***
Clarinda paced her bedroom, her skirts swishing with a soft hiss that sounded as angry as she felt.
Damn her father and his ridiculous plans.
Well, she’d marry the blasted marquess over her dead body, though she realised that was an odd sort of arrangement. Folding her arms with a huff, she stared out of the window, focusing on Stamford’s imposing chimneys and wondering what she could do. Harry would no doubt be even more determined that they could never be together after their unhappy discovery.
Yet something good had come from their disastrous encounter.
He loved her.
At least she thought he did. He’d called her love at least, and surely, that amounted to the same thing, didn’t it? Clarinda worried at her lip for a moment before deciding that it did.
It had to.
She’d make sure it was.
But how? What was she to do now, locked in her room, and with no means of escape? She had to see Harry again, to make sure that he understood her heart was unchanging. Clarinda didn’t want to make her father angry. Truly, she didn’t. For all his social climbing and vulgar ways, she loved him dearly, and she understood everything that he did was done for her. But she could never make him understand that for all she loved pretty things and glamorous parties and being the centre of attention, when it came down to it, those things hadn’t made her happy.
She’d had a wonderful time with her aunt, even though she hadn’t wanted to go. At first, at least. For even though she’d still been furious with Harry and dreaming of the day she could teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget, she also discovered as time passed that she wanted to show him that she was more than the spoilt child he’d accused her of being. It had taken a while, but she’d realised that Harry’s opinion was the only one that had ever mattered to her, because it was honest, and because she had to earn it.
For all her spoilt ways and love of indulgence, it hadn’t taken long before she’d seen through the shallow pleasures that had delighted her so in her first months in London.
Dressing in the finest silks and satins and wearing jewels and being toasted as a diamond of the first water was wonderful, certainly. But after a very short time, the extravagant compliments rang hollow, the over-primped dandies became boring and spiteful to her ears instead of amusing, and the endless gifts of sweetmeats and flowers were cloying and made her feel sick.
She had begun to long for Harry’s darkly amused scowl, to hear him tell her off for being ill-mannered and rude instead of thinking her amusing for her dreadful behaviour and indulging her all the more. She’d wanted to see him in his plain, rough tweeds with a scarf tied about his neck, instead of preening lords and honourables in their embroidered silk waistcoats and fobs and pristine white cravats. She’d longed for country hours and plain, good food and, oh ... she’d wanted to go home!
Well, she was home, and for the first time in her life she knew Harry cared for her. It was a heady feeling, and it made her feel bold and brave and a little reckless ...
Lord Preston was growing ever more frail, though, according to the whispers that had reached her via her maid. She wanted very much to see the old man, but knew her father would never allow it.
Not now.
But if Alistair died, what then would happen to Harry? Would he leave?
Fear clutched at her heart at the idea. Well, no matter what. Wherever Harry went, she would simply follow.
Chapter 15
Having received one’s notice to quit - to be dying
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
Once Harry had settled Edwin Preston, the malignant Mariah, and a darkly amused Norah in the parlour with refreshments, he escaped, avoiding a purely lascivious look from Norah on the way. Back in the kitchen, he hauled in a sigh of relief as Beryl sat him down and poured him out a cup of tea.
“Well?” she demanded, her eyes full of concern.
“Worse than I ever feared,” Harry replied, his face grim as he stared into the teacup. He looked up to see Beryl biting her lip. “Oh, come now,” he said, annoyed with himself for cutting up her peace further. “There’s nothing for you to worry over. Alistair will see you right. You and Mr Fletcher will be able to retire and leave this place to their tender mercies.” Harry jerked his head in the direction of the parlour with a grimace.
Beryl pursed her lips with displeasure at the thought and poured herself out a cup of tea. Sitting herself opposite him, she regarded him over the rim with concern. “And what about you, Harry?”
Harry shrugged and stirred sugar into his tea. He wondered with a gloomy prospect if he’d best get used to life without such things. Fine tea and sugar were two of the few luxuries the old man permitted them without grumbling, believing it good for a healthy constitution.
“I’ve promised him,” he said, his voice heavy. “So I’ll stick it out as best I can. For a while, at least. That’s assuming the old fellow gets his way.” Harry glanced up at Beryl. “From what I saw of Wilfred, I wouldn’t bank on Alistair getting what he wants on this one. After all, Wilfred just has to wait him out, now, doesn’t he? There’s nothing Alistair can do to force him to keep me on and ...” Harry set down the spoon and put his head in his hands. “If it weren’t for the fact I know it would pain him, I’d rather the bastard did refuse.”
Beryl tutted over his language, but there was understanding in her eyes.
“I don’t want to stay here,” he said, his voice thick. “Not once he’s ...” He hauled in a breath and Beryl reached over and took his hand, giving it a squeeze.
“There’ll always be a place for you with us, Harry,” she promised, her eyes so full of warmth that Harry felt his throat tighten harder still.
“Beryl,” he said, overcome that she should make such an offer.
“No,” she said, giving his hand a last pat and shaking her head. “Don’t you answer now. Wait and see. But the offer is there and made with my whole heart, and I know Reggie feels the same,” she said, her voice firm. “So don’t go off doing anything rash, will you? Promise me, Harry.”
So Harry smiled, and gave yet another promise.
Beryl hesitated, but Harry could tell there were words crowding behind her teeth and he shook his head. “Go on, spit it out before it chokes you.”
She gave him a rueful look, but her eyes were full of affection. “Clarinda,” she said simply. “Stay clear, Harry. She’s not for you. It’ll only cause you pain in the end.”
Harry snorted, tempted to tell her that horse had long since bolted, but he just nodded instead.
“I know, Beryl. Don’t fret. I know my place.”
***
Afraid to stay away too long in case the old man needed him, Harry finished his tea and hurried back to wait outside the Alistair’s study. And not a moment too soon, going on the raised voices coming from behind the door.
“Get out!”
Alistair’s voice, strident and furious, raged through the closed door and Harry gave a swift knock and entered.
“Did you call, my lord?” he demanded, knowing damn well he hadn’t and not caring a jot.
“Yes!” Alistair shouted. “Get this hog-grubber out of my sight, Harry. Turn them all out! Every last one. I’ll not have them under my roof another moment!” he thundered, banging his hand on the desk, his colour far too high for Harry’s liking.
“Very good, my lord,” Harry replied, only too happy to comply. He held the door open to Wilfred, who glanced at him with contempt before turning back to Alistair.
“You can throw me out now, my lord,” he said, a wintry look of frigid dislike in his eyes. “But not for long,” he added, as a smug smile settled on his thin lips, his expression clearly wishing Alistair six feet under with all haste.
“Mr Preston,” Harry said, his voice practically vibrating with the desire to throw the man out on his arse.
Wilfred marched out of the room as though it had been his idea and barked fo
r his wife and brother. The way everyone scurried around him - except his mother, Harry noted - made Harry determined that he should never, ever work for him in any capacity. He’d rather starve. And having done it before, that wasn’t something he said lightly.
Harry left Mr Fletcher to arrange the carriage and get them all back in, too concerned for Alistair to leave him alone any longer.
By the time he got back to the study, Alistair was looking pale and sickly and worn to a thread.
“Now you’ve done it, you old devil,” Harry scolded, fetching the hartshorn and a glass of water. “What were you thinking? Getting on your high ropes like that. You should have just rung the bell and let me throw him out instead of working yourself into a pelter.”
“Damn, black guard,” Alistair muttered, fretting at the cravat at his throat with his frail fingers. “How dare he?”
“That’s enough now, my lord,” Harry said, his voice firm as he batted Alistair’s hand away and undid the cravat which was so obviously bothering him. “They’re getting in the carriage right now and they won’t be back.”
Alistair snorted, his face bleak. “Only over my dead body,” he said, the words grim and too truthful to hold any amusement for Harry.
Harry pressed the glass of water into his hand, but the old man refused it. His breathing was fast and erratic and Harry damned Wilfred and all of his blood to hell. If the old man breathed his last in this temper, he’d go a long way to see they paid for it.
“I want Pennyworth,” Alistair said, clutching at Harry all of a sudden and with such force he was a little taken aback. “Bring him to me, Harry.”
“Alright, alright,” Harry said, his voice reassuring. “I’ll make sure he’s here first thing in the morning. You need to cool your blood now and let the rest of us catch our breath.”
“No!” Alistair said, fury sparking in his eyes all over again. “Now, Harry. I must see him now. Bring him to me, lad. Before it’s too late.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but there was something in the old fellow’s eyes that stopped him. “Alright, as you want, then,” he said, trying to swallow down the idea that Alistair knew his time was up. “But let me take you up to your room and you can shut your eyes until I bring him to you. Just to catch your breath, aye? Deal?”
Alistair snorted. “If it’ll shut you up, you blasted old woman,” he grumbled, but submitted to being carried to his room without further protest.
Harry left him on the bed, with the covers up to his neck and a fire blazing, and only stopped to get Beryl to look in on him before heading out to the stables.
To his relief, the fine carriage and horses that had belonged to Wilfred had gone, and he ignored Ramsy’s prattling about the lovely greys the man had brought. Too impatient to wait for the old fellow - who ought to have retired long since - he saddled his own horse and set out to fetch Mr Pennyworth.
To Harry’s everlasting relief, Pennyworth was just on his way out, but cancelled his previous appointment and didn’t hesitate to come with him. Though Harry said nothing, he knew his demeanour must speak volumes, and he was grateful to the man that he didn’t press him for details.
Pennyworth hurried up to Alistair with Harry, barely pausing to remove his coat and hat, though the ride had been a hard one and he was no longer a young man himself. With misgiving, Harry gave a quiet knock and opened the door, refusing to admit how relieved he was to see the old man was waiting for them with obvious impatience.
“Not dead yet, lad,” he said, giving him that toothy grin with such a wicked glint in his eyes that Harry had to laugh.
“I’m glad to hear it, after the trouble you’ve caused, you old buzzard,” he retorted, pleased to see the amusement in the old man’s face. “So here is Mr Pennyworth for you, the poor fellow still covered in dust and worn to a thread, and now you’ve had us all dancing to your tune. Satisfied?”
“Not yet, Harry,” Alistair said with a mischievous look in Pennyworth’s direction. “But I shall be soon, if you’d be so good as to give us some privacy.”
“Right you are, then,” Harry said, wondering what on earth he was up to, but determining it was none of his affair. “Mr Pennyworth, just ring the bell if you need me, sir.”
“Aye, Harry, I shall do, don’t you fret.”
So Harry nodded and left the two men to their plotting.
***
“Do you think I should go up?” Harry asked for possibly the seventh time as Beryl tutted at him.
“No,” she said, her expression placid. “Mr Pennyworth knows where you are and he’ll call if he, or his lordship, is needful of your attention.
Harry nodded and sat back down again. They’d been up there for hours already, and there were a million and one things he could be doing today, but he felt reluctant to leave. He wanted to be close by in case ... well, in case.
Glancing up at the window, he looked at the sky. The weather was sultry, with heavy clouds hovering on the horizon. A storm would roll in soon enough, good for the turnips, though, he thought with a sigh. It had been dry for a good few weeks and they could do with watering in. With regret, he realised it didn’t much matter what happened to the blasted turnips. Neither he nor Alistair would be here to see the harvest. Depression settled on him, heavy, cold and clinging like sodden wool.
With a pain that struck deep into his heart, he remembered Clarinda and the pleading in her eyes for him to do something when her father had demanded he stay away. He attempted to push the hurt of it away. No point in torturing himself over things he was never meant to have, but it lingered anyway. The loss of that dream was a heavy weight on his shoulders, a chill in his blood, and a constant ache beneath his skin. But he couldn’t pretend that Alistair would still be here and that life would go on the same any longer. Perhaps if Alistair had been a younger man and Harry’s future more secure, he could have talked the squire around, given time. Perhaps his past might have stayed buried and he could have taken a risk and done all he could to make the squire see he was worthy of his daughter.
But not now.
Everything was about to change, and he dreaded it.
For a moment, he daydreamed about running away and taking Clarinda with him to start afresh somewhere new. But then there would be a terrible scandal. She’d be estranged from her father and from society. She’d come to resent him for it, he was certain. If her father cut her off, they’d be living in squalor soon enough, and if he relented, Harry would be forced to be a kept man. Maybe he was a stubborn fool with too much pride, but the idea of being thought a grasping fortune-hunter sickened him. No matter if it wasn’t true.
He looked up at the sound of the door opening and saw Mr Pennyworth step through.
“Oh, sir, you look all in,” Reggie chided, pulling out a chair and settling him down. A moment later and he had Beryl bustling about setting a plate of fresh scones in front of the weary solicitor and putting water on to make a new pot of tea.
Harry sat up straight, not knowing what to ask as Mr Pennyworth leaned back in the chair with a groan.
“You’d best go up to him, Harry,” he said, his eyes sorrowful and full of sympathy. “He’s waiting for you.”
Harry felt a weight settle in his chest at that look and everything it implied.
“The doctor ...” Harry began but stopped as Pennyworth shook his head.
“He don’t want the doctor, Harry,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “He’s content now, you’ll see. But he wants to see you.”
He didn’t really remember getting to his feet, but the next moment, Harry found himself outside the old man’s door. He hesitated outside. He was afraid. He didn’t want to say goodbye.
Not yet.
Though he knew he was being ridiculous, he wished he’d run away from London sooner. What if he’d come here when he was just a boy? He’d have had longer, he’d have ...
He stopped himself and took a deep breath.
The old man was waiting for him.
<
br /> Harry let himself in and walked to the side of the bed, drawing the chair up close and laying his hand on Alistair’s arm. His breathing was heavy and slow, but his eyes were bright as they blinked awake and he found Harry at his side.
“Harry,” he said, grinning that tombstone smile as Harry fought to keep his composure.
“Hello, you old goat,” he said, his voice thick.
Alistair drew in a breath, the effort of it painful to watch as he closed his eyes. Harry though his own heart had stopped for a moment, but the old man rallied again.
“Promise me you’ll marry Clarinda,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper, though there was a twinkle in his eyes.
“I ... I don’t think I can promise that, sir,” Harry said, feeling his heart break with the admission and wishing he could just say that he would. But he’d never lied to the man and he wouldn’t start now. “I wish that I could, but I can’t.”
Alistair’s face fell but he came about again. “Promise you’ll try,” he insisted, his eyes full of anxiety.
Harry smiled despite himself at the old devil’s scheming and nodded. He would have made it true if it were in any way possible, so there was no harm.
“I promise to try,” he said, nodding, a wave of emotion stealing over him as he realised he was saying goodbye now.
Alistair grinned, apparently satisfied with that. “Notice to quit, lad,” he rasped as though he’d read Harry’s mind and chuckled a little though he was breathless.
“Don’t, my lord,” Harry begged as his composure slipped from his grasp, but he choked on the words, sobbing.
“Ah, now, don’t you sorrow on my account, Harry, lad,” Alistair chided, groping about for his hand. Harry took it and held tight, feeling a feeble but definite squeeze in return. “It’s as it should be.”
Harry shook his head, too emotional to speak, but childishly refusing to accept that.
“Harry,” Alistair began and Harry made himself meet the old man’s eyes even though it broke his heart. “I’ve too many regrets in my life to number them, but you ... you have never been one,” he said, the words hurried and breathless as though he knew his time was short now. “I’ve never been much of one for prayers and the like, so you tell that blasted prig preacher I want none,” he added with a hint of venom. “But ... I’ve thanked God ... for you, lad.”
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