The Ice Seduction

by Sk Quinn

  I knock firmly on Agnes Calder’s office, and in response the door is pulled open.

  Agnes’s eyes are all red and watery, but her face is stern.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Mansfield sent me down here. I guess to meet Bertie.’

  Mrs Calder gives a little nod. ‘Come with me.’

  Once again, I find myself led down corridors, twisting and turning.

  Finally, Mrs Calder throws open a door that leads outside to a little vegetable garden and a patch of lawn, all fenced off from the rest of the castle grounds.

  Stiff winter wind whooshes in, and I hold a hand up to stop snow rushing at my face.

  There’s a little boy outside, but he doesn’t seem to notice the snow. He sits on the snowy ground with a stick in his hand, carving symbols into the freezing white.

  His hair is a sort of pale blond colour – but so pale that it almost has no colour at all. Like his face. His lips are blue, and his eyes are browny-black.

  My heart pulls tight when I see him, and the smile I’d plastered on fades away.

  Oh my word.

  I’ve never seen a little boy look so sad. So empty. His face breaks my heart.

  He’s wearing a wax jacket, corduroy trousers and wellies, but no gloves.

  ‘This is Bertie,’ Mrs Calder announces.

  Bertie doesn’t turn when the door opens – it’s as though he’s in a world of his own.

  A cold, sad world.

  I guess he must be about five years old, looking at his face, but his body seems much younger. Kind of malnourished, actually. Like he hasn’t been fed properly. But I guess that can’t be right. I mean, this is a really rich family. Maybe he’s just naturally skinny.

  ‘Your first task is to give him breakfast,’ says Mrs Calder, holding the door wide open and ushering me out. ‘And then you’re to keep him busy until he has his home tutoring. Any questions?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Good.’ Mrs Calder moves back into the house. She checks her watch. ‘I’m not expecting great things of you, Miss Harper. In fact, I’m very surprised Patrick let you stay.’

  ‘Maybe he was thinking that you need a nanny, and I might be able to do the job,’ I say.

  Mrs Calder’s eyes narrow. ‘I’m not sure he was thinking at all. You seem to have had … an effect on him, judging by this morning. You’re a very pretty girl, Miss Harper. But Patrick Mansfield is spoken for.’

  ‘Is he?’ I blurt out, wanting to stuff the words back into my mouth as soon as I say them.

  ‘Indeed he is,’ says Mrs Calder. ‘It’s long been expected that he’ll wed my daughter Margaret. Our families have been friends for many years, and Margaret went to one of the best private schools in the country. We’re patiently waiting for him to set the date.’

  ‘Sounds like a good match,’ I say.

  Certainly a better match than me and Patrick, at any rate …

  I turn to Bertie. ‘Hey Bertie,’ I call out. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  The wind whistles, but Bertie doesn’t turn his head. Instead, he carries on digging symbols into the snow, his skinny little fingers all blue.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get to know each other,’ says Mrs Calder. ‘Bertie doesn’t talk. So I wouldn’t waste your breath speaking to him.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Are you deaf as well as incapable of getting up on time?’ says Mrs Calder. ‘I said, he doesn’t talk.’

  ‘He … do you mean he’s mute?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Why wasn’t this mentioned before?’ I say. ‘It’s important I know if children have a medical condition. I like to do research. To make sure I know—’

  ‘Bertie doesn’t have a medical condition,’ Mrs Calder snaps. ‘He used to talk. He just … stopped one day. So we know he could speak if he wanted to. He just doesn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ I ask.

  ‘We don’t know. No one does. He can read and write. But he refuses to talk. I’ve told you. He’s a difficult boy.’

  She slams the door shut, leaving Bertie and me alone in the cold.

  Bloody hell, it’s freezing.

  Snowflakes settle on my sweatshirt, and I wrap my arms around myself, shivering.

  I watch Bertie for a moment, feeling sadness cloud my heart.

  He’s scratching at the ground like he hates it, and his little body looks so skinny and tense.

  ‘Hi Bertie,’ I say again. ‘You must be cold out here.’

  I move closer, standing over him. ‘What are you writing out here in the snow? It looks like symbols or something. Do they mean anything? Or are they just patterns?’

  Bertie ignores me.

  ‘I guess you must like maths and things like that. Numbers. That’s what all these symbols remind me of. Like some sort of puzzle.’

  He turns to look up at me then, his eyes sad. There are huge grey circles under them. His black-brown eyes sweep over my face, and he leaps to his feet and throws his skinny little body at me, pushing me away with a force I wouldn’t have guessed he would be capable of.

  I tumble backwards and fall onto my backside, my palms slamming painfully into the snow.

  Ouch.

  Bertie turns back and carries on digging at the snow.

  Rubbing my backside, I get up.

  ‘I get it,’ I say. ‘You don’t want me here. Why should you? I’m just one more nanny who’s going to reject you a few days down the line.’

  I dust my red palms together, let out a long breath and come towards him again.

  Gently, I sit beside him.

  I sense his body tense, but he carries on scratching at the snow, ignoring me.

  I wait a moment.

  Then I pick up a stick and begin scratching something myself.

  Bertie ignores me at first, but as my words take shape, I see his dark eyes flick over to my part of the snow.

  When I’m finished writing, I put the stick down and look at him.

  He looks at the words I’ve written.

  They say:

  ‘I won’t leave you.’

  21

  Bertie looks at me – a really long look this time. Then his eyes cloud over, and an ugly frown pulls at his forehead. He leaps to his feet and kicks out the words I’ve written, stamping at them like they’re wasps that just stung him.

  He turns and charges into the house.

  I leap to my feet and run after him.

  Okay, so I would have preferred him to jump into my arms. But that was never going to happen. This is one unhappy kid, and that isn’t going to change with a few words in the snow. At least he’s noticed me. That’s a start. Kind of.

  ‘Bertie. Bertie.’

  I race after him, along corridors and round corners.

  He’s fast, I’ll give him that. Who’d have thought a kid that thin would have so much energy?

  My ankle is still a little sore from yesterday, but I’m giving good chase, the tapestries flying out from the walls as I dash past them.

  ‘Bertie!’ I call.

  ‘Miss Harper!’ I hear the shrill voice of Agnes Calder as I round a corner, and see a struggling, wriggling Bertie held in her bony fingers. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  I stop, out of breath, putting a hand to my chest. ‘Chasing Bertie,’ I say. ‘He ran away.’

  I see Mrs Calder’s fingers tighten on Bertie’s arm, and he goes limp and gives up the struggle.

  ‘He ran away?’ says Mrs Calder. ‘Already? You’ve been with him less than five minutes.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, through gritted teeth. ‘But Mrs Calder, the reason he ran away—’

  ‘Come along with you Bertie,’ says Mrs Calder, dragging him by the arm along the corridor. ‘To the great hall. Let’s see if Miss Harper is any less useless at getting you to eat breakfast.’

  ‘I forgot to ask, why hasn’t he had breakfast yet?’

  Mrs Calder ignores me.

  We turn down a few more corridors, an
d arrive at a grand hall laid out with three long tables.

  It looks like a sort of posh canteen.

  On the walls are lots of huge oil paintings. They’re all dark and gloomy looking. I think maybe they’re pictures of the Mansfield family.

  There’s one of a tiny old lady with white hair and a small half smile. And another of two young boys on horseback.

  It really is weird that Bertie hasn’t eaten his breakfast yet. I mean, it’s gone eight and I’m guessing he’s been up for a while.

  I decide to try again. ‘So, um. Why hasn’t Bertie eaten yet?’

  Mrs Calder raises a thin eyebrow. ‘Bertie doesn’t eat. At least, not real food. I don’t force the issue. Not any more. It’s pointless. But for the nanny, well … that’s part of your role. Part of the challenge of looking after Bertie.’

  I glance at Bertie’s thin body and gaunt face. ‘Looking after Bertie won’t be a challenge,’ I say. ‘It will be a pleasure.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ says Mrs Calder. ‘If he’s run away from you within a few minutes of meeting him, I very much doubt you’re going to do any better than the other nannies. In fact, I’d hazard a guess that you’ll do a lot worse. Well. I’ll leave you to try and feed the boy.’

  She closes her eyes a little and puts her hand to her forehead. ‘Lord knows I’ve tried to get food down him, but he won’t have it. Bertie has been a bad child ever since he arrived here.’

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘There are no bad children,’ I tell her. ‘Only adults who don’t understand them.’

  Mrs Calder laughs. ‘No. Some children are just born bad. Troublesome.’

  Oh that does it. Nothing makes me madder than that whole ‘born bad’ bullshit, and telling Bertie he’s bad and troublesome – when he’s standing right next to us … no wonder the poor little boy is miserable.

  ‘That’s so not true,’ I say. ‘Children aren’t born anything. They’re a blank slate. They become who you tell them they are. And if you tell them they’re bad, they’ll act bad.’

  I turn to Bertie. ‘But you’re not a bad kid Bertie. I promise you that. There’s no such thing.’

  ‘Well.’ Mrs Calder pulls her lips into a nasty smile. ‘It seems we don’t see eye to eye. But it’s no matter. You won’t be here long, anyway.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I say. ‘I’m not like the others. I won’t quit.’

  Mrs Calder laughs. ‘Quitting has nothing to do with it. I spoke to Bertie’s grandfather this morning. He’s decided that Bertie will start at a military boarding school at the end of this week. Run by a friend of Bertie’s grandfather’s. So your services won’t be needed as of next Monday.’

  My mouth goes dry. Oh no, no, no. I need this job. But more importantly, this kid needs me. More than any of the others. They can’t pack him off to boarding school. They just can’t. But then Mrs Calder throws me a bone.

  ‘That is, of course, unless the boy eats a decent meal before then.’

  ‘What?’ I hear a brightness in my voice.

  Mrs Calder nods. ‘The purpose of the boarding school is to beat this spoiled behaviour out of the lad. Get him eating properly before he becomes an embarrassment to the family. So if you can get him eating, I suppose he won’t need to go.’ She laughs. ‘But of course, that’s never going to happen.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You really are a very stupid girl, aren’t you Miss Harper? If some of the best doctors and nannies in the country couldn’t get him to eat, what hope do you have? So you may as well get your head around packing your bags next Monday.’

  I pull my shoulders back. ‘I’m not going to pack my bags just yet. I’ve helped plenty of children. You never know. I may help Bertie too.’

  Mrs Calder laughs. ‘Unlikely. He only eats milk and liquorice sticks. That’s all he’s eaten in years. A proper meal hasn’t passed his lips in a long time. I must say that I’m especially looking forward to throwing you out, Miss Harper.’

  With that, she stalks away.

  22

  I take a step towards Bertie. The snow on his green wax jacket is melting and he looks a little less blue than before.

  ‘So. You only eat liquorice sticks?’

  Bertie takes a step back.

  ‘It’s okay, Bertie. I’m not going to try and force you to eat.’

  Bertie turns away from me and climbs onto one of the wooden benches by a long table. He sits, then puts his elbows on the table.

  ‘So what’s on the menu for breakfast?’ I ask, coming to sit down next to him. ‘Liquorice first, then the milk? Or do you have the milk then the liquorice?’

  Nothing.

  I look around. ‘Where do you even get food from in here, anyway?’

  Then I see a little service hatch hung with silver lights at the far end of the hall.

  ‘Wait there,’ I tell Bertie, heading to the serving hatch. ‘Hello? Hello?’

  ‘Hello!’ A bright face appears at the serving hatch.

  It’s a young girl with kind blue eyes and piles of curly brown hair. She can’t be any taller than five feet, and she’s very cute. Probably about my age, but her shortness makes her look younger.

  ‘Oh!’ I put a hand to my chest. ‘Wow. So there is someone here.’

  The girl comes away from the serving hatch and through a door beside it, into the hall. ‘Yes there is! Hope I didn’t scare you. I’m the cook here. You must be Bertie’s new nanny. I’m used to seeing new faces with him now. The poor little lad has a new nanny every week.’

  The girl has such a perky, smiley face that I like her straight away. She’s so little that her thick curly hair looks extra huge. She’s wearing chef’s whites and a stripy blue apron.

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ I say. ‘It’s good to meet you. I’m Sera.’

  The girl beams at me. ‘I’m Victoria. Vicky to my friends, so you just go ahead and call me Vicky.’ She smiles, showing little dimples. ‘I just heard you telling off Mrs Calder.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have talked about Bertie like that,’ I say, frowning.

  ‘No she shouldn’t,’ says Vicky, dusting floury hands on her apron. ‘But that’s never stopped her before. She’s a law unto herself, that woman. And she doesn’t take to new people all that well.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘Oh, don’t feel bad pet. It’s nothing personal. I’m sure she’s no meaner to you than all the other nannies who have come and gone.’ She looks up thoughtfully. ‘Although she does really hate the pretty ones.’

  Vicky puts a hand to the side of her mouth and lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘She’s desperate for her daughter, Margaret, to marry Patrick Mansfield, so any young girl around the castle is a threat.’

  ‘She mentioned something about Margaret,’ I say, hoping I don’t sound too interested.

  Vicky nods. ‘She stays at the castle sometimes. She tutors Bertie. And she follows Mr Mansfield around like a puppy dog. You’ll meet her later. She teaches Bertie in the evenings. And the afternoons too, sometimes.’

  ‘Tutoring?’ I ask. ‘Shouldn’t Bertie go to school? He needs to be around other children.’

  ‘The rich have their own set of rules,’ Vicky says, with a frown. ‘In this castle, secrets come before friends.’

  ‘Well, maybe I can change that,’ I say.

  Vicky gives a little musical laugh. ‘I hope so. Something needs to change around here. I mean, this castle is so dark and gloomy.’

  I glance back at Bertie. ‘Not the best place for a child,’ I say. ‘Especially if he doesn’t go to school.’

  ‘Shall I get the little man his milk and liquorice?’ Vicky asks.

  ‘If that’s all he eats …’

  ‘Oh that’s all he eats,’ says Vicky. ‘Mrs Calder has tried to force lord knows what down him. And I’ve seen other nannies begging him, pleading with him. But he’s a stubborn little lad.’

  ‘If he only wants milk and liquorice right now, then I guess that’s what I’ll give hi
m.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’ says Vicky. ‘I’m making pastries back here – you don’t want to try him on a chocolate croissant or an apple tart? That’s what the other nannies did.’

  At the thought of chocolate croissants and apple tarts, my stomach squeezes. Wow, I’m hungry. I’m not very good at skipping meals. But I guess I’ll just have to bear it until lunchtime.

  ‘No. Small steps. He’s only just met me. If he usually has milk and liquorice, that’s what I’ll give him.’ I head back to the table.

  I notice that Bertie is sort of watching me as I come back, but then he twitches his head away.

  23

  Soon Vicky comes over with a mug of warm milk, a plate of liquorice sticks and a hot croissant with a pot of jam.

  She winks at me. ‘I know you didn’t want anything extra for Bertie. But I didn’t see you at breakfast this morning. So I thought you might want to try one of my croissants. I used to work in Paris, you know.’

  I smile at her, gratefully. ‘Thank you. Really. That’s so thoughtful of you.’

  Vicky grins. ‘My pleasure. No sense cooking if there’s no one around to eat it.’

  I look around the empty hall. ‘Who does usually eat here?’

  ‘Staff,’ says Vicky. ‘The few of us left who Mrs Calder hasn’t scared away. It’s all set up to cater for guests, but … it’s such a dark, gloomy place. I don’t really see that ever working out. Oh hell. I think my tarts are burning.’

  ‘Thanks again,’ I say, as Vicky hurries back to the kitchen.

  I turn to Bertie. ‘She’s nice.’

  Bertie’s thin hand snakes out of his coat sleeve to grab a piece of liquorice. He feeds it into his mouth, then quickly takes another, then another. When all the liquorice is gone, he glugs down the milk like it’s water in the desert.

  ‘Wow. You must be thirsty,’ I say.

  No reply.

  ‘Well, what shall we—’

  Before I can finish my sentence, Bertie leaps to his feet and climbs over the bench. He walks away from me, and I follow him.

  Three staircases later, and we’re in some sort of playroom.

  ‘Is this your bedroom?’ I ask, spotting a bed in the corner. It’s covered with books and Xbox games.