He heard collective gasps from Mr and Mrs Fletcher, and even Ramsy stopped bawling long enough to look up, slack-jawed with shock.
Too late, Harry remembered his place. He didn’t wait for the viscount to dismiss him, but turned on his heel and strode inside. Once back in his room, he went to bed, pulling the covers up over himself with defiant twitches at the blanket. If his lordship wanted him out tonight, he’d have to damn well throw him out himself. But as his anger ebbed away, he cursed himself and his wretched tongue. He’d had a good thing going here - food and lodging and a safe place from the law.
He should have known it wouldn’t last.
Chapter 5
Rum-ti-tum - A bull with horns tipped for baiting
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
Harry was up early the next morning, his eyes as heavy with lack of sleep as his heart was. At least he had nothing to pack.
Making his way down the narrow servant’s staircase, he found Mrs Fletcher waiting for him in the kitchen.
“Sit down, lad,” she said, giving him an uncharacteristically kindly smile and a pat on the shoulder.
“I probably ought to get going,” he muttered, quite unable to sound anything but dejected, especially as he spied the white landscape beyond the kitchen windows.
Mrs Fletcher clicked her tongue with impatience. “Not without a proper breakfast, you don’t,” she scolded, setting a steaming bowl of porridge in front of him. “Now eat that up while I cook your eggs.”
“Thank you, Mrs Fletcher. You’ve been very kind,” he added, wishing he’d had more time to bring the lady on his side. He liked her, and her sharp tongue. She had a lively wit when the mood took her, despite the enjoyment she took in scolding him and giving him what for.
He looked up as he thought he heard a sniff, but her back was turned as she poked at the eggs in a desultory fashion.
They both looked up as Mr Fletcher came in.
“Well?” she demanded, her voice sharp.
“Can’t say as I know,” Reggie replied, sounding puzzled. “He’s in a strange mood this morning, I can tell you. Said, you’re to go and see him,” he added to Harry, scratching at his bald head with an air of concern.
Harry went to get to his feet.
“Don’t you dare,” Mrs Fletcher warned him, waving a spatula in his direction. “You sit and eat. The old devil can wait for once in his life, do him good,” she added with undisguised venom.
Harry and Mr Fletcher exchanged a wary glance and Harry settled back to his porridge, though his guts were churning. Best fill his belly while he could, though.
By the time Harry found himself outside the viscount’s office, the porridge and eggs and bacon were sitting heavy, and he just wanted it over with. Giving a sharp knock, he walked in without waiting to be asked and knew he wouldn’t beg for forgiveness no matter how badly he wanted to stay. There was something about the old coot that made Harry wild, and he was damned if he’d beg for anything from him.
“I won’t take it back,” he said, folding his arms and glaring at the old man.
He was hunched over a ledger, the tiny rows and rows of figures looking like nothing but nonsense to Harry, who felt suddenly uneasy in the face of such obvious learning.
“Never asked you to, did I?” the old man replied, his tone sharp, though he never looked up from his book.
“No, but ...”
“Can you read?”
Harry stopped in his tracks, too startled by the question to remember what he’d been about to say.
“I ...”
“Well? Either you can, or you can’t.” Lord Preston looked up, his dark eyes shrewd as they settled on Harry like a weight.
Harry swallowed.
“No,” he replied, knowing he sounded defiant. “I know my letters, though, and how to write my name. I can work some things out, but ... no. I can’t read.”
Lord Preston nodded, though there was no judgement in his eyes. “There’s no shame in it,” he said, pointing to a chair opposite the desk. “Bring that here,” he ordered. Harry hesitated, puzzled by what the old devil was up to, but moved the chair to the side of the desk as he’d been bid.
“What about numbers? You any good with numbers?” he demanded next.
Harry glanced at the tiny rows of columns and the numbers marching up and down the pages of the huge ledger with misgiving. “I can work stuff out. I’m not stupid,” he added, glaring at the viscount. “But ...” He nodded at the ledger like it was the pages of a book of black magic. “But I don’t know what all that is, if that’s what you mean?”
Lord Preston chuckled and shook his head.
“No, Harry. Not yet,” he said, showing that toothy grin that reminded Harry of the crooked graves outside the private chapel on the estate. “Let’s not run before we’ve learned to walk, eh, boy?”
***
An hour later and Harry walked back into the kitchen to be leapt upon by Mr and Mrs Fletcher as they demanded to know what fate had befallen him. Even Ramsy, usually banned from Mrs Fletcher’s pristine kingdom, was sitting meekly by the fire, too terrified to move, with his filthy boots banished to a corner by the door. Ratty was howling outside, but nothing short of an act of God would make Beryl let his mangy dog inside, too.
“Damned if I know,” Harry said, shaking his head and feeling as bewildered as they looked. “He’s teaching me to read,” he added, seeing his own astonishment reflected in their eyes.
“He what?” Reggie said, awed.
Harry sat down as all the fight and indignation he’d been keeping hold of left him in a rush of relief and bafflement.
“But what about last night?” Mrs Fletcher demanded, round-eyed and incredulous.
“Never said a word about it,” Harry replied with a shrug that was as eloquent as he found he could be right at that moment. He reckoned he’d never understand the mad old devil as long as he lived, but right now, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Well, I’m blowed,” Mrs Fletcher said on a sigh.
“He likes you.”
Mrs Fletcher and Harry turned to Reggie to see him grinning, real amusement in his eyes.
To his surprise, Mrs Fletcher nodded. “I reckon so, lad. But for the love of everything holy, learn to keep your tongue between your teeth in future.”
“Aye, Missus,” Harry replied with a sheepish grin. “Reckon I will.”
***
Harry was treated differently after that day. He would go every evening after work to sit with the viscount and learn to read. He was also given sums to do, every day a little more complicated. To his own surprise, Harry found it wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be. He enjoyed it, even, enjoyed even more the look of surprise in the old man’s eyes when he’d set a particularly nasty puzzle for him and Harry got it right. He sometimes thought he saw a touch of pride there, too, but no doubt that was for himself, for being able to teach a great lummox like Harry to read and write like a gentleman.
He also allowed Harry to exercise his horses. After the fall over the cliff, Harry never saw the old man out riding again. Privately, he suspected he’d lost his nerve, though the old man said his hips pained him in the cold weather, which was likely true enough. But the horses still needed exercise, and so Harry was given the use of them. But the more he rode out and saw the neglected estate, the harder it became to keep his promise and say nothing.
He began to meet some of the tenants, too. Once they knew he was the ‘viscount’s man’, as he’d begun to be referred to as they came to him with their troubles.
All of them.
To be fair, they had good cause for complaint. The viscount was a dreadful landlord. The more that Harry saw the neglected buildings with sagging roofs and anger from those who still paid the same rent despite the lack of repair, the more frustrated he became. Mrs Fletcher had been right, most of the labourers had left, their cottages empty and rotting. All of them, gone to
the cities to seek their fortunes. Damn stupid in Harry’s opinion, who looked upon the countryside around him with a growing sense of wonder.
That wasn’t all, though.
There were those who’d remained and used the viscount’s lack of interest to their own advantage. Poaching was rife, for one thing. On the one hand, Harry didn’t much care. Why shouldn’t they help themselves? It wasn’t as if Lord Preston was doing anything for them. Oh, he was happy enough if Harry bagged a pheasant or a rabbit on his travels, and would congratulate him, but he never spoke of restocking the coveys. Then there was the fact that some of those who were supposed to work the viscount’s land for him had taken it upon themselves to farm far larger tracts of land than were theirs, for their own gain.
He’d been met with suspicion and downright aggression from some as word got around about him. They seemed to think he’d been employed as some kind of land agent by the viscount. But their attitude to him raised Harry’s curiosity, and it didn’t take him long to dig out the maps and figure out they were paying for a lot less land than they were using.
On the one hand, he congratulated them. Better someone was using it than letting it lie fallow. On the other, the stupidity and waste of a system that was being so badly bungled made him furious. As the cities grew while everyone left the countryside looking for work, the demand for food grew, too, even a fool like him knew that much.
The viscount had begun to give him an occasional look at the books, to see if he could make head or tail out of the figures. Well, Harry could, and the amounts of money being brought in by the vast estate was pitiful. He’d nearly bitten his own tongue off keeping quiet and he didn’t know how much longer he could do it.
Then there was the squire.
It had been a bright and lovely day, though so cold that his fingers ached as they held the reins. Mrs Fletcher was knitting him a pair of mittens, the old woman finally softening towards him after many weeks of work. Harry grinned to himself. She was a tough old bird, and no mistake, but he’d won her over in the end.
The farm, Oak Ridge, was a temptation, and Harry had succumbed, riding the farm and looking around with interest.
“Oi!”
He’d looked around, startled as the loud voice had bellowed over the field. Hollering at him to stand there, he’d waited as a large and ruddy faced man had cantered over to him on a heavy cob.
Harry snatched the hat from his head and tried to look apologetic.
“I apologise, sir,” he said, with a rueful smile. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me trespassing.”
“Aye, that I have, sir,” the big man retorted, little blue eyes flashing with annoyance and curiosity. “Who are you and what are you doing on my land?”
Harry reached over towards him, holding out a hand. “I’m Harry Thompson, sir. I work for Lord Preston.”
“Oh,” the fellow’s face cleared and a large booming laugh seemed to erupt from his big frame like an explosion. “The new land agent, eh?” he said, the words obviously the cause of much amusement. “Well, good luck with that, my lad!” the man guffawed.
Harry bristled. He knew damn well what he thought of Lord Preston’s management, but to have a man laugh in his face was another matter. He was so indignant that he didn’t correct the man’s assumption of his role. Instead he tried his best to modify his voice so he sounded a little less like he’d been born in a London gutter.
“I am hopeful of managing some improvements, sir.” Harry didn’t know why for the life of him he’d said it, or what the devil he was playing at, but he didn’t like Lord Preston to be ridiculed so.
The fellow stopped laughing and gave Harry a curious look, measuring him somehow.
“Well, can’t say that I’m sorry to hear it,” he said, nodding. “Why not come up to the farm? See how it ought to be done, eh?” he said, winking at Harry and giving him a broad grin.
Harry was torn between indignation and desperate curiosity. It wasn’t as if he had the slightest idea of what ought to be done, so ...
“Thank you, sir, I’d like that.”
“Squire Bow,” the man said, lifting his hat. “Glad to know you!”
***
The visits to the squire became a regular thing, and Harry found the man generous with both his time and his knowledge. He was given books and pamphlets about all the most recent innovations in farming, and shown first-hand how such things had been done at Oak Ridge. The squire was making a fortune, and he liked everyone to know it.
Harry suspected that the viscount would consider the squire desperately vulgar, an encroaching mushroom, in fact. That the squire was desperate to elevate himself in society, however, was clearly for one reason alone.
His daughter.
Clarinda Bow was thirteen years old, and a more spoilt and wilful creature Harry had never seen in all his born days. With hair so black it shone blue and flashing eyes the colour of a summer sky, she was already beautiful. In a few years’ time, she’d be a danger to any man she set her cap for.
Harry hated her, in part at least.
Clarinda need only snap her fingers and her father, big and blustering as he was, would simply capitulate rather than face a tantrum he had no notion of how to control.
Privately, Harry thought he’d be able to put paid to her tantrums quick enough but was wise enough to hold his tongue on that point at least. The way she looked at him though, that spelled trouble of the worst kind and he took pains not to ever be alone with her.
It was never going to last.
Chapter 6
A Gilflirt - a proud minx, a vain capricious woman
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
“You’re here again, then?”
Harry didn’t turn, the precise clipped tones of Clarinda Bow only too recognisable. Instead he busied himself with fastening his horse’s girth and didn’t answer. The squire had been so generous as to invite Harry to stay for lunch, and as it had been his day off, Harry had agreed. He should have known there’d be a price.
“I asked you a question,” Clarinda repeated, her tone haughty and affronted at his lack of response.
“One that didn’t need an answer,” he replied, careful to keep his tone bland.
“I don’t like you,” she said, and Harry didn’t need to turn to see the glint in her pretty blue eyes. He could imagine it only too well.
“Good,” he replied, amused despite himself. “I don’t like you either.”
He did turn then and was gratified to see the way her mouth had dropped open with astonishment.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, recovering herself with a sniff. “Everybody likes me. I suppose that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re hoping if you’re friends with Papa, he’ll let you marry me.”
It was Harry’s turn to gape with astonishment.
“He won’t, you know,” she carried on, blithely unaware of his incredulity. She put up her chin, her pert little nose in the air. “He says I’m to marry nobility. A marquess, at least,” she added with a self-satisfied look.
Harry choked.
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said, looking smug as she misinterpreted his response. “But surely you can’t be surprised?”
It took her a moment to realise that Harry wasn’t the least disappointed, only breathless with laughter. Sadly, the fury in her eyes only made him laugh all the harder. A moment later and she was almost scarlet with rage, and Harry could hardly breathe.
“How dare you!” she demanded, her fists clenched at her sides and her indignation making Harry find her funnier still.
“I ... I wouldn’t marry you ...” he gasped, holding his sides at the very idea. “If ... if you were the last woman in England,” he managed hysterically as tears coursed down his face.
Clarinda stamped her foot. Harry gaped, actually shaken from his laughter as he’d never actually seen anyone do that before. By God, she was spoilt.
“You would!” she flung back
at him, folding her arms. “I’m beautiful. You know I am. Everybody wants to marry me!”
Harry snorted, too stunned by her arrogance to find her funny any longer. He reached for the horse’s reins and swung himself into the saddle. He’d best get out of here and fast before she wound herself into a pitch and got him into a bother with the squire.
“One day, you’ll be begging to marry me, Harry Thompson,” she yelled at him. “I know you will.”
Without another word, he left and didn’t look back, but he could feel her furious blue eyes burning a hole in his back all the way to Stamford Place.
***
“You’re a bloody fool!”
The words flew out of Harry’s mouth before he could check them, and he recognised the glittering anger in Lord Preston’s eyes well enough. He knew he’d always been allowed a good deal of freedom in his speech before the old man, but there were limits and he’d just reached his.
“Get out!” The viscount was stony faced and furious, his thin frame rigid with anger.
“No!” Harry replied, deciding he couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer. He’d tried to be diplomatic over the past weeks, making a few small suggestions as to how the estate could be made more profitable. But as all of his improvements required some expenditure, no matter how insignificant, every idea had been squashed. “You’re a miserable nip-cheese and a bloody fool. You’d rather see the whole place fall into the ground than actually spend a bit of money and get more out of it working as it should.” Harry stalked the room in frustration and then returned to lean over the viscount’s desk, staring down at him. “You’ve got people robbing you blind out there and you don’t know it, but why shouldn’t they, if you’re too ignorant to give them a reason to do anything else?”
The two men stared at each other, each one of them stubborn and implacable.
Harry turned in disgust, too furious to trust himself to say another word.
“Don’t you walk away from me, you young Jackanapes!”
“You told me to get out!” Harry retorted, reaching for the door handle.
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