Free After Alice by Gregory Maguire Page B

day.
    Darwin went back to his text, her father to his exegetic murmuring. Mr. Winter moved across the carpet so he could speak in a lowered tone. “Miss Lydia, you honor us,” he said.
    â€œNo one mentioned the child was a boy,” she replied, in tones even lower, “and an aboriginal at that.”
    â€œMay I present him to you? Miss Lydia, this is Siam.” The boy didn’t meet her eyes. He downed the lemon drink like a Berber lately crawled from hot Sahara sands.
    â€œWhat is he doing here? With—­with them? With you?” She realized it might sound uncouth, her inquiry, but she could be considered the mistress of the house, by some accountings anyway. She threw back her shoulders to suggest authority.
    â€œWell, miss, the lad’s traveling with me, you see. I’d arrived at Down House to meet the great man. I’d a letter of introduction. To my surprise, despite his recent aversion to travel, Darwin announced he’d made a previous appointment to visit your father”—­at this Mr. Winter’s voice became a whisper—­“in his bereavement. My unexpected arrival was timely. I was invited to come along and assist, as Darwin is too frail to travel alone.”
    â€œYes,” said Lydia, also in private tones, “but—­but. This boy. He seems young to be your servant.”
    â€œNo, no; not a servant, you’re right about that,” said Mr. Winter hastily, as if that explained everything.
    â€œMother has been dead for several months. Why has Darwin come now? And why have you bothered to come with him?” Lydia felt she was asking questions too grand for the custom of the parlor; she might well continue with And why did Mother die, and where did she go? But she stood looking at Mr. Winter with a ferocity that, though she had no idea of it, was nearly glamorous.
    â€œI understand that your father was kind to Huxley when he was here defending Darwin’s theories against the charges of heresy. Darwin has his head in natural science, but everyone has lost someone,” explained the guest, hushedly. “Darwin his daughter Annie, this house its beloved matriarch. The heart is a construct of any waking creature, and Darwin has a heart, too.”
    â€œA heart and a mind. I suppose Pater wants to discuss the immortal soul with Mr. Darwin.” She sighed, as if it was a recurrent argument about interior plumbing.
    â€œThe great man is not well,” said Mr. Winter. “He lives in his sickroom. Had I not shown up opportunely upon his doorsill, he’d never have managed this trip. I can see it is taking a toll. I should go back to his side.”
    The little boy had finished a second glass. “There will be none for the others,” said Lydia rudely. “Though I suppose I can negotiate a fresh supply. How does this scamp come to be with you?”
    â€œHe can speak for himself. He speaks English quite well. Perhaps you would like to show him around, now he is comfortable here? He’s slightly bored.”
    The world of men, always reconvening, asserting itself. The pull of her father’s susurrus, Darwin’s cautious replies. Mr. Winter preferred that over conversation with her. “Very well,” she said. “Master Siam, is it? You may accompany me. You may tell me something about yourself.”
    The lad followed her willingly enough, only pausing at the door to glance bright eyes at his guardian. Mr. Winter had returned to the window. He’d struck up again the posture of acolyte. An Athenian harkening to Socrates. “Come along lest you get lost, too,” said Lydia to the child.

 
    CHAPTER 16
    A da hadn’t climbed more than a few yards up the strut-­work of the great hall before she saw that the flanking curlicues of plaster were no longer symmetrical. Now they seemed to be teased into variety. The cold molded surface fragmented in her hands as she climbed. It crumbled