The Shepherd and the Solicitor

by Bonnie Dee

  The flock and Dickon moved off in the direction of a lean-to as the first light spatter of rain cooled Bennet’s face. He and the stranger were alone now. No sheep for a distraction. It had been weeks since Bennet had talked to anyone other than Dickon. He stood in silence for a few seconds, wishing the chatty man beside him would disappear and he could be blissfully alone again. A fat drop of rain landed right between his eyes and rolled down his nose.

  “I thought you said it wasn’t going to rain.” A ripple of laughter bubbled under the surface of Tobin’s voice.

  “Come on,” Bennet growled, turning on his heel and marching stiffly across the field toward his hut.

  Chapter Four

  The bloody steep grade made Tobin pant. At least the air rushing into his lungs felt enormously refreshing. He paused to watch the retreating backside of Bennet, loose grubby trousers under a shapeless and unraveling dark jumper, heavy waterproofed boots, and a frayed sackcloth over his shoulders as protection. Tobin tried to imagine him on a London street. No good. Even if he wore a gentleman’s suit, that long stride aided by the thumping shepherd’s crook—Bennet had obviously been born to farming and had tramped about in bloody lumpy fields all his life.

  Tobin nearly tripped over a rock. The thick cloud moved in, and the rain began in earnest. Head down, he ran. He considered calling out to Bennet but wasn’t sure if he’d be heard over the rising wind and his own panting breath.

  Just as he thought he might be ready to curl up on the wet ground and submit to nature’s ravages, he caught sight of a light in the distance. It seemed to perch far over his head. He’d move toward that promise and continue his shuffling steps up the hill. His foot sank into a patch of snow. Snow, for pity’s sake.

  He gave a cry of surprise when something large, and brown-and-white came hurtling toward him through the fog, barking.

  A sharp whistle came from above, and the form headed back up the hill.

  He clambered over two stone walls, and almost blundered into a stunted tree, and at last arrived at the hut, wet and cold to his core. He couldn’t recall a time he’d been warm.

  The hut, made of the gray stones scattered all over the landscape, seemed to rise from the ground. The rough wooden door was closed, and Tobin banged on it, and then shoved it open.

  The brown-and-white fury that had run down to him, now stood at the door with a growl and bared white teeth. This must be the pregnant bitch Bennet had mentioned for she bulged at the sides. “Oh, hush, dog. Do be quiet,” he growled back, and, shockingly, the dog subsided.

  He slammed the door and shivered, looking around the room that was empty except for the dog, which was extremely fat. A fire roared in a corner, and he walked right over to it and squatted.

  Bennet appeared in the doorway of another room, rubbing at his head with another bit of sackcloth. He wore a different pair of ragged trousers and a shapeless jumper, grubby red this time. He draped his wet clothes on a chair near the hearth, then went back into the other room. A moment later, he reappeared with a bundle, which he tossed down on the stones next to Tobin. “Change if you want.”

  Tobin removed his coat and began to strip off his jacket and waistcoat.

  “Go t’other room,” Bennet said sharply. He snatched up Tobin’s coat, jacket and waistcoat from the floor and began to arrange them near the fire.

  A prudish fellow for a farmer, Tobin reflected as he meekly thanked Bennet. He carried the dry clothes into a room that was only large enough for a pallet of a bed, a chair and a rickety table that held a lit paraffin lamp. His soaking-wet trousers hit the floor with a plop.

  Naked and shivering, he wondered how he was supposed to dry himself when he noticed a sackcloth on top of the pile of clothing—a rough, ineffective sort of towel, but at least it wasn’t as harsh as it first appeared.

  The clothes he scrambled into smelled pleasantly of the fresh air and less pleasantly of sheep. He paused for a moment when he saw an ancient, faded launderer’s mark inside the trousers. Could it be the establishment he knew just outside Mayfair?

  Doubt came to him. Could the farmer be…? No. Wishful thinking.

  He came out to find the farmer kneeling by the fire, expertly stirring a pot hanging on a hob.

  The fire flared at the back. He wondered what burned hotter back there, but then was distracted by the rich smell coming from the pot.

  “Bowls on’t table,” Bennet nodded across the room at a scarred wooden table that looked as if it had been used for butchering and worse.

  Tobin grabbed the two bowls and two spoons and took them to the farmer, who ladled out the steaming food. He handed one bowl to Tobin and put one on the hearth next to him. Tobin gave a startled yelp as the farmer deliberately poured two full ladles of stew on the stone floor. Charming. “Wait,” he warned the dog.

  “Do you always drop food on the floor for them?”

  “You’re using her bowl.”

  Tobin wondered if Bennet was jesting but decided not to ask in case he wasn’t. The dog stared the chunks of meat, potatoes and carrots, drool dripping from her mouth. Tobin noticed that the farmer hadn’t just dropped the stuff on the stones. A gray platter, perhaps pewter, held the dogs’ portion.

  Tobin felt just as hungry as the dog, but he also waited until the farmer rose with his bowl and walked over the table. Just like a dog, Tobin trailed after him.

  The farmer sat, picked up his spoon and began to eat. He paused after the first mouthful and said, “Go on, eat.”

  Tobin wasn’t sure he was talking to him or the animal, until the cur waddled back to the fireplace and began gulping down the food.

  There was one chair, which Bennet had claimed, so Tobin took the only other object to sit on, a stool.

  “Watch yourself,” the farmer said.

  Tobin figured out what he meant when the chair rocked back on uneven legs. The table and chairs appeared to have been put together by a blind idiot child.

  He dropped the bowl on the table and grabbed the sides of the chair. Once he was steadied, he picked up the spoon and tasted the stew, bland but filling.

  The farmer ate quickly, as if he were starving.

  “You have a train to catch?” Tobin asked.

  “Need to check my ewes.”

  “Ah, lambing time.” Tobin had a hazy idea about the season because one of his friends, a man-about-town turned gentleman farmer, occasionally sent amusing notes about rural life. “A busy time?”

  “Hmm.” The man put his bowl on the floor when he was done. The dog lunged over to lick it clean.

  When it was empty but for the shine of dog saliva, the famer picked it up and put it on a shelf.

  Tobin put down his spoon, suddenly appalled. “Here now, that’s just…that’s…” Tobin cleared his throat and put down his spoon. “I beg of you, please allow me to wash up. With water at the very least.”

  Under the facial hair came a flash of white teeth—could he be smiling? Bennet grabbed a basin from the wall, an item Tobin hadn’t noticed, and laid it on the bottom shelf. He picked up a bucket full of water Tobin had also failed to see. The farmer poured water into the basin, put down the bucket and pointed at a scrub brush hanging on a hook. “Go to,” he said.

  “Ah.”

  “You thought I was putting the bowl back up without washing it.” The farmer definitely smiled. The crinkles around the corners of his eyes showed it.

  Tobin laughed. No point in denying it. “Well. Ah. The bowl does look quite clean.”

  The farmer grabbed an oilcloth coat from a hook on the wall. “When you’re done, just toss the wash water out the door.” He shrugged on the coat and jammed a flat cap onto his head. “Hot water in the big kettle over the fire if you don’t want to freeze your hands.”

  He and the pregnant dog slammed out of the house.

  Tobin ate the rest of his stew. He got
up and explored the two rooms. The farmer had books. A huge stack of them—fiction, sheep-rearing guides, a book about dogs and two books in Latin.

  He didn’t know much about farmers, but these books—Latin?—struck him as odd. And that was a history of Rome. Daniel Pierce had studied history.

  The suspicion began to percolate again. Tobin went to his coat to fish out the photographs of Pierce.

  The coat was empty. The bloody package had fallen out of his pocket. Perhaps when the damned horse bucked him off or whilst he’d toiled up the hill.

  He sat down—on the chair this time, though it was hardly sturdier. The rain beat against the one window and the wind howled, occasionally gusting down the chimney. A particularly large ash floated up and landed again in the fire.

  Paper. But before he could get to it, whatever it was flared and burned.

  He remembered the bright fire behind the kettle and pot of stew—as if Bennet had pushed paper to the back of the fireplace.

  Tobin took the poker and shuffled the sparking logs around the fireplace. The layer of ash lay thick. He might have imagined seeing paper float up.

  He gathered up the plates and, after testing the freezing-cold water, added some hot from the kettle. He found some soap flakes and tentatively added a few. He’d never in his life washed dishes and usually didn’t even draw his own bath.

  There was a large basin in the far corner, and he wondered if the farmer used it to bathe.

  As he washed, he pictured the farmer’s strong hard limbs. If only the trousers had been a bit tighter. Everything about Bennet, clothes and beard, seemed designed to hide the man, although features showed. That smile, even behind the hair, had been a thing of beauty, showing surprisingly white teeth.

  What would it have been like if the farmer had stayed in the room with him? They’d sit by the fire, and Bennet might grow warm. And perhaps take off that hideous jumper.

  Tobin laughed again. He had a reasonable drive for flesh, directed at other men, but this sort of fantasy was new to him. Not that he had a wealth of experience, but he knew he liked his partners clean, well-educated, amusing and relatively unembarrassed about bodies. Filthy curmudgeons who didn’t want to see another man’s nakedness did not qualify.

  He finished cleaning up and wondered what the farmer could be about. An hour passed. And another.

  The sky lightened and the rain ended.

  He had to piss and didn’t think he wanted to use a chamber pot. He might as well track down the farmer. Outside, the wind still blew hard, and dark and light clouds scuttled across the sky that showed patches of blue and gold. The sun would set soon.

  Had the farmer gone back down the hill to the sheep and the boy guarding them?

  A faint baa reached him, and he realized it came from another building—also stone but much larger than the hut. There was a smaller barn, but he bypassed it and, ducking his head against the continuous wind, made his way to the other building.

  In the dark, he could only make out the bulky bodies of sheep.

  “Bennet?” he called.

  “What do you need?” came a voice from the floor. “It’ll have to wait.”

  He pushed past the sheep. Tobin gave an involuntary gurgle and stepped backward. “Good God,” he yelped.

  The farmer lay on the floor. He had his hand, and perhaps most of his arm, up into the backside of a sheep.

  “Lamb’s stuck.” Bennet cursed under his breath and seemed to strain against something as he shifted about on the filthy floor.

  “God,” Tobin said faintly. The fluids glistened in the dim light cast by an enclosed lamp. The farmer lay on bloody straw.

  Tobin couldn’t look away. He had to watch, although the stew he’d eaten threatened to make a return performance. After a couple of minutes, he said, “Is there anything I can do? To help?”

  “Doubt it. Barely enough room for me and the lamb up in there.” Bennet grunted. His body twisted as he did something with his hand. “Lass, dear one. I do wish you’d stand up again. This is a bad angle for all of us.” His murmured coaxing to the sheep sounded warmer and more convivial than any words he’d exchanged with Tobin.

  More fluid trickled out. Tobin swallowed and shifted his gaze away, but he had to look back again. A few more minutes passed as he stared at the man groping around inside a sheep.

  “Aha! That’s got it. There we go. Come on, girl, you can do it.” Bennet’s voice was suddenly clear and excited, no more mumbling. He pulled, and seconds later, a thoroughly disgusting and huge shape slid out of the sheep.

  Tobin vowed never to eat mutton or lamb again.

  Bennet had a handful of straw and was rubbing the gray slimy bundle with it. The mother got to her feet and regarded the new arrival as if slightly astonished by it. She began to vigorously lick it.

  “Ugh,” said Tobin.

  “Good girl,” said Bennet.

  And then the whole moment went from disgusting to miraculous. The lamb opened its tiny mouth and gave a tiny sound.

  “Oh God,” Tobin breathed. “Look at that.”

  “Hmm.” Bennet was already squatting by a bucket set near a post, washing off his arms. “More t’ check,” he said and slipped into the darkness, leaving Tobin to stare at the newborn and mother.

  Jacob retreated into the darkest part of the barn, away from his unwelcome visitor. He resented the man’s presence even more now that he knew there was a definite connection to his old life. Tobin’s clothes came from a decent establishment in London. His wallet contained almost a hundred pounds. He came from that old, abandoned world, and he sought Daniel Pierce.

  Jacob had searched his coat and jacket while Tobin changed in the other room. He’d hurriedly unwrapped the small wallet—and nearly dropped it. He should have known they’d send agents, but it still felt like a physical shock to stare down at a description of himself and three photos. He’d saved the photo from his university days, shoved it into his own pocket, and the rest had gone into the fire. Only a moment of guilt haunted him. The pictures, the description—they’d been him. Or the person who had once been him. They belonged to no one else.

  He pushed the papers into the fire and the wallet into the bag he carried when he walked to town.

  Thinking of the photo of himself in cricket whites, he’d felt a clashing moment when past and present had met—like gears that should never meet smashing together in his brain.

  He’d recalled that particular day on the cricket pitch had been a good one, and he had forgotten that pleasure. The good times had been erased, and now they came back, a small sliver of a memory. Rather like the feeling returning to his limb—the muscles of his arm painfully prickled back to life and warmth.

  He ventured out of the shadowy corners of the barn to the bucket of slimy water. Most of the ewes should deliver without his help, but best to be prepared. He grabbed up the bucket and took it outside to get fresh water.

  When he returned, he found Tobin still standing, gazing down at the ewe and the lamb who now nursed vigorously, little tail waggling.

  Tobin looked up, a big grin on his face. He had a pleasant face that made a person automatically want to smile back at him. Warmth shone from Tobin, a pleasure to meet you sort of man who could convince you that he cared. He’d make a good salesman or undertaker, Bennet thought sourly, to stop himself from returning the smile. Or an oily lawyer sent to pester a man who simply wanted to be left in peace.

  Tobin didn’t appear to notice his rudeness. “I had rather wondered why anyone would choose this sort of life, and I suppose that”—he nodded at the lamb—“must be one of the reasons.”

  “T’isn’t always a choice,” Bennet growled. His mimicry of a Yorkshire accent was appallingly bad, but he hoped Tobin wouldn’t notice.

  “Compensation, then, for all the rain and wind and sackcloth—not to mention living miles awa
y from civilization.”

  Bennet wanted to argue, to point out that the wind and rain swept the world clean, that the view of the valley was more than enough reason to live up here. He felt the urge to discuss the astounding beauty of his world with the stranger who’d come to find him. And then that word, civilization. Ha! A myth.

  Instead, he pulled on his cap again and turned away, wishing he could send Tobin on his way, but it was too late to venture down to Faircliffe now, not without a full moon.

  He’d spend the night out here and let Tobin have his bed. The thought of sharing his small sanctuary of a hut with another man, particularly one in search of him, made him want to howl. Perhaps he could distract him from his search? For an instant, he thought about the two of them sharing his narrow bed and those slender, very white limbs entwined with his. Another sort of prickling awake crept into his mind and body. Mere thoughts such as those were dangerous, and he needed to dismiss them at once.

  He could act like a madman and drive Tobin off. That could be an interesting exercise.

  In the end, he opted for the same gruff approach that had served him well so far. “Getting late. Best you spend the night in my bed.”

  Tobin blinked.

  “And I’ll keep watch on the sheep,” Bennet added quickly. “Go on now. I can send in Bets to keep you company, if you like.”

  “It’s still early. I’m used to staying awake quite late. I don’t mind keeping watch with you awhile. You can tell me more about shepherding. Or sheep herding.”

  Bennet nearly groaned. The man was purposely delaying, probably thinking he could ask more questions to assure him of Bennet’s true identity. What would it take to get some privacy and solitude? Maybe he needed to move from grouchy to belligerent, drive the fellow off with his fists if need be.

  But before he could decide on what to say, Gregory Tobin had plopped himself on a pile of hay, where he sat with his arms clasped around his knees. He looked up at Jacob with that bright smile that made Jacob want to knock out a couple of teeth. “Perfectly comfy. Wouldn’t mind sleeping right here.”