Lessons After Dark

by Isabel Cooper

  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.”

  Chapter 17

  Five pairs of eyes watched Gareth. Five faces turned toward him, curious and amused, expectant and nervous. All were attentive for the moment. Gareth suspected it would be no mean job to hold that attention, eager though the students were.

  Olivia had always managed it. Olivia was at home on a stage, and if he wasn’t, that was a point in his favor under most circumstances. She also had flashy magic tricks to her advantage. The magic might have been real, but the tricks were still flashy. Showmanship. Gareth had knowledge, and therefore would need none of that.

  Besides, he was trying not to think about the woman.

  “Good afternoon,” Gareth began. “At Mr. Grenville’s request, I’ll be teaching you the basics of medicine”—he gestured to the table in front of him, where he’d laid out some neatly rolled bandages and straight pieces of wood—“and anatomy. Miss Donnell?” She was too young, really, to be a “Miss,” but he wouldn’t make her the only one in the class he addressed by first name. “You have a question?”

  “Will we be learning about diseases and poisoning too?” she asked, eyes serious and steady in her freckled face. “Or mostly broken bones and cuts and things?”

  “Internal and external both,” said Gareth, trying not to look as surprised as he felt. “Of course, this will not qualify any of you to practice medicine under any normal circumstances, nor will we particularly touch on surgery. Not most types. I’ll be teaching you what the late Major Shepherd called ‘first aid’: the immediate care of a wounded patient.”

  He saw recognition in Miss Woodwell’s face—hardly surprising, given her father—and, more curiously in Fitzpatrick’s.

  The others didn’t seem to know the term, but Waite and Fitzpatrick exchanged a look before the older boy raised his hand. “In adverse conditions, I assume, sir?” he asked when Gareth called on him.

  Long after midnight, and a wind that did nothing to cool anyone, particularly the men who tossed and turned on their beds, but had managed to put out half the lamps. Screaming. Crying. The smell of blood, the cleanest smell in the air.

  “Yes,” said Gareth. “As far as we can manage them.” He cleared his throat. “Today, however, we’ll begin with theory. The major arteries in the human body…”

  Words and theory could make a wall when he needed them to. Gareth had discovered that some time ago. Overseas, his construction had often been slapdash and hasty, but it had served him well enough. Now he built carefully, brick by brick, speaking of the jugular and the carotid, the femoral and the radial, naming things so he would picture them less vividly.

  “Some of you, I am sure, are wondering about supernatural healing. Hard not to, I’d imagine, given your presence here. It exists. I’d be a fool to deny it.” Gareth allowed himself a small smile at that. “By and large, though,” he continued, “I intend to stay focused on the normal aspects of medicine. Tell me why. Mr. Fairley?”

  “Magic’s still easier if you know what’s going on, sir.”

  Gareth nodded. “That’s part of it. You can pour all the power you want into a broken leg, but if you don’t know how the bones are supposed to line up, your patient’s likely to end up worse off than before. To put it lightly.”

  He’d come into his power early, too early to remember his first experiments very clearly at all. Nevertheless, he did recall what he’d been able to do at fourteen and how clumsy it had been in hindsight. Medical school had taught him what to reach for and what to avoid, and Gareth thanked God he hadn’t tried anything really serious beforehand. Broken bones, at any rate, were reasonably straightforward.

  “That’s one reason,” he said. “Another reason is that most of you won’t use it.”

  He noted the reactions: Miss Woodwell’s skepticism, Fitzpatrick’s disappointment. Elizabeth, he noticed, seemed not to care very much one way or the other. She’d been more interested in the pulmonary arteries. Fairley didn’t look particularly surprised either. It made sense. They, out of all the students, might most easily have figured out what Gareth was about to say.

  “Supernatural healing is an inborn talent, like controlling the weather or floating on air. I have this particular talent. Had it most of my life.” Gareth cleared his throat and repressed the urge to run a hand through his hair or to pick up a pen and toy with it as he spoke. He’d never spoken of his abilities so bluntly before, and the words dropped like lead weights onto the floor. “There may well be other people with the same talent. As far as I’m aware, none of you have it. Therefore, there’s not much use in talking with you about magical healing.”

  He stepped back, letting them digest that, and Miss Woodwell raised a hand. Gareth nodded at her.

  “Natural talent isn’t the only method, though. Sir,” she added with a half-rueful grin for which Gareth couldn’t fault her. She did make a very odd schoolgirl. “There must be ceremonial magic for healing. It’s such a basic sort of a need. I’d bet you anything there are spells in some of the books here, at that.”

  “It’s quite possible,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have much to do with magic, but I would imagine everything I just said still applies. There is, after all, likely a reason the Grenvilles asked me to teach this class.”

  Miss Woodwell dropped her eyes. “Of course. Sorry, sir.” She looked embarrassed but not cowed, which would have been a relief had Gareth been at all concerned about intimidating her. He thought a cavalry charge would find the task difficult.

  It seemed he was to live out his days surrounded by headstrong women. If his sister had ever shown the least interest in magic, Gareth would have suspected a curse.

  “Quite all right,” he said. “Honestly, as long as you also pay attention here, you could do worse than find those spells. Especially if—” Gareth hesitated, looked at Elizabeth, and then remembered some of the faces he’d seen white with pain and how young they’d been. “Especially considering what you’ve signed up for. I’d ask Mr. Grenville about them, if I were you.”

  “Or Mrs. Brightmore,” said Eliz
abeth thoughtfully. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Gareth. He did work with Olivia. There was no changing that, not without treating her badly or leaving himself, neither of which he would do. Therefore, he was not about to flinch whenever anyone spoke her name. “Now, if you and Miss Woodwell would come up here, we can begin the practical part of today’s lesson.”

  As the girls rose, he heard footsteps approaching in the hall outside.

  They were light. Probably female. There were a number of women in the house. The person approaching could have been Mrs. Grenville or Mrs. Edgar or one of the maids. However, he was in the room where Olivia had taught, now sitting in the chair he’d started occupying when he’d listened to her, and he couldn’t help but wonder.

  The footsteps grew closer then stopped just outside the door.

  She could come in. Gareth had never said anyone should stay away from his classes. Olivia would make a seventh person, which would let Gareth out of practice-dummy duty, and she could even, perhaps, answer some of the questions about healing with ceremonial magic.

  It would be rather nice, actually, if Olivia did decide to join them. Gareth would have the opportunity to prove he could work with her, that he was enough in control of himself to treat her as a colleague without any question of either incivility or…

  Outside, the footsteps began again. Whoever it was passed the door, headed down the hall, and was gone.

  Gareth fought back the urge to swear.

  Chapter 18

  Michael opened his eyes and relaxed. “Done, ma’am.”

  Looking out of the large window, Olivia eyed the gray clouds overhead. They were considerably thicker and darker than they’d been ten minutes ago, but no rain was falling yet. “Good,” she said and smiled a little. “Again.”

  “You learn quickly,” said Joan, rising from her chair at one end of the ballroom. She eyed Michael for a second, fingers toying with the rose-colored cotton of her skirt. “Do you always work indoors?”