Free Lamb in Love by Carrie Brown Page B

to stay awhile after Manford had fallen asleep, tidying up the kitchen and checking to see if there was anything Mr. Perry wanted before she left for the evening. She had put the bell in Manford’s crib, looked to see that he could reach it if he was distressed. Vida slept in a cot in Manford’s room when she stayed overnight, as she was terrified of his needing her but not being able to wake her in the usual fashion of children—by calling for her or crying. But when she slept at her own home, she had to content herself with the presence of the bell, which would jangle if Manford woke thrashing from a nightmare or pulled himself to stand at the bars of the crib. On those occasions, Mr. Perry would see to his boy himself. But more than once, while staying the night at Southend, Vida hadwoken with a start in an utterly silent room to see Manford sitting up in his crib, his big head soaked in nightmare sweat, his mouth open in an O of terror, tears running down his face. As the years went on, she slept at home less and less and gradually moved in to her own room at Southend House. This arrangement, though she and Mr. Perry never spoke of it formally, seemed to suit everyone best.
    Manford was still an infant, however, the particular evening she paused in the door of the library, on her way home to her parents’ house. “Will you be needing anything before I go, Mr. Perry?” she said to his back, for he was bent at the long table under the windows where he drew, the sound of tracing paper rustling beneath his hands.
    He turned. “Thanks, no,” he said. “You’ve been very kind.”
    â€œIt’s my pleasure, Mr. Perry,” she said, and it was, though she didn’t know if he would believe that.
    He smiled at her. “Come in,” he said, and then bent over his drawing again for a moment, adding something to the paper. She had stolen a look or two at his work from time to time while tidying the rooms. His drawings were marvelous things, the blue pencil lines so fine, views of Winchester Cathedral swelling up from the page in surprising feats of perspective, as though you were suspended midair up in the nave itself, she thought, each detail on the page looking as though it were composed of fine hairs. It always perplexed her, looking at those drawings, that he made the cathedral—such a vast and heavy place, she thought, built of enormous stone upon stone—appear so light, as if of spun sugar. At Christmas, when she went alone for the midnight service to hear the choir, she would raise her eyes and see Mr. Perry’s lines in the vaulting roof, the empty space there scored by the invisible shapes of his geometry.
    That evening he stared at his drawing a moment longer and then, without looking up at her, he said, “How would you like to go to London next week, Vida? For a trip.”
    â€œLondon?” Vida found herself looking vaguely around the room, as if someone might step forward from the shadows with a suitcase for her.
    Mr. Perry continued to stare down at his drawing. He frowned and put his finger on the paper, stroking the surface lightly. “You’ve noticed, Vida, I’m sure,” he said then, “that Manford’s not—not like other children.” He paused. “You remember Dr. Bernstein, the gentleman who stayed with us last month? My American friend?”
    Vida had felt her pulse begin to race, as though she were being drawn blindfolded to what she sensed was the edge of a cliff. “Dr. Bernstein,” she said faintly. “Very kind.”
    â€œTed’s a good friend,” Mr. Perry said, and Vida thought wildly that perhaps that would be it, that the conversation had ended, disaster had been averted. But after a moment he went on. “I asked him here for a particular reason, Vida. I wanted him to see Manford.” He stopped, searching for the words. “He believes—Dr. Bernstein believes—that