Chapter 2 #2
“So you’ve been struck by the lack of schooling,” he muttered, frowning slightly.
“Very well, Miss Prim, you’re right: if you’re going to work here you’re entitled to know what kind of household this is, though I must remind you that the children will not be in your charge. Their care is not part of your duties.”
“I know, sir, but the children—how can I put it?—exist.”
“Indeed they exist and, as the days pass, you’ll grow increasingly aware of their existence.”
“Do you mean they’re ill mannered?”
“I mean that the children are my life.”
His reply caught her off guard. Despite her first impressions, there seemed to be a glimmer of delicacy in the man, much more so than she could have imagined—a strange, austere, intense delicacy.
“Are . . . are the children yours? I mean, some of them?”
“Are you asking if I’m their father? No, I’m not. Four of them are my sister’s children, but I’ve been their guardian since she died about five years ago. The rest are from the village, and they come here for lessons two or three times a week.”
Miss Prim looked down tactfully: now she understood everything.
Now she could see why the children were being educated at home instead of at school.
This was clearly a case of what modern psychology called prolonged grief disorder.
A sad situation, undoubtedly, but absolutely no excuse for such behavior.
Homeschooling wasn’t good for children and, though it might be difficult or even embarrassing to talk about it, she knew it was her duty to do so.
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” she said as if addressing a wounded animal, “but you shouldn’t shut yourself away with your grief.
You have to think of your nephews and nieces, of them and their future.
You can’t let your own sorrow lock them up inside this house and deprive them of a decent education. ”
He stared at her for a moment uncomprehendingly. Then he looked down and shook his head, smiling briefly.
Prudencia, who wasn’t given to romanticizing, surprised herself by reflecting how an unexpected smile could light up a dark room.
“A decent education? You think I’m a sad man who’s holding on to his nephews and nieces, not letting them go to school so as not to feel lonely, is that so?”
“Is it?” she replied with a note of caution.
“No, it isn’t.”
The man went to the drinks cabinet by the window, in which a dozen fine crystal flutes and six heavy whiskey tumblers stood alongside an array of wines and liqueurs.
“Would you like a drink, Miss Prim? I usually have one around this time. How about a glass of port?”
“Thank you, sir, but I don’t drink.”
“Do you mind if I have one?”
“Absolutely not, you’re in your own home.”
He turned and looked at her inquiringly, trying to gauge if there was sarcasm behind her words. Then he took a sip of his drink and set the glass directly on the tabletop, prompting an involuntary, barely perceptible expression of reproof to pass across her usually serene face.
“The truth is, I have rather particular views on formal education. But if you do decide to stay and work here, all you need to know is that I’m schooling my nephews and nieces myself because I’m determined they should have the best education possible.
I don’t have the romantic reasons you attribute to me, Miss Prim.
I’m not wounded, I’m not depressed, I wouldn’t even say I feel lonely.
My only aim is that the children should one day become all that modern schooling is incapable of producing. ”
“Producing?”
“That’s the apposite word, in my opinion,” he replied, a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
She said nothing. Was this house really the right place for a woman like her?
She couldn’t say that the man was unpleasant.
He wasn’t rude, or insulting, nor was there any sign of the lingering gaze she’d had to endure for years from her previous employer; but there was no delicacy in the way he spoke to the children, or sensitivity in the frank, if courteous, tone with which he addressed her.
Miss Prim had to admit that in her heart a little resentment persisted over the clumsy insinuation about her motives only half an hour earlier.
But there was something else: a troubling, hidden energy in his face, something indefinable that evoked hunting trophies, ancient battles, and heroic deeds.
“So, your mind is made up to leave?” he asked, drawing her abruptly from her thoughts.
“No, it isn’t. I wanted an explanation and I got one. I can’t say I share your gloomy view of the education system, but I understand your fear that the brutality of the modern world might crush the children’s spirits. If I could, however, speak candidly . . . ”
“Please, go ahead.”
“Your approach seems a little extreme, but I believe you’re guided by your convictions and that’s more than enough for me.”
“So you think I’m going too far?”
“Yes, I do.”
The man went to the shelves and ran his hand over several books before stopping at a thick, ancient leather-bound volume and carefully withdrawing it.
“Do you know what this is?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“De Trinitate.”
“St. Augustine?”
“I see you live up to your CV. Or do you perhaps have some, shall we say, spiritual concerns?”
Feeling awkward, she began playing with the amethyst ring on her right hand.
“That’s a private matter, so if you wouldn’t mind I’d rather not answer. I consider I have the right not to.”
“A private matter,” he repeated quietly, staring at the book. “Of course, you’re right. Again, I apologize.”
Miss Prim bit her lip before adding: “I hope there’ll be no problem concerning my personal beliefs, because if there is it seems to me that for both our sakes you should tell me now.”
“Absolutely none. You haven’t been hired to give lessons in theology.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
“I’m sure you are,” he said with a smile.
There was a lengthy silence in the room, broken only by the distant laughter of children in the garden.
“I have to say I was very surprised that the children are named after numbers,” she said at last, in an attempt to navigate into less controversial waters.
“Actually they’re nicknames,” he laughed, “and they have a lot to do with my inability to remember birthdays. Septimus was born in September, his brother Deka in October, Teseris in April, and Eksi, the youngest, in June. I’m a lover of classical languages, and this system has helped get me out of a fix more than once. ”
As he spoke he gestured at the disorder in the room. A seemingly infinite quantity of books was piled on tables and shelves two, three, and even sometimes four rows deep among towering stacks of papers, old maps, fossils, mineral specimens, and seashells.
“I’m afraid the state of my library tells you all you need to know about my organizational abilities.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not intimidated by mess.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. But I bet it bothers you.”
Miss Prim didn’t know what to say and, once again, chose to change the subject.
“Young Teseris says she paints icons from memory.”
“But you don’t believe her.”
“Are you implying that I should?”
The man said nothing, simply going to the bookshelves and replacing the heavy leather-bound volume. Then he went over to the fireplace, picked up a notebook from the mantelpiece, and handed it to her.
“This is a list of all the books in the library. It’s arranged by author and was drawn up by the previous librarian.
If you’re not feeling too tired, I’d like you to take a look at it this evening, so that you’re ready tomorrow for me to explain what I want you to do with this dusty old chaos. How does that sound?”
Miss Prim would have liked to carry on chatting, but she realized that for her new employer the conversation had reached its conclusion.
“That sounds perfect.”
“Wonderful. Supper is at nine and breakfast at eight.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather have my main meals in my room. I can cook myself something simple and take it upstairs.”
“I’ll have your meals taken up to you from the kitchen, Miss Prim. As far as feeding people is concerned, we run a tight ship in this house. I hope you sleep well on your first night here,” he said, holding out his hand.
She was tempted to object. She disliked the idea of a man who was a virtual stranger assuming the right to decide how, what, and when she should eat. She disliked that domineering way of having the last word.
“Good night, sir,” she said meekly before going upstairs.