The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  Hobbs licked his lips nervously as Thorne tightened his grip on the haft of the pistol.

  “Give it up, Hobbs, ‘tis not worth a hole in your head.”

  Mumbling, the stable master averted his eyes.

  “Louder.”

  “I said, ‘Barker’. Tom Barker.”

  A weighty silence ensued; then Thorne said softly, “And old Tom is no longer among the living.”

  There was no reply.

  “If the dead could only speak.”

  Hobbs pursed his lips.

  “God knows Tom spoke often and loudly enough in this world,” Thorne mused. “I imagine he and little Henry had some commiserating to do when they met in the next. Likely they’ll have some business with you, Hobbs…before you’re consigned to warmer regions.”

  Still Hobbs kept mute. As he saw it, he’d said more than enough.

  “Very well, then, keep your counsel on that score. But you’d best loosen your tongue on the next, for it concerns me directly. Why did you poison those poor dumb animals, and why just as I was due home? What the devil was your quarrel with me?”

  There was a faint swishing sound from the shadowy passageway. Thorne merely cocked an ear, but Hobbs whipped his head about to stare.

  “Tell him, Toby.” Breathless, disheveled, and ruddy-cheeked from the cold, Caroline stepped into the room behind Thorne. “If you don’t, I bloody well will.”

  *

  “Stay where you are, Caroline,” Thorne said without turning around, “or your brother’s gray matter will be splattered over us and the four walls. You’ve no business here. Just how the devil are you so close upon my heels tonight, have you wings?” When there was no sound, he had second thoughts. “Move over here where I can see you, damn it.”

  Hastily Caroline took up a stance between the two men.

  “Stand aside,” Thorne said sharply. “He doesn’t need your protection.”

  “Apparently he does,” she countered, nevertheless following orders. “You, sir,” she said as she passed him, her brow delicately arched, “are brandishing a pistol. He has no weapon.”

  Thorne spared her a mocking glance. “Aye. If he had, I’d be lying dead at your feet.” He nodded toward Hobbs. “Your brother is not nearly as self-controlled as I. My late wife could have attested to that.”

  Caroline inclined her head. “Yes, he told me just today. I am mortified for him and heartily sorry for you. You are indeed benevolent, I venture some men would have drawn and quartered him by now. But Thorne, there is a tale yet untold, and before you decide Toby’s fate, you must hear it. For me,” she pleaded, as he dragged his eyes off Hobbs and looked reluctantly at her. “For me, and for what there is between us.”

  “Don’t beg, Caroline!” Hobbs’ lip curled. “And for God’s sake, don’t bargain your favors, not with him. He only amuses himself with you. Saves him the pocket change he’d be obliged to spend on his whore.”

  “Hush!” Caroline hissed, turning on him. “Do you not realize, Tobias Hobbs, how very close you are to the grave at this moment? For once in your ill-spent life, keep your bloody mouth shut!” She turned back to Thorne, her expression softening. “Please. For me. Listen to him, if only for a few minutes…for the tale concerns you as well, Thorne.” She started toward him, her hand out in supplication, but he warned her off with a mere look.

  “I’ll listen,” he said curtly, “for as long as it amuses me. But the instant your tale ceases to hold my interest, Hobbs, I’ll pierce your sorry hide with lead. Sit down, Caroline.”

  This time she obeyed without comment, placing the lone chair into the small space between the washstand and doorjamb, and settling into it with a nearly imperceptible nod of encouragement at her brother.

  With obvious reluctance and resentment, the narrative was begun, and presently an unnatural stillness seemed to settle in the low-lit room. Late evening merged unnoticed into the pre-dawn hours of a new day, as the voice of Wycliffe Hall’s stable master droned on, occasionally faltering but never quite overcome by long-contained emotions.

  For more than a quarter of an hour, that voice was the only sound in Thorne’s world, and it was allowed to play out uninterrupted.

  *

  Questions were inevitable. Thorne demanded names, dates, places and circumstances, then demanded them again. To his credit, or perhaps his occasional good sense, Hobbs stayed calm, responding with compelling sincerity. Caroline refrained from speaking unless directly addressed, and for long periods of time her presence was all but forgotten.

  Then came the more amorphous questions: why hadn’t Hobbs presented his case when first informed? Had he made no inquiries on his own behalf?

  “Inquiries of whom?” he scoffed. “Who the devil would know?”

  “I would, lad.” The hoarse declaration elicited at least two gasps, and three heads turned simultaneously toward the doorway.

  There, face drawn and thin frame slightly bent, stood Arthur Pennington.

  *

  Arthur bowed—a dizzying gesture, what with his light head and racing heart. “Good evening, M’lord. Good to have you home again.” Extending a hand, he politely but firmly gave his master an order for the first time in their long acquaintance. “If you would, please, M’lord…pass the pistol to me.”

  As Thorne looked first at his outstretched hand, then into his eyes, Arthur saw what pain Hobbs’ revelation had wrought. “Please, M’lord,” he appealed, and said a silent prayer of thanks as the gun was wordlessly put into his hand. He glanced at Hobbs, whose attention to him had not wavered since he’d made his stunning declaration in the doorway. “I trust you’ll stay put, Toby. I’ve been known to use a pistol when the need arose. Mistress Sutherland,” he said in acknowledgement, and bowed. She nodded.

  “What is it you know, Pennington?” Hobbs demanded.

  Arthur was dismayed to feel the sting of tears.

  Caroline rose abruptly from her seat. “Please, Mister Pennington, sit down and be comfortable. You must excuse my brother’s eagerness, ‘tis just that this has been on his mind for some time.”

  Arthur settled himself into the chair, Caroline standing by solicitously.

  “Now, Toby,” Arthur began, giving his eyes a furtive wipe with a rolled sleeve. “You might well hate me when you hear what I have to say, but ‘tis a risk I take gladly, nonetheless.” He looked somberly at Thorne. “I’ve oft wished I could break my silence over the years.”

  Thorne regarded him without a word. Arthur turned again to Hobbs.

  “Your mother, God rest her gentle soul, took only one person into her confidence after she found herself with child. I was that person.”

  At a glance he saw Thorne’s eyes close, as if the words had pained him beyond bearing, but knew he must go on. What had been spared the father was now necessarily inflicted on the son.

  Both sons.

  “She was utterly insistent,” he said with a tremulous sigh, “that no one—not even her sister in Kettering, whom I knew well—should know her reason for leaving the manor. She only told me because she knew I was in Robert Neville’s confidence. Her instincts were right, I was indeed aware of the liaison between her and his lordship.” He paused, sensing he now had Thorne’s full, if grudging, attention.

  “I realized Cornelia was more distraught over the upset her leaving might cause his lordship than for her own difficult circumstances, as he’d already suffered such a blow at Lady Neville’s passing. ‘Twas then that I knew what the master saw in her, aside from her physical appearance.” Arthur glanced at Caroline. “Your beauty was no accident, ma’am.

  “Cornelia hoped I would somehow be able to soften the blow of her departure. I understood her dilemma, she was in no position to marry Lord Neville, and her condition would not be long in manifesting itself, naturally causing speculation and perhaps scandal for the family. Time was of the essence, and she’d her young daughter to consider.”

  His eyes misted as he regarded Caroline. “You were a fetc
hing lass, with your dark curls and your dancing black eyes, laughing and teasing and causing general mischief all about you. Your aunt was quite fond of you.”

  “Aye,” Caroline whispered. “I remember you now. You brought your wife to visit sometimes.”

  Arthur nodded. “Anna. Aye, she and your Aunt Clarissa were of an age, and generally of the same mind. Their families had known one another for years.” He touched a sleeve to his face again, and allowed himself a little smile. “You see, even after so many years, a man still grieves the loss of his wife.”

  “Some men,” Hobbs retorted, looking at Thorne.

  “That’s enough, Toby.” Caroline glared at him. “I believe I made things quite clear on that point just yesterday.”

  Arthur softly cleared his throat. “Cornelia left on a chilly gray morning before sunup,” he went on. “I myself spirited her away to Kettering, and there hired an old friend of the family to convey her in his rattletrap cart…and you,” he said with a nod at Caroline, “to Birmingham.”

  Caroline nodded. “I remember.”

  “And there, I believe, is where Toby’s story took up a while ago,” Arthur said, sighing deeply as he felt the weight of years being lifted from his bent shoulders. “I overheard most of it in the passageway. She was a wise and admirable woman, was Cornelia Hobbs. And when she turned up some eight or nine years later at my home, asking for some occupation for her bold bright boy, well…I was right quick to find a need for him in the stables.”

  He turned to Thorne, who stood staring at him dully. “Your father never knew, M’lord…and why should he have? I allowed myself a bit of deceit and told him that the boy had been orphaned in my village, that his name was mere coincidence. Lied a bit about his age, too…aye, Toby, he asked, did Robert Neville. Your father asked. And ‘twas a hard thing I did looking into those eyes, as honest as they were blue, and telling that lie. But aside from that, Toby, I watched out for you more than you’ll ever know. And many was the time,” he confessed, his throat tightening on unshed tears, “that I bit down hard upon my tongue to keep from telling you that Master Thorne was your brother…but I’d made a solemn promise, lad. Your mother made me swear to keep her secret to my dying day. And now I’ve failed her. But God help me,” he said, the tears rolling at last down his leathery cheeks, “it has been the hardest thing I was ever called upon to do in all my born days.”

  Caroline was first to move; she bent over Arthur, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Come, Mister Pennington, you should be off now, and abed. ‘Tis late, and grown colder by the hour.” She shivered as if to make her point, and looked at Thorne. “Perhaps you should ride home with him.”

  Thorne suddenly seemed to awaken from his daze. “You’ve known this all along.”

  Caroline sighed. “I was at my mother’s bedside when she told Toby. But it was not my place to tell you, anymore than ‘twas Arthur’s place. Toby alone reserved that right, and I respected it.”

  Thorne appeared to mull that over, then said to Hobbs, “So you’ve known of our kinship for some two years. All the more reason for me to ask why you would attempt to sabotage my herds, my finances, and my family’s security.”

  Resentment shone from Hobbs’ eyes. “There you have it, my lord…your herds, your finances, your family’s security! It all bloody sickens me!”

  “Hush, Toby, ‘tis not Thorne’s fault!” Caroline cried.

  But Hobbs ignored her; in his eyes, there was no one in the room but Thorne. “Can’t you see, I did it because you’d been given everything…whilst I could claim naught as mine,” he ground through his teeth. “Not even the father who sired me.”

  *

  The two men stared at one another, hot hatred versus cold anger, until a quiet moan broke the unnatural stillness. Thorne moved to Arthur’s side and helped him up from the chair, at which point the old brown eyes searched his.

  “I can understand how you might find reason to hate me,” Arthur told him sorrowfully, “but the fact remains that Toby is your blood brother by half, and I love the both of you as if you were my own sons. You’re as fair-minded as your father was, M’lord…can you not find it in your heart to accept Toby as part of the family, and mend the rifts between you? You were friends at one time, in your youth…surely you recall?”

  Thorne met that entreating gaze in silence, thinking things that couldn’t easily be spoken, such as how he loved Arthur and considered him his dearest friend and ally, indeed more of a father than his own had ever been; and how he would do anything and everything within his power to please the faithful old steward, if only to make his remaining days on this earth all the easier.

  But some things were simply not within his power.

  “Fetch Dobson and his men to stand watch ‘til morn,” he ordered Arthur. “If Hobbs should attempt to run for it, they’re to bind him.”

  He ignored Caroline’s horrified gasp and Arthur’s sudden pallor, turning instead to Hobbs, whose expression had gone from surprise to the wariness of a hunter’s prey.

  “Sleep if you can, Hobbs,” he said coldly. “Early tomorrow you will be brought before the magistrate in Northampton as an accused felon, where you will be thrice charged…for the rape of my late wife, and for the cold-blooded murders of Henry Pitts and Tom Barker.”

  *

  The old cook dabbed repeatedly at her eyes with a corner of her apron, but still the tears snuck into the creases of her chubby face. Lifting the copper kettle from the fire, she glanced furtively toward the table where Arthur sat with his hands curled around an empty cup, and exclaimed under her breath, “Saints preserve us!”—for it looked as if even he was weeping.

  She sniffed, then tried to speak in a normal voice. “Tea’ll be right up.”

  “Fog’s bad this morn,” Arthur remarked as if to himself, then said thickly, “The master’ll not be able to take him straightaway.”

  Bridey stared sorrowfully out the small widow. “Aye, ‘tis heavy all right, but ‘tis early yet.” She shook her head. “Seems fitting for such a day.” A sob escaped her. “Dear heaven, I still cannot believe he did such a deed—our Toby, killing our little Henry! Tom now, he mighta been killed no matter, he riled so many folk. But Henry…oh, his was a dear, sweet soul.” She ended on a long, sniveling sob as she crossed the room to fill Arthur’s cup. Noting a sudden wariness on his face, she turned to see Lord Neville entering from the great hall.

  No hearty “good morning” fell from his lips this dawn, no teasing words to make Bridey laugh or blush. His cheeks were pallid, his face drawn, his eyes hollow and bloodshot. When he sat down to pull on his boots, she set a cup of her strong-brewed orange pekoe in front of him. “Here, M’lord. ‘Twon’t hurt, and it might help.”

  “Thank you.” He latched onto the handle of the cup as if grateful for something to hold. “We’ll not be away as early as I’d hoped,” he said tonelessly. “Nor am I certain the sun will burn this one off, ‘tis heavier than most.”

  Arthur nodded. “No matter, Dobson’s men will stay at their posts.”

  “Aye, but awake or asleep?” Thorne downed his tea, oblivious to its heat, and poured another cup, filling Arthur’s as well. “You’ve given some thought to advancing Nate, I imagine.”

  “He’s a bit young, rather clumsy at times.” He regarded Thorne soberly. “Do you also imagine your brother has even the slightest chance of returning home, once gone before the magistrate?”

  He winced as Thorne banged his cup down on the saucer, splattering tea. “I venture to say,” was the latter’s harsh reply, “that Hobbs will have his neck in a noose for all to see in the public square before the next month is out. Betwixt now and then, his home is more likely to be the gaol than the stables.” Thorne threaded a hand through his disheveled hair, then struck the table with a fist; spoons and china clattered. “Damn it, Arthur, I understand your affection for the man, but not for the buggering murderer! Where in hell else should he be?”

  Arthur nodded, somewhat cha
stened. “Aye, M’lord. Gaol is meet punishment for such deeds as he has done. But the noose?”

  “Two pre-meditated murders, Arthur—one of them a child—and the rape of a married virgin,” Thorne reminded him sharply. “The latter having very probably been the cause of her suicide.”

  “Search your soul, M’lord,” Arthur said quietly. “Would you feel nearly so vengeful had she been broken by you?”

  A dark flush obliterated Thorne’s unhealthy pallor; in one fluid motion, he sprang from his seat and swept the teacups and saucers from the table with his open hand. Arthur flinched, then froze as the delicate china smashed into a hundred pieces on the flagstone floor.

  From the larder came a muffled cry. “Oh, M’lord!” Bridey wailed, hurrying toward the mess in her most expeditious shuffle. “Your dear mother’s-” Glimpsing her master’s face, she broke off, pressing a finger tightly to her lips, and hastily withdrew to a safer proximity.

  “I’m well aware you never approved of my choice of a wife,” Thorne said, leaning on white-knuckled fists over the table in front of Arthur. “But by God, that does not give you the right to belittle my differences with her, or to speak lightly of what she suffered at the hands of my stable master—my brother, as you would have it—may God rot his soul in hell!”

  Another startled cry sounded from the larder. Thorne stormed out of the kitchen, the door to the south gardens announcing his exit with a thundering slam. Bits of herbs and flowers drifted down from the rafters where William had hung them in bundles to dry.

  “Jesu Christi,” Arthur murmured with a despairing look at the wild-eyed cook, and put his head in his hands. “What have I done? What possessed me to speak so?”

  Bridey’s only reply was a keening moan as she sank into a chair and covered her face with her apron.

  *

  Thorne slowed his pace considerably when confronted by the blinding fog. Making his way down the sloping gardens, he used the vague silhouettes of the outbuildings as guides, but upon reaching the gate, it was as if the earth dropped off into a cloud.