A Light Amongst Shadows

by Kelley York

  “While we will be addressing concepts of grammar and spelling, there are a great many things I will be covering over the term,” he tells us, all with that gentle smile upon his face. “We shall study some of the classics in both fiction and poetry, and I will very much encourage all of you to do some creative writing of your own.”

  Oh. Yes. I definitely like this class already. Anything that grants me an excuse to write, especially poetry. For that matter, any class that doesn’t involve me simply sitting, listening, and copying down what is written on the board will be better than what Mr. Keys’ class is shaping up to be.

  During lunch, Preston and I meet back up with Oscar, Benjamin, and a few others as we crowd into the hall to eat. It’s only been a few hours, but I’m famished, glad to tuck in and stuff my face so that I’m certain to feel unpleasantly full through my last two classes.

  History with Mr. Harrison is nothing of note. He’s an elderly gentleman whose hands shake something horrible when he writes upon the blackboard, but he seems knowledgeable of his subject. It beats Latin.

  To say that I’m excited for maths is almost laughable, but it pleases me to get to take a seat beside Oscar in the very back row, the two of us exchanging grins. William is in this class, too, I notice. The back row has filled up, so he sits two seats in front of and to the right of me, giving me a grand view of…well, mostly the back of his head, really.

  Mr. McLachlan is, indeed, an intense man, but I appreciate that he skims over the typical introductory information the other instructors droned on about and gets right into teaching. He has us scribbling down formulas not even halfway through the lesson, and while I’m struggling to grasp some of the concepts, he slows it down towards the end of class and takes the time to come to each desk, checking over our work and giving patient guidance for those—myself included—who are struggling. Oscar surprises me by grasping the information effortlessly, and I don’t notice William requesting help, either.

  Overall it’s not an overly dreadful class, and though I cannot say it’s something I will enjoy, it’s not the worst that I’ve attended. By the time the day rolls to an end, I’m thoroughly worn out. Back home, my days rarely started before eleven and they ended late into the night, whenever I felt compelled to sleep. Having my timeframe for wakefulness yanked forward several hours, on top of piling it full of sitting in place while teachers saw open my head and cram information into my brain, has left me bloody exhausted. At least for tonight, I won’t mind the early hour of retiring as much as I thought I would.

  After drill class—which, thankfully, consists mostly of being shown the dressing room and being given our uniforms and little actual exercise—we spend a few hours lounging about in front of the fireplace in the common room of Gawain Hall. It grants me a quieter atmosphere of getting to know some of my housemates. Even Virgil joins us for a bit, although he’s a very serious sort who doesn’t seem prone to joking around, but genuinely seems interested in knowing we’ve all settled in with no issues, and that we know where to find him if he’s needed. He seems a nice enough fellow, but impossible to get a good read on.

  I call it a night before curfew draws too near, and Oscar accompanies me. He flops down onto his bed while I wash, change into my nightshirt, and locate a sheet of paper, my pen, and inkwell to take a seat at the table and see if I cannot think of something to put in a letter home.

  To my dearest parents,

  I hope this letter reaches you in the best of health. I have arrived at Whisperwood and it is as I think you had hoped it would be. The instructors are strict, the food is decent, and the rooms are quite cold. I’ve made friends already, but that should come as no surprise as Mother often says I could befriend a rock if I tried…

  I come to a stop there, debating on how best to proceed. Do I ask how Uncle is? Cousins Kitty and Rebecca? Do I ask how the search is going for a new house, and if they have plans to come visit me at school any time during the term? Things with my family were not well when I left. Mother cried as I boarded my carriage to leave, but I received no hugs, no requests to write—although I said I would anyway. These last two months, I have never felt so uncertain as to where I stand with my family. For a boy who has always been on good footing with his parents, it’s a jarring feeling.

  I slump back in my chair and look to Oscar. He’s hunched over on his bed, fumbling with a piece of paper in his hands. After a few moments, his pinching and twisting begins to take the shape of a flower.

  “For someone special?”

  He lifts his head briefly and a sheepish grin pulls at his mouth. “For my sister, Lily. I’ve made these for her since she was a baby, and I send them home with my letters.”

  It makes me smile, too. “How old is she?”

  “Ten and two, as of last month,” he says, sounding proud of that fact.

  “You were on holiday, then, right? Good you were able to be home for such an event.”

  At that, his smile fades, replaced by a withdrawn look of melancholy. His head bows back over his paper flower. “Ah, no, not exactly. I spent holiday at my uncle’s in Lancashire.”

  I frown. I know I said I wouldn’t pry, and yet… “Why is that?”

  “Mum was—she said it would be difficult. To have me home.” He shrugs, and it’s such a small, sad gesture that it truly makes my heart hurt for him.

  I place my pen down and cap the inkwell before rising to my feet. “I know we’ve only just met, Oscar, but I do hope you know if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

  The smile he gives me is small but sincere, and he seems unbothered by my overly familiar use of his given name. “I appreciate that, but I’m all right.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Fair enough. With my letter put on hold until I can figure out just what to say, I crawl into bed and decide to call it an early night. I slept so poorly last night that catching an extra hour or two isn’t a bad idea.

  Oscar does the same before long, changing into his nightclothes and snuffing out the candles. The room falls into silence, followed soon by the sound of Oscar’s open-mouthed breathing.

  And, as I begin to doze, the soft sound of someone sobbing in the depths of the dorms.

  My letter home remains unfinished until the end of my first week, and I don’t find the nerve to post it until the following Wednesday when Oscar tells me to stop puttering about and just do it. It’s both his encouragement and my growing ease at Whisperwood that emboldens me.

  Over the course of my first two weeks, I’ve carved myself a little niche amongst my new friends that I find comfortable. I’m adjusting to the early hours, the cold water, and busy schedule. Even the late-night sounds have seemed to vanish, or perhaps—as Oscar said I would—I’ve become accustomed enough to sleep through them.

  After fourth period every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, we attend drill class. Important towards promoting good health, our instructor says, while leading us through an intensive and thoroughly boring round of calisthenics. Only after that are we free to play sports, which is notably more entertaining.

  Promoting physical and cognitive wellness may be part of the agenda, however I personally believe it’s the staff’s way of having us run off some energy given we spend so much time cooped up indoors, listening to our professors drone on about the most uninteresting of subjects.

  But as far as sports go, rugby is, admittedly, one of the more entertaining ones. Oscar is in his element here. Short as he might be, he’s broad-shouldered and well-toned, and when he ducks low and takes a player by their midsection, they go down fast and with little resistance. Myself included. My back slamming to the muddy ground doesn’t feel the most pleasant, but I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. If Mother were to see me like this, she’d be horrified. Sports, she says, perhaps with the exception of golf, are not gentlemanly endeavours no matter how much wellness they may offer. After an hour of chasing each other around on a muddy, rain-soaked field, the lot of us a
re equally as rain-soaked and filthy.

  Everyone except for William, that is.

  Not once in the past two weeks have I seen William participate during sports. He dresses down in grey linens, the same as the rest of us, but throughout drill he remains seated off to the side of the field upon a bench, legs crossed, head down, nose in a book. Preston told me, with a roll of his eyes, that William had a doctor’s excuse that got him out of having to do any sort of physical activity, and I’ll admit I am curious. He looks healthy enough, at any rate, and I’ve not noticed anything amiss about him in the classes we share.

  Today, as Oscar is knocking me to the ground, somewhere in my peripheral vision I notice William watching us. After picking myself up I steal a glance at Oscar, Benjamin, and the others, who are taking a brief break to catch their breath. While they’re doing that, I jog my way across the field to where William is seated.

  I don’t know why I choose today of all days to approach him. The day I’m wet and sweating and undoubtedly not looking my best, but why not? I’ve been immensely curious about this boy the others seem to avoid, this soul that is allegedly so unfriendly and who cannot be bothered to participate in sports and speaks so softly only when forced to during classes.

  But perhaps it was fate, because as I near, it dawns on me what book he’s reading, and I cannot help a smile.

  “Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make, of all that strong divineness which I know,” I begin, and William stills in the middle of turning the page but doesn’t look up. I continue, “For thine and thee, an image only so, formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break.”

  Did I remember all that correctly? I have a knack for memorizing poetry, but it’s been a while since reading Sonnets from the Portuguese, so I could be off a bit.

  Slowly, William’s eyes roll up to watch me. I’m standing in his sunlight, casting a shadow over him, and he simply stares as though expecting me to say something further. This is the first time I have ever seen William up close and, goodness, he does have the most remarkable and intense eyes, doesn’t he? “No? Not a good one? All right, how about…

  And wilt thou have me fashion into speech

  The love I bear thee, finding words enough,

  And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,

  Between our faces, to cast light on each?—

  I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach

  My hand to hold my spirit so far off

  From myself—me—that I should bring thee proof

  In words, of love hid in me out of reach.”

  For a long moment, William studies me like a specimen in a jar. Then he drops his gaze and bows his head, and I’m beginning to think he’s going to blatantly ignore me.

  Just as I’m about to turn away, his quiet voice continues where I left off.

  “If thou must love me, let it be for nought

  Except for love’s sake only.”

  Truly, I cannot help the way my face lights up. “Do not say

  “I love her for her smile—her look—her way

  Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought

  That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

  A sense of pleasant ease on such a day”—

  For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may

  Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,

  May be unwrought so.”

  “Hm.” William marks the page he’s on with a scrap of paper and closes the book. “Congratulations on your memorisation skills. May I help you with something?”

  “Oh, thank you. It comes easily to me, you know. Memorisation. Ask me for basic multiplication and I’m afraid I’m lost, but—well, poetry is a strength. Or a weakness, depending on how you look at it.”

  William rolls his gaze up to watch me over the top of his glasses. He has remarkably long lashes, I note. High cheekbones begging to be touched and a thin mouth pulled into a tight-lipped line that makes his expression utterly impossible to read. Whatever it was I thought ordinary about him from afar was wrong; up close, William Esher is quite beautiful. “I’ll repeat my question: can I help you?”

  I take it upon myself to have an uninvited seat beside him, although I do try to maintain a bit of distance to avoid dirtying him with my muddied linens. “I don’t know. Do I need help?”

  It’s a subtle movement, but William seems to shy away from me, an impatient edge to his voice. “What do you want, Spencer?”

  Oh! But he knows my name and that’s quite nice, isn’t it? Granted, we share classes, so perhaps that isn’t so surprising. Although I couldn’t put a name to every one of my classmates, so there is that. “A pony entirely my own so that I don’t have to share with the others,” is my sweet and entirely unnecessary reply.

  By the twitch of his eyebrows as they draw together, he doesn’t appear to enjoy my teasing. “If that will be all, I have reading to do.”

  This is where manners would dictate I should leave, because this boy clearly doesn’t want me here. But when have I ever been known to take a hint? “Which one is your favourite so far?”

  William sighs heavily through his nose, pushing his shoulders back. Honestly, I’m surprised when he humours me by meeting my eyes again as he speaks.

  “…How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

  I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight.”

  The intensity of his gaze and the melted-butter smoothness of his voice leaves my throat a little dry and my pulse jumping in a pleasant fashion. For someone who projects such a cold front to the world, he’s chosen one of Browning’s sweetest lines to recite to me, and it makes me wonder if he isn’t quite a soft soul beneath all that prickliness. “She has a way with words, doesn’t she? A certain sweetness that has so often been lost in all the pretentiousness of many poets these days. She’s more focused with the message, less so with trying to prove herself.”

  He steals a glance down at the cover of the book. “I thought they were translated from other foreign poets?”

  “That’s what she says, but I don’t believe it. Perhaps she merely wanted to maintain some semblance of privacy over her love life. Love sonnets are quite personal, after all.”

  “Well, regardless of who penned them, they are certainly from the heart,” William agrees. “Did you really come over here to bother me about poetry?”

  “Was there something else I should bother you about?”

  A persistent frown tugs at his face. “I’m not understanding why you approached me at all when I clearly had no wish to be disturbed.”

  “In that regard, you’re a difficult man, William. May I call you William? But you see, I am also a difficult man, and as such I would approach someone who does not wish to be approached. Like attracts like, I suppose, and so here we are. Two difficult people reciting love poetry to one another.” A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth at the look of confusion that settles over William’s lovely features, and I wonder if he’s aware that—or trying to figure out if—I am most certainly flirting with him.

  Before he has a chance to respond, Oscar’s voice carries across the field. “Spencer! We’re waiting on you!”

  I lift a hand in their direction but don’t break eye contact with William, even as I rise to my feet. “I hope to recite more poetry with you again,” I say, flashing him my most charming smile before turning to jog back to where my friends are waiting for me. He says nothing as I go, but any time I glance back, his gaze is still locked onto me.

  As I re-join my group, Oscar peers around me in William’s direction with an eyebrow cocked. “What was that all about?”

  I snag the ball from under his arm, turning and tossing it in Preston’s direction; despite being off-guard, he catches it with ease. “Oh, nothing. Just discussing mutual interests.”

  “William has interests?” Preston muses, spinning the ball lithely in his large hands.

  “Of co
urse he does. Do you see him sitting, staring at walls all day? What sort of man doesn’t have interests?”

  “He’s always got his nose in a book.”

  “There you have it. Reading is one of his interests.” I steal a look over my shoulder. William’s head is bowed again and that makes me a bit sad. I rather like it when he watches me, and I think I’ll make it a point to encourage him to do it much more often.

  The next morning at breakfast, during our daily morning prayer, I catch William observing me from a distance. Briefly, of course; he isn’t outright staring but he glances up from his clasped hands, locks his eyes with mine for half a second, and averts his gaze when I smile his way.

  It’s a gesture he repeats in Latin, and again at lunch. It’s a curious, calculating sort of look—like he’s trying to figure me out. I wonder what there is to figure out. I like to think my motives with him were clear: I would like to get to know him better. We might have things in common. I’m very fond of my new friends, but any attempt at speaking of poetry and art and theatre seems to bore them to tears.

  Besides, William is terribly lovely to look at. I’d like an excuse to do it more often, up close and personal.

  He does it yet again in maths, his eyes raking over me when he enters the room, and his gaze lingers as he takes his seat. But this time, I have Oscar beside me, and he’s quick to take notice.

  “What was that look Esher just gave you?”

  I make a noncommittal noise and shrug it off. Which is fine for the first day, but when it carries into the second and third days of exchanged looks and lingering gazes upon one another, Oscar jabs a finger sharply into my side.

  “I’m not imagining things,” he whispers. Class hasn’t officially started yet, but he keeps his voice down all the same. “He’s been eyeing you an awful lot the last couple of days.”