The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  “I agree, it is remarkable,” I said to him. Remarkable that the man would arrive so quickly. Surely, in the wake of a tragedy that had cost us so greatly and that had benefited him so much, a small delay on his part could not have resulted in much trouble for him. But the law has no compassion, Mr. Wyble often told us, and in that regard the lawyer seemed much the same. It had been only a quarter month since that terrible day.

  “Of course you are welcome to stay, dear cousins, until you are situated elsewhere,” he said, making a magnanimous gesture with a biscuit.

  “You are very kind,” I said when it was clear he waited on a reply.

  “Do not think there must be any sort of hurry on your part,” he went on. “I am aware, after such a drastic change of situation, that it will take some time to make arrangements for yourselves and your father. You must not worry. You will find me exceedingly patient on the matter. More tea?”

  He directed his gaze at Rose. She gave a startled look, then stood to pour him another cup. I took it from her gently and delivered it myself. Rose has a tendency to spill things, and the tea was very hot.

  I thanked him on behalf of my sisters and my father, though he had granted us nothing the law had not already. The terms of the entailment gave us half a year to quit the house. And I had no doubt that, however great its initial surplus might be, by then Mr. Wyble’s patience with us would be exhausted. That we must remove to the house on Durrow Street as soon as possible was my only thought.

  “I am sure we will all get along most agreeably,” Mr. Wyble said. “We shall dine together, of course; we are family. And I have formulated a plan for the arrangement of the house. I have concluded that you should take the fourth floor for yourselves. True, it has the largest room in the house, which I know to be exceedingly comfortable and pleasant. However, logic must supersede any little want or desire I might feel. For that floor is closest to the attic, which I know is your father’s place. The new servants will have the first floor, and I shall make the second and third floors my apartments.”

  Lily looked up from her empty cup. “But what of the parlor?” She turned to me, her eyes widened in fear. “How shall I play the pianoforte? You know I have to play! Mother told me to keep practicing.”

  I spoke before Lily could become more agitated. “Your arrangement sounds very impartial, Mr. Wyble. But you do not mean, I am sure, that we are not to have any use of the parlor.”

  “Of course I mean no such thing! I would never deprive you of such a comfort. On the contrary, I was thinking you could have the parlor for a full two hours once each quarter month. What do you think of that, cousin?” he said with a smile toward Lily.

  She clapped a hand to her mouth, stood, and fled the room.

  Mr. Wyble looked to me. “Is the poor child ill?”

  “No, I am sure she is well,” I said. “But you must know how—that is, it has been a difficult time for her.”

  He affected a solemn look. “Difficulties are the trials in which God judges us, cousin. We must be strong when faced with adversity so as to better represent our own case before Him. Do you not agree?”

  I gave him a smile in answer. “Rose,” I said, “I see Mr. Wyble’s cup is empty again. Would you take him another cup of tea?”

  SEVERAL NIGHTS LATER I sat at the dresser in what had been Mother’s room, going over the household ledger. I sought to draw up a budget, and though it would not be easy, it seemed to me we would be able to use the sum I had managed to accumulate over the years to pay for the expense of opening the house on Durrow Street. After that, your small income, Father, would be enough to keep us—but only if we lived in the most frugal manner.

  My eyes ached from reading in the candlelight. Indulging in a sigh, I shut the ledger.

  “I know where Mother kept the letters, you know,” Lily said.

  I looked up. Rose sat on the edge of the bed while Lily braided her fine brown hair.

  “What letters, dear?” I said.

  Lily did not look up from her work. “They’re in the dresser, in the bottom drawer, under her wedding lace. I saw her put them there.”

  It is not right to spy on others! I wanted to chastise Lily. Instead, I hesitated, then knelt and opened the drawer. I removed the bits of lace that had been carefully folded away, and there, just as Lily said, was a cache of papers. I recognized the letters on top at once. All were addressed to you in that same cramped, formal hand. None of them was opened.

  It seemed wrong. Yet what had been hers was ours now. She had not been able to pass on the house, but this wedding lace had been her own, and these letters. I took out all the papers and laid them on the dresser. I opened the first letter, then the next, and the next. There were more than I had thought. All of them were from the same Mr. Quent.

  The one I had read that day before replacing the wax seal was among them. The others were similar in tone and nature. All were polite but also implied a past friendship, as well as what seemed a genuine interest in helping the Lockwell family. The most recent letters all bore the same hope, that one of the daughters—myself, in particular—would consider serving as a governess to the gentleman’s two young wards, who would be coming to live with him soon, or, indeed, now were doing so.

  “Who are those letters from?” Rose asked. I looked up to see her standing above me, pretty in her new braids.

  “They are from a friend of Father’s in the country,” I said. “He wrote to inquire about our father’s health. I believe they were friends once.”

  “Maybe Father was his friend,” Lily said from the bed. “But Mother must not have thought very much of him. That drawer was where she always hid things she disliked. Things like bills and—” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “By Loerus, I promised I wouldn’t tell you!”

  A note of alarm sounded within me, one that made me disregard her swearing. “You promised you wouldn’t tell me what?”

  Lily only chewed her lip. I removed the letters from the stack and examined the papers beneath. At once my heart grew heavy. Each paper I unfolded bore similar words: Sum Yet Due or Notice of Debit. Some of them bore the names of Uphill shops, but most appeared to regard a series of loans. Strangely, each loan was for the exact amount as the monthly sum of your income, Father.

  A dread came over me. “There is no income,” I said. “Or at least there has not been for nearly a year.” The papers made it clear. Your investments had finished paying out last year, and since then Mother had taken out loans to make up the difference.

  The night pressed in around the candle, causing its light to contract. These debts would consume all of our small savings. There would be nothing to pay for the expense of opening the house on Durrow Street. And even if we were able to move there, we would have no income to live on.

  “Oh, Mother,” I murmured over the papers. “Dearest Mother. I know this was never your intention. But we are ruined. We have nothing.”

  Too late I realized that I had said these words aloud. Lily stared at me with a fearful look. “We have nothing? Do you mean we will have to go to the workhouse?”

  At this utterance, Rose burst into tears.

  I stood and held Rose close. “Hush, dearest. Do not cry. Everything will be well, you will see.”

  “I’m afraid to go to the workhouse,” Rose said. “What if they won’t let me sew shirts? I don’t know how to do anything else. I don’t know how to do anything at all.”

  With that her tears were renewed. Neither was I far from them myself, nor was Lily, by the shining of her eyes.

  No, this would not do. I had told my mother that awful day that we would be well, and so we would. Even as I looked over Rose’s shoulder at the hated papers that assured our paupery, I saw also the letters that would provide our salvation.

  With the gentlest motions I pushed Rose away. I took her hand, and Lily’s. I told them I knew what to do, that everything would be well. I do not know if it was the authority I carried as the eldest or if it was all my past eff
orts at practicality that reassured them, but they grew calm. Rose smiled at me, and Lily even kissed my cheek, a gift I received with some chagrin. For I had no doubt that what I intended to do would distress them both even as it assured our future. I told them to go to Rose’s room. I waited for the door to shut, then I sat at the dresser, took out pen and paper, and commenced writing a letter.

  Dear Mr. Quent, I began.

  I KNEW THE MAIL kept to its timetables whether it was day or night, be it a short lumenal or a long umbral. All the same, I was astonished when after less than a quarter month a letter came written in that same precise, small-set hand. Only this time it was addressed not to you but instead to Miss Ivoleyn Lockwell.

  So anxious was I that I could not wait to go up to our rooms; I opened the letter there in the garden and read it on the bench where I had spoken with Mrs. Baydon that day that now seemed so long ago. This time the news I received in that place was far more welcome. He expressed his sorrow and condolences at our loss. His words were well intentioned, if labored in their construction. I read on, and my heart leaped.

  He still had need of a governess! He had not been able to secure anyone of worth to watch over his little cousins, who had lately arrived at his house. My presence was needed at the soonest possible time, but he could no longer see paying me fifty regals a month. Given how difficult it was to secure someone of quality for this position, my own worth had necessarily increased, and the sum should instead be sixty regals monthly!

  For several moments I was overwhelmed. Our current savings would remove the debts our mother had accrued, and with the income I would receive from Mr. Quent, I would be able to save enough to move my family to the house on Durrow Street. How long I could expect the arrangement with Mr. Quent to last I could not know, but this would grant us time—more than a year, at the least—to determine a course for the future.

  However, after a moment my elation faltered. Between now and that happy future lay harder things. It would be some months before I had saved enough to effect our move from Whitward Street. During that period I would be far from my sisters, and they and you, Father, would be forced to suffer Mr. Wyble as your landlord.

  There was no other way. Again I read the letter, and I saw that Mr. Quent had made arrangements for me to travel with the mail on the lumenal after next. The fare was already paid. There was no need to write Mr. Quent a reply; I would be arriving as quickly as any letter could.

  That night—as we readied ourselves for bed after a day that had felt short no matter that the almanac claimed it to be of middling length—I told Lily and Rose what I was to do. I rued the timing of my speech. Our spirits, I confess, were low. Supper that evening had been a disheartening affair. We had been forced to let Mrs. Murch, Wilbern, and Cassity go. It was a sadness on top of a sorrow, but Mr. Wyble had insisted on hiring his own servants.

  The new housekeeper was a sullen woman and a poor cook. However, the first time Mr. Wyble complained that something was not to his satisfaction, she replied by saying that she would not tell him how a lawyer should act if he would not tell her how a housekeeper should act.

  He proclaimed she was correct to chastise him, that of course he would not hear her opinion on matters of law, so her opinions on the keeping of the household could only be right. After this, despite her dismal efforts at any sort of cleaning and at the table, everything she produced was lavished with the highest praise on his part, no matter how unkempt or wanting for salt.

  Her husband, who saw to the grounds and was supposed to perform any repairs about the house, was no better, being inclined to do little more than smoke his pipe on the back step. He treated me to a walleyed glare the one time I found him out back and suggested he might see to the window in the front hall, which was stuck.

  “You’re not the lady here, young miss. You’ll not tell me what to do.” He spat on the step and proceeded to chew on his pipe.

  That Lily and Rose would be under their own care could not be avoided, and when I told them I was leaving the day after next to take employment with Mr. Quent in the country, their shock was exceeded only by their despair.

  “But you cannot leave us here!” Lily cried. “What are we to do without you? How can we endure Mr. Wyble? I can’t stand the sight of him. It’s only you that has kept me civil at all.”

  I did not mention that Lily had been anything but civil. “You are very strong,” I said, endeavoring to sound cheerful. “Both of you. I know you will do very well without me. But I believe you must not count on our cousin for anything. Nor can you look to his servants for any aid. You would do better to avoid them, I think. And do not let them up into the attic. Their presence can only cause our father distress, and it will be up to both of you to care for him.”

  Lily shook her head. “But what if he—if one of his spells should—you know only you can calm him, Ivy.”

  I cannot lie; I did feel some concern about leaving you, Father. But even as I felt a flutter of doubt, Rose gave me cause for new resolve.

  “I will care for our father,” she said. “I think he will listen to me. He talks to me at night sometimes.”

  I could only feel wonder. In many ways Rose lived in a different world than the rest of us. What she did in her nocturnal wanderings I did not know, but at that moment, while I could not say my worries were erased, I knew that you would be cared for and loved.

  Not to be outdone by her sister, Lily pronounced that she would care for you as well and that no one would do more than her. I embraced them both and gave them what advice I could. (That is, I explained how you could dress yourself if clothes were laid out, but how you might need to be encouraged to eat, and how best to soothe you if an agitation did come upon you.) They listened closely, and Lily repeated back all of my instructions. My relief was great; I felt I could in good conscience go.

  However, I cannot say I was glad. Now that all was determined, a gloom had come over me. The next day was another middle lumenal and rushed by. Mr. Wyble expressed no regret at my leaving when I gave him the news. I am sure he could not have expected to be rid of one of us so soon, and now had every hope that the rest would be disposed of as easily.

  The next morning my sisters helped me carry my two little satchels Downhill to the mail post. I had wanted nothing more that morning than to bid you farewell, Father, but I did not wish you to see my departure, for fear it might alarm you. So I kissed you good night the evening before, just as I always did, and smoothed your hair, knowing it would soon be wild again.

  “Be good,” I told Lily as the driver loaded my satchels on the coach. There was so much I wanted to tell her—how she must set a good example for Rose and keep her spirits up, and how she must not torment Mr. Wyble, for whatever she thought of him they must all dwell under one roof—but it was more than I could put into a few words, and the other passengers were already climbing into the coach. “Do be good,” I said again, and kissed her.

  Then it was Rose’s turn. “Be brave, dearest,” I told her, and held her tight. “You must keep watch over Lily and our father.”

  “It will be darker in the house without you,” she said. “I won’t have light to sew during long nights.”

  I wanted to tell her to light candles—to light as many as she wanted—but at that moment the driver called out. The other passengers were aboard. The horses stamped at the cobblestones.

  I kissed Rose again, and Lily, and before they could see my own trembling I hurried to the coach. A gray-haired gentleman reached down from inside and helped me up the step. The door was closed. I found myself on the seat by the window, looking out. Lily waved her handkerchief—in a slow and overly artful manner, I thought—as a whip cracked and the coach made a great lurch forward. It hurtled Downhill. The gray stones of the Hillgate flashed by. My sisters were lost to sight.

  OF MY JOURNEY I need say only a few things. It was long, for one, and consisted of a monotony of creaks and rattles and jolts broken only by those brief respites as the mail wa
s delivered according to its schedule at each stop, keeping always to its timetables whether it was light out or dark.

  Each time we halted, I would creep from the coach with the other travelers, all of us moving like crippled things from being folded up and tossed about for so long. If the schedule allowed, we would venture inside whichever crossroads inn or public house we found ourselves at for a bit to eat or drink. However, the fare was generally as burnt or awful as something Mr. Wyble’s housekeeper might have prepared; they were bare and cheerless places.

  Hardly would any of our aches have abated before the horses were changed and all of us crowded once again into the hard, dark interior of the coach. That the various letters and parcels in their trunks could be packed any less tightly than we passengers was something I could not imagine.

  At Morrowset, the others I had journeyed with from Invarel disembarked. I was the only one of the group traveling onward. As the driver lit the lanterns that hung from the pole beside his bench, I climbed back into the coach along with a new set of travelers.

  They were a plainer and grimmer lot than those I had traveled with from the city. They were country folk, I suppose, and were less inclined toward talk; indeed, they seemed disposed not to speak at all and instead were intent only on sleep. As if rest were somehow a possibility! The coach hurtled over roads that grew coarser by the mile. All the same, the other travelers folded their arms and bowed their heads, appearing as if they had fallen into the deepest repose. Though more than once, on the edge of my vision, I noticed one of them stealing a glance at me through cracked eyelids, only to clamp his eyes shut if I looked at him directly.

  Hoping to find at least one other willing to pass the time in conversation, I made an effort to speak to the man who sat on the bench beside me. Unlike the others, he did not seem to sleep, and I thought perhaps he was from the city like myself. His coat was fashionably cut, and on his right hand was a gold ring carved like a lion’s head.