“Aye,” Harry said, his voice placid though the words had struck him hard. “I don’t doubt, and, yes, Miss Bow, it’s all true. So a fine lady like yourself ought to give a low-born cove like me a wide berth.” He held her eyes as he said it, unable to read the emotion in her expression, now beyond wild rage. He gave her a polite nod. “I’ll bid you good day, miss,” he said, his voice quiet as he turned away and left.
“You’ll regret this, Harry Thompson,” she promised, her voice low and angry.
Harry felt a shiver of misgiving as he walked away. Once again, he cursed his blasted tongue for running like fiddlestick, but it was too late now. Now it was done, and there was only her retribution to follow.
***
He didn’t have to wait long.
By the time he returned to the house that evening, he could hear raised voices coming from the viscount’s study. Mrs Fletcher ran out the kitchen door to him, her face white with worry.
“Oh, Harry, what you done now, my lad? The squire’s here and raising such a dust.” She paused, twisting her apron in her hands. “He ... he’s saying you tried to seduce his daughter.”
Harry felt his stomach drop and wondered if his luck had finally run out. Every time he swore he’d keep his head down and cause no fuss, he seemed to manage to do the exact opposite.
“You believe that?” he asked, looking at Mrs Fletcher and feeling like he was holding his breath. Not that it would matter, of course. A word from a man like the squire, and Harry would be out on his ear. But he’d grown fond of Lord Preston and Mr and Mrs Fletcher. He’d thought perhaps Mrs Fletcher had even begun to trust in him, a little, at least. To see condemnation in her eyes, and those of the old viscount, would almost be worse than losing his job and his home.
To his relief, she simply laid a hand on his arm, her eyes soft with regret. “I do not,” she said, her voice firm. “That little baggage is no better than she ought to be. She runs rings around the squire and he can’t control her. His own fault,” she said with a sniff. “Once her poor mama died, he’d do anything to keep her happy, and now she’s beyond his control.” She shook her head, the pity in her eyes making Harry’s chest hurt. “But, oh, Harry. Whatever you’ve said to her, she’s accused you of something wicked, and now you’ll pay. Guilty or no.”
Harry nodded.
“I know it,” he replied, his voice heavy. “Best go and face the music,” he added, trying to give her a smile, and going on the watery-eyed look she returned, missing by a mile.
Fear churned in his stomach.
It was only now, on the brink of losing everything, that Harry realised how happy he’d been. He enjoyed his work, despite all the frustrations of the old man’s miserly ways. If he actually managed to wring a few coins for him for materials, it felt like a victory far greater than the value of the money. He was well-fed and had a clean, warm place to sleep, and Mr and Mrs Fletcher had made him feel a part of something.
And then there was the viscount.
He’d taught Harry so much, more than he realised, perhaps. But Harry acknowledged a deeper truth: he’d also become a friend of sorts, strange as that may be. The sorrow of losing that hit him squarely in the chest and hurt more than he’d thought possible.
He’d just set foot in the Baron’s Hall when the squire exploded into the vast room from the far end with the old man on his heels like a ferocious old terrier.
“You should dismiss the brute immediately!” the squire threw over his shoulder as he retreated, but Lord Preston just gave a disgusted bark of laughter.
“Over my dead body!”
The squire paused and turned back to him. “You’re making a mistake, my lord,” he blustered, his ruddy face almost purple with indignation.
“No, I am not,” the viscount raged, somehow looking younger and taller than Harry had ever seen him, swelling with rage and indignation as he faced down the far bigger figure of the squire as though he was a snot-nosed boy beneath his notice. “And,” the old man continued, hauling in a breath and winding himself up further, all the while wagging a bony finger at the squire, “if you had an ounce of nous, you’d know it too! That girl is clever than you by far, and she needs a firm hand. You’ve spoilt and indulged her, and here we are with her telling Grub Street lies and you swallowing them whole, you cork-brained, fat-headed gudgeon!”
“My lord!” the squire exclaimed, so obviously shocked by the volley of insults that he was stunned, and clearly didn’t know quite what else to say.
“Don’t you my lord me, you old sneaksby. I know what you want,” the old man raged, continuing to wag his finger with agitation as two high spots of colour blazed on his wizened cheeks. “You want to get your grubby hands on my land, and that you’ll never do! So you use your blasted minx of a girl to try and make me feel obliged. Well, I ain’t, and I don’t, so there!” At this point he caught sight of Harry and flung an arm out towards him. “You go and look that boy in the eyes and accuse him to his face,” he demanded. “But I tell you, he’d never do such a shabby thing. He’s more of a man and a gentleman than you’ll ever be, for all your gold and insinuating ways, you ... you ... vulgar mushroom!”
Harry gaped in utter astonishment. The viscount’s accusation seemed to have struck its mark with stinging accuracy, though, judging by the look on the squire’s face.
That the squire, who’d seemed an honest sort to Harry, had designs on Lord Preston’s land ought not to have been surprising, perhaps, but Harry found it was, and that he was disappointed to discover it. He’d liked the squire and had thought the man respected him, at least. But then the squire was clearly having great difficulty in meeting Harry’s eyes, so perhaps he didn’t truly believe his daughter’s lies. As usual, he was simply responding to her fury, because if he didn’t, there’d be worse to come.
But more than all of that was his wonder at the righteous indignation on the viscount’s face at the squire having come and maligned Harry’s character.
That a man like Lord Preston should defend him, and with such passionate anger, was something Harry had never expected or looked for. Unbidden, he felt once again a rush of warmth and affection for the cantankerous old devil.
The squire was prevaricating now. He was apparently torn between venting his anger and further humiliation in front of someone who was, for all his eccentricity, still the most powerful man in the country, or admitting that Miss Bow had sent him on what he’d known at heart was a fool’s errand.
“Perhaps,” he said, raising his chin and forcing himself to look at Harry. “Perhaps Clarinda mistook your intentions, Mr Thompson,” he said, the words stiff and rather formal. “She’s a high-strung creature, always taking fanciful notions into her head,” he said, looking so awkward that Harry almost felt sorry for him. “She’s not used to men or their ways, and no doubt you’re ... you’re not to blame. She just ...”
The man trailed off, swallowing, and avoided Harry’s eyes.
“Just so that we are clear,” Harry said, staring directly at the man and keeping his tone even. “I have never, and would never, make advances towards your daughter. She is little more than a child, and any man who sees her otherwise is beyond contempt in my view. That you have believed such of me, I take as a grave insult.” Harry paused, noting the flash of anxiety in the squire’s eyes as he wondered if Harry would call him out. “But,” he continued, letting out a breath, and, with it, letting go of his own anger and indignation. “I will put it aside as you are clearly a doting parent and love your daughter beyond your own good sense.” The squire bristled at that, but wisely kept his own counsel. “However, if I may be so bold in the circumstances ...” Harry stood tall and decided he had to speak up, for Clarinda’s good if not his own. “You allow your daughter a deal too much freedom, sir, and sooner or later she’ll ride into trouble, and then you’ll truly have something to shout about.”
“Here, here!” Lord Preston barked, nodding furiously. Harry looked over and saw something that loo
ked suspiciously like pride in the old man’s eyes. “That’s told you, you old booby!”
The squire’s colour continued to rise, which was quite remarkable, as it had been florid to begin with, but he gave Harry a stiff nod. “Miss Bow will be going away to school in the next few days, so you need not trouble your head further with my affairs, Mr Thompson,” he said, his tone cool. “Lord Preston,” he added with a nod. “I bid you gentlemen good day.”
“Good riddance!” the viscount threw after him, sounding positively gleeful as the squire walked the length of the Baron’s Hall with his dignity in tatters.
Chapter 8
Merry as a grig - to be cheerful, in high spirits
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
The story of the squire’s defeat and the viscount’s defence of Harry’s character was naturally the subject of conversation for that evening as Mr and Mrs Fletcher sat down to their evening meal with him.
Unbeknownst to Harry, Mr and Mrs Fletcher had been a rapt audience, hiding behind the door that led to the kitchens, and listened to every word.
“I was never more proud of the old devil,” Mrs Fletcher said, propping her ample bosoms on her forearms as she leant over the table. “And to think of the squire behaving in such a shabby manner.” She tutted, shaking her head with disapproval.
“Ah, come now, Beryl,” Reggie said, ever the voice of reason. “We all know why he ended up here, and that little hellcat of his is at the bottom of it.”
“Aye, and more fool him,” his wife retorted. “He’s reaping what he’s sown, is all I can say.” Harry watched with interest as her face softened. “Not that I don’t feel sorry for the pair of them. He was lost when his wife died. Always looked at her like she’d hung the moon, he did,” she said with a wistful sigh and a rueful glance at her husband. “He just wanted to make up to her for losing her mama so young. But kindness can be a folly if not given with care.”
Harry stayed silent, his own thoughts on Clarinda too angry to voice with any thoughts of fairness. He accepted what Mrs Fletcher said as true, but he’d nearly lost everything. It would take a while before he’d forgive that.
Pushing his empty plate away, he smiled at Mrs Fletcher. “Thanks for the meal, Missus. Was a treat, as always.”
Mrs Fletcher smiled back at him and nodded, obviously pleased by the compliment. “You’re welcome, lad, and I think by now you ought to call me Beryl, don’t you?”
Harry paused and took a breath; there was a strange, slightly unsettling feeling growing in his chest. It had begun when he’d seen Lord Preston defending him, and had been tugging at his consciousness all evening.
Home.
All at once, he realised that was it. He had a home, a place to be where people knew him, and cared whether he lived or died, or if someone tried to hurt him. It was a warm and generous feeling that seemed to expand inside of him and swell the more he recognised the truth of it. Yet, with that sense of contentment came fear.
For now, he had something to lose.
Bidding goodnight to Beryl and Reggie, he made his way to Lord Preston’s study. He needed to say something to the old fellow, to acknowledge the words he had given to the squire on his behalf; he just didn’t know how.
Giving a brief knock on the door, he entered and found the old man looking pensive, sitting by the fire with a thick blanket spread over his knees.
“Harry,” he said, looking pleased as Harry took the chair opposite him. “Glad you’ve come. Fancy a game of chess?”
“What, so you can cheat me again?” Harry threw back at him, though they both knew he was joking.
“Aha, you’re a sore loser, my boy,” the old man retorted, looking smug. “Skill is all I use,” he said, tapping his head. “The body may be decaying, but there’s nought amiss in the old bone box.”
Harry grunted and got up to move the table and chess set between them. Picking up the pretty inlaid box that held the pieces, he began to set them on the squares.
“Reckon the squire got a shock today,” he said, keeping his eyes on the board and his tone light.
“Aye,” Lord Preston said, his voice soft. “I think you did, too, eh?”
Harry looked up to see the old man watching him, something between amusement and reproach in his eyes. “Thought I’d believe every word and turn you off, didn’t you?”
It was hard to hold those faded eyes, but Harry did, and gave a slight nod. “It crossed my mind,” he admitted. “There aren’t many of your kind who wouldn’t have done.”
Lord Preston snorted with disgust. “I know what you think of me, lad. A miserable, wicked old miser who loves nothing but counting gold.” He cast Harry a look that seemed to cut right through him, and Harry felt shame for the truth of it, but the viscount just laughed. “And you’d be right, I suppose,” he admitted. “But ... I do regret things.”
Harry watched as he turned to stare at the fire, his eyes a long way off in some distant place where Harry couldn’t follow.
He turned back, his expression sharper now and very much in the present. “I’m glad you’re here, Harry,” he said, his voice firm and his eyes full of warmth.
Harry smiled and nodded, returning the expression with gratitude. “So I am.”
***
“I’ll be off then, Beryl,” Harry said, wiping the last of the egg yolk from his plate with a thick wedge of bread.
“Yes, off with you,” Beryl scolded as Harry grinned at her. He’d grown used to her sharp tongue and recognised the warmth behind her nagging now. “You and your big boots cluttering up my kitchen. Some of us have work to do, you know.”
Feeling a sudden urge to show his gratitude, he got to his feet and crept up behind her as she took a handful of flour and scattered it over the table ready to knead bread. He gave her a squeeze, kissing her soft cheek as she squealed at him.
“Oh! Get off me, you great lummox!” she blustered, though he could see the blush in her cheeks and the smile curving her lips despite her best efforts. “Don’t think you’ll get extra rations for that!” she said, waving a floury finger at him. “You save it for those who don’t know better,” she added with a prim little sniff.
Harry just laughed, quite unrepentant as he knew he would get an extra bowl of pudding at dinner tonight, whatever she said. He pulled on his hat and coat and paused as Beryl gestured towards the dresser.
“Those too,” she said, her voice firm. “Tis bitter out this morning. You’ll need them.”
She turned away before Harry could investigate and he walked to the dresser to find a thick, knitted scarf and gloves.
All of a sudden, there was a tightness in his throat and he couldn’t seem to swallow. He pulled them on and walked back to her, but found he couldn’t say anything at all.
Beryl looked up at him, and everything he’d wanted to say must have shone on his face for she gave him the warmest smile he’d ever seen. She wiped her floury hands on her apron and reached up, patting his cheek.
“Off you go, then,” she said, her voice soft before turning away again, her eyes just a little too bright.
Harry found himself heading out into the frigid, foggy morning with a daft grin spread over his face. It fell away, though, as he headed towards the stables to check on old Ramsy and found a dishevelled-looking Miss Bow waiting for him.
“It’s alright,” she said, her voice anxious and the words coming fast as she held out a hand. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”
Harry stilled, keeping far away from her and finding anger building in his chest as the enormity of what he’d almost lost hit him like a weight. He stared at her, holding his tongue with difficulty.
“I came to say ... to say ...” She took a step closer and he could see that she was heavy-eyed from crying. “I’m sorry, Mr Thompson,” she said, looking shame-faced.
“I suppose your father sent you,” Harry retorted, scowling at her.
“No!” she exclaimed, a little of her
fire returning with her indignation. “He did not. In fact he ... he shut me in my room. I had to climb out,” she added, taking off her gloves and showing him her grazed palms. “Nearly broke my neck.” The words were gloomy as she looked up at him. “Suppose you’d have been glad if I had.”
“Suppose I might,” Harry said, his voice hard.
Miss Bow nodded, apparently accepting this. “I didn’t ... I didn’t mean for papa to try and have you dismissed. Truly,” she said, taking a step closer still and pausing as Harry took two more further away. “Only ... I was angry and ...”
“Only you were angry and so damned spoilt that you never spared a thought for anything past that. You never cared to think that you might ruin my life and send me back to the gutter, did you, Miss Bow?”
Her bottom lip trembled and she shook her head. “N-no,” she admitted. “I didn’t. I told Papa the truth, though, as soon as he came home. I’d never have let Lord Preston dismiss you, I swear I wouldn’t.”
Harry snorted, feeling uncharitable and unwilling to be kind.
“Anyway, I’m going away to school,” she said, her voice low and miserable. Harry turned back to look at her. The fog clung to her cloak and lay upon her black hair like a mist. She was shivering and unhappy, her posture everything that was dejection. “I have to go and live with my aunt and learn how to be a lady.”
Harry laughed. He couldn’t help it, yet he found he was glad to see some of the spirit return to her eyes.
“I will be a lady, Harry Thompson,” she said, stamping her foot on the greasy cobbles. “I’ll be a great lady one day, and you’ll wish you’d been a little bit kinder.”
“Oho, that I won’t,” he said, shaking his head that she could still believe he’d have the slightest interest in her. She was rigid with anger now, her pretty mouth pinched and her arms folded across her chest.
“Oh, yes you will,” she said, and there was a fierce gleam in her eyes that promised the worst kind of devilry. “You just wait, you horrid creature. The next time you see me ... you’ll wish you’d been my friend!” She began to walk away, her posture rigid with fury but she paused to turn and shout at him over her shoulder. “I’ll have you yet, Harry. You wait and see!”
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