by Tessa Candle
The man certainly had something to say, but could not bring himself to spit it out. Vexing. "Yes, you can get me some tea—no, coffee with cream." Frobisher passed a hand over his face and realized his cuffs and nails were still filthy, but he simply did not care. He would clean up later. For now the servants would just have to be mortified. He could only hope that the valet had time in his busy schedule of gadding about to attend to turning Frobisher out properly for dinner.
He wished to be presentable before seeing Mr. Hatch. The thought of it excited him, but at the same time made him extremely puzzled and irritable. "You can personally bring it into my study, for I am not finished speaking with you, Jones. I want very much to get to the bottom of what has been going on in my household. Be prepared either to make a clean breast of things, or to leave my service."
Frobisher had only been in his study a few moments before a knock came on the door, and he prepared himself to be irritated with Jones. It was not Jones, however, but a footman. "Mr. Hatch is here to see you, my lord."
"Mr. Hatch?" What was the hermit doing here? He had not been invited to the manor house. Not that Frobisher minded—in fact it was precisely this sort of familiarity he wanted from the man. But it was odd that Mr. Hatch would suddenly be so bold. "Send him in."
Mr. Hatch entered and shifted about as though nervous and embarrassed, but accepted the seat that Frobisher bid him to take.
"To what do I owe the honour, Mr. Hatch? I hope you are not come to beg off our dinner engagement, for I have already given instructions to the kitchen for a grand dinner to be delivered."
"Oh, I am too thankful for words to your lordship, indeed! And I would not dream of refusing such a kind, condescending offer."
More of the condescension business. Frobisher decided Mr. Hatch needed encouragement. "Please tell me what has brought you."
"I—it is just—that is to say." Mr Hatch took a deep breath. "My lord, I do not wish to speak out of turn, but I know something of the domestic affairs at Fenimore which I believe I should draw his lordship's attention to."
And there is was, yet again. The man constantly vacillated between the manners of a hat-wringing peasant and the address of gentleman. Frobisher needed to learn more about this hermit's history. "Well, I am very eager to hear what you have to say, Mr. Hatch. Be at your ease. You are not overstepping."
Mr. Hatch nodded and swallowed. "Very well. Perhaps your lordship recalls my reading fortunes on my first day here?"
Frobisher dipped his head in assent. "Yes. Go on."
"Well, I had the pleasure of reading the palm of his lordship's butler—Mr. Jones I believe it is, that very morning, before his lordship's party arrived."
A glimmer of realization dawned upon Frobisher. He was about to find out what was going on with his butler. He leaned in. "And what did you learn from your audience with Jones?"
"That his father was butler at Fenimore before him."
"True. But that is hardly an astounding revelation."
"It appears that the prior marquess of Fenimore had arranged an annuity for the senior Mr. Jones, who was to retire and be replaced by his son. However the marquess did so by a direction to his steward, not as part of the will."
"Indeed? Well that is very good. From all reports he was an excellent and loyal butler, who served the fourth marquess for many years."
"Only, according to Mr. Jones, the former butler has never received his annuity. Mr Jones, the father, has been living with Mr. Jones, the son, too poor even to keep his tiny cottage. They applied to the steward of Fenimore repeatedly, but the man has remained unmoved. He insists that the annuity is at his discretion, only."
"What? That is iniquitous!" Frobisher could not believe that he was only hearing of this now. But then, he had not been especially attentive to such matters. It would be easy for the steward to entirely omit the details of household expenses, without drawing the least suspicion from Frobisher. "I am not acquainted with the senior Mr. Jones, but even if he were a less deserving man than I believe, to ignore the expressed directions of the old marquess is insubordination."
Frobisher stood and paced. He did not even know the name of his steward, whom he had more or less inherited with the estate. He could laugh at himself, if he were not so angry. "I must right this wrong. Indeed I will. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Mr. Hatch. You have done well."
Mr. Hatch swallowed again. Clearly there was something else.
"I see there is more. Do not be afraid, what else have you to say?"
"Only, it involves his lordship's mother."
Frobisher started. Perhaps he had misheard.
A voice from the doorway immediately confirmed the news. "Indeed, my lord, it is true. Though I had hoped I could rely on the confidence of the hermit."
It was Jones, the coffee tray in his hands trembling so hard that Frobisher feared he would spill the contents all over the Persian carpet.
Mr. Hatch winced guiltily. "I am sorry, Jones, but I knew telling the truth was the only way this matter could be set to right."
Frobisher pursed his lips. "Never mind all that. There will be no blaming the messenger, here. What is true, Jones?"
Mr. Jones set the tray down. The blood drained from his face and his voice cracked as he blurted out his confession all at once. "I accepted a bribe from his lordship's mother to persuade the household staff to—to do their jobs ill."
Frobisher tilted his head this way and that, as though it would help a dawning realization to better distribute itself within his brain. "My mother."
Mr. Jones nodded. "Forgive me for saying it, my lord, but it is true."
Frobisher pinched the bridge of his nose. It certainly had the ring of truth. His mother was nothing if not ruthlessly conniving. "And to what end did she wish to reduce my housekeeping to its present, impoverished state?"
"I—I believe… That is, she said it was for your lordship's own good, or else I should never have agreed, no matter how much I needed the money."
"Yes. Mr. Hatch has told me of the misdealing of the steward and your father's unjustly straightened circumstances. I will look into that, I assure you. But how could my having to endure filthy furniture, cold meals and missing whisky tumblers possibly be for my own good?"
"I don't know how, my lord. But she assured me it would persuade his lordship to settle down with a wife and provide an heir for the continuation of Fenimore."
Jones looked on the verge of tears. Frobisher relented. The man had been made desperate. He had behaved badly, but Frobisher's mother was the one to blame. In fact, he recalled her pointedly remarking on how ill the household was run, and how very advantageous to his comfort it would be to have a wife managing things properly. That was an admirably smooth piece of hypocrisy. "Very well, Jones. I believe you."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, my lord."
"Mr. Hatch, I thank you again for your assistance." Mr. Hatch looked relieved, but only nodded. Frobisher turned to the Butler. "I assume this nonsense will end immediately?"
"Oh, yes, my lord. If your lordship were to see past this, were to forgive my wrongdoing, I would make things right by working harder than anyone, and being ever after a loyal and humble servant at whatever station his lordship saw fit to put me in."
"I believe I shall keep you on as butler, if you agree to do your work diligently."
Tears were in the servant's eyes, and Frobisher did not think he could bear to watch the man dissolve into a puddle, so he made for the door, calling over his shoulder, "And as my butler, you shall go put the house servants about their business. They may start by packing my mother's things and readying a carriage for her—the one with the bad springs, Jones. Make sure of it. And you can tell the kitchen that I want everything for the dinner I plan this evening to be perfect and made from the best the manor has to offer. It will be flawless."
"Yes, my lord. At once."
Forgetting to take leave of Mr. Hatch, Frobisher flung open the door violently and
stomped out to find his mother. As a dutiful son, he was about to make her wish for permanent residence in London come true.
Chapter 45
Rosamond did not know what to do with her emotions, but she knew she had to get out of the manor house while the marquess was occupied with his mother.
Frobisher was magnificent, both just in his concern for the wrong against the old butler and merciful in his dealings with the sins of the new one. How could she ever have thought there was anything lacking in this man? He was noble both by birth and by nature.
She was the wrongdoer, the deceiver who judged everyone else without looking at her own actions. She felt the wrongness of her deception so deeply that her heart might fail her.
She stumbled out of the manor and ran. She knew not where she was going, but she had to think. Actually, what she needed to do was not think, because all her thoughts led to the same conclusions. Frobisher was marvellous and she had done very wrong.
Then she remembered the abandoned fishing gear. A little angling might clear her head, and in any case, the least she could do was return the rod and tackle to the wonderful, kind man who had lent it to her.
Chapter 46
Frobisher wondered where Mr. Hatch was as he oversaw the last finishing touches of the servants' work laid out on the hermitage dining table. The meal was exquisite to the eye and the fresh loaves, smoking trenchers of roast pork and poultry, and sweet, still steaming puddings and amuse bouches all tempted the nose and palate. The ivory tapers in the candelabra had been trimmed and lit and cast a warm glow over the whole vignette. It was all of the first water, and yet it was cosier than any of the many brilliant dinners he had eaten among the great and the good of his acquaintance.
He dismissed the servants and told them they could return to clean in the morning.
He wondered how Mrs. Colling would like it—then was aghast at the thought. What a strange notion to have in the moment. He supposed it was his guilty conscience reproving him for indulging his whim to get to know his hermit, rather than returning to London to seek out the woman whom he ought to be finding and assisting.
However, he could not blame himself entirely. Having just rid himself of his mother's company, he did not relish immediately following her to London, which she would certainly consider an invitation to more of her matchmaking. Surely he could be forgiven a little delay, under the circumstances.
The door opened to admit Mr. Hatch, his arms laden with angling equipment. He jumped at the sight of Frobisher. "My lord! Apologies for being tardy. I thought his lordship dined late."
An unmistakable sensation of joy spread over Frobisher to see Mr. Hatch standing there. All the preparations, though it had pleased him to watch them unfold, were now irrelevant. Or rather, they were relevant only because they were suddenly given meaning, were animated and made beautiful by the presence of this man. Frobisher swallowed. He knew he had to say something, but his mind had gone suddenly blank. Get a hold of yourself, man!
"I do… I do dine late, but not today. That is…" He smiled and immediately knew he must look foolish. "I suppose I was feeling eager about our meeting."
A strange look crossed Mr. Hatch's features. Was he thinking Frobisher was a great awkward idiot? Frobisher was certainly thinking it. "Please, will you not join me? Everything is still warm, and I think my kitchen staff have outdone themselves."
"Thank you, my lord. It smells heavenly." Mr. Hatch put away the rod and tackle, and came to the table, standing in front of the chair that was to be his.
Frobisher gestured for him to sit, and he did, but Mr. Hatch still waited until Frobisher began to serve himself before he would do the same.
Perhaps it was the inauspicious beginning to this tête à tête, but now that they were together, Frobisher knew not entirely what he should say. He wiped his hands on his pantaloons. Good Lord, his palms were sweating. He really could not fathom what was wrong with him that Mr. Hatch should unnerve him so.
"Well," began Frobisher, "I surmise that you did not have much luck fishing."
"No, my lord. I came home empty handed, as you see. Though it is just as well, as his lordship has generously brought enough food for days." It was a straight forward and polite answer, but as soon as it was given, silence reigned again between them.
Frobisher wondered at Mr. Hatch's table manners. They were impeccable, almost feminine in their delicacy. Yet he must be starved. He was so thin. Indeed, he was eating fast enough, for all that he did it decorously.
"And how did you come to be in the hermiting line of work?" Frobisher hoped some levity might smooth the course for conversation.
The man thought a few moments as he chewed his roast pheasant, then replied, "Well, I suppose I started out in the mendicant line, and sort of wound up as a hermit by responding to the ad your man placed in the paper."
"Mendicant." Frobisher chuckled. The man must be joking. "Surely not."
"Well, my lord, I know not what else to call a man who wanders about, having no home or work of his own and finding what odd work he may to subside upon. True, I have never begged, but I have often been the object of charity."
"But surely you have some history before that. Some family?"
"I am an orphan, my lord."
"But who were your parents?"
He paused. "Mr. John Hatch and Mrs. Frances Hatch, my lord. I hardly knew them, for they died when I was barely able to walk. I was raised in an orphanage. There I had a basic education. One of the teachers taught me to read. I believe I was quite lucky to have had such assistance in my young years, but when they set me out in the world, I had little means. I made my way as I could."
"Surely not!" Frobisher was exasperated. This explanation of things could not be true—it was so foreign to his own experience of the man. Mr. Hatch looked down in embarrassment, and Frobisher regretted his outburst.
He poured them both wine. "I beg your pardon. I only mean that you speak like a man gently brought up. I find it hard to believe that your history was so mean and deprived."
"I am deeply sorry to have shocked his lordship. But so it is. I find a person who is offered some education may take away from it what he will. Not all from my lowly beginnings would benefit from it, but I have. That much I may say for myself. Still, I am grieved if my manners have mislead his lordship about my history. I can lay no claim to gentility. Perhaps your lordship may now wish to end our intercourse?"
"No!" Frobisher heard the panic in his own voice and felt, again, like a fool. But he did not wish to end it. He wanted a deeper friendship with this man. He only wished he could break down the invisible barrier that stood between them.
He spoke, hesitantly and in a softer voice than he had ever employed with any man, "I am not shocked, only surprised. I do not think you beneath my company. I am deeply impressed by the innate character of a man who will wrestle dignity—I may even say delicacy—out of such a background as yours. Far from making you appear in any inferior light, I believe your rising above circumstances in this way makes me fear that I may be in the company of my superior."
Mr. Hatch's jaw dropped open for an instant before he recovered himself and snapped it shut. "That is not possible, my lord. I have not yet met or even heard of anyone whom I could regard as your lordship's superior. I certainly do not merit such an honour. Indeed, your lordship makes me ashamed for… only know that I never wished to impose upon you."
Moved by this speech, Frobisher reached his hand across the table and grasped Mr. Hatch's hand spontaneously. He gasped at the charge that surged through him at this contact. "Imposed upon me? Never! I believe I see you truly. I see the heart that beats valiantly despite hard obstacles and straightened circumstances."
Mr. Hatch snatched his hand away and groaned.
Frobisher knew not if he imagined it, but he thought he heard an invocation against temptation. He was left feeling very confused, but feared that his forwardness had deeply disturbed the man. He wished desperately to set his m
ind at ease. "I am sorry to have interrupted your dinner and disturbed your tranquillity with my zeal. Please be assured, sir, that I mean you only well."
Mr. Hatch nodded. "Forgive me, my lord. I meant no reproach. Only I am so unaccustomed to being touched."
They ate in silence for a time, each of them drinking more rapidly. Frobisher stood and fetched another bottle. Perhaps more wine might help ease the strange tension between them. In any case, his own mind was so disconcerted by his feelings that he found himself greatly in need of much drink.
They had emptied the second bottle, and were making some progress on a third when a stroke of brilliance smote Frobisher. "Mr. Hatch, may I ask you again to conjure your otherworldly vision on my behalf? I need some information. You see, there is this woman that I am searching for."
Chapter 47
Rosamond had settled her thoughts enough that she believed she could survive the impending dinner engagement with Frobisher. She thought she should have enough time to return from fishing and make herself look presentable—whatever that meant when one was disguised as a hermit.
But when she opened the door to the hermitage, Frobisher stood before her by the dining table, next to a splendid array of fancy dishes. He wore a dreamy smile on his face. Her heart fluttered.
She was completely alone with him. There were no servants. She put away her fishing gear and joined him at the table, moving in a fugue as though she were an automaton.
He was friendly and engaging, and his face, though betraying some nervousness, was at rest in its natural state, and not all contorted with feigned ill humour. He was handsome as the devil, and his smile was dazzling in the light of the candles.
Rosamond was a bundle of nerves. She could scarcely contrive answers to his pleasant questions, and it required all her focus to fabricate for him, when he asked, a believable history.
It felt so wrong to lie to him even further than she had already done. And it was worse to do it here in this very home that he was making for her, where she was surrounded by the hearth fire, the warm meal and the willing companion, all the trappings of human connection, of homey intimacy. What she wanted to do was to trust him, to tell him everything.