by Bonnie Dee
Tobin didn’t understand for a long minute. Then he stopped buttoning his waistcoat and clapped his hands. “More babies! We must get moving. Come on. She might need us.”
Bennet already had pulled on his knitted sweater. He climbed into his trousers and pushed the braces over his shoulders. He moved quickly but not frantically. Of course he seemed practiced—he must get dressed at all hours of the night.
Tobin didn’t want to wait and galloped off, looking about for any sign of Bets. She wasn’t on the flagstone floor of the other room, but then that bark had come from outside.
He called over his shoulder, “Did you build her a nest of something?”
“She likes a spot in the cow’s barn, not far from Eunice.”
“Eunice? The cow should be Bossy or Maisie or some such. Eunice is a terrible name for a bovine.”
“It means good victory. I rather felt victorious when I finally figured out how to milk her.” Bennet had caught up with him, and they walked into the breeze and sunshine.
“The weather around here reminds me of you,” Tobin said.
“Hmm?” Bennet’s eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Always dramatic and larger than life, and when it’s sunny, ah, one can’t imagine anything more gorgeous.”
Bennet gave a single short bark of laughter. Not prone to hilarity was Mr. Pierce/Bennet. Tobin wondered if that had always been true. He imagined the solemn, earnest young man whom life had turned sour. He was determined to pour sweetness back into Bennet. Tobin wondered if that would help him to wrestle the farmer away from the world he’d created for himself—at least for a time.
He followed Bennet into the barn over to a dark corner to discover a pile of writhing, strikingly ugly creatures and one proud, exhausted bitch. Bennet crouched next to Bets, stroked her head and talked to her but made no effort to touch the newborns.
Bennet glanced up at Tobin. “Six of them! That will keep me in dried beans for months.”
“Lambs emerge cuter,” Tobin said. He leaned closer but backed away when Bets gave a warning growl. “Right. I’ll just toddle off to the other barn and see what the ladies are about.”
Bennet returned his attention to the new mother. He was telling her he’d check them soon, but she was the most excellent dog he’d ever known. The words were a slide of nonsense, but that quiet, soothing voice made Tobin pause. He absently added another item to his list—he wanted to hear Bennet speak to him with that voice.
You won’t have time, he reminded himself and slouched out of the cow barn toward the sheep.
Dalliance and rest had come to end. Tobin lost track of time as they worked through the night. In the dark barn, lambs struggled to enter the world. The births seemed to come in waves or perhaps one long, never-ending wave.
As they rested and drank coffee and ate stale bread in the dark, Bennet said he reckoned they were nearly through. “You can go back to bed,” he told Tobin.
“And miss the fun? Never.”
Tobin dozed on a hay bale, watching Bennet. Sometimes he helped. The Tobin who’d felt squeamish about shit and other bodily bits and fluids seemed to have lived in another decade, another world.
The barn grew still, and the latest lamb was getting a cleaning from its mother. Tobin straightened and realized he’d dozed off, because his back was in serious pain. He must have been in that strange position for a while. He stretched and leaned side to side. “That’s nearly twenty lambs since I showed up here,” he called over to Bennet. “Your flock will be huge.”
Bennet lay on the floor in a pile of hay, and from the way he flinched and bolted upright, he’d been deeply asleep.
“I guess you slept too,” Tobin said. He felt a little smug that he’d stayed awake longer than Bennet.
“I milked the cow and came back to check on you and the flock,” Bennet said.
Oh. So much for outlasting him. He yawned. “Shouldn’t have sat down for even an instant.”
He stumbled to his feet and went to the water bucket. He splashed what had to be ice across his face, then rubbed his face on the inevitable bit of sacking.
Tobin was about to repeat his remark about the big addition to the flock when Bennet held up a hand—for silence, Tobin supposed—and looked toward the door to the cobblestone yard.
Bets was barking. “That’s an alert,” Bennet said. “Someone is coming up the hill. A stranger. They have a different bark for people they recognize.”
Tobin suddenly felt cold with fear. He didn’t actually think thieves or brigands would raid a sheep farm on the fells, but another person coming to this isolated spot meant they were coming with purpose. He resented the intrusion, and then grinned when he realized that he must be turning into a version of Bennet.
Who in the world would be climbing the hills? What would they be in search of? His grin faded when he suddenly understood the intruder might be connected to him. Tobin hadn’t had time to send the telegram, so it wasn’t anyone from the firm. But of course someone would hunt for Tobin. He hadn’t returned, but the riderless horse undoubtedly had made its way home. His possessions were still at Meaks’s inn. They would assume the worst.
Tobin walked toward the door. “I don’t hear anything but the dog.”
“We’ll hear it soon.” Sure enough, there were the thuds of horse’s hooves, more than one horse, probably fewer than four, Tobin guessed. He didn’t move but looked toward Bennet and indulged in a bit of childish hope. Maybe, if we pretend we’re not here, they’ll go away.
“They’re likely here for you.” Bennet wiped at a damp spot on his dark oilskin jacket. In the dark, it was impossible to see if the dark spot was blood or water.
“Yes,” agreed Tobin. He waited for Bennet to leave the barn but the farmer turned and walked to another laboring ewe.
Someone outside shouted, “Anybody here? Good morning to you.”
Bennet crouched by the ewe. It was up to Tobin to greet whoever approached.
Tobin sighed and pushed his hands through his hair, stiff with lanolin and far worse substances. He snagged a bit of straw and pulled it out.
When he pushed open the door, he was startled by sunlight. He squinted into the east and, in the bright morning, made out the shapes of four men on horseback just outside the gate.
“It’s him but… By Christ, t’farmer has near killed him!” A man leaped off the horse and ran to the gate. Tobin recognized one of the drinkers from the pub. It was Mr. Shaw, the man who’d rented him the nag.
Shaw swung open the gate and then froze. In a harsh whisper, he said, “Mr. Tobin! You’re alive, but he musta beat you to hell and back. Where is t’bastard?”
Tobin shaded his face with his hand. “No, no, I’m fine, I assure you.”
He twisted to look at the barn behind him—still no sign of Bennet.
“And, er, I hope Alfie’s well?” Tobin added.
Another man, obviously the leader, climbed off his horse more slowly. “If you were safe, you should have sent word, sir. Mr. Shaw here was in a panic when his horse came home without a rider.” Large and about fifty, the man strolled toward Tobin, the cape of his dusty Inverness coat flapping in the breeze. “I’m Constable Taylor and these men from Faircliffe were convinced you were dead.”
He stopped a few feet away and looked Tobin up and down, a frown furrowed between his heavy brows. “They described Mr. Tobin as a reet gentleman. Are we certain this person is the correct individual?”
Tobin came forward, his hand outstretched. “I’m Mr. Tobin, and I apologize for not sending word earlier. That was far too careless of me, and of course I will compensate you and these gentlemen for the time you spent searching for me.”
Taylor shook hands without taking off his leather gloves. “No need. It’s my job, and these came along for the ride.”
The other men were poking their heads
up and looking around.
“And for curiosity’s sake,” Taylor added. His grin showed several gaps in his teeth. “The local people are interested to see what he’s made of this place, but Mr. Bennet doesn’t much like visitors.”
That certainly sounded accurate.
“He is, ah, busy at the moment. Lambing season, you know.”
The men all nodded and mumbled agreement. Apparently that was an acceptable excuse. They continued to look around the yard, bright-eyed with interest.
Tobin felt like a host surprised by unexpected guests and no way to entertain them properly. He owed them for their worry and time. “Er, perhaps a cup of tea?” he said. “Right this way, gentlemen.”
Chapter Twelve
They were going to take Gregory away, and he’d only just got him!
Bennet’s fervent desire to hold on to the visiting lawyer startled him. Once, as a boy, he’d found a sparrow with a damaged wing on the street outside his family’s London home. Knowing he would not be allowed to care for the bird while he nursed it back to health, he’d hidden it in a box beneath his bed. One day, he’d reached for the box to tend the weak bird, only to find one of the maids had taken away his patient and the box. Sadness and anger at not being allowed to have any power over even one small aspect of his young life had filled Daniel until he wanted to explode. He’d punched and howled his frustration into his pillow before resuming his normal agreeable demeanor—ever the obedient son, the good student and competent athlete, the polite boy society dictated he be.
But now… Who was he now? As a rough North Country farmer, he didn’t have to be accountable to the rules of polite society. He could display temper when conversing with locals, or choose to go weeks on end never interacting with another person. He could be his own man. Yet even in the wilderness so far away from London, his history chased him. And even here, he couldn’t really have things exactly as he chose. If he could, then Gregory Tobin would stay for much longer than a mere handful of days.
Gregory, stay? Bennet had moved from resenting the man, to not minding him, to hoping he’d hang about…and now… The understanding of how much he’d changed—had been changed—hit him almost like a physical blow. Bennet stumbled, and he put down the bucket of grain he carried before he dropped it. For years, his solitude had been necessary for his sanity. When had that time ended? Only a few days ago. Hours ago.
The giddy sensation passed. Bennet picked up the bucket. He poured out the measure for a new mother as another wobbly-legged lamb made its way to its mother’s teat and latched on. He watched the lamb. What else might have shifted inside him? Why, the very act of pondering the question. Self-indulgent contemplation was an evil that had driven him to find a life of work so hard he could drop at the end of a day, too exhausted to examine the shadows in his mind. But as the thoughts crept in now—that long-forgotten bird, Gregory Tobin—he was ready to entertain them.
He wiped his hands off on his filthy trousers absently and wondered what he must do. He could stay here hiding under the pretense of being too busy to cross to the cottage, or he could act like a proper human being and greet the local men who he’d held at arms’ length since moving here. Either way, precious moments with Gregory were slipping through his fingers like sand, and he could do nothing to stop it, because, in the end, no one was “taking” Tobin away. He would leave here by choice to return to his own busy life.
Bennet marched from the dimly lit barn into the harsh daylight. After washing up at the pump, he straightened his clothing to make himself slightly presentable and headed toward the house.
The sound of a number of uninvited men clomping about in his domain made the hair on his nape prickle. Before he entered, Bennet paused at the door long enough to hear the constable say, “You know your way around the man’s kitchen very well for someone who’s only been here such a short time.”
Bennet sucked a breath between his teeth, panic shooting through him. They know! They’ve guessed what we’ve been up to. They’re going to hurt Gregory. He put a hand on the latch, ready to burst in and stop the men from beating Tobin. The instinctive response had his pulse racing and his body shaking.
“Ah, well. I quickly turned from guest to hired hand,” Tobin’s smooth voice replied easily. “I had no idea of the sheer labor involved in lambing. It’s often a job for more than one person, isn’t it?”
“Aye, that it is.” “Handy to have some help.” These and other murmurs of agreement came from the men who’d invaded Bennet’s home.
“It’s been quite an eye-opening experience,” Tobin continued. “But I shall be happy to return to my own sort of work.”
“Lawyering,” Constable Taylor clarified. “What is it you lot do, exactly?”
“All sorts of things. Wills and whatnot.”
“Did ye find who you was looking for, sir?” another voice asked.
Bennet remained frozen with his hand on the latch while time pulled out in a long thin string. Would Gregory reveal him or keep his identity a secret?
“That yet remains to be seen. My investigation is unfinished,” Tobin’s voice was cool and authoritative. “Milk with your tea?”
Bennet heaved a deep breath and pushed open the door. Walking into the wall of eyes all staring at him made him cringe. He’d hardly been around this many people at once since moving to the farm, other than necessary visits to the village. Although there were only four men—five, counting Tobin—it felt like an army ambushing him. He wanted to shout at them to get out of his house and be on their way.
Instead, he managed a thin smile and a curt nod. “How do?”
Four heads bobbed politely, and answers from ranging from grand to middlin’ filled the room.
Just polite chat with local folks. Nothing to fear here. Bennet reassured himself, but his heart still beat too fast and images of the scowling faces of that other band of men flashed in his head. His heavy woolen jumper felt like a straitjacket binding him tight. His head spun as if he might faint, and he could scarcely breathe. He needed silence, solitude, and for this group of busybodies with their curious gazes to leave soon.
“I was just telling Mr. Shaw and the others how old Alfie bucked me off.” Tobin’s blue eyes were a life preserver to cling to just as Bennet felt he was going underwater for the last time. “My presence turned out to be quite useful for you during this busy season.”
“Aye,” Bennet grunted and held on to the crooked back of one of the chairs to steady himself.
“Well, sir. Not that they worried as we did, but I imagine you’ll want to get in touch with your London friends,” Constable Taylor boomed. The man always spoke as if addressing a crowd. He was the sort who liked to announce his presence when he entered a room and to throw his weight around by making a lot of unasked-for suggestions. Maybe if there’d been more crimes for him to solve in the area, he would’ve spent less time directing other people’s lives.
“Yes. I shall need to send a telegram to tell them the status of my visit,” Tobin said.
And that you’ll be returning soon, Bennet thought glumly. No surprise there, but somehow he’d imagined he’d have longer with Gregory—another few hours, another few days. A few months wouldn’t be enough.
“If you don’t mind riding behind another man, Satan’s back is broad enough to hold us both, I think,” Mr. Shaw offered.
Tobin made a choked sound and quickly covered his mouth as a coughing fit overtook him. Bennet nearly smiled and dipped his head to shield his face. But, oh, it wasn’t funny at all. The comment hit too close to home, and Tobin’s suppressed laughter could be just the sort of thing to suggest to these men at the secret, unsavory doings that had gone on this house.
“Aw now, Mr. Tobin. No need to worry. Despite his name, Satan’s a fine-tempered nag. You needn’t fear being thrown again,” Mr. Shaw continued.
Tobin recovered and sucked in a b
reath. “No. I’m certain S-Satan is a very pleasant beast, but I would prefer to ride in Mr. Bennet’s wagon back to Faircliffe. He’s agreed to give me a…ride, and I don’t mind helping out here at the farm one more day.”
Shaw and the other two farmers, Haggerty and Wade, exchanged looks that told of their disbelief that any outsider would willingly lend a hand in the exhausting, messy lambing process. Constable Taylor’s eyes narrowed, and he studied Tobin as though trying to figure out his underlying motivation. Again, fear turned Bennet’s guts liquid. Was Tobin mad? Did he want to be discovered? He knew too well it was a very short step from doubt to assumption to attack.
“I’ll take Mr. Tobin myself. Need a few things from the village anyway,” Bennet said with gruff nonchalance.
“In the meantime, Mr. Taylor…” Tobin began.
“Constable Taylor,” the man corrected.
“Indeed. Constable Taylor, if I give you a message and some coin, would you send a telegram for me to let the head of my chambers know I’m still among the living and on the case?”
“All right.” Taylor put down his still-full cup of tea and flipped open his leather-bound notebook, as if ready to take down the facts in a case. “What do you wish to say?”
Tobin appeared taken aback. He’d clearly meant to jot down the note himself. But he gamely dictated a terse message. “‘Following a lead on heir. Will return London by Wednesday.’ That should do it.”
Taylor glanced up. “You believe you’ve nearly found your man, then, Mr. Tobin?” He shot a look at Bennet. The three farmers followed suit. No matter how evasive Gregory might have meant to be, the cat was out of the bag. Daniel’s identity as someone relatively important hiding in their midst was as good as revealed to the locals.
“How do you mean to track him down without transportation?” the constable added, leaving no doubt that he and everyone there understood Bennet was his target.
“I thank you kindly for sending my telegram.” Tobin’s firm voice and gaze put an end to the questioning. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse us. I believe Mr. Bennet and I have more chores to perform…”