by Abigail Agar
All because she hadn’t bothered to pay attention. And now, because she hadn’t bothered to keep her mouth shut.
She imagined telling her mother what had happened. Explaining that she hadn’t been able to round up the children; that she’d put one of them in terrible danger. That then, she’d spurned the Duke himself, declaring him unfit to run his business and his family …
It was almost laughable, how horribly it had all gone.
Marina walked slowly through the hallways, taking a long route to return to her bedroom. She found herself teetering on the steps, trying to decide whether or not she could slip through to the children’s rooms, say a goodbye. Pausing, she pushed herself to listen—listen hard—to ensure that the hallway was empty before she entered. When no footsteps echoed back, she darted into the candlelit tunnel, slipping her hand along the textured wall. As she rushed, she drew closer and closer to Christopher’s—her first stop.
But when she reached the door, she pressed her ear against it. On the other side, she heard the doctor’s honey-like voice, speaking to Ms Hodgins. Her heart fluttered wildly. She ducked back, placing her hand on the further doorknob and falling into what she knew was Max’s room. She flung herself around, closing the door,, and found herself staring at the teensy form of the young boy. His eyes peered up at her, so big and almost alien. But he didn’t make a sound.
Rather, he tore up from his bed, shuffling towards her and tossing his arms around her waist. He’d taken a bath, been scrubbed clean, and Marina inhaled the smell of the soap. Her fingers traced through his hair. He dropped his head back, leaning his chin against her stomach. His lips quivered as he spoke.
“Claudia said that you’re going to have to go away.”
Marina was surprised how quickly the tears sprung to her eyes. She blinked them back, trying to draw a smile. “Claudia might be right,” she said.
“But why?” Max asked. “It wasn’t your fault what happened to Christopher. He was just trying to find the treasure. Maybe—maybe you could explain that to Father? Maybe you could simply tell him …”
“It’s just not so terribly simply, unfortunately.” Marina sighed. She dropped to her knees in front of Max, gazing into these near-perfect blue eyes, so crystal-clear, like an impossibly beautiful pond. There was something fairytale-like about these children. Something outside the bounds of time or reason. Like they would always be this age, always be this innocent and spectacular and alive.
Perhaps that’s how everyone felt about their own children, Marina thought.
“Please. You can’t go,” Max whispered. “Claudia said that Father will send us to a boarding school if you do. And I don’t want to leave our home. What if… what if he forgets about us?” Max whispered.
Outside, they heard the clunking steps of Ms Hodgins and the doctor. Marina pressed her finger against her lips and cut towards the door, placing her ear against it. Max shuffled towards her, doing the same.
“I’ve put the bone back in place,” the doctor said. “He’ll just need tons of rest. And of course, no walking on it. It should take about two months to heal completely. In that time, I’m sure I’ll be with the Duke frequently. I’ll make the trip for both.”
“Very good, Doctor,” Ms Hodgins affirmed. “I’ve already drawn the wheelchair into his bedroom. And when he’s healed, I’m sure he’ll be sent to the boarding school along with the other children.”
“Going to be quite a quiet place, isn’t it?” the doctor said. “Always so much life in this house, before Marybeth …”
“Yes, well. I’m sure we’ll find another way to use it,” Ms Hodgins scoffed. “No use dwelling.”
They shuffled past Max’s room, their voices disappearing down the hallway. Marina blinked once, twice, then gripped Max’s hand, whispering, “I want to say goodbye to him. And that I’m sorry.”
Max nodded. He reached up, turning the golden doorknob with his needle-like fingers, and eased the door open. Marina followed after him, ducking towards Christopher’s door. They didn’t bother to knock. Rather, they scampered inside like thieves making a break for it. Within seconds, they appeared on the other side, huffing, their backs against the mighty door. In the bed, peering up at them with a mischievous grin, was Christopher himself. His leg had been latched together in a cast, and it was outside the bed duvet and sheets—stretched out and bulbous in its wrappings. Christopher had a book out on his stomach, a book filled with gorgeous illustrations. A fairytale.
Max skipped towards Christopher’s bed. “You’re all right!” he cried.
“Shhhh!” Marina whispered. She couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. “We can’t be caught.”
“We snuck in here to see if you were all right,” Max rasped. “Right after the doctor and Ms Hodgins left.”
“That doctor doesn’t know a single thing,” Christopher said. “He had to wrap my leg up twice because he did it wrong the first time. If he’s the one watching over Father, he’ll never see again…”
Max leaped onto Christopher’s bed, cat-like, and landed on the other side of him. Marina perched at the end of it, gazing down at the little boy. Max and Christopher were entirely different in body shape, in hair colour, in the way they seemed to look at the world. Yet, there on the bed, they were two peas in a pod, gazing down at the fairytale book, its bright illustrations.
“Christopher, I wanted to tell you I’m so, so terribly sorry,” Marina whispered. “I shouldn’t have let you run off like that.”
Christopher shot his head up, incredulous. “What do you mean? I had to run off like that. Don’t you understand?” He lifted the fairytale book, shook it. “Mother used to read this to us and tell us about the treasure in the woods just outside the grounds …”
“That’s the book?” Marina asked. She tucked closer to the boys. The illustration was of a burly-looking Viking, his arm wrapped around a treasure chest and his feet teetering on the edge of a massive ship. His hair was long and curled and bright red, whipping in the wind. Max reached up to Marina’s curls, tugging at them.
“That’s right,” Marina chuckled. “My hair is just as messy as his.”
“Have you ever been to this place? Sweden?” Christopher asked, dotting his finger against the ship and the land, painted just beyond it. “That’s where the gold is from. Mother said.”
“No. I’ve never been anywhere,” Marina said, giving him a sad smile. “And I suspect I never will. But you know what? You can, Christopher. Max. You both have it in you to explore this entire Earth, if you want to.”
Christopher and Max both frowned, their little eyebrows darting over their eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, once you’re a bit older, the world will open up for you,” Marina said. “And I want to make sure that you’re not afraid to go out into it. Because I’ve heard beautiful things about it. But perhaps your father might make you afraid of it, due to his anger and his fear of losing you. Don’t let him make you feel that. Okay?”
Somehow, these words felt all-important to Marina. She suddenly wanted to impart to them everything she could have possibly given them over the next years. She shuddered, feeling the weight of this task.
“Even Sweden?” Max asked.
“But what about the gold in the forest?” Christopher demanded.
“Perhaps you can find it one day. But you can’t go out there alone, not when you’re only nine years old,” Marina said.
“But that’s how old the boy in the story is,” Christopher protested, stabbing his finger against the following page—an illustration of a blond boy, so much like Christopher, painted alongside a little shack in the forest. “See? In the end, he has to find clues from a troll under a bridge, and fight a dragon. But he gets to the treasure, and then he can save his entire family.”
Marina nodded, feeling the weight of this issue. This was certainly a family that needed saving, in nearly every way. There was so much love. Yet, it could be lost in an instant when the children w
ere sent to boarding school—when they were forced to grapple with a different set of rules, forced to abandon their love for their father in allegiance for something else.
“You are just as brave as this boy in the story,” Marina whispered. “Just promise me you’ll take someone with you next time. When you’re strong enough to walk.”
Christopher shrugged at his bum leg, seemingly looking at it as a sudden minor inconvenience. “Doctor said just two months. I’ll study up until then. I didn’t get the map exactly right. But I will.”
“Good,” Marina said, her voice breaking. Again, she smiled wide. “That’s so good to hear.”
Suddenly, the door opened. Marina shot to her feet, prepared to fight the horrid Ms Hodgins, or find herself again face to face with the Duke. But instead, Lottie appeared on the other side, gripping the hand of Claudia. She dragged her inside, her thick eyelashes fluttering.
“Hurry! Hurry!” Marina whispered, flashing her hand back and forth. “Shut the door behind you!”
Claudia did as she was told, while Lottie scampered forward, placing a kiss on Christopher’s cheek. He shook her off, and then dropped his hand over her hair, shaking her back and forth. She giggled, and then pounced onto Marina’s lap, wrapping her arms around her neck.
Claudia kept her distance, hanging around the door. She crossed her arms over her chest, her nostrils flared. “I thought for sure they would have sent you away by now,” Claudia said.
Marina pressed her nose into Lottie’s soapy head, inhaling lavender. It reminded her of her younger years when her older sister had scrubbed her clean, wrapped her in towels, and sent her to bed. How cozy it was to be a child. How sure you were that someone would wrap you up and speak to you softly until you fell asleep.
“I’m supposed to leave in the morning,” Marina murmured. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”
Claudia’s eyes dropped towards the floor. No one spoke for a long moment. Lottie tucked herself tighter against Marina, snuggling. Marina ached to say the right thing but couldn’t possibly verbalize it. Certainly not in front of Claudia—who, perhaps, needed her most of all. She was the one who would fall to the older boarding school, be required to fall in line in the social construct, interact with mean girls who would become mean, rich women. Probably, Claudia would have to become one of them, out of necessity.
“Well, that’s it, then,” Claudia sighed. “That’s the end of everything.”
“Don’t say that,” Marina whispered. “Come over here. Christopher’s reading us a fairytale.”
Claudia stepped forward, her eyes peering at the book. “We’ve all heard this story so many times. Our mother read it to us countless times. Christopher couldn’t get enough of it. Still can’t, I suppose.”
“You like it, too,” Christopher said, accusatorially.
Claudia jumped over Christopher’s leg, sidling up alongside Max. She drew her arm around Max’s slim frame, allowing his head to press against her shoulder. Marina marvelled at this little moment of intimacy: all five of them together, for the last time.
“Come on. Tell us the story,” Claudia offered, rolling her eyes. “I suppose none of us will be able to sleep tonight.”
Marina knew that she should be the adult, put the children to bed. But the smell of lavender, of soap, of washed linens; the appearance of illustrated fairytale books, and the assurance of these children’s growing love for her (after years of never feeling love herself), kept her back. She wrapped Lottie tighter, leaned her head towards Christopher, nodding. If there was ever a time to nourish each moment, it was this.
Chapter 11
The Duke couldn’t shake his anger. He rattled around his study, breathing heavily, his fists shaking. Ms Hodgins arrived back several minutes after Marina had fled, speaking with heavy snark. “I don’t suppose she took that well, did she?”
The Duke turned towards her. He sensed her in the doorway of the study, leaning heavily against the frame. He imagined her lip, coated in hair, as it turned over the bottom one—waiting for him to agree with her. But he couldn’t help continuing to trace the words that Marina had spoken as she’d left his study—declaring that she was the only one who’d given a single care for the children. The only one who’d seen them for who they were, or what they could become.
“I supposed I should prepare a list of relevant boarding schools for you, sir,” Sally said, gliding smoothly to the next topic. “I have several pamphlets here. I could read you the relevant information, so that you might make a beneficial choice for all those involved?”
“Ms Hodgins,” the Duke growled. “If you could possibly leave this to another time.”
He chose his words carefully, yet knew they were laced with anger. The very moment the last governess was cast out, Ms Hodgins was prepared to lift her boot to his children, as well? He hunted for air, wanting to lash out to Sally, to tell her that she was a poison in this household—that she couldn’t possibly understand what was right …
Not that he did. And in many respects, he couldn’t see any other way. Ms Hodgins had been a part of the household since before Marybeth had arrived. She’d carried the children on her hip, assisting when Marybeth had been pregnant with the subsequent others. She’d been there for every illness, every prayer. She’d been the very first to sit with the Duke in the moments after Marybeth’s death, allowing her own tears to fall. “My mistress. She was ever so lovely till the end.”
Therefore, the Duke was forced to believe that Ms Hodgins was simply working in his and the children’s best interests. She certainly had enough information to pass judgement.
“Of course, Sir. Although I must alert you that we haven't given ourselves time to hunt for another governess. And when we don’t have one, that puts complete responsibility on mine, the cook’s, and Claudia’s shoulders—a fact, I know, that strains you.”
“Why couldn’t we possibly have found a decent governess?” the Duke cried. He reached for another glass item on his desk, yet found nothing but flat, oiled wood. He’d smashed too many items, had made a mockery of the fact that once—a long time ago—he’d chosen each piece for the look of it, regarded his study as a place of art and reading.
“I’ll see to it that she’s packed in the morning and ready to leave us,” Ms Hodgins said, her voice firm. “I do believe this is the best way.”
With that, Ms Hodgins strode out of the room and slid the door closed behind her. The sound of the door’s click made the Duke feel the weight of silence and solitude—almost like a prelude to all that would come after when his children were sent away. He lurched towards the corner of his room, his fingers sneaking around his cabinets, hunting. There! He latched onto the violin case, dusty from weeks of ill use, and placed the case tenderly atop his recently-cleaned off desk. With a flourish, he produced the violin from the velvet. Taking it from its case felt so organic, the very act so natural to his fingers and arms. And when he inhaled, he dropped the bow against the strings and sent a high-pitched, chaotic note into the air. The note matched exactly his feelings of anger, of sadness. Of knowing that nothing would ever be all right again. Not when Marybeth was no longer alive. Not when his children would be faced to grow up apart, alone.
He began to play louder, faster. He shot his bow out as far as it would go and then cranked it back in, playing an old Baroque tune and then rejuvenating it with his own melody. As he played, tears swept down his cheeks. Long ago, perhaps a million years before, when he played too angrily, Marybeth would creep up behind him and wrap her arms around him. She would say, “Shh,” into his back, until he started to chuckle. He would spin around, halting his playing instantly, and hug her back. How his thick arms would wrap all the way around her thin frame as if he could possibly protect her from everything. “What is this shhh-ing you’re doing?” he’d ask. “You’re messing up my perfect tune.”
Now, there was no one to hear his cries in the dark. He couldn’t even see his fingers as they flew over the strings, plucking
and then pressing so hard that they almost tore through his blisters. He knew he was even outplaying his own strengths, trying to tear beyond his own boundaries. But if he was going to die blind, then he wanted to be able to feel every moment of it—to his core, to his bones.
