Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  “You’re from Bedminster?” Icarus said, to make conversation. Houghton seemed even shabbier and grimier in these surroundings—and the man was aware of it. He looked deeply uncomfortable.

  “Yes, sir.”

  As a sergeant talking to a major, Houghton had never been uncomfortable. He’d been respectful, but confident. Forthright. Assured. A man who’d known his own worth.

  And now he’s little better than a beggar.

  The tea and coffee arrived, with bread-and-butter, ratafia biscuits, and plum cake.

  Houghton was hungry—Icarus could see it in his eyes—but the man had too much pride to behave as if he was. He politely waited for Miss Trentham to make her selection, then took one slice of bread-and-butter.

  Icarus sipped his coffee, almost choking on his outrage. Houghton, reduced to this?

  “What are you doing here, sir?”

  “Looking for you.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes. Have some plum cake.” Icarus now understood how Miss Trentham felt. He wanted to open Houghton’s mouth and shove the plate’s worth of cake down the man’s throat.

  Houghton hesitated, and took a small slice. “Why are you looking for me?”

  He could scarcely have been given an easier opening, but Icarus found himself unable to ask the question outright. Houghton would be offended—and rightly so. “A couple of reasons,” he said, prevaricating. “I heard you’d lost an arm. I’m sorry.”

  Houghton met his eyes, and then nodded.

  “I only found out a couple of weeks ago,” Icarus said. “I had the fever, after Vimeiro. Lost six weeks. Can’t remember much at all.”

  “You do look a bit hagged, sir.”

  So do you. Icarus held out the plate of ratafia biscuits. “Try these.”

  Houghton hesitated, and took one.

  Icarus put the plate back on the side table. He leaned his elbows on his knees. “I’m trying to find out what happened at Vimeiro—not the battle itself, but the day before. I was hoping you could help me piece it together.”

  Houghton’s eyebrows rose. “Of course, sir.”

  “Dunlop told me you were looking for me that day. You had a message for me. Do you remember?”

  Houghton blinked. “Message for you?” His eyes narrowed in memory. “That’s right, sir. Colonel Armstrong wanted to speak to you when you got back.”

  “That was the message?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you remember what Dunlop told you?”

  “Told me not to bother him with messages for you, because you wouldn’t be back ’til after dark.”

  “Did he tell you where I’d be, at any time that day?”

  Houghton snorted. “Told me where and when you were meeting your scouts, stupid clunch. As if I wanted to know!” His gaze flicked to Miss Trentham, and he colored faintly. “Begging your pardon, ma’am.”

  “Did you tell anyone what he told you?”

  “I told Colonel Armstrong you wouldn’t be back until after dark.”

  “Did you tell Armstrong when and where I was meeting the scouts?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you tell anyone else?”

  Houghton shook his head. “No, sir. Why?”

  Icarus glanced at Miss Trentham. She gave a tiny nod.

  He looked back at Houghton. “We were ambushed that day, my scouts and I. Someone told the French where we were meeting, and when.” He put out one hand and gripped Houghton’s wrist fiercely. “I didn’t think it was you. I never thought it was you. I’m checking everyone. Even you, even Matlock—and I know neither of you would have said anything to anyone!”

  He saw Houghton’s affront, felt the tension in his wrist.

  “I didn’t think it was you,” Icarus repeated, holding Houghton’s gaze. “I would have staked my life on it!”

  Perhaps Houghton had some of Miss Trentham’s knack of hearing truthfulness, for his rigidity eased fractionally. He gave a short nod.

  Icarus released the man’s wrist. He had the answer to his question; he could leave now. He stayed seated. “Tell me about your arm. What happened?”

  “Not much to tell, sir.” Houghton’s voice was stiffer than it had been before. “Musket ball through the elbow.”

  “I’m sorry,” Icarus said again.

  Houghton shrugged aside his sympathy. “Could have been worse. Could have been my leg.”

  Icarus thought of the old soldier he’d met begging in Basingstoke. I will not let that happen to Houghton. “Does it pain you?”

  “Not much,” Houghton said, brusquely. He reached for his coffee cup.

  Icarus refused to be deterred. “Tell me about your circumstances. You’re living with your sister?”

  Houghton put down his cup. He was tense again, with pride not affront, if Icarus read him aright. He made as if to stand. Miss Trentham beat him to it, rising to her feet, murmuring, “Pray excuse me. That painting over there, quite intriguing . . .” She crossed to the farthest corner of the coffee room and peered at a painting on the wall.

  Icarus was deeply grateful for her tact. “Tell me about your circumstances, Sergeant.”

  “I’m fine, sir,” Houghton said, standing. “Thank you for the coffee—”

  “For God’s sake, man, sit. I’m not going to offer you pity, so put your hackles down!”

  Houghton hesitated.

  “Sit,” Icarus told him. “And stop being so damned stiff-necked!”

  After a moment, Houghton sat again, on the very edge of his seat.

  “Tell me how it is, Sergeant.” Icarus leaned forward again, his elbows on his knees. “And let’s have the wood with no bark on it!”

  Houghton’s mouth compressed. He looked down at his cracked brogues.

  “You’re living with your sister,” Icarus prompted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And?”

  For a moment he thought Houghton would tell him it was none of his business, and then the man sighed, and all the stiff pride went out of him, and he looked tired and defeated. “She’s got eight children, sir, and a ninth on the way. Joe, that’s her husband, he works in the coal-pit, and Susan takes in laundry when she can, but they can barely afford to feed themselves, let alone me. They were all living in one room when I got here. I used my back-pay to move ’em somewhere better—two and a half rooms—but I can’t take food out of their mouths. Not with eight children, and a ninth on the way!” His voice held a note of despair.

  “I understand why you’re sweeping the crossing.”

  “It’s all I’m good for,” Houghton said bitterly. “Brings in a few pennies.”

  “Nonsense! I can think of a dozen things you could do. You have a damned good head on your shoulders.”

  “And only one arm!”

  “Admiral Nelson had only one arm—and look what he accomplished.”

  “I’m not an admiral. I’m not even a sergeant any longer.”

  Icarus couldn’t dispute this truth. He shoved the plate of plum cake at Houghton. “Eat, man.”

  Houghton’s jaw firmed stubbornly. Did he think it was charity?

  Isn’t it? Chastened, Icarus took a slice of plum cake and two ratafia biscuits. “Eat,” he said again, and began to do so himself, biting into a ratafia biscuit, tasting sugar and almonds.

  After a moment, Houghton chose another slice of bread-and-butter.

  Icarus chewed slowly, pondering what was he going to do with Houghton. Something that would provide the man with a decent living. Something that wasn’t charity. He chased the ratafia biscuit down with a mouthful of coffee. “Do you like it here? Bristol. Bedminster.”

  Houghton shook his head. “I joined the army to get away from the coal-pits, and now I’m back amongst ’em again.” He grimaced. “Leastways, I can’t work in ’em now.” He looked down at his plate. “I wish Joe didn’t. M’ father died in the pits, and what if Joe does, too? What would Susan do then, with nine children?”

  “Is there n
othing else Joe can do?”

  Houghton shrugged. “There’s the brickyards and the ropewalks, but they don’t pay half as well. Nothing does.”

  Which leaves the problem of feeding nine children.

  Icarus ate a piece of plum cake. Could he set Houghton and his brother-in-law up as shopkeepers? The nine children could live over the shop. “What’s Joe like?”

  Houghton shrugged again. “He’s a good enough fellow. Works hard. Doesn’t drink overmuch. Doesn’t hit m’ sister.” He picked up a ratafia biscuit and contemplated it, and then burst out: “I just wish he’d stop swiving her! I know it’s his right and all, but nine children, and him barely earning enough to feed them! He says it’s God’s will, but to my mind, it’s Joe’s will.”

  Icarus grunted a laugh.

  Houghton glanced up sharply, and for a moment Icarus was afraid he’d offended him—and then Houghton’s face relaxed and he smiled faintly, wryly, ruefully, and shrugged and ate the ratafia biscuit.

  Icarus offered him the plate of plum cake. “Have another piece.”

  Houghton did.

  What am I going to do with you? Icarus pondered, chewing on his second ratafia biscuit. Not a shop with Joe, not after hearing the pent-up frustration in Houghton’s voice. And not something near the coal-pits. And not outright charity.

  He examined the man’s face. Houghton had been a damned good sergeant. Conscientious, smart, courageous. Tough, but fair. Not a bully. And not lazy. A good judge of character, able to distinguish shirkers at a glance.

  The seed of an idea sprouted in Icarus’s mind. “You can read and write, Sergeant?”

  Houghton nodded.

  Icarus pushed the plate of bread-and-butter towards him. “Have some more.” He watched Houghton select another slice of bread-and-butter, and let the idea flower. Yes, it could work—and not only that, it could work well.

  “I sold out, you know.”

  Houghton looked up, his disbelief clear to see. “You, sir?”

  Icarus nodded.

  “Why?”

  Because I betrayed my own side. He shrugged. “My health. I haven’t long to live.”

  “Sir . . .” Houghton put down his bread-and-butter. “I’m sorry.”

  Icarus waved aside the sympathy. “I have a project in mind, Sergeant, and I’m hoping you can help me with it.”

  “Of course, sir.” Houghton glanced at his pinned-up sleeve, and his mouth tightened. “If I can.”

  “You can,” Icarus said. “Better than most men.” He ordered his thoughts, and leaned forward. “I have a significant amount of prize money and I had planned to leave it to charity—veterans’ charities—but what I’m now thinking is that I’d like to set up businesses where injured soldiers can earn their livings.”

  Houghton stiffened slightly. Bracing himself for unwelcome altruism?

  Icarus forged on with his idea. “You’d rather earn your living than be the object of charity—and there are plenty of men like you—and I’d like to make that possible—only I don’t know exactly what businesses to set up, and I need someone to help me decide, and to help me set them up, and select the men to employ, and make sure the money is used wisely, and oversee everything once I’m gone. So, you see, Sergeant, I’m not offering you charity; I’m offering you a job.”

  Houghton didn’t look stiff anymore; he looked dumbstruck. After a moment, he swallowed, and found his voice. “Why me, sir?”

  “Because you were an outstanding sergeant. And because I know I can trust you.” He held his hand out. “Will you be my partner in this? I can think of no one I’d rather work with.”

  Houghton swallowed again. Icarus thought he saw a glimmer of moisture in the man’s eyes. The sergeant blinked, and nodded, and gripped Icarus’s hand firmly. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “No, thank you. I shall work you hard, you know!”

  Houghton smiled. “I hope so, sir.”

  Icarus looked around for Miss Trentham. She had abandoned her perusal of the painting and taken a seat by the window, giving them privacy. “Miss Trentham and I are leaving for Exeter tomorrow. Come with us. The sooner you and I start planning, the better.”

  Houghton glanced down at himself. “Sir, I’m not fit to be seen with you.”

  “A wash and shave, and you will be. We’ll get you some clothes in Exeter. Until then you can wear mine; we’re close enough in size.”

  “Wear your clothes, sir? I can’t do that!” Houghton looked so appalled that Icarus almost laughed.

  “You most certainly can. In fact, I insist on it! And I hope you’ll join us at the Swan in Bristol tonight.”

  “The Swan?” Dismay flickered across Houghton’s face. Icarus could almost see the man wondering how much it would cost.

  “As my employee,” Icarus said firmly. “Unless you wish to sleep another night at your sister’s?”

  Houghton hesitated. “No, sir. But I must take my leave of her.”

  “Of course you must.” Icarus fished a few coins from his pocket. “This is for a hackney to the Swan. Come just as you are. My man Green will turn you out as spick as a new pin.”

  Houghton hesitated, and took the coins.

  Icarus pulled out his pocketbook. “And this is for your sister and all those children.”

  Houghton looked down his nose at the banknote Icarus held out, and made no move to take it.

  “It’s not charity, Sergeant,” Icarus told him. “So take that look off your face. You’ll be earning this.”

  Houghton eyed him for a long moment, and reluctantly took the banknote.

  Icarus tucked his pocketbook away, thankful to have jumped that hurdle, and glanced at Miss Trentham again. “Ah . . . there’s something I ought to explain, before you join us at the Swan.” He tugged at his neckcloth. “The thing is, everyone, including our servants, believes Miss Trentham is my wife.” He felt himself flush under Houghton’s incredulous stare, and hurried into an explanation, telling Houghton almost everything that had happened in the past three weeks. He left out Miss Trentham’s fortune, and her visits to his bedchamber, and he omitted all reference to the creek at Vimeiro. When he’d finished, Houghton’s expression hovered somewhere between bemusement and laughter. “Would you mind, Sergeant—just for the next week or so—falling in with our charade? I hate to ask it of you, but her reputation . . .”

  “I shall call her Mrs. Reid, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Icarus said, deeply relieved. “We would be much obliged.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “I apologize,” he said to Miss Trentham, when they were back in the hackney carriage. “I just . . . I couldn’t lie to him.”

  “No.” She tilted her head to one side and surveyed him gravely. “You hold Sergeant Houghton in high esteem.”

  Icarus nodded. He looked down at his gloved hands, and then back at her. “I told him about our charade,” he confessed. “Because, the thing is . . . he’s coming to Exeter with us. I’m going to take him as my partner—because I trust him, and because I can’t just leave him here!”

  She studied him silently, and then gave a nod. “The sergeant won’t accept charity, but he’ll accept employment.”

  “Yes,” Icarus said, relieved that she understood. And then he wondered at himself for doubting she would. Miss Trentham was astute and perceptive. She’d taken Sergeant Houghton’s measure at a glance. “Thank you for giving us privacy. I’m grateful to you.” And he was grateful to her for much more than that. I don’t appreciate her as I ought to.

  Back at the Swan, he spoke to both Green and Eliza. “For God’s sake, don’t offer him pity! Treat him as if he has two arms, unless for some reason he does need help, in which case be matter-of-fact about offering it. Green, he has the room next to you. I wish you to look after him as you would me, but don’t fuss over him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He should be here shortly. See that his room’s made ready, please, and put out a change of my clothes for him. He’ll ne
ed a bath and a shave. How are you at cutting hair?”

  “I’ve never cut anyone’s hair, sir,” Green said apologetically.

  “Never mind. He can see a barber tomorrow.”

  Sergeant Houghton arrived at dusk. Icarus showed him to his room, introduced him to Green, and left.

  An hour and a half later, the door to the private parlor opened. Icarus glanced up from the Bristol Mercury. His mouth dropped open.

  The shabby crossing-sweeper had been transformed. Gone were the ragged clothes and the grime, gone the shaggy hair, gone the beard. Instead, Houghton was clean, combed, shaved, and dressed in top boots and breeches, a waistcoat, and a tailcoat with the left arm pinned up. A neckcloth was neatly arranged at his throat.

  Icarus closed his mouth. He stood hastily. “Good Lord, man. Have you seen yourself in a mirror?”

  “I have, sir.” Houghton’s expression was hard to read. Icarus guessed that he was self-conscious about his borrowed finery, perhaps even faintly embarrassed.

  “I’m glad to see my clothes fit.” He crossed to Houghton and shook his hand. “Can you bear to wear them until Exeter?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Icarus released his hand. “Have a seat. Miss Trentham will be down shortly. Would you like something to drink? Claret? Sherry?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  This Houghton was closer to the man he remembered, but still not quite him. Less confident, slightly stiff. He’s a coalminer’s son, wearing gentleman’s clothes. Of course he feels awkward.

  The parlor door opened again and Miss Trentham entered the room. She halted, and looked them both up and down. “Goodness, how alike the two of you are! No one could mistake you for anything but soldiers.” There was nothing aloof in her manner. Her smile was warm and friendly. “I must say, you clean up very well, Sergeant!”