The Tutor by Bonnie

quiet, the rasp of sacking against Jackdaw’s steaming side sounded too loud, as did my own breathing. I was never one to be comfortable in silence. After a few moments, I had to say something to fill it.
    “Did you have a good ride today?”
    “Yes,” Allinson grunted. He dropped the drying towel and started in with a
    currycomb.
    “That’s nice. Where were you off to?” The moment I blurted the question, I knew
    it was too personal. We weren’t mates chatting over ale. One didn’t ask one’s employer about his business.
    But surprisingly, Sir Richard answered. “Checking on one of my tenants.”
    “Ah,” I replied.
    “Albert McGrew,” he continued. “His family has been farming our land as long as
    there’ve been Allinsons in the Hall. But the old man is the last of his line. He had only sisters, who married and moved away, and Albert never took a wife. Recently, neighbors noticed he’s neglected his animals and fields, and when they checked on him, the man’s speech seemed slurred and irrational.”
    “Age is cruel.” I thought of Clara Weevil, a batty old prostitute I knew who still tried to ply her trade in the pub I frequented. Nothing much sadder to witness than that.
    I’d bought her a meal now and then, and when I found her passed out drunk on the street, I’d drag her back to the tenement where she squatted.
    Allinson’s low voice flowed through the air and surrounded me like a warm,
    rough blanket. “At any rate, something must be done. Albert can’t pay rent any longer nor stay in his cottage unattended. No one seems willing to take the man into their home.
    I suppose one can’t blame them. Difficult enough to care for one’s own family.”
    “So what are you going to do?” It was apparent Sir Richard needed a pair of
    listening ears, which I could supply.
    I’d crouched to dry the horse’s undercarriage, and now I knelt in the straw to wipe down its tall legs, hocks, and withers or what have you. The scent of wet horse and dry straw nearly made me sneeze.
    “I’m not sure yet.” He moved around the horse’s head and rubbed between its
    ears. “The last time I had such a quandary, I brought Tom Smith to work in the house, but I don’t know if I can find work for Albert to do.”
    “Maybe he could help Drover in the stables, and the groom could keep an eye on
    him. He might even appreciate the companionship.”
    Sir Richard remained quiet a moment, and I feared I’d gone too far, offering my
    opinion. Then he spoke. “That’s not a bad idea. I shall consider it.”
    I beamed as if he’d petted me on the head, and his response made me bold enough
    to ask more questions. “What is poor Tom’s story?”
    Allinson was focused on Jackdaw, so I could study his handsome craggy features
    illuminated in the lantern’s glow. His nose was a sharp blade, and his cheekbones and jaw might cut a caressing hand. Glittering eyes hid in the dark shadows beneath his jutting brow. His mouth was thinned to a line at the moment, but when he relaxed, I’d noticed his lips were full and curved—the only softness to be found in that angular face.
    “Tom’s family was not kind. They treated him like one of their farm animals, had
    him sleeping with them for that matter. But one doesn’t interfere with families.”
    “No.” I understood all too well. After my father died and Mum took up with the
    horrible Roger Dwyer, when things got loud and violent, no neighbor tried to help us. It wasn’t their place.
    “Honestly, it was a blessing when Tom’s father drove him off to fend for himself.
    I was finally able to lend the boy a hand, give him a job and a place to live.”
    “That was very kind of you.”
    He shrugged off my praise. “It was my responsibility.”
    “The boy is smarter than people think,” I said. “And he’s an incredibly gifted
    artist. You truly saved him.”
    “An artist? How would you know that?”
    “The first day he came to fetch the lunch trays, the boys were