A Dog in a Doublet

by Emma V. Leech

  “Here,” he called, when he’d gone as far as he dared, leaning down and reaching a hand out. “Grab onto me.”

  The old man looked up and took a breath before releasing one hand, and went to grab hold but found empty air, he wasn’t close enough. There was a curse and a volley of obscene language as the old man slid a little further away and scrambled to hold on.

  “It’s no use,” he said, sounding irritated. “You’d best get back up. I’m done for. No sense in us both breaking our necks.”

  For some reason, however, Harry was feeling bloody minded. He didn’t exactly regret killing Joe, because if ever a man deserved it, he did. But nonetheless, there was blood on his hands and he felt the weight of it. Somehow, he needed to save this old fellow, and perhaps that would absolve the sin of what he’d done in some way.

  “You just hold on, you old goat,” Harry retorted, shifting further down the cliff and finding his heart in his throat as his foot found a ledge that promptly gave way.

  There was a pause while Harry allowed his heart to start beating again, albeit rather frantically, and then a clipped voice addressed him.

  “I would inform you, you young scapegrace, that this old goat happens to be Viscount Stamford,” the old man said with some asperity.

  Harry snorted. “You’ll be a bloody mess on the floor if you don’t shut your gob and concentrate on keeping still,” he retorted, too terrified of falling himself to care a button if the king himself was clinging on by a straw.

  “Yes well, that’s a fair point,” the old man conceded as Harry drew level with him.

  He paused to haul in a breath before turning to the old man, Viscount Stamford, or whoever the hell he was. Those sharp eyes regarded him, surprisingly cool in the circumstances, and glittering with intelligence. This was a man you didn’t cross, Harry thought with a lurch of misgiving. Well, hopefully this might earn him a bite to eat, at least, supposing he lived to enjoy it.

  Harry reached out an arm and the old man grasped it.

  “Can you climb onto my back?” Harry demanded as the fellow’s eyes widened with alarm.

  “Yes, I could,” he replied, looking up at the perpendicular and crumbly wall above them. “But I don’t see how you’ll haul both of us up there. You had enough trouble getting yourself down here.”

  “You just let me worry about that and hold on,” Harry snapped, having no patience now and wanting to get back up as fast as he could. His hunger had been forgotten in the excitement of his descent, but his limbs were trembling with fatigue after the privations of the past days and he didn’t have strength enough to argue.

  The viscount seemed to be in line with this plan and kept his mouth shut as he did his best to cling to Harry and wrap his arms around his neck.

  Harry spared a moment to thank his stars that the fellow wasn’t a weighty burden. In fact, he was thin as a stripped stick, and despite the awkwardness of the climb, they almost made the top without incident. Then Harry’s footing gave way. He was clinging to the ledge, his legs swinging, and all of their weight braced on his arms. He scrambled for purchase, but found none.

  “Climb up!” he yelled, knowing that they would both fall soon as his arms were burning under the strain. “For God’s sake, climb up!”

  The old man did, and Harry clung on for dear life, sweat pouring down his face and body despite the cold. To his relief, and, to be honest, with some surprise, he saw the old man get down on his belly in the brambles and lean a hand down to him.

  “Come on then, boy, what are you waiting for?”

  Harry hauled himself up, careful not to pull too hard and tumble the man over the edge again with his extra weight.

  A moment later and the two men lay flat on their backs, heedless of the brambles biting into them on all sides as their chests heaved and they gasped for air.

  “Good Lord,” the old man said. “I thought that was it,” he admitted.

  Finally recovered enough to decide a bed of brambles was not the least bit comforting, Harry got to his feet as best he could as the thorns ripped at his clothes. He offered the old man his hand and he accepted it, getting to his feet. He looked white-faced and rather ill, but at least he was in one piece.

  They were silent as they wound their way through the brambles and ferns and back to the horse, who looked up at the viscount with a placid expression.

  “Delilah!” the old fellow scolded. “You murderous wench! What the devil did you do that for?” The viscount turned to Harry, shaking his head. “A stag shot out of the woods in front of us, just there,” he said, pointing to where the narrow stretch of land opened out again. “She went berserk, never seen anything like it.” He gave a rueful sigh. “I guess I’m not as young as I once was. Wretched creature unseated me and practically threw me over the edge.” There was silence once more and Harry said nothing, feeling suddenly awkward as the old man’s keen gaze looked him over. He must look a sorry state, and very far from respectable, to say the least.

  “Had a spot of bother, eh?” the old man replied, a shrewd glint in his eyes as Harry remembered the fact that one of his eyes was blackened and he had a split lip. He put his hands behind his back, feeling almost that this canny fellow could tell he’d killed a man with his fists just by looking at them.

  Harry shrugged.

  There was silence again as the old man pondered. “Well,” he said at length. “I’m no lickspittle, and I can’t abide a rattlepate. Your business is none but your own, but I reckon I owe you a debt, eh?”

  Harry said nothing, feeling it was safer in the circumstances.

  “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” he replied, reminding himself to keep any details about himself vague at best.

  “What’s your name?

  “Harry Thompson.”

  The viscount narrowed his eyes, as though he could sense the lie, but he said nothing. Turning, he readjusted the horse’s girth and saddle and picked up the reins. “Well, then, Harry. Help an old man up, will you?”

  Harry obliged and gave him a leg up, falling into step as he gestured for Harry to follow. “Looking for work, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What can you do?”

  Harry paused, torn between giving too much away and saying enough to gain some employment. “I know horses,” he said with care, not wanting to tell about the years he spent looking after the nags that carted goods all over London. “I’m good with me hands,” he added, suspecting he ought to keep quiet about his talent for relieving wealthy gentlemen of watches and wallets. “I’m a hard worker. Strong,” he added.

  “Hmmm,” the old man said, a slight smile at his lips. Harry walked on in silence. “Don’t say much, do you?”

  Harry shrugged and the old man seemed to reach a decision. “You’ll do,” he said with a chuckle. “Though don’t go thinking you’ve plucked yourself a fat pigeon,” he warned, and Harry saw that intelligent and downright implacable glint in his eyes one more. “I’m no fool to be parted from his money, so don’t think it. You’ll get bed and board until you can prove to me you deserve anything more, and don’t go bleating about that being unfair when we both know full well you’re running away and you’re out of luck.”

  The old man stuck out his hand and Harry looked up. He was so damn tired and hungry that he reckoned he’d make a deal with the devil himself. Whether this sly boots really was the devil in disguise or his saviour he didn’t know, but the fellow was right: Harry was out of luck and options. At worst, he could stay for a few days until he’d gathered his strength. Harry reached out and took the old fellow’s hand, feeling the bones all angular and sharp beneath his thin skin.

  “I’m Alistair Preston, Viscount Stamford. You’ll address me as Lord Preston and you’ll speak about me and my affairs to no one if you’re to remain in my employ. Is that clear?” His voice became strident and Harry simply nodded his agreement, wondering how far the house was and when he might get some food in his belly. “In fact, I�
�d appreciate it if you kept this morning’s adventure to yourself,” he added, looking a little sheepish. “I’d rather not be a laughingstock, if it’s all the same to you. Still, Mrs Fletcher ought to be pleased. She’s been on at me for months about getting her husband some help about the place.” He looked thoughtful for a moment and glanced back at Harry with a considering expression. “Say you responded to an advert I placed and I’ve engaged you to work.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow at that, as they both knew he didn’t currently look like the sort of fellow who would respond to an advert. In point of fact, Harry couldn’t even read. The old man snorted, apparently understanding his concern.

  “Aye, well, they’ll know it for a lie as well, but they’ve also known me long enough not to ask questions, and to hold their tongues.” He gave Harry a toothy grin. “Come along, then. I suspect they can hear your belly rumbling over in Tenterden. We’d best get you fed.” He grew visibly dejected at the prospect as he looked Harry over. “I suppose you’ll eat me out of house and home, won’t you?” he grumbled, before trotting off ahead and leaving Harry to run in his wake.

  Chapter 3

  To sit upon thorns - to be anxious/uneasy

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  Harry’s first glimpse of Stamford Place was enough to force an obscenity from his mouth, which made the old man give him another glimpse of that toothy grin.

  “Never seen anything like that before, my lad, I’ll wager?” he said, and Harry detected a hint of bitter pride behind the words.

  Harry didn’t answer. He’d never met anyone of quality before and hadn’t really considered the value of a viscount beyond the fact he was wealthier than anything he could imagine. Well, that was true enough, and then some.

  Stamford Place was a castle.

  “The oldest part dates back to the fourteenth century,” Lord Preston continued. “Built for one of my ancestors, he was Lord Mayor of London at the time.” The old man cast him a leery glance. “Think you’ve fallen on your feet, I suppose?” he asked with a sneer, no little hint of accusation in his voice.

  Harry turned to look up at the old man, meeting his eye with a glowering look of his own. “I reckon I saved your neck and you owe me a good turn. Further than that, I’ll prove my worth, but I’ll suffer no insults until I give you reason to throw them at me.”

  The old man stiffened, his expression indignant for a moment, and Harry wondered if he’d blown his chance, but was too stubborn himself to look away.

  Finally, and to Harry’s stomach’s everlasting relief, the viscount gave a bark of laughter.

  “You’ll need to learn to keep your tongue between your teeth, Jackanapes, or we shall find ourselves at odds.”

  From the amused gleam in the fellow’s eye, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if the old buzzard knew well he could do no such thing and was looking forward to it. Harry resolved to keep his mouth shut as much as possible. The less he said, the less information they had about him and where he came from, the better it would be.

  It didn’t take Harry long to realise that either the viscount had pockets to let, or the old devil was a tight fisted old muck worm. From what he’d seen so far, Harry would have laid his shirt on the fact Lord Preston was a miser of grand proportions.

  The grounds of the estate had once been proud and elegant, but now were disappearing under weeds, the grass all high and shaggy on what once would have been sharply cut lawns. In his mind’s eye, Harry could see the lords and ladies of another era, decked out in their colourful silks and lace, peacocking around the grounds with their noses in the air. He shook his head at himself, wondering where such fanciful images came from. It had been many years since the estate had seen a party. In fact, to Harry’s eye, the closer he got, the worse repair the place seemed to be in.

  “How many people you got workin’ ‘ere, then?” he asked, glancing up at the viscount, who looked shifty, narrowing his eyes with displeasure.

  “Enough for my needs, and I doubt I need add another,” he returned with a rather vengeful look in his eyes.

  Harry cursed himself and strengthened his resolve.

  Keep your bloody gob shut, you fool.

  The viscount took him around to the kitchens, which Harry thought odd. Surely, he’d be handed over to a footman or something to deal with? But he was beginning to suspect that Lord Preston was a law unto himself and should not be relied upon to act as he might expect.

  He was led into a vast kitchen, and for the first time in what felt like forever, enjoyed the touch of warm air against his skin. The hearth was blazing and the large flagstones on the floor neatly swept. Copper pans shone and shelves were neatly stacked all ‘round.

  Dominating the room was an imposing, much-scrubbed, wooden table that must have been made in the room, as Harry could see no other way of getting it in. Behind it stood a white-haired lady whose sharp blue eyes looked Harry over with obvious suspicion.

  She straightened at seeing the viscount, wiping floury hands on a cloth and ducking her head a little, though she didn’t curtsy. Harry thought he read a little defiance in the gesture, but the viscount seemed not to notice it.

  “Harry, this is Mrs Fletcher,” he said, gesturing to the woman. “Beryl, this is Harry Thompson. Find him a bed. He’ll be working on the estate, so you can stop giving me earache about working your wretched husband to death.”

  Harry caught the look of utter surprise in the woman’s eyes before they narrowed further. She looked even more suspicious than she had before. Glancing around, he realised that she was alone in the massive kitchen, which seemed odd. Even in The Lamb and Flag, there had been a number of women working with the cook, not to mention serving girls. Surely a vast place like this must have an army of staff? Yet he’d seen no one but Mrs Fletcher so far.

  “References?” she said to Harry, folding her arms.

  Harry stiffened and felt indignant at her very obvious assumption of his bad character. Though, in truth, he could hardly blame her. He was filthy and unshaven from sleeping rough. His clothes were torn from trying to save Lord Preston, and added to that the black eye, split lip, and the fact he didn’t have anything but the rags he stood up in, well, he could hardly blame her for believing him ... well, a murderer, perhaps. The thought made him blush with shame and he found he couldn’t hold her gaze, and looked away.

  “I’m his reference!” the viscount barked as Mrs Fletcher’s lips compressed into a thin line. “Now get him fed, get him clothed, and put him to work.”

  With that, Lord Preston exited the kitchen, slamming the door as he went.

  Harry shifted, glancing up to see the woman’s keen blue eyes staring at him like she’d found a dead rat in her soup.

  “Well,” she said at length and with clear displeasure. “Go and wash your hands, at least. Scullery’s through there.” She jerked her head to the far end of the kitchen and Harry did as he was bid without a murmur. The smell of food had wrapped itself around him and his belly was clamouring for sustenance with such violence that, if Mrs Fletcher had asked him to, he’d have stripped to his skin and sung John Barleycorn in return for a bowl of soup.

  As it happened, no acts of humiliation were demanded of him. He was sat down with a large bowl of lamb stew studded with pearl barley and fluffy little dumplings that made Harry want to cry, they were so good. He devoured the entire bowl and wiped it clean with some good wholemeal bread and didn’t look up until he found that, to his dismay, it was all gone.

  “Hungry, was you?”

  He looked up to see Mrs Fletcher watching him, a touch of amusement in her blue eyes, though the suspicion remained.

  Harry nodded. “Best thing I’ve ever eaten,” he said, quite unable to keep the wistful tone from his voice as he looked back down at the bowl.

  There was a snort from Mrs Fletcher. “Don’t you try and cut a wheedle with me,” she said, her voice tart. But, nonetheless, she took his bowl and refilled it, sliding
it under his nose with a sniff before going to cut him two more slices of bread.

  “Thank you,” Harry said, grinning at her before he tucked in once again.

  Once the furious hunger that had been gnawing at him for days had been placated, Harry looked up again. Mrs Fletcher was at the far end of the vast table, rolling out a big slab of pastry.

  “Lord Preston said to put me to work, Missus,” he said, before taking a bite of his bread. He watched as she rolled and turned the pastry, her movements fast and practised. “What would you ‘ave me do?”

  The woman, who Harry judged to be in her late fifties, made a sound which he wasn’t sure was amusement or distress. She shook her head, muttering to herself before setting her rolling pin aside and looking at him.

  “What can you do?” she demanded. “For Lord knows, there’s work enough.”

  Harry shrugged. “I can lay me hand to most things. Not skilled, p’raps, but I’m handy. I’m good with horses too.”

  She stared at him, considering before nodding towards the door he’d entered through and the yard beyond. “There’s an axe out there. Wood needs chopping. Go and get to work and I’ll sort you a room and see if I can’t find something better for your back than those pitiful rags.”

  Harry scooped up the last of the gravy with the bread before stuffing it in his mouth and getting to his feet. He nodded to the cook. “Thanks for the grub, Missus. It really was good.”

  Harry found the axe and set to work. Despite the cold and the fact that he was bone tired, he soon found a rhythm. It felt good to lose himself in honest labour, as though he was cleaning away some of the mistakes of his past with each swing of the axe. Not by much, perhaps; after all, his sins weighed heavy upon his shoulders. Unbidden, Joe’s face, his mouth slack and blood pooling slick about the cobbles, came to his mind. He swung the axe harder. He wouldn’t feel guilty for it. He wouldn’t. The man was monster.

  The old scar on his shoulder pulled tight as he lifted the axe again, and the familiar rage returned to him as he remembered the pain and the helplessness. He’d sworn to never be helpless again, and never to let another suffer as he had, if he could help it. The man had hurt Moll, and Harry knew well it wouldn’t have ended there if he hadn’t stepped in. Joe had decided that she was his next toy. Harry had seen it in his eyes. A familiar look, that. He was a cruel man, not just violent, and sly with it. He’d have taken his time to frighten her, spending days waiting in the shadows for her until she was too frightened to go beyond her front door.