Lessons After Dark

by Isabel Cooper

  “Yes,” Simon said, “I’m sure it’s that, and not the difference between twelve and sixteen.”

  Both of them fell silent. Gareth watched a flock of birds, starlings, he thought, cross the gray sky, heading south.

  Four years had passed since Simon had come home with him, that week when they’d roamed the countryside, talked late over wine, and shared gentle laughter at Jenny’s moon-eyed infatuation when they were sure she wasn’t around. Simon had left for town shortly after that. Gareth had gone to Egypt. He’d climbed rocks easily back then, and the buzz of a fly hadn’t made him go rigid with anticipated horror.

  Not even the light parts of his past quite worked any longer. Everything ran into what came after, just as the gentle slope on which they stood rolled inescapably downhill and into the dark fringes of the forest.

  “They all seem quite healthy,” he said. “The students, I mean.”

  “Ah,” said Simon, briefly disoriented. Then he seemed to find his place in the conversation. “Good.”

  Gareth clasped his hands behind his back and forged onward. He’d gotten used to carrying conversation over gaps. That skill had been one of the things he’d learned on his visit home. “Do you expect many more?”

  Simon laughed, and the constraint eased a little. “I dearly wish I could say. It’s a tricky business, you know.”

  “I suppose one can’t simply post advertisements in the Times,” Gareth agreed.

  “Hardly.” Simon gave the brickwork one last moment of scrutiny and then turned back toward the house. “I’ve a few connections here and there,” he went on as Gareth fell in beside him, “but I’d as soon not be too public. The servants are sworn to secrecy. That’s one of the reasons we don’t have as many as we should. Even the village thinks this is just an odd sort of bohemian establishment, like something Morris or Ruskin might have founded. Better that way, for a number of reasons.”

  Gareth thought of the symbols on the bricks. “Sensible,” he said and tried to keep his voice neutral.

  Something must have shown through, because Simon looked over and shook his head. “Poor St. John. From one war to another?”

  “I’d imagine that’s how most people feel,” said Gareth. “This one’s—” He stopped for a second. If the general subject of his past brought up too much darkness to speak of, his time in the army was worse: like the bottom of a well rather than the forest’s shadows. “At least it lets me be more comfortable in the off hours.”

  He looked away from Simon’s gaze. There were a hundred unasked questions in it. He braced himself for one of them.

  Instead, Simon looked back toward the house. “We do strive to please,” he said lightly. “Speaking of which, it’s just about time for dinner.”

  Thank you, thought Gareth, and said nothing.

  Chapter 7

  “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. N
aturally 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 pr
ecisely 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.

  Chapter 8

  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.”