The Tutor by Bonnie Page A

hand-crafted currency to purchase with. A read-aloud period was followed by a penmanship lesson in which I had them write words from the story. But by early afternoon, I was as restless as the boys, eager to be outdoors on such a fine day.
    “Let’s explore nature and identify the specimens of flora and fauna we discover,”
    I suggested.
    We all pulled on Wellington boots to march through the mud the previous day’s
    rain had left behind and escape the oppressive gloom of the house. Once outside with the sun on my face and the breeze in my hair, my gloomy spirit almost immediately lifted.
    Things were going quite well, actually. At least my young charges hadn’t run
    away from me today and seemed quite willing to go along with whatever I suggested. No more prickly things in my shoes or bed so far that day either. Perhaps they were enjoying my company a little.
    We sloshed around in a boggy area near a stream at the far east corner of the field where we’d played the day before. Whit collected various leaves, and I helped him indentify them with the botany book I’d brought along. Clive came over with a crayfish in hand, its tiny claws clicking as it squirmed, trying to free itself. The boy was muddy and damp all over, but for the first time, he almost smiled.
    Whit and I admired his catch for several minutes.
    “Very interesting, but since we have no place to keep him, I think you’ll have to
    let the crayfish go.”
    Clive’s perpetual frown returned.
    “The little creature wouldn’t be happy in a jar or even an aquarium,” I pointed
    out. “Wild things are best left to live their lives as nature intended.”
    Clive looked from the crayfish to me, searching my face before nodding slightly. I felt quite triumphant. For the first time, we’d communicated directly without Clive using Whit to speak for him. He set the crayfish down, and we all watched it scuttle away and disappear into its burrow in the mud.
    We spent hours mucking about by the creek, until hunger eventually drove us to
    return to the confines of the house. Late in the day, wet, filthy, and contented, we tramped across the field. The looming hulk of Allinson Hall blocked the sun as we approached. When we entered the building’s shadow, nerves tingled along my spine and an inexplicable melancholy invaded my sunny disposition. I had a propensity for the dramatic, but this didn’t feel like anything my imagination had conjured. Sadness flooded through me like a palpable and externally inflicted mood—something beyond my control.
    I hustled the boys through one of the back entrances, determined to avoid contact
    with anyone before we’d gotten cleaned up.
    Smart enough to understand the need for secrecy, Whit led the way to a narrow
    staircase behind a closed door, a route taken by servants in years past to move about the house unseen by the nobility, but it was evidently no longer in use. I sneezed on the dust and cobwebs caught in my hair as I followed the boys up.
    We emerged not far from my bedroom. I recalled the whispers and footsteps from
    my first night in the house and guessed this was where the boys had hidden after
    sabotaging my bed.
    After washing and changing, we met again in the schoolroom, where our tea trays
    awaited us at the table. Stone-cold soup had turned to an unpalatable gel. But we
    devoured it anyway, along with the rest of our meals and the room-temperature glasses of milk. Before we’d quite finished, a shadow fell in the doorway. Tom had arrived to take away the trays.
    The lad slunk into the room, head hanging. If he were a dog, I’d think his master
    had whipped him. I wondered if someone in this house had done something similar.
    “Hello, Tom,” I greeted him, and Whitney followed my example. Clive remained
    mute.
    Tommy lingered over the task of collecting the remains of our meal, and it
    occurred to me he was hoping for a repeat of yesterday’s art lesson.
    I obliged him by suggesting to the boys they draw