HEARTLESS LORD HARRY
Marjorie Farrell
About the Author
Publishing Information
* * *
Chapter 1
February, 1813
“The Marquess of Sidmouth to see you, my lord. Shall I tell him you are still at breakfast?”
James Otley, Viscount Clitheroe, looked up from his plate of ham and eggs. “Harry? No, show him in, Hanes. He needs fattening up.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The viscount did not pause in his slow, methodical consumption of his breakfast. When the marquess entered, Otley’s mouth was full of muffin, and he had to wave his friend in with his cup of tea.
Henry Lifton, better known to his friends as Harry, grinned and made his way to the table. There was a slight hesitation in his walk, and when he sat down he was careful to stretch his right leg out in front of him.
The viscount washed down the last of his muffin and grinned at his friend. “You have given up the damned stick then, Harry?”
“Yes, the doctor finally allowed it…nay, advised it. Said I was getting too dependent on it.”
“And your lung?”
“Right as rain. Not all right, either of them, when there is rain,” admitted the marquess with a laugh. “But his recommendation is to get back to normal.”
“Well, I’d say you have been doing that! Your activity this Little Season was even more frenetic than before you left for Portugal.”
“I have two years to make up for, James.”
“I find it hard to believe that you were not charming the señoritas in Spain and Portugal.”
“The señoras, James. It was as difficult to get past a duenna to a young woman as it was to breach the walls of Badajoz,” the marquess replied lightly.
It was one of his rare references to the battle in which he had been wounded, and typical of all of them: flippant and dismissive. James, who was dutiful, had listened to his family’s protests and not sought a commission. Harry, who was defiant, had run off to war despite his mother’s plea that he was the head of the family and owed it to the Sidmouth line to remain at home. James, although he had followed the progress of the campaign religiously and had read of the devastating losses of this particular siege, had no way of knowing what it must have been like. Not, he was damn sure, like getting past a young girl’s chaperon. But if Harry did not want to talk about it, he was not going to pry.
“Do have some breakfast, my friend,” said James with friendly sarcasm.
“Thank you,” Harry responded in the same tone. He had already filled his plate and was consuming great quantities of eggs and kippers. “A man could starve awaiting your invitation.”
“It never fails to amaze me, Harry, how you can pack it away and never gain an ounce. While I—”
“While you pack it away and are beginning to strain your waistcoats.”
The viscount quickly looked down to see if any buttons were in immediate danger of popping. They were not, of course, for despite his friend’s teasing, he was not really overweight, just taller and more solid than the marquess. James was stocky, but had no extra flesh on him. In buckskins, however, with his light brown hair, blue eyes, and ruddy complexion, he looked more like a ploughman than a Corinthian. The marquess, on the other hand, who had inherited his black hair and brown eyes from his Welsh mother, was devastatingly attractive, whether his slender frame was clad in buckskins or the maroon superfine he wore today.
“I am not in need of a corset yet, Harry,” protested James.
“Well, I have a proposal that will keep you out of one.”
“Indeed,” said the viscount, raising his eyebrows.
“I have a mind to go walking.”
“Walking? This morning? Isn’t it rather early in the day?”
“Not that kind of walking. I want to get out of London for a while and wondered if you would join me.”
“In what exactly?”
“A few weeks wandering with knapsacks on our backs and all our responsibilities forgotten.”
“With your knee?”
“It is no longer painful, James, only stiff. And it is precisely because of it that I want to do this. I need to strengthen the leg and the lung, for that matter. I am sick of rest and coddling. If I am done with forced marches, I need some activity to replace them.”
“I would have thought your dancing attendance on every available young woman and widow this fall kept you in shape! Isn’t being charming enough exercise for you?”
“James, James, do I detect a bit of envy in your voice?”
“As much concern as envy, Harry. You were bad enough before you left. But my dear fellow, did you have to charm little Miss Celeste Durwood and then abandon her for Lady Sidney? Have you ever been serious about a woman?”
“Never.”
“It is high time you settled down, you know. Found a wife and set up your nursery.”
“That is part of the reason for this little walking tour, James. I will need all the stamina I can muster to make it through this next Season. I do intend to find a wife; I know what I owe to the family, for my mother has reminded me enough. Not, my dear friend, that I see you rushing to the altar.”
James reddened. “The family has two females in mind. I shall choose between the Hargrave youngest or the Clement eldest.”
“Nice of them to give you a choice!”
“Harry, you know the Otleys always do their duty. And you and I…we are very different. You can charm any woman from six to sixty, while I…I prose on and bore them to death.”
“Now, James, we have talked of this before. You are most certainly not dull, but serious—someone to be relied on. A little too straitlaced, perhaps, but what else can one expect of an Otley! But come, will you go with me?”
“Just where were you planning to walk?”
“I had first thought of the South Downs Way, but that would be too easy. I have a longing for hills and dales. And your family has an estate in Yorkshire. What if we start there and work our way south?”
“When did you intend to start?”
“In two weeks.”
“Two weeks! We will still be in February.”
“Yes, the season of snowdrops and early daffodils.”
“And late snowfalls.”
“What of it. Actually, it would be a pleasure to be wet and cold after the heat and dust of Portugal.”
“Are you sure you are strong enough for this?” Despite his teasing about the marquess’s romantic activity, James had been worried about him in the fall. He had only regained some of the weight he had lost, and was blade-thin. And although his devil-may-care attitude toward women was characteristic, it had seemed to James that his frenetic activity was a direct result of the war. It was as though having recovered from a physical fever, he succumbed to an emotional one. For feverish activity was the best way to describe his progress through the Little Season. For all his charm and the protection his title gave him, more than one matron had begun to include Harry on the list of men for their daughters to avoid, a list that included arrant fortune-hunters and hardened libertines.
“James, I assure you I will not tumble down a fell or cough myself to death.”
“All right, then, let us do it!”
* * *
Chapter 2
Kate Richmond looked out her bedroom window, which overlooked the backyard of Richmond House. The early morning sun was shining, the sky was blue and cloudless, and the spring grass was a sparkling emerald green. She smiled as she watched Motley, their old tomcat, tremble with desire as he crouched, ready to pounce on the unaware warbler singing his heart out on the wall separating the yard from the pasture. She closed her eyes as Mott sprang, a
nd hearing no more birdsong or pained shrieks, opened them again, relieved to see the cat perched on the wall. He was cleaning himself and looked disdainfully around as if to say “You thought I was after that bird and missed him? Why I was just aiming to sit down here on this warm stone. When I want to catch a bird, you’ll know!” Kate turned away with a low chuckle and, slipping her feet into well-worn brogues, went down to breakfast.
Her family was all there except for her mother who was already out on the hills keeping track of the lambing. Her father and her sister nodded their greetings to her from behind their books as she sat herself down to a bowl of porridge and fresh cream.
Spring was one of her favorite times in the dale, but was also one of the loneliest. Her mother was always tramping around from one shepherd’s hut to another from early morning to teatime. Her sister and father…well, being buried in a book was not a seasonal failing for them, but in spring it was accompanied by an increase in energy and a desire to wander. They were not interested in tramping after sheep, however. They tramped off after holy wells and stone circles and chalk carvings in their quest to trace the roots of the old religions of Britain.
Kate sighed. She missed her brother even more this year than the last. She and Gareth had always been close, for they shared an affectionately ironic view of the rest of their family. Their father, Edward Richmond, a failed cleric and successful scholar had found in his older daughter a kindred spirit who had become equally obsessed by his studies. Their mother, Lady Elizabeth, to whom the family owed their financial stability, was dedicated to sheep-breeding, and always involved in trying to improve her stock. It was a warm and loving family, but sometimes its eccentricities drove her a little crazy.
Kate and Gareth were the practical ones. Lady Elizabeth was certainly practical, but only in the area of her obsession. She threw all her energy into sheep and hardly noticed her more immediate surroundings. Kate and her brother had no all-consuming interest. Both were concerned with the everyday running of Richmond House. They both helped their mother run the business, Kate by keeping the accounts and Gareth by taking over from time to time when Lady Elizabeth chose to accompany her husband on one of his research trips.
With Gareth, Kate could groan in despair over her mother’s eccentricity or her sister’s inability to see beyond her books. Even when her brother had been in the army, his letters had cheered her and made her feel that she was not alone. But these two years since his marriage had been hard for Kate. She visited Gareth and his wife at Thorne; he and Arden came to Sedbusk over the holidays, but it was not the same. He was as affectionate as ever, but his attention was naturally focused upon his wife. But no one’s attention was focused upon her. Well, and why should it be, she would think, to pull herself out of the doldrums. I am lucky to have a loving family around me and responsibilities to keep me occupied.
* * * *
On this particular morning she announced to her father and sister that she was off for a walk, for as she said, “It would be a shame to waste such a beautiful morning.” Her father gave her an absentminded smile and Lynette muttered something about that being a good idea. Kate smiled and slipped out the door. For two people obsessed by what were essentially nature religions, it was ironic that her father and sister would rather spend their time indoors with their books than outside, up on the fells.
She headed up the path that ran straight up from the back of the house, intending to visit old Gabriel Crabtree, their head shepherd. Her legs and lungs were in excellent condition from all her tramping, and so she was hardly out of breath at all when she reached his hut. She peeked in, but the hut was empty, so she decided to continue up to the top of the scar and let the wind blow away her loneliness and discontent. But halfway up she met the old shepherd coming down with a dead lamb on his arm and his dog Benjamin driving a ewe before him.
“Good day to tha, lass.”
“So we have lost one, Gabriel?”
“Aye. But I have one down in t’south pasture who needs a mother. Coom and help, will tha, lass?”
“Of course.”
When they reached the south pasture, Gabriel had Benjamin drive the old ewe into a small pen in the corner. He laid the dead lamb on the ground and began, carefully and methodically, to skin it. Kate had seen him do this more than once, but it never ceased to amaze her that his hands, so big and heavy, could move with such dexterity and care. In minutes he had removed the fleece in one piece and held up what looked like a lamb coat, complete with leggings.
He whistled up Benjamin and pointed out the orphan. The dog nudged the forlorn-looking creature toward them, and Gabriel crooned soothingly as Kate helped him slip the little fellow, legs, tail and head, into the dead lamb’s skin.
“There now, lad, let us see if tha new mother will take to tha.”
He opened the gate to the enclosure and shooed the lamb in. For a moment the ewe just ignored him. Then, when the lamb took some steps in her direction, getting closer and closer, until he was almost next to her, she lowered her head as though getting ready to push him away. But then she caught the scent of his wool, which was, of course, the scent of her own dead lamb, and let him approach. She turned her body so he could nurse, and rubbed her muzzle contentedly along his back as he did so.
Kate felt tears rise, as they always did at such a scene.
“It always seems like a miracle to me,” she said, with a trembling laugh.
“Oh, aye, lass, a miracle of short sight, strong scent, and stupidity.”
“Now, Gabriel, you can’t fool me. You are as happy as anyone when you save a lamb this way.”
“Tha’rt reel, lass. Old as I am, I still feel a thrill when one of these old ewes lets a strange lamb nurse,” admitted Gabriel. “Thank tha for tha help. I know I interrupted tha walk.”
“No matter. I’ll get out again this afternoon.”
“I would not, if I were tha, lass. T’weather is going to turn. I think we are in for a little snow.”
Kate looked up at the blue sky and over at Gabriel. “If it were anyone else predicting that, I should laugh at him, but you are always accurate. Although I am sure I don’t know how.”
“Well, it is old bones, lass. They be getting stiffer by the moment, and I can feel my arm aching reel now where I broke it two years ago.”
“Will you be seeing Mother?”
“Oh, aye, I’ll make sure her ladyship is home before the snow starts. I don’t think it will be a long one, but I feel it will be a bad one.”
* * *
Chapter 3
“Pass me the cheese, James.”
Harry sat with his back against a stone wall and basked in the warm sun. He gave a relaxed sigh and said, “This has been the best day of our whole trip.”
James broke off a piece of cheese and passed it over. “We have one more bottle of cider. Do you want to split it?”
“Yes, I have quite a thirst after this morning’s climb.”
The two men had shed their coats and knapsacks and were stretched out, enjoying the sun which felt gentler, now that they weren’t sweating and climbing up the fell.
“I must tell you, Harry, that I had my doubts about this idea of yours, but this has been a splendid week. And you have been able to keep up with me pretty well,” he added teasingly.
“Keep up with you! Who was out of breath after two miles the first day?” replied Harry with mock outrage, tossing a large pebble in James’s direction.
“All right, I admit it. We are both in better shape,” admitted James. He looked over at Harry who had drunk the last drop of cider and had his face up to the sun. He had regained some color this week, thought James. And despite the stiffness in his knee, had had little trouble negotiating the hills. At the end of the day, the hesitation in his walk was a bit more pronounced, but by the first hour out in the morning it would almost disappear, and the walking staff Harry had brought for support was hardly needed.
His lung, on the other hand, worried James. Whil
e it was true that Harry didn’t seem much more out of breath than he did, he had a tendency to fall into a short fit of coughing whenever they stopped. And occasionally James noticed him rubbing his lower back, as though trying to reach the site of his original wound. But when he questioned him, Harry laughed and said, “James, the doctors told me that taking a bayonet through the lung was bound to weaken it. The cough is nothing to worry about.”
Nevertheless, James did worry and felt like a fussy old hen when he found himself admonishing Harry to put his coat back on if he was going to lean against cold and damp stones. Harry would only get annoyed and then when they were back on the path, walk faster as if to prove that he was in no way limited.
James smiled to himself as he thought of his friend’s stubbornness. He settled himself against the wall, and within a few minutes, tired from the morning’s exertion and relaxed by his meal, he fell asleep.
* * * *
When he awoke, he was afraid he had slept overnight and into the next morning, a cold, gray, cloudy morning. The perfectly blue sky was now a mass of low hanging clouds. The sun was a memory. And the clouds seemed to be spitting out rain…no, snow. “It can’t be snowing,” he exclaimed.
“But it is,” said Harry with a grimace as he pulled on his coat and slung his knapsack over his shoulders.
James shivered in his damp clothing as he pulled his own coat on. Neither of them had brought anything suitable for winter weather. They had spent most of their nights in local inns, so they had had no need. And now here they were, at the top of a fell, a few miles from the nearest town, and it felt like the middle of December.
“We’d better get started,” urged Harry, picking up his walking staff. “Hawes is the closest town, and that is at least three miles away. I don’t like the look of those clouds.”
“Surely it is just a snow squall? They blow over quickly enough.”
“I hope so, James.”
Within half an hour they were both praying it was a squall. The temperature seemed to have dropped twenty degrees or more, and the snow, which had started mixed with rain, was now coming down thick and fast. And they were walking into the wind. Which at least keeps our eyes on the path, thought James, as he struggled after Harry.
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