by Kerryn Reid
The tumult in the vicarage kitchen stopped Lewis in his tracks, as it always did. Currently, the small room held Mrs. Redfern, her three youngest children, the cook-housekeeper, and Nancy, the day girl. While Kate jabbered about the fencing lesson, five-year-old Barbara snatched some bit of food from the baby. His howl of rage could surely be heard in York.
Calm as always, Mrs. Redfern cast her pretty smile toward Davy and Lewis, greeting them as though she stood in an empty parlor rather than the midst of a whirlwind.
“Have a bite to eat,” she said. “There’s a plate here for each of you.”
“I can’t stay,” Lewis replied. “Sir John could arrive home at any time, and I—”
“Yes, and he might not come until tomorrow. Sit down and eat. You’re too thin.” She heaped his plate with cold beef and cheese, added a thick slice of bread and a gobbet of butter, and handed it to him.
He looked askance at the crowded table, but in the face of her bland assumption that he would follow her orders like any of the children, he found a chair and sat on it. She plunked an ale down in front of him, pulled a stool from somewhere, and squeezed her slender form between Davy and himself.
“So, Mr. Aubrey, Kate tells me you passed up an opportunity to rid the world of young Davy.” She tousled the lad’s hair and he grinned at her.
“What is all the commotion here?” Tall and hearty, the vicar entered the room with his eldest boy. His grin belied the gruff voice he’d affected for the occasion. “How are we supposed to concentrate on Virgil when we can’t hear ourselves think?”
“Papa!” Barbara all but fell off her chair in her rush to hug her father’s knees. He swept her up and nibbled on her neck while she screamed with laughter. Mrs. Redfern brought him a plate. He returned his daughter to the floor and bussed his wife on the lips, right in front of them all.
Lewis rose to his feet. “You may have my chair, sir. I must be going.” He donned his greatcoat and hoisted the foils from their spot in the corner, along with a knapsack filled with this week’s borrowed books.
“Wait, I’ll walk out with you.” Mr. Redfern shook his finger at little Barbara. “The pixies had best not eat my lunch. Barbara, I leave you in charge!” Giggling, the girl carried his plate to Lewis’s vacated place at the table. Then she climbed up to kneel on the chair and set herself to keep watch.
Mrs. Redfern detained Lewis with a hand on his arm, the levity gone from her expression. “I hope all goes well. We shall miss you.”
“It’s a month and more ’til we leave for Bath. You’ll see me again.”
“I should hope so! You’ve not drawn Barbara’s likeness yet.”
Lewis smiled. “She doesn’t sit still long enough, ma’am.”
With a laugh, Mrs. Redfern shooed them out the door into the freezing sunshine.
It felt good. Fresh and clean, the way winter should feel. Last night’s frost lingered in shady corners, and smoke from the vicarage chimney curled into the crisp afternoon air. It would be different in London, or even in Bath. He’d spent several weeks there after leaving London, helping the Wedburys settle in, exploring the town with Cassie, and thinking about how close he was to Bristol. He nearly bought a ticket one day, merely to find Anna’s house and gaze at the rooftop. A ridiculous notion. She’d made her wishes clear.
Mr. Redfern drew a deep breath as they ambled along the brick pathways that led through the garden to the stables. “Ah,” he said. “Peace and quiet.”
Lewis gazed at him in surprise. “But you seem to enjoy the chaos, sir.”
“Oh, a certain amount of disorder makes life exciting, and children bring the very best sort of disorder. But frequent escapes keep it all the more enjoyable. I know you understand. I’ve seen the relief on your face when you walk out that door.”
“Please don’t take it personally, sir.” Lewis placed a hand over his heart. “Your family charms me.”
The vicar nodded. “I know. You may say what you think, with me.”
“It’s merely… I don’t believe I’ve stepped inside a kitchen since I passed the age of ten. My parents would be appalled by the scene I survived just now.” The sheer raucousness of it made him wince. Yet Lewis had developed tremendous admiration for these people in the past three months. They took serious things seriously, and in between, they lived in joy.
Mr. Redfern chuckled. “I must remember never to invite your parents to dine, Mr. Aubrey! I see what you mean, though. They are staid, and ever so genteel, and aim to remain that way. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No? Perhaps not. Nevertheless, I always preferred the Wedburys.”
“You must still prefer their house to your own,” said the vicar. “Because you’d hardly need to live there merely to exercise the horses.”
Lewis smiled for Redfern’s benefit. His choice of residence had nothing to do with the house or the horses, and everything to do with his parents. “The horses are one of several excuses Sir John gave to make me feel better about not paying rent.”
“And now he’s bringing his son home, merely for a month’s visit, leaving the ladies behind in Bath. At the holiday season, no less.” This fell into serious territory, and Redfern’s tone reflected that. “How peculiar for everyone.”
“I fear it will be a grueling exercise.”
“What do you expect to see, Aubrey? You’ve been so reticent—forgive me if I’m treading where I don’t belong. From the little you’ve said about Mr. Wedbury’s condition, I’m surprised they would undertake such a journey.”
Lewis paused, staring down at the unidentifiable brown stems of whatever had grown in the little plot where they stood. “I believe they’re hoping to see some improvement amid the familiar surroundings of home. With the difficulties of winter travel, I thought they’d wait until spring. But Sir John has estate business, and Jack was eager to come, and so it was arranged.”
It was clear from their letters that Sir John and Cassie had misgivings. Jack’s anticipation, however, seemed unclouded by qualms about the journey, the weather, or any other rational concern. In a hurried scrawl that could pass for young Kate’s, he wanted to know if Cook would have his favorite lemon tarts—Lewis made sure of that. And whether the fish were biting—It’s December, Jack, I can’t change the calendar. It did not bode well.
Though Lewis said none of that aloud, Mr. Redfern must have sensed his unease. Shaking his head, he put one hand on Lewis’s shoulder. “I’m right sorry, lad. I remember meeting the two of you soon after we arrived in Wrackwater Bridge last year. As close as brothers, the way you went everywhere together, finished each other’s sentences. Perhaps closer than your own brother.”
Lewis gave a snort of derision. “As you stand closer to me than the sun, sir.”
But his mind was not on Gideon. “I’m not even sure he’s still Jack. Does that make sense?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
They rounded the corner and came in sight of the stable yard. A groom jumped up to fetch Lewis’s mount. “I devoutly hope you’ll find your anxiety unnecessary. Please call on us if there’s any way we can help. I’m honestly not sure how we will manage without you. Between Davy’s fencing lessons, and numbers and letters with the little ones, and your excellent drawings, you’ve wormed your way into every heart in our home. You should have seen Nancy carry her portrait home to her parents. So careful to keep it clean and unwrinkled, so proud and happy! We are honored to have come to know you these past few months.”
Lewis’s face burned. “Good God, sir! The honor is all on my side!”
Chapter 18
The wind gusted across the road as Lewis rode back to White Oaks. The gelding tossed his head and tried to sidestep the debris swirling around his fetlocks, crisp brown leaves and wisps of straw and dirt. Lewis tightened his grip on the reins. “Whoa there. We’ll be home soon.”
He chuckled, remembering the vicar’s words. What an absurd notion, that he’d given more than he received in return. Dozens
of people in Wrackwater Bridge could have provided the same services, with the possible exception of Davy’s fencing lessons.
True, Lewis had received no payment. Yet the compensations had been more than generous. He’d first approached Mr. Redfern about an essay in Cicero. That initial conversation brought him access to the vicar’s library and unstinting help with readings Lewis questioned because of his inadequate knowledge of Latin or philosophy. All he’d ever learned came in bits and pieces from Jack’s various tutors and his own efforts. By no definition could it be called an education.
The warmth of the family had been a bonus. What an epiphany the children had brought him! By his own choice, he’d had little contact with children. He’d seen only drool and snotty noses, dirty hands and faces, and tears he couldn’t fix, imagining them torn between childish pleasure and torment as he had been. He’d survived the experience, but he had nothing to give others suffering the same.
His initial contacts with the Redfern children had been fumbling, half-hearted affairs. During his first session with Toby, the tot had sneezed all over the book they were perusing. Thankfully, it was only a cheap alphabet primer bought from an itinerant chapman. Lewis could not be angry, but he could be—and was—disgusted. He used his own handkerchief to clean up the mess as well as he could and hid the offensive square of muslin in the Redferns’ rubbish heap rather than return it to his pocket.
A few days later, Kate had come to him with a splinter in her finger. He’d suggested she would get better treatment from her mother, but Kate gave him a quivering smile of misplaced confidence. “All right, I’ll take a peek.”
Fortunately, it had been a large splinter, easily grasped. Kate now came to him with all sorts of troubles he was not competent to fix.
He’d worked with each of the children according to their ages and abilities. For Toby, colors and letters and the idea of words. For Barbara, Kate, and Davy, arithmetic and reading. Kirby, the older boy, worked mainly with his father, but Lewis had presented a lesson in artistic perspective.
His portraits that the vicar had made so much of, Lewis counted as nothing. He was merely practicing a long-neglected hobby, away from the sneers of his family. Since returning to Wrackwater Bridge he’d drawn everything and everyone he could see. Still, if he weren’t careful, any portrait of a female somehow transformed into Anna. And if he drew a landscape, she was walking through it.
The sun that had shone all morning disappeared behind a cloud. A better match for the somber mood that never left him for long, lingering near the surface like the sour flesh beneath the pretty green skin of an early apple.
At least he bore no guilt where Anna was concerned. Jack was another matter entirely. Any services he’d rendered the Wedburys during his twenty-two years hardly amounted to a dung heap. He had failed them when it mattered most. None of them could have known it at the time, but that did little to lighten Lewis’s burden.
He could have persuaded Jack that hiking in Scotland or Cornwall would be more exciting than London. Doing an old-fashioned Grand Tour of Europe. Sailing to America and back. Those adventures carried risks too, but of a different sort, more straightforward than this dreadful malady Jack had found in London. Even death from a fall or drowning at sea might be preferable.
Jack would not think so, however, and neither would his family. But if Lewis were so afflicted, and if he were aware of it as Jack seemed not to be, he would choose anything rather than insanity, and the financial and emotional burdens that would place on his loved ones.
Easy to say, since he was not the one so afflicted.
Would my family do what the Wedburys do for Jack? Spare no expense for my care? Ha! The only thing of value his parents had ever given him was his name.
His jaw set as he took the corner into the drive that wound uphill through the grounds to the handsome Jacobean brick house. Likely, he’d find himself in Leeds alongside the amputees from the war who lurked in dark doorways, huddled in threadbare blankets against the cold, speaking gibberish and begging ha’pennies for their meager sustenance. If he did not, it would be because the Wedburys took him in, bearing the burdens his own family refused. He’d rather be shot, like a horse with a broken leg.
The stable yard was quiet. One of the grooms came to the horse’s head. Lewis unclenched his teeth sufficiently to ask, “Nothing yet from Sir John?”
“Messenger came. Said they won’t be here until late. They be hitchin’ up to our own team in Otley fer the last leg. ‘Bout now, likely, if they ’spect to be home afore dark.”
Lewis hesitated as the horse sidled beneath him. Then he reached around to unhook the foils and rucksack.
“Take these. I’m going up on the moor for a bit.” Which wouldn’t be any surprise to the groom. Hardly a day went by that Lewis didn’t take one horse or another onto the moors. After being away so long, three months of almost-daily rides had not inured him to the rough beauty that adapted itself so easily to melancholy, or rage, or fascination, whatever mood gripped him.
Darkness came early that evening beneath heavy clouds, and there was no sign of a carriage. Lewis spoke with the housekeeper to make certain the fires and lamps were lit in the bedchambers as well as the public rooms and Cook was prepared for a late dinner hour. Naturally, everything was in order; although the butler remained in Bath with the ladies, the house ran smoothly in the care of Horton, the under-butler. The staff knew their business without help from Lewis.
But after sitting in the parlor for half an hour pretending to read, Lewis rang for Horton to discuss when they should act and what measures they should take if the travelers grew uncomfortably tardy. Once the decisions had been made, he prowled round the hall and through all the rooms that fronted the gravel sweep, from one end of the house to the other and back again, checking the time at the end of each lap on the pocket watch the Wedburys had given him when he came of age.
Six o’clock—not so late. Yet his anxiety did not lessen. He threw his greatcoat around his shoulders and went out into the cold to climb the hill that allowed a view over the treetops below, down to the intersection of road and drive. No flicker of distant carriage lanterns, no echo of hooves on the wintry wind that blew across the summit.
Shivering, he returned to the house, where Horton waited for him in the hall. Lewis shook his head. “Nothing. It’s time.” Time to send the grooms off toward Otley, watching for signs of an accident and inquiring at the two tiny inns along the route.
Gravel crunched outside, like the long, raspy chuckle of an old man. Thank God! If he had stayed on that hilltop two minutes longer, he would have seen them.
Lewis threw the doors open and strode out into the portico. As he started down the steps, Jack jumped from the carriage and wrapped him in a fierce embrace.
“Lewis, Lewis! It is good to see you, old chap! We’ve been talking about you all day, about all our games, and our tricks for avoiding Gideon, and…”
Lewis only glimpsed Sir John and a hefty stranger alighting from the carriage before Jack’s arm fastened itself around his shoulders and propelled him into the house. Jack did not acknowledge Horton or the housekeeper waiting in the portico. Nor did he appear to notice the surprising number of servants loitering in the hall, a pack of crows eager for a sight of the mad heir. It sounded like a Gothic novel.
Jack bore him irresistibly up the grand staircase, up again to the bedchambers and down the hall to Jack’s room, jabbering the whole way. Lewis rubbed his shoulder where his friend had gripped it.
“You’re looking well, Jack.” It was true. His color was a little high, his form a bit heavier. Stronger, as Lewis had discovered. But otherwise he appeared the same as always. “That’s a new coat. I like that garnet color.”
Jack grunted. “Maggot insists on dressing me like some dandy.” He grasped his cravat with both hands, and after some tugging and grumbling, managed to untie it. Freed of the noose, Jack surveyed his surroundings.
“I say, the old place looks
just the same! Sure beats the inns where we’ve been putting up at night. Stuffy old places. Dinner in a private parlor with nothing but ale to drink—look, Lewis, here’s my old cricket bat!” He picked it up from its place in one corner and started toward the door. “Let’s go take some practice shots.”
“It’ll have to be tomorrow, Jack. It’s dark outside.” Gad, he’s like a four-year-old.
Jack frowned down at the bat as though he’d suddenly forgotten what it was. “Oh, right.” Then he dropped it on the floor by his feet and returned to his tour with its accompanying monologue, harsh now, peevish. “And that maggot stuck to my side, kept me from going anywhere. Shut us up in our quarters after dinner, not even a port or brandy to help the time pass.”
“Maggot?” Lewis enquired.
“They call him my valet,” Jack spat out, “but I know what he is. A damned jailer. Glad I won’t have to share a room with him anymore.”
Uh-oh. Lewis braced himself as Jack approached the doorway to the dressing room. Lewis himself had taken the measurements and drawn the simple, precise design for the renovation that had transformed it into a sleeping space for Jack’s maggot. The stranger Lewis had seen climbing out of the carriage.
Sir John’s letter had described him as a nurse, not a valet, though it must be part of his job. Jailer too, it seemed. The man was larger than Lewis had expected, but that made sense if physical restraint was still needed to control Jack’s impulses.
“Jack?” With no specific notion what might happen, or what he would do if it did, Lewis started toward the dressing room. Then came a roar of rage, a crash, and a thud. He covered the last few steps at a run and hesitated in the narrow doorway.
Jack had tipped the wooden bedframe on its side, gouging the wall and spilling the mattress onto the floor. He stood on the mattress now, putting all his strength into tearing the new shelving from the walls. A piece came loose and he threw it over his shoulder, narrowly missing the one small window.