A Dog in a Doublet

by Emma V. Leech

  The old man hauled himself to his feet, and for the first time Harry noted that he looked a little frail, his jacket hanging loose on his already meagre frame. “What do you mean, people robbing me blind?” he demanded.

  “Oh no,” Harry said, laughing, though it was a bitter sound. “You’ll not get a word from me about that so you can go and get them transported for their troubles. You deserve everything you get!”

  “Why, you ...” The old man seemed to bite the last word off, though Harry could guess at it well enough; his expression was perfectly eloquent. But he was surprised by the fact that the viscount didn’t elaborate any further. Instead the man took a deep breath and sat back down again. “What would you have me do?” he asked, though his tone was ungracious and begrudging.

  Harry’s eyebrows hit his hairline, but he was wise enough not to exclaim. Instead, he paused and stared at the old devil, wondering if he was really going to be reasonable.

  Harry went and sat back down, taking a deep breath. “Well,” he began.

  ***

  It wasn’t as if the changes were in any way major, or as if anything much happened at all, but over the next few months, word got about that Harry was the man to talk to.

  This had both ups and downs.

  It was nice to be regarded with respect, and even better as Harry came to realise his own worth. His reading was improving and he found he really did have a gift for numbers. He had also taken to mimicking the viscount’s way of speaking. At first, Harry had thought that the old man would mock him for it, but apart from a little amusement in his eyes, he’d said nothing, and had even begun to correct him when he made errors.

  “A gentleman would never say that, Harry,” he’d admonish, wagging a bony finger at him.

  The downs, however, were being dragged into arguments about leaking roofs and sagging timbers and repairs that should have been made decades ago, never mind months.

  Harry ran a frustrated hand through his hair and regarded the two furious men before him with a sigh.

  “Right,” he said, cutting through their increasingly agitated bickering by sounding as if what he was about to say was a good idea. He hoped there was the slightest chance he was right.

  “Mr Rumpole, I shall come to you tomorrow afternoon and help you repair the fence to the south field.” God alone knew where he was to get the timber from, but he’d cross that bridge after the row had been solved.

  “What about my blasted roof?” raged Mr Smith. He was a short, stocky man with a short, fat neck; it rather made him look as though he’d been compressed from above by a heavy weight. His temper was also on the condensed side.

  Harry took a breath and prayed for patience. “You, Mr Smith, will accompany me to help Mr Rumpole repair the fences tomorrow ...”

  “You what?” the fellow retorted, going an unpleasant shade of puce. “Like hell I will!”

  “If ... you’d let me finish,” Harry said, with an icy tone that was an admirable imitation of the viscount in a snit. Mr Smith closed his mouth and actually looked a bit taken aback, so Harry continued. “Once the fence is repaired, Mr Rumpole and I will come and help you repair your blas-- your roof.”

  By the time the two men had agreed to Harry’s terms, it was late in the afternoon. Crows wheeled on the white sky, sharp black shapes, stark against the bright, blank background. It was a bleak February afternoon and the fields were bare, the landscape as devoid of life as it was possible to get. Yet Harry felt filled with enthusiasm.

  It would be spring soon, and the countryside would come to life again. He didn’t know where this love for the place sprang from, but he felt it in his bones, a sense of connection he’d never known in the filthy streets of the city. There, he’d felt like a rat, scrabbling for survival. Perhaps, without the chance given him by Lord Preston, he’d feel the same way here, but he doubted it.

  Giving the big bay mare her head, he galloped over the rise, not far from where he’d first heard the viscount’s cries for help. There was a good view up here, overlooking the countryside. On a clear day like today, you could see for miles, near all of it the viscount’s land. He drew Delilah up, patting her damp neck and crooning to her as he paused to survey the scene. With a sense of wonder, he toyed with the idea he might be able to make the old man make some real changes, really turn the place around. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the place, filled with labourers working the land and the land giving back with abundance. He imagined fat cattle grazing and fields of golden corn, fences that didn’t fall down if you leaned on them and the tenants taking a pride in homes that were well maintained.

  It could happen.

  It could.

  Except it wouldn’t.

  The bubble burst as he realised the old man would never let him do it. He’d had to fight so hard for such meagre changes, and the viscount was getting no younger. Sooner or later, he’d turn up his toes and the whole place would pass to another, in any case. Likely, they wouldn’t want to keep Harry on at all. The idea made him suddenly dejected.

  Surprisingly, it was not just the loss of his dreams or even the position he’d found himself that stung, though it did, of course. More than that it was the realisation that he’d miss the old coot. He was a tight-fisted, pig-headed, old goat, and Harry had had to argue till he was blue in the face to get any kind of wage from him, despite all his hard work.

  But nonetheless, Harry was fond of him.

  For all his miserly ways and bad temper, Lord Preston could be kind. He’d spent hours teaching Harry to read and write and how to keep the books, after all, and never complained. He was even trying to teach him Latin, though heaven only knew why. But no one had ever given Harry anything before, least of all their time, and Harry felt a rush of affection for the old man. Well, perhaps he’d not make Stamford the place Harry dreamed of, but he could repay the viscount for his kindness and keep the place afloat as best he could. It was something, at least.

  Advising himself to be content and not get ideas above his station, he had almost rekindled his good mood, when he turned to see Miss Bow riding towards him.

  Damnation.

  She rode well, he’d give her that. The palomino she perched on was every bit as highly strung and beautiful as her mistress, and from the way the beast tossed its golden mane, every bit as aware of that fact.

  Despite the urge to turn and flee, Harry forced himself to lift his hat and nod a polite greeting. It wouldn’t do to antagonise the chit, after all. “Miss Bow,” he said, his tone neutral.

  “Oh, Mr Thompson,” she replied, as though she’d only just noticed his presence. “Good afternoon.”

  Harry hid a grin, knowing full well she’d turned and ridden towards him, away from her original path.

  The little wretch.

  She just wanted another infatuated fool to dangle after her, another suitor to toy with and torment. The annoying child was just that, though, a child, and Harry felt no desire at all to increase her obvious vanity. Others might do it in the hope of snaring a rich prize, but even if he’d been tempted, the girl had said one thing right. The squire would never allow it. One day, though, she’d be a beautiful woman, and he was damned if he’d encourage a familiarity that could only lead to trouble.

  “It’s a lovely view,” she said with a charming smile, obviously deciding to try honey this time instead of vinegar.

  “It is,” Harry agreed.

  “A fine day for a ride, in fact, though cold. My toes are numb,” she added with a merry little laugh that was truly rather endearing. “I expect my nose is red, too,” she added with a coquettish grin. This was clearly Harry’s opportunity to declaim and give her a compliment. Instead, he made a show of looking at her closely and nodding.

  “It is,” he said.

  To his growing amusement, she took the slight, though there was rather a bright glint in her eyes, now, that promised retribution.

  “Do you like Rapunzel?” she asked as the pretty mare danced about, impatient
at being asked to stand still.

  Harry nodded, too honest not to admit the horse was a beauty. “Yes,” he said, but driven by some inner demon to add, “Though she’s too much for you.”

  It was a bit like dropping a match into a barrel of gunpowder.

  “She’s not!” came the immediate and furious reply. “I’ll have you know, I’m the best horsewoman in the country, everyone says so!”

  “Everyone is too scared of your tantrums to tell you otherwise, you mean,” Harry retorted, forgetting that he’d meant to hold his tongue. “But it’s no business of mine, either way. Go and break your neck. I don’t care.”

  “Well, of all the odious ...”

  Harry wondered if it was the first time in her life she’d been at a loss for words. He thought perhaps it was, as she looked really rather perplexed.

  “I’ll have you know papa bought her for me for my fourteenth birthday. It’s my birthday today,” she added with a tragic little sniff. That was to imply, of course, that he should at least try to be nice to her today of all days. He wondered if she would pretend to cry, but suspected she had too much pride for that. Thank God.

  Harry held his tongue, even knowing it would have been polite to say happy birthday, at least. There was something about the girl that made him contrary, though.

  “I’m having a party tonight,” she said, obviously deciding on another tactic to get her own back. “All the best people will be there. Even Lord Malten,” she added. “He’s an earl. He tried to kiss me, you know.”

  Harry frowned at her. For all the child was an annoying, spoilt little fool, she was just a child. He’d heard tales of Lord Malten, too. He was said to be handsome and charming. He also had to be thirty, at least, and had gambled a fortune away at the tables. Young Clarinda would be a lamb to the slaughter. What the man was doing, playing with a young girl in such a fashion, he could not understand, though her money, of course, would be a great temptation. Harry’s stomach churned and he felt a burst of anger on her behalf.

  “Stay away from Lord Malten if you know what’s good for you,” he growled. “He’s no good for you, Clarinda.”

  The girl looked triumphant and stared back at him, clearly feeling she’d won. “See, you are jealous!” she crowed. “I knew you were.”

  Harry muttered a curse. “I’ve no interest in a spoilt little girl no matter how wealthy, I can assure you,” he said, watching the fury ignite in her eyes at his words. He didn’t want to stay and watch the fallout, though. “Do as you wish, but Malten will ruin you and marry your fortune before you can say knife. But it’s your affair.” He turned his horse and touched his hat in farewell. “I’ll bid you good day.”

  “You address me as Miss Bow, you insolent creature!” she flung after him. “I never gave you leave to use my given name, and I know you’re jealous, whatever you may say ... and I’ll marry whomever I please!” The last words were shrill and faded into the icy air as he rode away, but he couldn’t help but grin. There might be jealousy in the air, but it certainly wasn’t on his side. Miss Bow was just angry that she could not simper around him like with everyone else. He vowed that she never should.

  Chapter 7

  A mushroom - a person or family recently raised to riches

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

  It was too much to hope that Miss Bow would leave it at that. Harry did his best to avoid her over the coming weeks, and as the weather turned wet and dirty, it wasn’t so very hard. But at the end of March, the rainy weather packed itself away like it had never been and the sun wrapped around the countryside like a golden shawl, brightening everything it touched.

  Spring was in the air, faint, perhaps, but tangible nonetheless, and the sun felt good on Harry’s face. Since the collapse of the old stables, one of the other outbuildings had been given over to use for the horses. This, however, wasn’t in such fine fettle, and Ramsy had been complaining bitterly about a leak in the roof. Harry decided it would be worth an hour of his day off to stop the old fellow jawing his ear off, and went to fetch a ladder.

  Realising that he was wearing his best shirt (one of two, now, though this one fitted better across his increasingly broad shoulders), he took off his waistcoat and shirt and hung them on the fence to avoid causing repairs that Mrs Fletcher would be cross about. Beryl’s cooking was putting meat on his bones, and his active life had increased the muscle, too. When he looked in a mirror nowadays, he was heartened to see a solid man looking back at him as he grew into both his height and shoulders.

  After an hour of shifting about broken tiles and fitting a handful of slightly less broken tiles he’d scavenged from a collapsed building elsewhere in place, he was about done. The sun was shining with quiet determination now and Harry sighed, pleased with his work and enjoying the heat on his skin, even though the air was still cold.

  He heard the sound of horse’s hooves as he made his way down the ladder, and turned with annoyance to he saw Miss Bow riding towards him. To his surprise, she jumped down and walked towards him, eyeing his bare chest with undisguised interest. Harry felt his cheeks heat and went to turn away, but Miss Bow held out her crop, touching it against his arm and halting him in his tracks.

  “Hello, Harry,” she said, sounding altogether too familiar for Harry’s liking. “Rapunzel is limping, I think. Would you take a look at her for me, please?”

  Harry scowled, but he wouldn’t punish a horse, especially a fine one like the palomino, just because he couldn’t abide her mistress. He walked over and ran his hand over each leg in turn, feeling for swelling or heat. Frowning, he walked her up and down the yard a bit and then turned back to Miss Bow.

  “There’s nothing wrong with her.” As he spoke, he realised the whole time Miss Bow had been watching him move up and down, assessing him as he had the horse. He flushed again and re-evaluated his impression of Miss Bow as a child. She was a young woman now - and no better than she ought to be.

  “Is there not?” she replied, not bothering to pretend she was surprised. “How strange.”

  She grinned at him, tilting her head to one side. “Would you like to come for a ride with me?”

  “No,” Harry replied, stalking over to grab his shirt. He pulled it on over his head, avoiding her admiring gaze.

  “You’re very rude, Harry,” she said, and he could hear the pout behind the words without even looking at her.

  “That’s Mr Thompson to you, Miss Bow,” he snapped. He jolted as he turned and found her standing far too close to him, looking up at him with those lovely blue eyes, wide and appealing.

  “Can’t we be friends, Harry?” she said, her voice soft.

  Harry took a deliberate step backwards, putting distance between them. “No, Miss Bow,” he said, his voice taut and holding onto his temper by a thread. “I work for Lord Preston, remember. I’m not for the likes of you, as you so clearly pointed out.”

  Miss Bow gave a merry little laugh and looked up at him under her lashes. “Oh, Harry, I’m not asking you to marry me. Just to go for a ride.”

  Harry snorted, incredulous. If this was how the girl acted with others less scrupulous than him, she’d find herself ruined before the year was much older. “You will address me as Mr Thompson,” he replied, his voice cold. “And I can see in your eyes exactly what you want from me, and you’ll not get it.” The flash of fury he saw was inevitable, and he took a grim sort of satisfaction in seeing it there. “Even if I found you beautiful, which I don’t,” he added, admitting to a touch of spite behind the words, “a wilful, spoilt child would not be the companion I’d choose for a pleasant afternoon. Good day, Miss Bow.”

  “Why, you ... you ...” Miss Bow ground to a halt, almost shaking with rage as Harry chuckled at her.

  “Why don’t you come back tomorrow when you’ve found a nasty enough word, eh?” he taunted.

  “My God, I hate you!” she threw back at him. “You think yourself very high and mighty don’t you, Mr Thomp
son? Well, you’re not, you know, and I wouldn’t touch you if you were begging on your knees!”

  “Then we are of a like mind,” Harry said, thoroughly enjoying her utter fury. “So you can stop following me around like a bitch in heat.”

  With hindsight, he might as well have left that last comment unsaid, but he felt few people told Miss Bow the truth, least of all her doting papa. Best she hear harsh words from someone who meant her no harm or ill, than get herself into real trouble.

  “W-what did you say to me?” she stammered, staring at him, open-mouthed. To his dismay, he saw her eyes were glittering with tears now. She looked rather mortified.

  Harry sighed. “Look, Miss Bow. There are fellows in the world that would take you at your word and ride out into the countryside with you. They’d believe you understood what you mean with those flirtatious words and fluttering eyes of yours, and you’d find yourself ruined with some man’s babe in your belly.”

  Her eyes grew big and round at this point, and Harry wondered if she even knew what he was talking about.

  “Your father gives you a deal too much freedom. You shouldn’t be allowed to roam the countryside all alone, flirting with any fellow who crosses your path,” he chided, though his words had lost their anger. He merely felt concerned that the foolish girl was unguided and left too much to her own devises. “Don’t play with men’s hearts, Miss Bow, nor rely on their ability to remain gentlemen once you’ve invited them to be alone with you. You’ll come a cropper, I promise you.”

  She was silent for a moment, perhaps too stunned to have anyone speak truthfully to her with no fear of the consequences to find her tongue.

  It didn’t last.

  “You’re no gentleman,” she spat at him with fury, hurt pride and embarrassment blazing in her flushed cheeks and flaming eyes. “You’ll never be one either, no matter how you try and talk like one,” she mocked him. “Everyone knows you’re a ... a worthless guttersnipe. Born in the slums, I heard. They all talk about you, you know,” she flung at him, the words shrill and angry.