illustrations to go with the
short stories they’d written the previous day.
“Would you like some paper too?” I asked Tom. Moments later, all three boys
were gathered around the table, applying charcoal pencils to paper.
I’d earned a break and took the opportunity to dive into the mystery Allinson had
suggested. Soon my mind was filled with the story of secret identity and a locked wing of an ancient house, which rang far too familiar given my current living situation.
I was so wrapped up in the suspenseful climax of “The Copper Beeches,” I jerked
when an unexpected voice intruded on the story.
“Tommy Smith. So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself this past hour!”
Mrs. Growler stood near the doorway, hands on hips. The housekeeper appeared as large and surly as when I’d first met her. Did no one in this godforsaken place own a smile?
Poor Tom bolted up from the table, dropping his pencil on his half-finished
sketch.
Mrs. Growler pointed her finger like a skewer. “Get back to your duties, you
oafish lout, lest you find yourself out of a job.”
Tom clattered the trays and dishes together in his hurry to obey. I was determined to alleviate the scolding and punishment he might receive.
“Most of the blame is mine, Mrs. Growler. I invited the lad to join us. He has
quite an artistic bent.” I snatched up Tom’s picture and showed it to her.
She glanced and grunted. “You should know better, Mr. Cowrie. ’Tis most
inappropriate, not to mention inconvenient, for Tom to fall behind on his work. Don’t let it happen again.”
Tom might be as mute as Clive, for all I could tell. I hadn’t yet heard him speak a word. But his eyes communicated volumes of dismay as the housekeeper made this pronouncement.
“What about later in the evenings? Would it be all right for Tom to come to the
schoolroom for an art lesson?” As if I, who had the drawing skills of a three-legged dog, might teach this young man anything. But I could provide him with the materials to indulge his creativity.
Mrs. Growler scowled some more. “He couldn’t use the children’s supplies. That
wouldn’t be right.”
“No, of course not, but I have some paper and ink of my own I could let him use.”
I twinkled my dimples at her, a habit I might as well break since it got me nowhere with these hard-nosed northerners. If anything, my attempt at charm seemed to sway Mrs.
Growler more toward saying no. She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes before finally capitulating.
“An hour now and again in the evening will surely do no harm. Lord knows the
lad has little enough joy in his life.”
Did I detect a sensitive chink in her grim façade? Perhaps Mrs. Growler wasn’t
such a termagant after all. Then she clapped her hands together, loud enough to make me and all three boys jump. “Come now, Tom. Back to work.”
After the servants had gone, it was just me and the twins again, me and two
restless children whose attention was ready to be directed toward something new.
Teacher, caretaker, nursemaid, I was already worn out from the responsibility. And this was only my second day! What would it be like as winter shut us all indoors for days on end and there was no respite from sheer boredom?
I gazed back at the two expectant faces watching me, and for a moment, I thought
I might flee. I almost wished Sir Richard had sacked me so the decision would have been taken out of my hands. I could return to London and beg for my job back. My digs weren’t great, and typesetting was boring, but at least I’d have all my free time to myself.
I’d have my friends and occasional dalliances, theaters, museums, pubs, restaurants, all the city had to offer. I’d managed to entertain myself despite low income for most of my life. Was it really worth being in this horrible backwater simply to try to move up in the world? And what place would I reach? A similar isolated position teaching children? I doubted I had the
short stories they’d written the previous day.
“Would you like some paper too?” I asked Tom. Moments later, all three boys
were gathered around the table, applying charcoal pencils to paper.
I’d earned a break and took the opportunity to dive into the mystery Allinson had
suggested. Soon my mind was filled with the story of secret identity and a locked wing of an ancient house, which rang far too familiar given my current living situation.
I was so wrapped up in the suspenseful climax of “The Copper Beeches,” I jerked
when an unexpected voice intruded on the story.
“Tommy Smith. So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself this past hour!”
Mrs. Growler stood near the doorway, hands on hips. The housekeeper appeared as large and surly as when I’d first met her. Did no one in this godforsaken place own a smile?
Poor Tom bolted up from the table, dropping his pencil on his half-finished
sketch.
Mrs. Growler pointed her finger like a skewer. “Get back to your duties, you
oafish lout, lest you find yourself out of a job.”
Tom clattered the trays and dishes together in his hurry to obey. I was determined to alleviate the scolding and punishment he might receive.
“Most of the blame is mine, Mrs. Growler. I invited the lad to join us. He has
quite an artistic bent.” I snatched up Tom’s picture and showed it to her.
She glanced and grunted. “You should know better, Mr. Cowrie. ’Tis most
inappropriate, not to mention inconvenient, for Tom to fall behind on his work. Don’t let it happen again.”
Tom might be as mute as Clive, for all I could tell. I hadn’t yet heard him speak a word. But his eyes communicated volumes of dismay as the housekeeper made this pronouncement.
“What about later in the evenings? Would it be all right for Tom to come to the
schoolroom for an art lesson?” As if I, who had the drawing skills of a three-legged dog, might teach this young man anything. But I could provide him with the materials to indulge his creativity.
Mrs. Growler scowled some more. “He couldn’t use the children’s supplies. That
wouldn’t be right.”
“No, of course not, but I have some paper and ink of my own I could let him use.”
I twinkled my dimples at her, a habit I might as well break since it got me nowhere with these hard-nosed northerners. If anything, my attempt at charm seemed to sway Mrs.
Growler more toward saying no. She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes before finally capitulating.
“An hour now and again in the evening will surely do no harm. Lord knows the
lad has little enough joy in his life.”
Did I detect a sensitive chink in her grim façade? Perhaps Mrs. Growler wasn’t
such a termagant after all. Then she clapped her hands together, loud enough to make me and all three boys jump. “Come now, Tom. Back to work.”
After the servants had gone, it was just me and the twins again, me and two
restless children whose attention was ready to be directed toward something new.
Teacher, caretaker, nursemaid, I was already worn out from the responsibility. And this was only my second day! What would it be like as winter shut us all indoors for days on end and there was no respite from sheer boredom?
I gazed back at the two expectant faces watching me, and for a moment, I thought
I might flee. I almost wished Sir Richard had sacked me so the decision would have been taken out of my hands. I could return to London and beg for my job back. My digs weren’t great, and typesetting was boring, but at least I’d have all my free time to myself.
I’d have my friends and occasional dalliances, theaters, museums, pubs, restaurants, all the city had to offer. I’d managed to entertain myself despite low income for most of my life. Was it really worth being in this horrible backwater simply to try to move up in the world? And what place would I reach? A similar isolated position teaching children? I doubted I had the
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