other students, after all, looked alarmed.

“Do you know,” Olivia said, “I think nothing we teach can do as much good for them as putting them here together. Showing them that other people have special abilities and can learn too, so they needn't either feel freakish or put on airs. That sort of thing.”

“Where they're concerned,” said Mr. Grenville, “I think you're quite correct.” He smiled when he spoke, but there was a slight emphasis that reminded Olivia of the second purpose of Englefield and its students. “Certainly in cases like Elizabeth's. We can be of more benefit to her than the other way around.” He added with a fond smile, “Joan would say we're probably helping the world that way too, by preventing whatever damage could result from Elizabeth's power going untrained. But Joan thinks she must see the bigger picture whenever possible.”

“Someone ought to,” Olivia replied and then laughed. “And I suppose traditionally it should be one of us. Cosmic vision and so forth.”

Mr. Grenville chuckled. “I'll endeavor to develop some.”

“Once we survive the winter?”

“Indeed. Or perhaps you'll step in and save me the trouble.”

Olivia laughed again and shook her head. “I think cosmic vision has to be cosmically
small
as well as cosmically big,” she said, half-seriously voicing thoughts she'd never quite said aloud before. “Whatever form of it mortals have. In any case, I'm quite satisfied now that Elizabeth's not shooting up into the air once a week and nobody's getting lost in the forest.”

Also as long as she was getting a regular salary, she reminded herself, and more-than-decent room and board. One didn't say such things, certainly not in front of one's employer, but they were important to keep in mind. Olivia wondered at herself, briefly, that she hadn't thought of her finances earlier in the conversation. Perhaps she should ask for more salary if they made it through the winter unscathed.

Don't count your chickens.

“Is she still having nightmares?” Mr. Grenville asked.

Olivia shook her head. “Or if she is, she's getting down by herself. I'm quite relieved.”

“For a number of reasons, I expect.”

“Oh?” she asked, a little higher than she meant to.

There was no knowledge in Mr. Grenville's face, though, and he simply shrugged. “I'd imagine you're fond of a good night's sleep.”

“Yes, rather” Olivia laughed and tried to make her heart stop racing. Guilt hadn't thrown her off in
years
, for heaven's sake, and now she was acting like one of the students caught at mischief.

The mischief in question didn't bear thinking of. Certainly not here and now. Olivia shifted uncomfortably on the bench and cleared her throat. “I haven't found anything in your books about the forest,” she said.

“I would expect as much,” said Simon. “Eleanor and I aren't the first to spend more time away from Englefield than here. Father's position keeps him and Mother abroad most of the year, and has done so ever since I can remember. You might talk to some of the servants,” he suggested.

“Only if you wouldn't mind,” said Olivia.

Mr. Grenville shook his head. “Not in the slightest. I'd be glad to find out, and I fear I don't have as much time for research as I used to.”

That evening, as Violet was putting away her clothes, Olivia remembered the earlier conversation and turned from her mirror to look at the maid. She was young, sixteen, as Olivia had found out during one of their brief conversations, and the woman in the village had been old. All the same…“Violet, did you grow up here?”

Violet turned, one of Olivia's skirts still hanging from her hand. “Yes, ma'am. I've never been anywhere else, not really.”

Olivia hadn't expected a different answer. Over the last few weeks, as Violet had acted the part of not-quite-lady's-maid, she having other duties and Olivia not needing much help except for the dinner party, they'd had a few brief conversations. Mostly, these had consisted of Olivia making some friendly overture and Violet asking a myriad of questions before she remembered propriety. Questions about London, about Kent, about any place other than Englefield.

Now that the tables were turned, Olivia felt rather awkward. “Ah, did you ever hear about the forest? The one here?” she added unnecessarily.

She wasn't sure what reaction she'd been expecting. A stifled laugh certainly hadn't been among the possibilities, though. “Ah—” Olivia began again.

“I'm very sorry, ma'am,” Violet said, sobering up at once. “It won't happen again, I promise. It's only…I should have expected one of you to ask before this, given…” A sweep of her skirt-bearing hand took in Englefield as a whole.

“I didn't know the place was that infamous.”

“Oh, it's not, not really. Just old stories and that. Nothing…nothing bad. Violet bit her lip, her forehead wrinkling. “My grandmother used to talk about a child or two who disappeared there, but that's what
her
mother had told her, so like as not, she was just trying to get us to behave.”

“And children do go missing, even in quite normal forests,” Olivia agreed. Carefully, she plucked a pin from her hair and set it on top of her dresser. “Especially back in those days, I'd imagine. It must have been wilder then. What else did your grandmother say?”

“Not her,” Violet replied. “Not exactly. But there was an old lady in the village. Mrs. Colton. She died when I was just a girl,” she added with all the sage and wintery hindsight of sixteen. “But she said if you gathered wood from the forest when the moon was full and brought it to her, she could look into the fire and tell you who you'd marry.”

“Did it work?”

Violet shrugged. “I suppose so. My friend Patience's older sister said it did. The way Patience tells it, Mrs. Colton just said Kitty'd marry a dark-haired man, and any girl 'round here would have her pick of those.”

“They aren't very rare, it's true,” said Olivia, smiling. She'd had her palm read once when she'd been around Violet's age. The crone, or pretend crone, she thought now, knowing the tricks that could make a healthy, middle-aged woman seem ancient and raddled, had said Olivia would go over water to live. When she and Tom had crossed into London, she'd probably been fool enough to think of prophecy too, the number of creeks between her father's estate and anywhere else notwithstanding. “And men have seen things there, I hear?”

“Any man hunting in the forest, ma'am, would as like as not have been in a state to see anything at all,” Violet said with unusual crispness for her. “It's Mr. Grenville's property, after all.” She hesitated.

“But Mr. Grenville wasn't here for years, or any of his family. I'm sure anyone who went into the forest when they were gone was just doing so out of…service. Keeping the population down and so forth.”

“Well,” Violet said, drawing the word out. “I did hear about animals that talked sometimes. But I never gave it much credit. Not until—”

She stopped. No matter. Olivia was fairly certain she could finish the sentence on her own. “It is strange,” she said, “having one's point of view so suddenly expanded. A bit like the first time on a boat.”

“I've never been, ma'am. But you seem to have your sea legs well enough.”

“In some matters, yes,” Olivia said. She thought of St. John's lips and of the way she'd forgotten about her salary for a bit that afternoon, and sighed. Her hair, free of its pins, went tumbling down her back. “Less so where other things are concerned, I fear.”