by Kelley York
Mr. Hart’s eyes drop back to the book as he picks it up and opens it. He runs a hand across the worn pages, a heavy sadness working its way into his expression. “I’ve already told you, Mr. Spencer…”
“The headmaster said Oscar ran away in light of being expelled for his involvement with a teacher,” I say. I place my hands upon the edge of the desk and lean forward. “And do you know what I think of that? I think it was you.”
“Then you think incorrectly,” he quickly shoots back, and his tone is uncharacteristically cold. “I have no interest in sitting here and listening to this—”
“And I have no interest in being spoon-fed more lies,” I snap, my temper rearing its ugly head. I have every reason to believe that this man, in some form or another, is responsible for whatever foul thing has become of my best mate. I don’t give a damn about his feelings. “The night of the dance, you asked after Oscar. You were downright nervous when I told you I’d not seen him.”
“I have no—”
“What about when William and I came to visit you? I saw that flower on your mantel. The paper one. Oscar used to make them to send home to his sister.”
“James…”
“That isn’t even covering the state you were in after he vanished,” I continue, refusing to be interrupted. “You looked as though you’d not slept in a week. What happened, Mr. Hart? Did Oscar decide all those beatings from the headmaster weren’t worth it anymore? Did he want to end things with you and you became enraged? Or were you the one who wanted things to end? With suspicions mounting, did you worry Oscar would sell you out to the headmaster and you’d lose your job? Easier to get rid of him and then—”
Mr. Hart lunges out of his seat, hands slamming flat upon his desk. “I would never hurt that boy!” he snarls, far more force behind that simple phrase than I thought a man so soft-spoken to be capable of.
Startled by the outburst and the fierceness behind it, I pull back. A movement which seems to make Mr. Hart reel himself in, because he takes a deep breath, straightens, and slides a hand back through his normally kempt hair.
“I will admit, I was very fond of Oscar. He was a brilliant student with a wonderful heart, and I hated that he suffered from such loneliness in coming from a family that did not appear to care for him at all.”
I swallow hard. “So, you two—?”
He lifts his eyes to mine, filled with weariness and a touch of regret. “I did begin to suspect that Oscar’s affections towards me were heading in an inappropriate direction. I hesitated to tell anyone for fear of how it would be perceived or the repercussions he might face. I didn’t want him punished, and I thought I would be capable of firmly establishing boundaries between us on my own. I wanted to be a mentor to him. A friend.”
“Then when the headmaster began punishing him…”
“I have little knowledge of that. I know more from the headmaster than from Oscar. King questioned all of Oscar’s teachers, stating he’d received proof from a reliable source that Oscar was involved with a member of the teaching staff, but he had no hints at to which one.” He sighs. “I suspected I was the teacher in question. When I questioned Oscar, he was quite adamant he didn’t want to discuss it.”
And Oscar wouldn’t have given up Mr. Hart’s name to the headmaster, not if he could protect him. That’s the sort of person he is. What proof did King have, I wonder? Something that showed Oscar’s guilt but didn’t directly point the finger at Mr. Hart?
Do I believe him? The doubt must be evident on my face because he continues, “I have no proof to offer you that any of your suspicions are unfounded. I have only my word, and I don’t expect that to mean much to you. However, I will say it as many times as I must: I had nothing to do with Oscar’s disappearance, nor do I have any knowledge about it beyond what you know.” He sinks back down into his chair, slumping back tiredly. “I wish to God that I did. I wish that I could produce him fine and well, but I’m as lost as you are. I apologize for that.”
I hate that he sounds so damned sincere. I hate the way he looks at me, as though he’s hurting from this loss as much as I am, that he had no means of stopping whatever happened.
I hate it, I realise, because I wanted to be able to blame him. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? Case closed, book shut, chapter over. Mr. Hart would have been the perfect villain and I would have had my answers.
“Mr. Hart, I…”
“Jonathan?” comes a voice. We both look up to see Mr. McLachlan standing in the doorway, frowning. More at me than anything. “Is everything all right?”
Mr. Hart seems to relax a little, though his smile is forced. “Fine, Graham.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I was just about to leave,” I assure him. “Thank you for the homework help, Mr. Hart. I think I understand now.”
Without waiting for a response, I scoop up Oscar’s book, slip past Mr. McLachlan and out of the class and then the building, eager to get back to my own room. I think I need to be alone for a bit to try to process the conversation I’ve just had, and what this means for what I should do next.
For as much as I wanted Mr. Hart to be the culprit, there is also a part of me that desperately latches onto the idea he’s being truthful. It makes things harder and I’m practically back to square one.
But it would be good for Oscar to not have been betrayed by someone he cared for, someone he looked up to. I can be grateful, if nothing else, that such a horrible thing didn’t happen to him. But it still means I’m at a loss as to what I should do now, which is equal parts frustrating and depressing.
Definitely depressing, yes.
It isn’t even about my own peace of mind, though that is also a factor. There are so many things tugging at my brain; what if Oscar is being held somewhere and my inability to figure things out is keeping him there? What if he was being kept somewhere and my inability to figure things out resulted in something horrible happening to him because I didn’t get to him in time?
What if his spirit, if that’s all he is now, cannot find peace until I find answers?
The idea that Oscar could be dead rolls over me in one large, nauseating wave. To think that such a bright and lovely soul is forever stuck wandering the halls of Whisperwood, just another face to scare boys who wander out after dark.
I cannot seem to quiet my mind. I think about trying to work on my poetry, to perhaps go out and socialise with Preston and the others as I’d been trying to do, but I cannot bring myself to be around anyone right now. Instead, I mentally re-enact the last few conversations Oscar and I had, my conversation with the headmaster, with Mr. Hart, even with Mr. McLachlan. There is something I’m missing. There has to be. Somewhere I should be looking, questions that I should be asking, and…
I don’t know.
I honestly don’t know.
It makes me feel like the biggest failure and sends me spiralling into a fit of despair because, well, what have I been able to do right lately? I’ve been a disappointment to my family, who may never want anything to do with me again, I’ve driven away the boy who may very well be the love of my life, and I cannot figure out how to help my best mate.
I feel, quite honestly, like staying in bed and never getting up again.
The third day I skip dinner, Benjamin brings me a few sneaked goodies. I thank him sincerely, but they don’t look the least bit appetizing. He watches me with a calculated concern that only Benjamin can achieve and says, “We’re worried about you, you know. You’ve not been yourself.”
I don’t move from where I’m lying on my bed, not even changed out of today’s drill clothes. It feels like too much effort. “Must be homesick,” I lie with a reassuring smile. “I promise, I’ll be fine.”
“Hm. You and Esher appear to be not on speaking terms.”
Ah. Yes. They would notice that, wouldn’t they? I had hoped it would be something they didn’t bring up to me. Skipped meals aside, I’ve been trying my damndest to pretend to be norm
al. To be full of smiles and jokes around my friends, like I promised Preston I would.
“Things are fine,” I insist, and my tone is firm enough that Benjamin knows to leave well enough alone. Only for half a moment does he look as though he might prod further, but then he smiles faintly and nods once.
“We’re here if you need us,” he says before departing.
The door clicks shut. I sigh, running my hands over my face and thinking that I really am not deserving of the people in my life.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t desperately want to approach William. It’s so commonplace, so familiar by now, that every time I leave class, every time I sit down for a meal and he isn’t at my side, I feel a piece of me is missing. I cannot sleep most nights, wondering if he’s all right, if the ghosts are frightening him into unrest, if Charles or anyone else is giving him grief. He sits all alone at meals again, tucked away at the far end of the table, just like he did when I first saw him.
It doesn’t keep me from keeping an eye on him, though. Even if not as overtly as I originally did. I’m good at being sneaky, or perhaps William simply isn’t paying me enough attention to notice how much I’m watching him.
I notice when he isn’t feeling well. The listless way he picked at his breakfast this morning, the distant manner in which he answers Mr. Keys when called upon in Latin. It isn’t like William to be distracted in class.
He’s notably absent at lunch and comes into maths with seconds to spare, where he earns a disapproving frown from Mr. McLachlan. A further oddity occurs when the teacher passes back a graded assignment; he stops before William’s desk, and his voice is low but not quiet enough that I cannot hear. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you with such a dismal grade, Mr. Esher. Are you well?”
William stares down at the marks upon his paper, and his only response is a mute nod and a murmured apology.
Is he sick, I wonder? Is he overly medicated? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that, but it would be the first time he’s allowed it to get in the way of his studies.
An hour into class, Mr. McLachlan calls on him and at first, William doesn’t respond, his head down, eyes closed. With a sigh, Mr. McLachlan repeats, “Esher. Rise and shine.”
He startles, cheeks flushed, though I’m not certain if that’s from his not feeling well or from the chorus of quiet snickers about the room. “Yes, sir.”
“The board.” Mr. McLachlan nods towards the equation written upon it. “Solve for us, if you would.”
Normally, this would be a moment for William to shine. Never has he had any difficulty completing anything an instructor throws at him.
Today, however, he slides slowly from his chair, and within the first few steps I’m aware that something is off. It’s the way he moves, the way he extends a hand towards the corner of Mr. McLachlan’s desk to guide himself, the way his steps slow to a stop and—
Every bit of colour drains from his face as his legs buckle, and he crumples to the floor.
I don’t recall leaping from my seat to get to him, but there I am at his side, sliding an arm beneath him to draw him up while Mr. McLachlan crouches across from me, worry writ across his face.
“William,” I say urgently, comforted only when his eyelids lift, and he focuses blearily on me. He appears startled as he comes to, and slowly the colour begins to return to his cheeks and lips, although he’s broken out into a cold sweat. His glasses are askew, and he reaches up to adjust them out of habit. “What…?”
“You fainted,” Mr. McLachlan says, and I’m surprised at the gentleness in his voice. “Come. On your feet.”
Together we help him up, and only then do I notice that most of the class is standing with their necks craned to get a look at what’s going on. I try to position myself between them and him. He is not some spectacle to be gawked at.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, keeping his head down in embarrassment. “I wasn’t… I haven’t been feeling well.”
“I can see that.” Mr. McLachlan draws back only when he seems certain William’s legs won’t give out on him again. “He seems to be running a fever. Mr. Spencer, can you help him back to his room, get him settled, and call Doctor Mitchell to have a look at him?”
William grabs hold of my arm at the mention of a doctor. I nod, placing a hand against the small of William’s back and gently coaxing him out of the classroom.
He goes along with me easily enough, seeming steadier on his feet the longer we walk, and it is a bit of a trek from the school to the dorm. The cold air has him shivering violently, and I wish I had anything of substance to offer him beyond wrapping an arm about his shoulders and holding him to my side.
Neither of us says a word. What would I even say, after having not spoken to him for weeks?
William is exhausted by the time we reach Gawain Hall. He pauses at the bottom of the first set of stairs, bracing himself before beginning the arduous trip up one flight and then the next. Only once inside his room does he pull away from my support, and he collapses into bed without so much as removing his shoes and coat.
I linger in the doorway, debating if I should at least get him out of those things, or if my help would be unappreciated. “Do you need your medicine?”
“No,” he sighs, sinking back into the mattress with his eyes closed. “None left.”
It’s unlike him to let his supply run out. “I’m certain Doctor Mitchell will give you more. I’ll go track him down.” As I turn away, William reaches for me.
“No, no. Don’t. I’m not— I won’t take it.”
I pause and slowly shut the door with a frown. “What? Why not?”
He focuses his gaze upon me tiredly but doesn’t answer.
“William. Why aren’t you taking your medicine anymore?”
He swallows hard and looks away. “Because you were right.”
A wave of guilt washes over me. “Don’t be ridiculous. I lashed out at you because I was angry.”
“No, you were right,” he repeats, removing his glasses and setting them aside on his dresser. “Look at me. I’m a wreck. I don’t even know how to function or who I am without it.”
I never would have thought that; my concern has always been the high dosages William takes without care, the way it affects his ability to think clearly. I’ve heard of instances of a person taking too much and not waking again, and that is a fear I harbour over William, as well.
“I’ve taken it for years,” he continues softly. “At first, Mother gave it to me because I was such an anxious child. Then I began to take it on my own. I don’t honestly remember what sort of person I was before, and I…” He exhales, running his hands over his tired face. “You are far too precious to me, James. I don’t want to engage in anything that makes me a hindrance to you. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
My eyes widen. The ache that floods my chest is one that I cannot begin to describe. “Why would you care what someone like me thinks?”
William looks to me again, this time with a quietly perplexed frown. “Someone like you? James, you heard every horrible rumour about me from every boy in school, and yet there you were, refusing to let me alone. You looked at me as though I were a person worth caring for. That’s the type of person you are, and that’s why I know you never would have done what you did to your home without good cause. I believe that with all my heart.”
My throat constricts. I look down, trying to blink away the tears that rush forth. “Yes. Well. My parents certainly didn’t feel that way.”
In my periphery, I see him scoot aside, wanting me to join him. “I’m hardly your parents, but what does that mean?”
I don’t move, however. I don’t even look at William; I cannot bring myself to. It’s all I can do not to bolt from the room or try to change the subject, to laugh it all off. But it’s my choice to speak of this now, I decide. I have control over it, and William is watching me so openly and gently that I feel he needs to know. I need him to know.
&nb
sp; “My uncle was raping me.”
William is silent as the weight of those words settle over the room like a blanket of snow. He sits up slowly. “What…?”
I lean back against the door, needing something to physically support me. “When my aunt died of illness, we took in him and his two daughters. They were quite lovely, but he was nothing but a drunk who acted as though the world owed him on account of his loss. He never gave me any reason for his actions beyond ‘family takes care of family.’ Perhaps I was a safer bet than his own daughters. It took me longer than I care to admit to tell my parents what was transpiring.”
“And…?”
“They told me I was being foolish. Father even insinuated that I was acting out of jealousy because there were other children in the house.”
He only looks away for a moment, thinking, and I wonder if things are clicking into place for him now. “Then… The fire? That was revenge?”
“After all this time, I still don’t honestly know,” I admit quietly, lifting a pained, tired gaze to his face. “I was so desperate for something to change. I didn’t want anyone to die; please understand that. I just wanted it to stop. Perhaps it was my way of coping with my own grief at the loss of everything I felt he was taking from me, I don’t know. It wasn’t right, but I just didn’t…”
The words catch in my throat. I remember the kitchen around me beginning to burn while every member of the household slept. I remember stepping outside and watching still from the road as the building went up in flames, as my family scurried out in their nightclothes, our servants on their heels.
I had felt nothing but a dim level of satisfaction—up until I saw my uncle emerging from the building.
Maybe I’m lying. Maybe I had hoped that one single person would have stayed asleep in his bed until he woke with the flesh being burned from his bones.
William pitches himself forward, getting to his knees at the edge of the bed and leaning across the distance to grab my hand. I allow him to pull me closer, onto the bed, into his arms, where he wraps me in a tight embrace and whispers in my ear, “Darling, I believe you.”