The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  But what could it be? My brain was filled with all manner of lurid thoughts and phantasms, conjured half from shadows and half from recalling Lily’s descriptions of the books she had read, with their villainous dukes and duplicitous barons. I hurried up the stairs to my room, and in a fit of wild dread I thrust the bent-willow chair against the door.

  I huddled in my wrought-iron bed, watching the candle burn as the wind growled over the eaves, and it was long before I slept.

  IT WAS AN hour after dawn when I ventured downstairs (though I had some trouble dislodging the chair from the door, for it had gotten wedged somehow). Outside was clear and cool: the perfect morning of what was to be a middle lumenal. However, I thought not of riding my horse, or going for walks, or seeing if the children were well enough to be taken out to sun themselves on the steps. Instead, my legs felt weak as I descended the stairs, and my stomach was hollow as I tried to take in a bit of tea and dry toast.

  I had consumed little of either when Mrs. Darendal came to tell me I was wanted by the master in the front hall.

  At this I felt no surprise. After what I overheard last night, I had expected a summons. All the same, the dread I had felt last night grew in me again as I walked with slow steps to the hall. Of what would he speak to me? Was he going to reveal what peril he had placed me in? Would that I could tell him not to, for I did not wish to know! That he had concealed something from me was terrible enough. That such knowledge should be worsened with the particulars was something I could not bear.

  I perceived that Mrs. Darendal followed me as I went. I said nothing; it was all I could do to place one foot before the other. At last I stepped into the front hall. He turned from a window and bowed to me. As he straightened, his beard parted in what seemed a wolfish grin. He wore a black coat.

  “Miss Lockwell, I am glad you are here, for there is something I must tell you.” I could do no more than nod and grip the back of a chair.

  He closed the distance between us and said, “As you know, this part of the country is not what it was. There are all manner of brigands, as well as—that is, it is no longer safe here for the children.”

  And am I safe here? I wished to say. He paced back and forth—or prowled, rather, it seemed to me.

  “As recent events have demonstrated,” he went on, “it is in their best interest that Clarette and Chambley not remain here at Heathcrest. That is why I am happy to report I have at last been able to make arrangements with their aunt and uncle in Highward.”

  Understanding came to me, and now my dread was no longer for myself. I stepped away from the chair. “The children are going to Highward? But when?”

  “The carriage comes to take them to their aunt and uncle this very day.”

  I thought I might fall back into the chair. “So soon!” I said.

  “It is too dangerous for them to stay here a moment longer. You know that as well as I, Miss Lockwell.”

  “Of course,” I said. But all I could think was that they would not be the only ones leaving Heathcrest. I thought also of you, Father, and my sisters. I had planned to save five months of wages before removing you all to Durrow Street, but I had been here only a little more than four months; and even if the amount I had accumulated was enough to open the old house, how should we all live there afterward without any regular source of income?

  Yet there could be no changing it. I had heard the firmness of his tone. Mr. Quent was not one to alter a decision once it had been made. The children would be leaving; nor could they be the only ones. What purpose did a governess serve with no children to govern? I could not help but notice Mrs. Darendal’s expression. It was triumphant, I thought.

  “Do you understand, Miss Lockwell?” he said to me.

  “I understand very well, Mr. Quent.” I did my best to keep my back straight and my voice steady. “I will gather my things at once. I do not know when the mail is set to depart, but if Jance will take me to the village, I will be glad to wait for the next coach there.”

  “I will tell Jance,” Mrs. Darendal said. She made no effort to disguise the gloating in her voice.

  “That will not be necessary, Mrs. Darendal,” Mr. Quent said. “Please leave me with Miss Lockwell, if you would. I have something else to speak to her about.”

  The housekeeper stared at the master of the house, her mouth open.

  “I said, please leave us.”

  Her mouth snapped shut, and after one last glare at me she turned with a swish of gray and departed the hall.

  I thought almost to follow her. I could not imagine what was to come next and so could think of nothing to say. Mr. Quent approached me, his expression very serious, but not, I thought, grim. Rather, there was a light in his brown eyes as he looked at me.

  “Mr. Quent!” I was induced by his attention to exclaim at last, and bowed my head under the force of his gaze.

  “You know it is for the best that the children go,” he said.

  I nodded; I could not deny it.

  “However, though it grows perilous in this part of the country, especially for those in my household, all the same I would ask you to consider staying, Miss Lockwell.”

  I looked up at him, astonished. “But why?”

  “Do you not know?” He hesitated, then reached out to take my left hand and enfolded it within his right. “Can you truly not know the reason?”

  He ran his thumb over the back of my hand and looked at me with the most solemn expression. I realized I did know, that I had perhaps known for some time now. Thus it was, as he spoke those next words, I could not feign surprise. All the same, I felt a shock go through me at his speech, and I felt it again at the words that tumbled from my own lips in reply, seemingly spoken by another than myself.

  In two minutes, it was done. What little trouble it was, it turned out, to completely alter one’s life forever! It was no more than the smallest thing, reduced to a few scant words, like the buying of a loaf of bread. He bowed to me. I know not if he smiled as he rose; I could hardly see him. Then he took his leave, and I was alone in the hall.

  I sank into a chair under the watchful eye of other quarry he had conquered over the years. I could not tell if they pitied or mocked me. One or the other surely, for I was now to join them.

  Those thoughts were absurd. My head was aflutter and my nerves abuzz, that was all. Gradually, the full comprehension of what he had asked, and of what I had said in return, came over me. As it did, a laughter welled up within me, one that could only be given release and that rang off the beams above. To think, those beams, this hall, this entire house was soon to be mine. For I was to be his. I was to be Mrs. Quent!

  What must you think of me, Father? Not many pages prior to this, I was writing about how awful I thought him, how stern and silent and unforgiving. You must think I consented to this for one reason only—for the benefit of you and my sisters.

  I would be deceiving you if I did not admit the thought at once occurred to me. The moment he made his proposition, all fears I had at the thought of losing my employment were banished. By becoming Mrs. Quent, I would assure the well-being of my family forever. While the full extent of Mr. Quent’s wealth is unknown to me, I understand from Mrs. Darendal that it is considerable. I will not want for any funds needed to open the house on Durrow Street and to place you all there in the most comfortable manner.

  Only I will not be with you! Yet, while that thought causes me sorrow, I confess I already feel growing in me another happiness, one that must supersede any sorrow or regret. It was not only because I knew it would assure the future of my family that I accepted Mr. Quent’s proposal.

  I will not deny that my heart has long occupied itself with the most tender feelings for another. So strong were these impulses that I indulged myself by thinking that if I could not have him whom I admired—whom, I will admit it now when I would not before, I loved—then I would never want another. However, those are sentiments best saved for one of Lily’s romances. The heart is a far mor
e practical thing and in its life is happily capable of more than a single attachment.

  To this day, my regard and affection for Mr. Rafferdy are unwavering; my feelings for him have not changed. I hope—no, I utterly demand—that Fate allows us to meet again and be friends. However, the possibility of any deeper connection between us was never more than a fancy. No doubt, at this very moment, he is already married and utterly content.

  And soon I will be as well. You must forget everything I wrote earlier, Father. While my feelings for him are different than what I felt prior with Mr. Rafferdy, you must not think them in any way inferior. Cannot a rugged and misty landscape be adored by the eyes as much as a sunlit garden? Perhaps it is adored even more for not seeking to make itself adorable.

  I had thought him dull and somber. Only it was I who had been dull! Yet now I was able to think with a clarity I had never known before, and my heart argued as strongly as any logic. So it is I can tell you, Father, that even if I had not known this marriage would assure your security and that of my sisters, still I would have said yes. Know that I respect him, and admire him, and hold him in the highest esteem; that I love him. Then you shall be as content as I and see how it is that I now consider myself to be the luckiest woman alive in all of Altania.

  WELL, IT IS done.

  I had thought we would go to the church at Cairnbridge. Instead, the priest came here at Mr. Quent’s bidding, and we walked down the road to the ruin of the ancient chapel past Burndale Lodge. The only ceiling above us was the sky, for the roof had fallen in ages ago, and the floor was clover and green grass. The windows were gone as well, but ivy had grown up between the stone buttresses, and sunlight mingled through the leaves in emeralds and golds more vivid than any hues produced by stained glass.

  I confess, I think Mr. Quent would have forgone the village priest altogether had it been possible, but it was not, and he was very civil to the man and paid him for his trouble.

  It was a small party. Only myself, Mr. Quent, and Jance came from the house. Mrs. Darendal remained behind. “Someone must prepare the meal,” she said. Happily, Mr. Samonds came. He brought his aunt with him in a surrey, and they stood as witnesses.

  I was very glad to see Miss Samonds, and was grateful beyond words that she had been able to come in response to the wish I relayed to Mr. Quent. She handed me a bundle of wildflowers.

  “They’re lovely!” I exclaimed.

  “No more lovely than you,” she said. I squeezed her small, bent hand, and then went to Mr. Quent by the entrance of the chapel, whose doors had long ago fallen to dust. We stood together not twenty feet from Mrs. Quent’s grave. However, this did not trouble me in the least. I felt only a benevolence when I thought of her, and I believe she would have been happy. My only regret was that my sisters could not be with me on this day.

  It took little enough time, and when it was finished Mr. Samonds drove his aunt back to Heathcrest while the rest of us walked up the road. We ate dinner, though I could not recall the taste of anything or how many glasses of wine I drank. I could hardly bring myself to look at Mr. Quent.

  After we ate, Mr. Samonds had a wish to look around the house, for he had many fond memories of it.

  “Then you shall see it again,” Mr. Quent said. He proceeded to take Mr. Samonds on a tour, and the priest went with them.

  “I find I prefer chairs to stairs,” Miss Samonds said, and so I sat with her in the front hall, and she found great amusement in admiring all the various mounted creatures from her seat.

  “Sometimes,” I said, “as twilight falls, it feels a very wild place, with all the beasts around me. It’s like I’m in the middle of some great forest.”

  Miss Samonds gave me a sharp look. “Like a forest, you say?”

  I do not know why, but this question made me shift in my seat. I pointed to her cane, which leaned against her chair. “That’s very pretty,” I said. “The way several branches are twisted together—it makes me think of the chair in my room, the one your nephew made long ago.”

  “As well it should, for he made this as well.”

  “He has a gift with wood. Though I would think a farrier would prefer to work in iron.”

  “Prefer it? No, I cannot think he does, but iron is better for him. Safer.”

  I laughed. “I can hardly believe that. Certainly the metal he works with is very hot, and sparks must fly all about. It must be quite hazardous. What harm can wood cause?”

  Even as I said this, my mirth ceased. Miss Samonds touched the cane. “He gathered these sticks by the Wyrdwood. They had dropped from over the wall. He soaked them in water, and braided them together, and let them dry this way. So he made your chair as well, but that was long ago. He has not been to a stand of Wyrdwood in many years.”

  We were silent for a time. Then I said, “Do you think Mr. Samonds will ever marry?” I do not know precisely why I asked. Perhaps it was simply the cool weight of the new ring on my finger that made me wonder it, and that he was a kind and handsome man.

  Miss Samonds shook her head. “There are few sons of Addysen women, and none of them has ever married that I’ve known of. I fear no woman will ever catch his eye, no matter how young or pretty she is.”

  I believed I understood her; my heart ached for him.

  “He would do better in the city, I think,” Miss Samonds said.

  “Then why does he not go there?”

  “He would never say it, but he could not bear to be far from the trees for long. No child of an Addysen can, not once they’ve held Old Wood in their hands and bent it to their will. Or, rather, found it willing to bend for them when it would not for another. There’s a life in it, even when it’s fallen from the tree, and it knows the touch of one who can feel that in it.”

  I wanted to ask her what she meant, but then the men returned from their tour, and Mr. Samonds helped his aunt from her chair. They departed in their surrey and took the priest with them.

  Mr. Quent and I were alone then, for Mrs. Darendal was nowhere to be found. He came to me. I found at last I could bear to look up at his face and meet his dark eyes. He took me by the hand and led me on my own tour of the house. The things we spoke of as we walked can be of no consequence to anyone else. I can say only that I have never in my life been happier than I was in those hours. No matter what the almanac said, it was the longest of lumenals, and the umbral that followed could only have been a greatnight for how changed I was before it was through.

  At last the morning did come, as it must. He rose with the sun and put on his boots and riding coat.

  “I will be back the night after next,” he said.

  “Let me go with you,” I said, though I knew it was foolish.

  He took my hand, stroked it, and kissed it in the gentlest manner. “I promise I will take you on a journey soon. To anywhere you say.”

  “To the city?”

  “If you wish it.”

  With that he was gone. And so began my first full day as mistress of Heathcrest Hall.

  THAT DAY WAS lonely, I confess, but I knew it would be and had prepared myself. The house was quiet without Chambley and Clarette. How I longed to hear their voices! I went into our parlor. The curtains were thrown back, and a book lay open on the table, bathed in a beam of sunlight. I picked it up. It was the Lex Altania.

  They had been gone a quarter month now, and still I missed them. I had thought saying good-bye would be more bitter for me than for them. However, it was not so, and the pain of my tears was lessened only by the force of their own. I could only gasp in wonder as not only Chambley threw his arms around me at our parting, but Clarette also. At last I was forced to release them, for the carriage their uncle had sent stood waiting.

  “Were we very bad children, then?” Chambley said, sniffling. “I don’t remember. I think we were.”

  “No,” I said in a solemn tone. “You were not so very bad at all.” I smiled and touched his chin. “Indeed, I can truthfully say you’re one of the finest bad
gers I’ve ever met.”

  “I’m not a real badger, you know.”

  I leaned down to whisper in his ear. “I know.”

  I helped them into the carriage and closed the door. However, before I could step away, Clarette reached through the window and grasped my hand.

  “You didn’t,” she said. Her dark eyes were full of anguish.

  “I didn’t what, Clarette?”

  “You didn’t leave us.”

  “No,” I managed to say. “No, I didn’t. I made a promise, you see.”

  “And do you promise that we’ll see you again? Will you swear to me that you will?”

  My heart stilled. For a moment I wondered—was it better to make a promise I knew I could never keep, if it soothed her fears at this moment?

  I smiled and squeezed her hand. “Take care of your brother.”

  She nodded and pulled her hand inside the carriage.

  I stepped back, and the driver cracked his whip. The carriage rolled down the track. As it did, I saw Clarette’s round face peering out the back window. Only she was not looking at me, or at the house, but rather at the straggled silhouettes atop the ridge to the east. Then the carriage dropped down over the shoulder of the hill and was gone from sight.

  Now, in our little parlor, I sat and read a few pages of Telarus for comfort. Then I shut the book and placed it back on the shelf with the others.

  That day, and those that followed, all seemed very long. I filled them as I could, by setting down these words and writing to my sisters. I confess, I cannot wait to see the look on Lily’s face when we come to the city. I imagine she will think Mr. Quent extremely ancient and dreadfully out of fashion, but she will come to see him as I do, and Rose can only love him.

  Such thoughts lifted my spirits, as did making plans for my family’s removal to Durrow Street. Feeling brighter inside, I did what I could to brighten up the house, much to the perturbation of Mrs. Darendal. It had come to the point where she would refuse to be in the same room with me and gave me the coldest of looks should we even come within view. I could not say I minded. The silence and the sunlight were better companions, and I spent my days rearranging the rooms and bringing in flowers from the heath.