Ansel of Pryor House Page 4

  “Oh.”

  A book lay open on the table, the exposed pages marking a point somewhere past the middle of the book. He didn’t remember seeing it there before, but he could’ve been mistaken. He still felt overwhelmed by his adventures so far, after all, and overlooking something as trivial as a book on a table shouldn’t come as a surprise. From where Ansel stood, the innocuous object appeared quite magical with the colors from the stained glass windows blanketing it and adding a distinct touch of whimsy to the entire scene. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought that the book had an edge of fairyland to it.

  Utter rubbish and nonsense, his father’s distant voice sneered. What a typical thing to cross the mind of a simpleton with outrageous aspirations. Ansel’s smile immediately faded at that, and he sighed as he walked up to the table. He might as well make himself useful by re-shelving the book, though he wouldn’t know exactly where he’d place it.

  He looked down at the book on his approach, frowning at the sight of a drawing of a boy smiling guilelessly at him on the left page, the right being left empty of both text or illustration. The drawing—portrait, that is—contained the boy’s head and his upper-body. It was a skillfully rendered portrait, Ansel saw with growing amazement, done in pencil with no detail left to chance. In fact, it was so life-like Ansel half-expected the boy to start talking or laughing from the page. The subject of the portrait was in his adolescence, though there was a certain worldliness in his general air that made Ansel wonder if the boy was older. Perhaps seventeen if not eighteen, he thought, blinking.

  The boy was neatly groomed, his hair short and properly combed, his clothes looking as though they were made of rich stuff. A very privileged youth, Ansel decided, admiration for both the artist’s skill and the boy’s appearance engulfing his earlier sense of wonder. The subject’s rendering was so life-like, Ansel felt unnerved by the keen gaze that was being directed at him, almost probing in the way they held his own. The eyes were the windows to one’s soul, he’d been told so many times before, and if such were the case, the eyes currently pinning him down spoke of intelligence and—kindness.

  It was that last point that shook Ansel’s core, making him want to take a couple of steps back in sheer mortification. He didn’t like that gaze, didn’t like the way he seemed to be expected to accept a wordless expression of friendship. It felt too alien, too unsettling. An insult, a curse, a rebuke—those he could easily acknowledge and accept. But friendship? No, friendship would need to be earned as far as he was concerned.

  Ansel looked around and found no other stray books lying anywhere. A quick sweep of the nearby shelves revealed no room where he could squeeze this book with its strange portrait.

  “Well—I suppose that’s why it’s left out on the table,” he muttered, looking back at the book.

  Should he close it? Would it reveal his curious examination of it if he did? If Miss Peveler was the one who’d left the book open on the table, would she be upset if she found it closed and, therefore, touched? Ansel went back and forth between these questions, half the time feeling utterly ridiculous for such an inane concern, and half the time feeling the need to protect the book’s contents against the world.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes at himself. He was about to close the book when something about the drawing caught his attention, and he paused, mystified.

  What on earth was it? Ansel couldn’t rightly tell. Everything appeared to be as it was just a moment before. The boy continued to smile at him, continued to probe deep into him with that keen glance.

  “No, wait…”

  The boy’s head had tilted slightly to the side—a familiar move indicating a mind hard at work sorting through things, if not simply understanding what it was being asked to absorb. Like a student tipping his head to the side when listening to his teacher’s lessons. Or a child doing the same when listening in awe at his parent’s fireside tales.

  Ansel’s frown deepened as he wracked his brain for memories of the same image from just a few seconds earlier. At length he was forced to give up with a heavy sigh.

  “No, it’s always been that way,” he said. “I just never observed it.”

  Giving the portrait one final admiring yet embarrassed look, he gently closed the book and left it on the table. He could always explain to Miss Peveler later if she were to take offense to the violation of her private reading. Besides, he thought as he observed the book’s old and discolored leather binding, there was something strangely intimate about the portrait, though he couldn’t quite place his finger on why. He simply felt it, and the urge to shield the boy from everyone’s view was strong enough to take him completely by surprise, even. In fact, when he left the library, the relief and satisfaction from hiding the boy’s image swelled in his chest, and he felt a great deal lighter than when he’d started his day.

  Chapter 6

  Ansel didn’t get to spend time with Miss Peveler again till the following day. She’d apparently returned from visiting friends quite late, when Ansel had already gone to bed, he was told. For the most part, Ansel was grateful for the temporary respite as he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the lady’s fierce authority so soon. He didn’t dine with her during breakfast because she was still in bed despite the late hour.

  For the time being he contented himself with shadowing Mrs. Finn, asking her repeatedly if she and Mr. Blacow needed any help with the housework. It was something he’d been forced to resort to the previous day to while away the time. The housekeeper and “kitchen master” allowed him to tidy up the kitchen and then partake in tea with them while they entertained him with stories. But such moments had turned out to be too short to last the rest of the day, so Ansel had been forced to turn his anxious attention to his bedroom and everything in it. By the time dinner was called, he’d tidied up his room and clothes and managed a minor redecorating with the moving of some furniture around. For this new day, he was dismayed at the thought of having to go through the same thing again.

  “There isn’t anyone else here but us, child,” Mrs. Finn replied. “Housework isn’t worth losing sleep over. Besides, Miss Peveler has other plans for you now that you’ve settled in. That’s given her enough time to feel you.”

  Ansel frowned at her. To feel him? What a curious way of putting things, he thought, if it simply meant Miss Peveler being reassured of Ansel’s comfort living in Pryor House, at least for the time being. Then again, the Farnham family were really quite eccentric people.

  “How do you know?”

  “She told us last night on her return. ‘No housework for the boy, no matter how much he begs for it,’ she’d said. Now—stand there. Let me look at you.” Mrs. Finn fell silent as she eyed Ansel up and down, tilting her head or leaning this way or that in order to get a closer view of his appearance. She’d already cut his hair, which she’d claimed would please the mistress of the house greatly. “Turn around. Good. Good, good. Much improved. You’ve still a long way to go, but you’re looking much better.” Mrs. Finn gave a sharp nod, her faint smile a welcome little light in an otherwise gloomy house.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” When Mrs. Finn turned around to leave, Ansel asked in a desperate tone that embarrassed him, “Is there really nothing I can do, Mrs. Finn?”

  The housekeeper paused and turned again to face him, a look of mild surprise on her face. “You’re capable of doing anything you need to do, Ansel.”

  That wasn’t exactly the answer he wanted. Suddenly at a loss, cast adrift without an oar, Ansel felt a surge of panic course through him. “But…”

  “I repeat myself—you’re capable of doing anything you need to do.” There was a firmness and finality in Mrs. Finn’s tone and her clipped manner of speaking that silenced Ansel despite his doubts. She gave him one final look, a challenging one, even, before satisfying herself with her victory and moving off.

  As Ansel watched her go, he didn’t know if it was nothing more than the wo
rkings of his mind, but it appeared as though the housekeeper’s body—no, clothes!—faded in and out of the wallpaper and wainscoting. Ansel blinked and rubbed his eyes. No, she didn’t fade or disappear, he chided himself. It was just…

  “Her clothes,” he murmured, frowning. “They’re the same colors as the walls and the floors.” In the same manner, he appended, that Mr. Farnham’s suits echoed Pryor House’s façade, and Miss Peveler’s dresses mirrored the house’s windows. It was very odd, to say the least, but Ansel didn’t feel threatened in any way by the realization.

  Since it was impossible to chase after Mrs. Finn and demand an explanation—because her final words had a cryptic edge to them—Ansel decided to tidy an already tidy house. It was a sad affair, to be sure, entering every room without thinking and then carefully ensuring that every item was in its place, but Ansel had to keep himself busy and distracted. It was a habit, he had to admit now, though perhaps a necessity for safety’s sake in his old home. Here? Not anymore. The urge to resort to drudge work was so strong, though, as if he’d grown too dependent on it—like a sordid addiction, the way his father had become addicted to alcohol. As though to temper his restlessness, he found his mind flickering back to the housekeeper’s words despite the fact that, at least on the surface, they didn’t say much.

  You’re capable of doing anything you need to do.

  What was strange about that? After a moment of cudgeling his brain, Ansel decided it was her use of “need” and not “want”. Why the distinction? It might be nothing more than a thoughtless error on Mrs. Finn’s part, but something told Ansel it was deliberate, and she really did mean something important. Ansel had to sigh, frustrated, though he took to tidying up unnecessarily. Keeping himself busy with housework was something he needed and wanted, he told himself. There was no distinction between those two terms as far as he was concerned.

  Sadly, it didn’t take long for him to go through the rooms downstairs. Lunch had yet to be called, and he was again facing more empty moments of idleness and guilt. So Ansel took himself upstairs and did the same thing, making sure to avoid his benefactress’s bedroom along the way. By the time lunch was ready, Ansel had finished tidying Pryor House, but a lingering and insistent feeling of complete dissatisfaction kept its hold in his gut and his heart.

  * * * *

  Miss Peveler didn’t join him for lunch, either, having satisfied herself with her meals in her room, at least for that day. She did, however, demand his presence in the music room about an hour after lunch. Ansel wondered about that, but he could only conclude Miss Peveler was set on improving his mind now he was under her care. He didn’t even know why Miss Peveler bothered, seeing as how he was worse than useless on all things refined and intellectual.

  Once he was in the music room, all he could do was sit near the piano, fidgeting while listening to Miss Peveler play exquisitely. It was a performance that took Ansel’s breath away, and it also shocked him speechless. The sharp contrast between Miss Peveler’s general manner and her ability to play music with such light grace made his head whirl, and had he not been so self-conscious and nervous in the lady’s company, Ansel would have laughed at the disparity between the artist and her art.

  In the beginning as well, he’d watched her gather some music sheets that lay in a haphazard pile on the piano. And when she set them on the music rack, Ansel realized they were blank. There wasn’t even a title on any of them—only row after row of empty staves. Miss Peveler didn’t start right away once she’d settled herself. Posture perfectly straight, head held high, she closed her eyes and appeared to lose herself in deep, deep thought. Ansel dared not make a sound in the meantime, and after perhaps a minute of this, Miss Peveler opened her eyes again, positioned her hands on the keyboard, and played.

  Sometime during her performance, Miss Peveler apparently had sensed Ansel’s embarrassment, and without faltering once in her playing, turned to regard him with narrow-eyed disapproval, barking, “Concentrate and listen to the music, young man. If you have to close your eyes to absorb it, do it.”

  Ansel immediately obeyed, closing his eyes though he continued to fidget with his jacket hem on his lap. It took some doing for him to squelch his tendency to shake his head and apologize for not being able to appreciate fine things such as music. After a number of such attempts, he managed to settle himself down to a very unfamiliar state of peace and contentment. During that time, he was able to listen to the piece and allow it to swaddle him gently in its light and romantic melody. He wondered if the song meant something or if it were written with a specific purpose in mind.

  What the devil would you know? Don’t be a pretentious little idiot.

  Ansel’s eyes flew open at the sound of his father’s voice. Concentration completely shattered, the specter of his past horrors crawled back out from the depths of his memory, and he didn’t know how to rid himself of it. He looked at Miss Peveler and found her fully immersed in her music, not once acknowledging his presence, for which he was grateful. Waiting for the dark echoes of his father’s voice to die away, Ansel straightened himself in his chair and forced his mind back to the music. So many pretty-sounding notes—that was the only thing he could think of, wilting as usual under the realization that he was simply unfit for this kind of thing despite Miss Peveler’s insistence and stern efforts at civilizing him.

  The music eventually stopped, the final notes fading in the dimness of the music room with such melancholy gentleness. Miss Peveler, sitting perfectly straight on the bench, waited for the silence to fall on them before turning her attention to Ansel.

  “What do you think?”

  “The music, ma’am, or the performance?”

  Miss Peveler’s thin mouth curled into a faint, tight-lipped smile. “The music, of course,” she replied in a surprisingly light and amused voice.

  “Oh. It’s really pretty.” Ansel blushed. “I’m sorry, I’m not good at describing fine things.”

  The smile remained, but this time, it appeared to soften a little. “You should be. Or at least you need to learn how to appreciate them, whatever these fine things might be. You’re more than capable, I can see.”

  “Did you write the music?” He almost appended that with “ma’am” and was quite proud of himself for biting the word back.

  “No, I didn’t. A young man did, though—for love and happiness. Would you care to hear the story? Yes? It’s more like a purging of sorts because he was haunted by certain dreams at quite a young age, which made him feel badly about himself because they were at odds with his world, but those dreams were nothing more than unexpected glimpses into his heart. And they were quite real, though he might not know it and had sadly learned to silence them in time.” She paused and looked down at the keys, idly toying with them and filling the music room with random notes. “This piece was his way of communicating that—dream, I mean. I used to dismiss it, actually, and took it very lightly, until I realized just how affected he was by his dreams. I don’t have the right to laugh at what I used to call silly sentimentality now. I feel quite dreadful, in fact.” Then, in a much, much softer tone, she added, “Took me years of doing what I do best to be impressed with that lesson. And I continue to learn as long as there are dreamers like him struggling to find their way.” Then she sighed, as if lost in her own thoughts and her own world, where Ansel surely didn’t belong.

  Ah, Ansel thought, narrowing his eyes at her. That was the mystery, wasn’t it? Unrequited love between Miss Peveler and another young man back in the past. They must have been attached at one point, but their romance clearly wasn’t to someone’s liking, and they were forced to break things off. Unless, of course, it was death that ultimately separated them. Her taking on that gentleman’s name was a mark of her devotion to him.

  But what a sweet thing it was, being made passionate love to through music even if a pair of lovers would never be together as they’d hoped. He’d never heard of such a thing before, but it certainly didn’t mean i
t wasn’t possible, did it? Pryor House, as far as he could see, seemed to make the impossible a reality in the strangest sense. He couldn’t even understand it, himself.

  She glanced up again, fixing him with a probing gaze. “What do you think of the piece, then, beyond its prettiness? You understand the context, so now what?”

  Ansel clung to his theory, which he was convinced wasn’t a theory but a fact, and tried to be as cautious as Miss Peveler in expressing his thoughts since they involved her. “If the song was a reflection of his heart, I’d think he was beautiful. I’d consider myself the luckiest person alive if I were the one meant to hear it.”

  “Would you consider yourself undeserving of such a love?”

  Feeling himself blush again, he tried to fight off his father’s sneering whispers and focused on himself—on his loneliness. It was something he’d always regarded to be a given for him, considering his circumstances, and he’d expected nothing more. Why would she ask…

  No, wait—she was being purposefully oblique with her question, wasn’t she?

  With a guilt-ridden reproach, he reminded himself this wasn’t about him, but his benefactress, and he bent his thoughts on Miss Peveler’s solitude. How gloomy must life be if someone who was as wealthy and privileged as she would still be poor where it mattered the most?

  “I think,” he stammered, brows knitting while he chose his next words as he was sure Miss Peveler was asking for his views on her situation, “everyone deserves to be loved.”

  Miss Peveler listened to him for a moment, the hard lines on her face never easing. In fact, the earlier softness she’d displayed was now gone, and for a moment Ansel doubted he’d even been witness to it. “I quite agree.”

  Ansel was called to the drawing room after dinner, and this time around, he was obliged to listen to her read short verses to him. Curiously enough, it was a similar process to his earlier music-listening session with Miss Peveler.