This House is Haunted by John Boyne Page B

indefinitely. Their parents will be on hand soon?”
    Mr. Raisin looked away, his expression becoming troubled. “Did Miss Bennet say that in her advertisement?” he asked.
    “Well, no,” I admitted. “But I naturally assumed—”
    “The truth is that Miss Bennet had no business placing that advertisement without consulting me first. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I picked up the Morning Post and saw it there. We had words on the subject, Miss Caine, I don’t mind telling you that. Strong words. But she was determined to leave. I suppose I can’t blame her in a way but—”
    “Why?” I asked, leaning forward. “Why can’t you blame her?”
    “Well,” he said, struggling now for an answer. “She didn’t settle here, that’s all. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t local ,” he added, stressing the word.
    “Mr. Raisin, I am not local,” I said.
    “No, but perhaps you will fit in better than that lady did.” He glanced at his watch. “Heavens, is that the time already? I’m sorry to rush you out, Miss Caine,” he said, standing up and ushering me to my feet. “But as I said, I do have another appointment.”
    “Of course,” I replied, frustrated by his evasions but rising now and allowing him to lead me to the door. “But you still haven’t answered my question. About Isabella and Eustace’s parents. When can I expect to see them?”
    He stared directly into my eyes now and his forehead crinkled in dismay. There was a long pause and I swore that I would not break it; he would speak first or I would be damned.
    “Did you come to Gaudlin alone?” he asked me and I raised an eyebrow, startled by the abrupt change of subject.
    “I beg your pardon,” I said.
    “I wondered whether you have a companion with you, that’s all. Or a parent perhaps? An older brother?”
    “I have no siblings, Mr. Raisin, no friends, my mother died when I was a girl and my father passed away to his reward a little over a week ago. Why do you ask?”
    “I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching out and touching my arm, a gesture of such honest intimacy that it rather took my breath away. “About your father, I mean,” he added. “The loss of a loved one is a terrible thing.”
    I opened my mouth to reply but found that I had no words. His hand remained on my elbow and to my astonishment I felt great consolation from his tenderness. I glanced at it, he followed my eyes, and took his hand away abruptly, coughing and turning away. Finally, trying to recover my wits, I repeated my question as to the whereabouts of the Westerley parents.
    “I can’t say,” was the rather disappointing answer he finally gave me. “Miss Caine, you do like children, don’t you?”
    “What?” I asked, astonished by such a question. “Yes of course I like children. I was a teacher of small girls in London.”
    “And you like the Westerley children? I know you’ve only just met them, but you like them?”
    I thought about it. “They’re a little unusual,” I said. “But very bright. The girl is a study. The boy is a charm. I’m sure we’ll get along famously in time.”
    “Then all I ask is that you take care of them, Miss Caine. That is what you are hired to do. To take care of them, educate them a little if necessary. The boy, anyway. As for the rest …” And here he opened his arms wide as if to suggest that there was nothing more that he could do. I wondered for a moment whether he expected me to throw myself into them. (And, asridiculous as it might sound, I had half a mind to do that very thing.)
    I sighed. The interview had been entirely unsatisfactory and I felt no closer to understanding my situation than before. But there seemed little choice but for me to leave. Out on the street I felt a great sense of frustration but, on the journey back to Gaudlin Hall, this began to dissipate and I told myself that it didn’t matter, I had established myself with Mr. Raisin and I could pay another visit in the future, and another