The Wizard of London (26 page)

The
geese decided to compound the retribution. Mister Thackers, in charge of the
farm, was by this time laughing so hard that tears were running down his face,
and waded in to Tommy’s rescue.

“Oh,
my lad,” he said, as Tommy tried very hard not to cry, but was clearly in
no little pain, “You’re one of those, ain’t you? Come along
of you. I think you’ve learned more than enough of a lesson for one day,
without me taking you to your mistress.”

At
that point, he took Tommy off to the farmhouse. Nan lingered, as she and Sarah
soothed the ram’s anger and indignation, and Sarah wordlessly promised
him that no one would try that trick on him again. When Tommy came out again,
this time alone, he was walking a bit easier and smelled strongly of horse liniment.

Mem’sab
found out about it, of course, but other than a single pointed remark at
dinner, nothing more ever came of it.

Neville
was in heaven, too; here he had an entirely new set of interesting things to
get into and investigate than in London. Mem’sab had gotten him to
tolerate a set of bright red glove-leather leggings before they left, carefully
fitted to and sewn onto his lower legs, and the gamekeepers and farmers were
under strict orders not to shoot the raven with the red legs, so even an
incident of egg eating at the home farm was let off with a scolding.
Fortunately, the number of eggs a raven could eat at a sitting was far less
than the number of strawberry tarts that could be consumed by an active girl at
one go. When it was made clear to him that while pigeon, pheasant, quail and
chicken eggs were strictly off-limits, rook, starling, sparrow and crow nests
were fair game, he was a much happier raven.

As
for Sarah and Grey… there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that both
were as happy as they could be outside of being home again. Grey, like Neville,
managed to get into a great deal of mischief with her curiosity and her prying
beak. Unlike Neville, she was sneaky about it and never got caught.

Like
Neville, however, she brought back all manner of curious objects for Sarah, and
their little treasure boxes were filling fast. Neville found a great deal of
trash and treasure in his raids on the nests of rooks and crows. Some were
clearly valuable; a silver locket, for instance, and a broken rosary of delicate
gold wire and blackened seed pearls that looked extremely old indeed, and a
small hoard of coins. Mem’sab always made sure there were no existing
claimants for such finds before allowing the girls to keep them. Some were
merely interesting; odd pebbles, pot-metal charms, tiny faded pottery figurines
and three small dolls of the sort called “Frozen Charlottes”
because they were all one solid piece. Some were just trash: horseshoe nails,
bits of ribbon and string, unidentifiable pieces of china and metal. Those, the
birds kept, in their own little “treasure boxes,” a couple of old
tea chests they could open themselves and poke about in.

Mem’sab’s
plan for lessons every day was not as onerous as it had sounded. One morning
was completely devoted to splashing about in the pond and learning about
aquatic life, and similar mornings were spent exploring other parts of the home
farm, gardens, and parkland. On rainy days, the servants would open older parts
of the building and they would examine history in context as they looked at
antique furnishings, pictures, and the rooms themselves. They spent whole
evenings learning about stars and planets, and the myths behind the names of
the objects in the night sky. There was a daily lesson in gardening, and when
the mood was on her, the cook would even give lessons in plain cookery. There
was a trip to the forge to learn about metal working, right down to the
chemistry of it, and another to the mill to study the mechanics of turning
flowing water into something that could grind grain into flour and run other
machinery. The French teacher took them out on walks, taught them the French
names of things, and required that they converse in that language the entire
time. Mem’sab did the same in Latin.

Another
set of lessons was that they were going to perform a play, Shakespeare,
A
Midsummer Night’s Dream
. They were having to make the costumes and
props, learn their speeches by heart, and were also learning what some of the
odd things they were saying meant. In Nan’s opinion, none of it was
really lessons at all, just a way for Mem’sab to say she was giving
lessons without really doing it.

But
there were two places where neither Nan nor Sarah felt the least urge to go;
two places that made them both feel strange, uneasy and acutely uncomfortable.
One was an old dry well that the servants called a “wishing well,”
though no one ever made any wishes there, nor in fact, ever seemed to visit. It
was in the back of the kitchen garden near the oldest part of the manor. No
bird or animal could be persuaded to approach it, and even Tommy, after one
curious toss of a pebble into it to see how deep it was, left it alone.

The
other was the bridge over the river on the road that led to the next village, a
place none of the children had visited yet. Nan and Sarah had followed the road
on a long walk one afternoon out of pure curiosity to see where it went.

They
came to a signpost, eventually, which at least told them that they had come a
half mile from the Highleigh Park gate, and that some place called
“Shackleford” was another mile farther on. At this point, the wall
of the park ended. The road continued on, as far as they could see, cutting
through farm fields. In the far, hazy distance was a church steeple, presumably
marking the village.

“Go
on, or go back?” Nan asked.

Sarah
shrugged. “They didn’t say we couldn’t.” she pointed
out. “They just said not to get lost. We can’t get lost if we stick
to the road.”

Nan
nodded, and they went on.

But
they could not have gone more than a quarter mile before they came to a bridge
over a substantial river. There was nothing remarkable about the bridge itself;
it was built of the same brick and stone as the manor, and was in good repair.
Yet the nearer they drew to it, the more uneasy they became—very much
like the feeling they had at that dry well, though not quite as strong. As they
paused about ten feet from it, Neville circled overhead, croaking that he did
not like Nan getting so near to the structure, and Grey fluttered down from
where she usually flew beside him, landed on Sarah’s shoulder, and
growled.

That
settled it. Without a word, they turned, and made their way back to the manor.
But both situations had the effect of, not rousing Nan’s curiosity, but
cooling it. She did not want to know why the bridge and the well made her feel
so uneasy, and even felt a reluctance to discuss it with Sarah, or anyone else.

Finally,
she decided that it was a natural reaction, after that encounter with that
horrible Thing in Berkeley Square.

“Leave
well enough alone,” she told herself, and made an effort to put both of
them out of her mind.

For now, at least.

DAVID Alderscroft
descended from his carriage at the gate of a long-forgotten manor at the edge
of some of the least-desirable real estate in London. Though the building
itself was substantial, surrounded by an impressive wall and seemed to be in
reasonable repair, he could not imagine anyone in his set willing to admit they
owned it, much less live in it. He hesitated a moment—surely this could
not be the correct address!—but the inscribed brass plaque inset into the
right-hand gatepost assured him that this was, indeed, the “Harton School
for Boys and Girls.”

So
this was where Isabelle, his Isabelle, had come!

With
a stern mental hand he shook sense into himself. Isabelle Harton, if indeed she
was the same person as the girl he had once been acquainted with, was not, and
had never been “his” Isabelle. Not that he couldn’t have had
her, had he wanted her! Possibly even, in the crudest and most Biblical sense,
had he put his mind to it. But of course, such an action, besides leaving him
open to all manner of unpleasant repercussions, was unworthy of him and
unworthy of the name he wore.

And,
he reminded himself yet again, he had not wanted her.

Well,
except during the first flush of infatuation. But Cordelia had persuaded him to
responsible behavior, and that flush had cooled under the harsh light of
reason.

Even
assuming she and the headmistress of this school were one and the same. That
was by no means certain, despite the name, and the fact that Nigel’s wife
had known the woman in school—that was why he was here, after all, to
find out the truth of the matter.

He
rang the bell, and while he waited, contemplated the gardens just visible
inside the walls. Though not showing the hand of a professional gardening
staff, they were not as overgrown and neglected as he would have thought. The
plants growing here were all hardy things, sturdy specimens that could tolerate
a little neglect and a great deal of London’s bad air. Not manicured, but
at least, trimmed and contained.

It
took a very long time for someone to answer, long enough that he was about to
give up and assume that there was no one in residence, when he became aware
with a start that he was no longer alone. A tall, swarthy fellow in a coat of
faintly military cut and Indian antecedents had come up soundlessly while he
stared at the hostas and ivies through the bars of the gate. It startled him,
actually; how long had the fellow been there? How had he managed to slip up so
quietly?

“May
I help you, sir?” The tones, flavored with a faint accent, were as
cultured as his own.

He
coughed, momentarily taken off-guard. “I would like to speak with
Mrs.Isabelle Harton, please,” he replied after a pause.

“I
am devastated that we cannot meet your request, sir,” came the immediate
reply, followed by his own surge of anger and disappointment, both quickly
repressed. “The headmistress has taken the pupils to the country for a holiday.
May I conduct you to Master Harton instead?”

Suddenly
he found himself hoist on his own petard. He had
wanted
to see this
woman for himself, and if he discovered that she was the girl of his youthful
infatuation, use her current state to destroy any lingering, sentimental memory
of that girl. After all, the years were generally not kind to poor
vicars’ daughters, and he was certain they would not have been kind to
her. One look at a prim-faced, stern-eyed creature in the severe, dark, unfashionable
gown that seemed to be the universal garb of all schoolmistresses, and he was
sure the soft, pastel-colored memory of that girl would be burned from his
mind. The last thing he wanted to do was to confront her husband.

But
there seemed no way that he could avoid such a confrontation now. If he
declined to meet with Mr.Harton, there would be questions as to
why
he
had turned up, and why he wanted to meet with Mrs.Harton and not her spouse,
questions he did not want to , have to answer. Nor did he want the absent
Mrs.Harton to have to answer an interrogation about his presence later
either—whoever she was.

“Yes,”
he said simply, if reluctantly, “Master Harton will suffice.”

The
servant bowed, unbolted a little postern door on the left side of the gate, and
let him inside the walls. Silently, the man led the way to the front door, and
with continued silence, brought him into the vestibule from there into a small
parlor.

“If
you will wait, sir, I will summon the Master,” the servant said, taking
his card. “It will be no more than a few minutes at most.”

In
fact, it was less than that. David had no time at all to look at most of the
souvenirs of India displayed on the walls and tables of the parlor. The
servant’s steps had hardly faded when a different set of footsteps, with
a limp this time, heralded the approach of someone new.

David
rose and turned toward the door.

Standing
in the doorway was a middle-aged man—a gentleman, in fact, who was
probably no more than five or six years older than David—with the
physique of someone considerably younger than his apparent age. David was
immediately conscious that he was not nearly so robust as this fellow; jaunts
in carriages around London did not lend themselves to looking as if one hiked
six miles through the jungle before breakfast. In coloring, he was ordinary
enough, brown of hair and eye, though there was a set to his jawline that
suggested toughness and a hint of a smile that suggested sardonic good humor.
The hair itself was just a little long and carelessly untidy, as if the wearer
had put off seeing a barber for a little. The eyes were frank, honest, and
appraising. David had expected a military bearing, given the servant, but there
was less of it than he would have anticipated.

He
stepped forward, holding out his hand.

The
other clasped it, a good, strong handshake, warm, dry and firm. “David,
Lord Alderscroft,” David said, wondering what the other made of his own
grasp. The man chuckled.

“Plain
Frederick Harton, and pleased to meet you. I had been hoping to make your
acquaintance, since my wife and I had a bit of a problem with an Elemental
Master not long ago.”

David
tried not to blink; the fellow certainly did not beat about the bush!

“Erm,
yes,” he temporized. “But the problem seems to have solved itself,
more or less.”

“So
I’ve been told,” came the noncommittal reply. “Would you care
to come to my office? You might find it more comfortable than this
parlor.”

David
had intended to say, “No,” intended to claim he had only stopped to
let the Hartons know that the problem with the renegade had been disposed of,
but found himself saying instead, “Yes, thank you.”

The
man led the way to a small room just off the parlor, lined with books,
displaying more exotica, and quite comfortable in that shabby, well-worn way
that the lounges of the adventurers’ clubs often looked. Without being
asked, Frederick Harton poured and handed him a brandy. Wordlessly, David
accepted it, and took a seat in a handsome, if slightly battered, leather chair
that accepted his weight and embraced it. He also hadn’t intended to
drink what he had been handed, but a whiff and a cautious taste proved it was
not an inferior product.