Chapter 9
Top Sawyer - A master of a skill or his profession
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
May, 1815
Eight years later ...
“Travis,” Harry called, looking up as the line of people thinned out. He’d been sitting there all morning and his backside was numb. Glancing up, he sighed at the bright blue sky and the little white scudding clouds beyond the glass. This afternoon, he promised himself. Perhaps he’d ride out to the village and have a glass of ale. The barmaid at The White Hart had been giving him come hither looks for the past month or more, and Lord knew it had been a long while since he’d lain with a lass.
Harry greeted Mr Travis, who had a neat little farm on the eastern edge of the Stamford estate. He’d battled hard to get Alistair - Lord Preston - to take on a new tenant once old Mr Morley had died, but he’d won in the end. That had been five years ago now. Then, Travis had been penniless and desperate, but Harry had seen a spark of determination in the fellow’s eyes he well recognised, and decided to take a chance.
Travis was a man in his thirties with a growing family, and, after a shaky few years during which Alistair had berated Harry for being a soft-hearted fool, now had an established and prosperous farm.
“There you are, Mr Thompson, sir,” Mr Travis said, beaming at him and full of pride. “That’s the year’s rent and all of the arrears, in full.”
Harry looked up and beamed at him, as pleased with the man’s success as if it had been his own, which, in a small way, it was.
“I couldn’t be more pleased, John,” he said, shaking the man’s hand and passing the bag of coins to Mr Pennyworth, Lord Preston’s solicitor.
“It’s down to you, sir,” the fellow said, his face growing earnest. “I owe you a great debt, for taking a chance on me. You didn’t have to, and most would’na done it. I know that.”
Harry waved away the praise, feeling his ears burn a little as everyone was watching. But Mr Travis was undeterred and placed a bottle of cognac on the table.
“It’s not much,” he said with a grin. “But it’s a drop o’the Frenchies’ finest. Least I can do, like, by way of thanks.”
Harry chuckled, touched by the gesture. “Well, I’m seeing the rents and the arrears in full, and a bottle of cognac, so I reckon I can count you a success, eh?”
“You can at that, sir, and by the second rent-night in November, I plan to bring you in a great harvest.”
“Till November, then!” Harry replied, putting the bottle carefully to one side.
Harry looked ‘round as Mr Travis walked off, and the solicitor leaned into him. “If you’re wantin’ to be opening that an’ sharing it about, I’m very willing to aid ye in the endeavour, Mr Thompson.”
“Oh, aye?” Harry replied with a snort. Mr Pennyworth was fond of a drop of Irish whisky, hailing from that land himself, though his accent was somewhat faded after so many years of living among the English. “Thought you’d touch nought but Ireland’s finest, for all else was pig’s swill?”
My Pennyworth shrugged, his face placid, though his eyes were dancing with mirth.
“Ah, but beggars can’t be choosers, sir.”
“Beggar, my eye,” Harry retorted. “You could probably buy out his lordship, did we but know it, you old muckworm.”
“Ah, but his lordship is a great man,” Pennyworth continued, though his grin was obvious now.
“A great tight-fisted, cantankerous, old goat,” Harry grumbled, though anyone could hear the affection behind the words. “And you aiding and abetting him.”
The old fellow, who was short and rotund with a jolly face, gave a bark of laughter. “Well, if you were to hear his lordship tell it, he’d say I’m in league with you and trying to rob a poor defenceless old man of his last farthing!” he said, raising one eyebrow at Harry. “So I’m damned either way.”
The two men shared an amused glance before turning back to the job at hand.
The May rents were something that Harry had begun to look forward to. Though it was November, after harvest was a prosperous time for the coffers. There was an air of expectation and hope in May when everything was budding and land ripe and full of promise.
There would be a feast this evening, and for the first time since Harry had arrived at Stamford Place - and after a great deal of persuasion - Lord Preston would be attending. The meal itself was something that had only been reinstated four years ago, after months of badgering the wily old viscount into spending the money on the food and ale that would naturally be consumed.
Little by little, Harry was getting Lord Preston to understand that the people who worked the land were like the land themselves. You had to give them what they needed to live, but then the rewards were far greater than if you’d wrung every ounce of goodness out and done nothing to thank them for it.
Half the time, Harry was certain that the old goat just argued for the sake of it, because he enjoyed it. There was nothing he liked better than flying up onto his high ropes. Harry could tell he was enjoying himself by the brilliant glitter in his eyes, and half the time he argued back simply to indulge him, though he knew he’d won the round half an hour before.
By the time the rents were done, Harry returned to the kitchen in the hopes of finding some food. A bit of bread and cheese and an apple would do, as he wasn’t about to disturb Beryl on one of the busiest days of the year. The woman was in her element, though. Full of excitement and bustle as she presided over her kitchen like a queen, as four young women from the village had been brought in to help her prepare the large meal required for the gathering. It was an informal meal, of course, and a proper old English one of plain country fare, but, nonetheless, it brought back memories of days in the castle when she was a girl, and Harry loved to see the woman happy in her work.
Roast beef, pigeon pies, roast fowl, plum pudding, and apple tarts with the carefully preserved apples from last year’s harvest. There was cider, too, this year and Harry was looking forward to that most of all, as it had been a deal of work and made at his insistence. He hoped the effort paid off.
“Hello, Mr Thompson,” chorused the girls, looking up at him from under their lashes.
Harry nodded at them, but didn’t encourage the flirtatious glances. These were lasses from families that worked Lord Preston’s land, and he’d either find himself leg-shackled or with a gun to his head if dallied too close to home.
Neither idea held any appeal.
One day, perhaps, he’d find a wife and raise a family, but ghosts of the past still nagged at the back of his mind, and he found he couldn’t allow himself to drag another into what could be a dreadful scandal if his past ever caught up with him.
Added to that was the fact that the old man wasn’t getting any younger.
His legs were weak now, and Harry often had to carry him down the stairs. The winters were harsh, too, and Alistair wasn’t the only one to greet this year’s spring with surprise. He’d been sick last winter, and Harry worried for him.
But he couldn’t go on forever.
What happened, then, Harry didn’t like to contemplate.
He looked up in surprise as Beryl bustled up to him and pushed a large bowl of stew into his hands before guiding him to a chair by the fire.
“Now, sit and eat and don’t get under my feet,” she warned with a scowl.
“I only wanted a bit of bread and cheese,” Harry protested with a laugh.
Beryl threw up her hands in disgust. “As if I’d let a working man go through the day on a bit o’ nothin’ like that. Now you eat up and clear out, for I haven’t time to chitter-chatter with you all afternoon.”
“Yes, Missus,” Harry replied meekly as he tucked into the stew and pretended he didn’t know that Beryl was enjoying herself enormously.
***
Harry looked around the big barn with a mixture of pride and chagrin. The job that had been done on the roof wasn’t so bad, but a good n
orth wind and a lusty downpour and half the job would likely need doing over again. The whole blasted building needed tearing down and new one put in its place, but Alistair wouldn’t have it. So patched it was once more, and yet it looked rather splendid with the long trestle tables set end to end down its length, all laden with Mrs Fletcher’s mouth-watering dishes, and every surface between decorated with spring flowers.
The chatter and laughter of the guests was merry, and grew ever more ribald as the cider was passed about, and Harry toasted liberally as it was a resounding success.
Alistair had Harry’s usual place at the head of the table, and Harry grinned to see him take his rightful place. He looked rather pleased with himself, too, even more so as a new lot of guests arrived, a little later than the others.
Harry looked up with interest as there were few people in the world that the old goat had time for, let alone welcomed. At first he was surprised to see Squire Bow, though he’d known he’d been invited. Any lingering hostility had long been put to bed between them, as the squire was a jovial man and not one to linger over old wounds or slights. Alistair had won, so the old man could be magnanimous without losing face, too, and Harry … well, he found he still liked the squire despite realising he was a rather weak man - at least where his daughter was concerned. He was also a wealth of information about everything new in agriculture, and generous with sharing his knowledge, even though Harry could do little with it on the budget Alistair gave him. But the two men often shared a glass together at The White Hart, and it wasn’t unusual to see them riding out together.
What he hadn’t expected, however, was Miss Clarinda Bow.
Harry caught his breath.
A memory flitted into his brain of a morning some years ago. He’d been running from the law, sleeping rough, frozen to the bone and hungry enough to eat grass. With a heavy heart he’d set out into a cold, cruel world, and seen the countryside spread before him, the sun glittering on the snow-clad landscape like a beauty decked in jewels. He’d been breathless then, infused with a sense of hope and wonder, and now ... now this was the same.
She was smiling and laughing, chatting easily with those around her as the squire beamed with pride and finally presented her to Alistair. She gave an elegant curtsy to the viscount, and the air of self-assured poise with which she held herself spoke of her London seasons. The squire had boasted of how a marquess had offered for her last December and she’d turned him down. The squire also seemed rather chagrined by that, but apparently Clarinda was no less headstrong than she’d ever been, and made her own choices, no matter what her father thought.
A shrill, angry voice echoed in Harry’s brain as he remembered the last time he’d spoken to her. “I’ll be a great lady one day, and you’ll wish you’d been a little bit kinder.”
Harry had to admit there was truth in that now. He’d been hard on her that day. She’d put her pride aside and come to beg his pardon, and he’d been stiff and angry when he could have been kind. He could have shown her that there was a good side to doing the right thing, even when it hurt your pride. But he’d been too furious to be kind, and he’d not seen her since. Oh, she came and visited her father in the summer, but she stayed far from Stamford Place, and Harry only ever caught a glimpse of her, riding in the same neck-or-nothing fashion she’d always had.
But now here she was, a fine and great lady, a dazzling beauty, and one far above his touch, and stupidly his heart ached with regret.
Don’t be such a damned fool, he scolded himself. She was no doubt still as spoiled and wilful and hard to manage, and a beautiful face was no benefit if the heart beneath was cold as ice. Yet there was something in him that burned with the desire to see if she was really as spiteful and spoiled as he’d once thought, or if the girl he’d always suspected lay hidden beneath the flighty manners and flashing eyes was worth fighting for.
“Harry!”
Harry swallowed as the old man waved a bony hand in his direction, gesturing for him to come over. Knowing he couldn’t avoid it and unsure whether he was thrilled or appalled at the fact, he had to go over and greet Miss Bow.
Chapter 10
Spiflicated - confounded, silenced or dumbfounded
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
“Look here, Harry, if it isn’t Miss Clarinda Bow,” Alistair said, beaming at him, his toothy grin seeming broader and toothier than ever. “It’s no wonder you set the ton on their ears, my girl. What a beauty! If I was thirty years younger, I’d be chasing you round the orchard before the night was much older.”
Miss Bow carefully avoided Harry’s eye, her attention all for the viscount. “Oh, come now, my lord, surely ten years would suffice?”
“Ha!” barked the old man, delighted by her. “Damn right, too,” he chuckled before turning her attention to Harry. “You remember Harry Thompson, don’t you, Miss Bow?” he asked.
If Harry hadn’t been so flustered himself, he might have wondered harder at the calculating look in the old fellow’s eyes. As it was, he held himself stiff, determined not to betray himself into acting the fool in front of her.
“Miss Bow,” he said, all formality and cool politeness.
For the slightest moment, there was a pause, and for a sickening moment Harry wondered if perhaps she would give him the cut direct. But then she smiled, and it truly was like the sun sparkling on snow, and Harry was lost.
“Mr Thompson,” she said, her voice warm as she held out her hand to him. “How nice to see you again. You are well, I hope?”
“Quite well, Miss Bow. Thank you for asking.” Harry forced himself to drop her hand abruptly lest the urge to hold onto it was too hard to resist. For a moment, Miss Bow faltered, surprised by his ungentlemanly behaviour no doubt, but she made a valiant recover and turned back to the viscount. Lord Preston shot Harry a look of pure disgust before turning back to his lovely companion as she took the seat to his right, giving her his full attention.
For the remainder of the meal, Harry watched, torn between annoyance and amusement as Miss Bow at turns charmed and insulted the viscount. She was vivacious and funny and knew just when to turn the conversation on its head and give the viscount a mighty set down, which only had the old goat roaring with laughter at her audacity.
Harry was spellbound.
Once or twice, Alistair tried to draw Harry into their conversation, lest he should take root from sitting stock-still and not moving a muscle. But Harry was all on-end, his nerves shot and his senses reeling, and he could only accept the old man’s eye-rolling look of frustration as he failed to take the conversational bait and join in. Instead, he concentrated on his food and barely looked up, though he couldn’t have said afterwards what it was he’d eaten.
The torture was only to continue, however, as the meal came to an end and the tables cleared away to the sides to make a dance floor. Harry watched as every young man vied for Miss Bow’s attention and demanded that she took a turn with them around the floor. For all her town bronze, Harry had to admit that there was nothing of the prim miss about her tonight. She danced with everyone who asked, with every outward show of pleasure, except for with Tom Hendley. Harry was pleased to see the loud-mouthed fool get a sharp set down. The fellow was in his cups and Harry on the brink of taking him outside himself, but a few lashes from Miss Bow’s tongue had him scurrying away like a scalded cat. Harry found he was more pleased than was good for him to discover that she hadn’t lost her fire.
It was the early hours of the morning when her latest dance partner deposited her, gasping and protesting that she was worn to a thread with a merry laugh. She took her place beside the viscount again just as Harry had taken his at the other side of him. Harry had done his bit, too, dancing with all the unmarried girls - as well as Mrs Fletcher after a deal of protestation - and taking care not to single anyone out for attention that could be misconstrued. He looked away as Miss Bow fanned herself, lest he be drawn into staring at that lovely prof
ile like a heartsick moon calf.
“Well now, Harry,” Lord Preston began, and instinctively Harry felt his nerves all stand on end as he suspected what came next. “Isn’t it time you stood up with Miss Bow for a turn about the floor? I hear they’re playing a waltz next, and I’ve a fancy to see it danced here at Stamford.”
The idea of holding Miss Bow in his arms had a strange effect on Harry, and he wished to God he’d never admitted to having learned the blasted dance. On the one hand, he thought it might be rather like trying to tame a wild cat to guide Clarinda Bow around the floor, but on the other ... Every inch of skin on his large frame seemed to pull tight with anticipation.
Harry swallowed hard, torn between longing and terror at getting caught any deeper in her toils. If she had the slightest idea of the effect she was having, she’d no doubt laugh herself into a stupor at her victory.
“I think perhaps Miss Bow needs a moment to catch her breath,” Harry said, meaning the words to seem as though he was being kind, and finding instead that they sounded like a slight.
Lord Preston shot him a glance of utter frustration and Harry cringed inwardly.
“Oh, I am not such a feeble creature as all that, Mr Thompson,” Miss Bow replied, an edge to her voice that was quite unmistakable. Harry dared to glance at her to find those blue eyes as alight with temper as he’d known they would be.
Ah, well, nothing for it, then.
He stood and held out his hand. “I would be honoured, Miss Bow, if you would dance with me.”
She stood, looking as regal as a queen and so far beyond his touch that she may as well have been cast in bronze. Yet bronze would have been cold and hard and unyielding, and, despite her obvious fury, Clarinda Bow was nothing of those things.
A Dog in a Doublet Page 7