Well, this was a pretty kettle of fish, and no mistake.
What the devil was he supposed to do now?
Chapter 18
To face it out - to persist in a falsehood
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
Harry went to bed in the same room he always slept in, despite Reggie taking him quietly aside and letting him know the master bedroom had been readied for him. The very idea gave Harry chills, like stepping into a dead man’s shoes.
“You’ll need to, sooner or later, Harry,” Reggie warned him. “It’s best if you take up the mantle right away. Keep the tongue-wagging to a minimum.”
Harry had grown wide-eyed at that. He couldn’t think of anything that would halt the flow of gossip and speculation that was likely already buzzing around the countryside like a hornet swarm. The thought of everyone talking about him made his ears grow hot, and he went to bed with a bottle of brandy in the hope of forgetting it all, for a few hours, at least.
He slept fitfully, despite the drink, and dreamed unsettling dreams of Alistair putting a hat on his head, but the wretched thing was too big and too heavy and kept slipping off into the mud. Each time it fell, Alistair got more and more annoyed until finally the hat slipped down somehow, like a collar around Harry’s neck, and grew tighter and tighter and ... He woke in a cold sweat.
He dressed in his best suit, feeling he owed the old goat that much. He didn’t know how to be a viscount, but he did know how the estate should be run, and he didn’t want the place to start sliding into further disrepair because there was no one to take charge. He would see himself as a guardian, he decided, until Wilfred proved that he really did have no claim and took the place from him.
He’d barely set foot on the stairs when Reggie called up to him.
“You have visitors, my lord,” he said, looking up at him as he made his way down.
“For God’s sake, call me Harry, Reggie,” he said, feeling like a bloody fool. “Who is it?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t Wilfred or the like, as he didn’t think he could face a repeat of that yet. His head ached from the brandy and lack of sleep, and he was hoping Beryl had calmed down enough to make him some coffee and toast.
“Squire Bow and Miss Clarinda, my lord,” Reggie replied, with just the faintest twitch of his lips.
Harry narrowed his eyes at the fellow. “I’m going to have trouble with you, aren’t I?” he said.
Reggie winked at him. “No more than the late viscount did, I should think, my lord.”
With a snort of amusement, Harry followed him to the parlour, though he could have well found it himself, and discovered himself chagrined and appalled when Reggie announced him with great pride to Squire Bow and his daughter.
“Viscount Stamford.”
Harry blushed, but he had to admit, it was rather satisfying to see the change in Squire Bow, who was practically genuflecting.
“My lord,” he said, with such reverence that Harry felt more of an imposter than ever.
“Oh, Harry,” Clarinda said, her eyes wide with wonder. “Is it really true?”
Harry hesitated. Clarinda knew that he’d been born in the slums of London, but he’d never spoken of his parents. It was possible she’d believe it was true, and he didn’t want to lie to her, but neither could he tell her the absolute truth in front of her father. That would have to wait until they could speak alone. Worse than that, though, was the hope in her eyes. Harry was by now utterly convinced that Wilfred would bring some clever lawyer in who would lay his life open wide ... and find a corpse
“It is true that I have been named heir to Stamford,” he said with care, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the ruby ring on his finger.
“Well, well, my lord,” the squire blustered, reaching out and shaking his hand, pumping Harry’s arm so hard he almost jolted it from its socket. “Tremendous news, tremendous!” he carried on, his booming voice filling the room as Harry tried hard not to wince. “We must celebrate. Tonight, eh, Clarinda?” he carried on, barely sparing a glance for his daughter, who was regarding Harry with curiosity. “Come tomorrow tonight. Say you will, my lord.”
Harry hesitated, but then Clarinda laid a hand on his arm, her expression suddenly a little shy. “Say you will, Harry. Please.”
“Of course,” he replied, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He told himself in no uncertain terms that he had no grounds to hope that she could be his. None whatsoever. Yet his heart began a strange little dance in his chest at the idea that he could have everything he wanted, if only he was brave like Alistair had wanted. But being in Clarinda’s company was a temptation he could well do without until this strange affair had played out. If he was exposed as a fraud as was only too likely, he’d not taint her by association. “I’d be delighted,” he said, all the same, not seeing any way of avoiding accepting them.
“Tremendous, tremendous!” the squire repeated, beaming at Harry. His face fell abruptly and he stepped a little closer, lowering his voice and pulling at his cravat with anxiety. “And I hope we can put that, er ... other business behind us,” he said, his jovial face taut with discomfort.
Harry almost laughed out loud. “Oh,” he said, with a thoughtful frown. “You mean ... that business of you wanting to shoot me?” he replied, finding that, kin or not, he had inherited some of Alistair’s devilry.
The squire began to bluster and fuss, jumbled words of apology, but Harry caught the reproving look that Clarinda sent him and relented.
“Water under the bridge, sir,” Harry replied with an ease he was far from feeling. “I will see you tomorrow night. But if you will excuse me, I’m afraid I have a great deal to attend to this morning.”
“Of course, of course,” the squire replied, slapping him on the back so hard that Harry’s brain felt like it jolted in his skull. He tried not to wince and smiled politely, but saw the increasingly puzzled look on Clarinda’s face as he showed them to the door. He smiled at her as best he could, and wondered what on earth he ought to do now.
Once they’d gone, he made his way to the kitchen. It was quiet now, with just Beryl, who was sitting and stripping the feathers from a plump hen.
“Roast chicken tonight?” he asked, sounding hopeful as Beryl nodded at him. It was his favourite, as she well knew, so perhaps she was trying to make amends for her strange outburst.
“There’s a fresh pot of tea,” she said, not looking up at him and not offering to pour it for him.
“Thank you,” he replied, helping himself from the big, brown teapot. He watched as she set the bird aside, picking stray feathers from her apron, before going and washing her hands. She brought a large loaf of bread to the table and cut two thick slices, pushing the plate under Harry’s nose and placing butter and jam within reach.
“Didn’t think you’d fancy eggs and bacon this morning,” she said, settling herself back down with the chicken.
“Not really, no.”
They sat in silence while Harry sipped his tea and ate a slice of bread and butter with caution, wondering if his stomach would accept it without protest. Thankfully, he felt a little better after the first slice, and so he buttered up the next and poured himself another cup.
Beryl had finished the hen and was chasing the last of the downy feathers about the kitchen.
“Usually do this outside,” she grumbled, “but it’s wet and blowy today, and I didn’t feel like it. Bad for my old bones,” she added.
“Get away with you,” he said, smiling at her. “Your old bones, indeed. Why, you’re as spry as a spring lamb.”
Beryl snorted and gave him an old-fashioned look. “I’ve told you afore, my lad,” she scolded, wagging her finger at him. “Don’t you try and cut a wheedle with me. Viscount or no,” she muttered. “It won’t fadge.”
Harry chuckled, glad that whatever fury had griped her yesterday seemed to have passed, as Reggie had said it would.
He watched her move about the kitchen for a moment before starin
g back into his teacup. Pennyworth would be here soon, but he just didn’t know what to feel about that.
Harry looked up as a hand laid upon his shoulder, and he turned to see Beryl standing behind him. “I’m sorry,” she said, her face unreadable. “It wasn’t you I was angry at, really, it’s just ...” She took a deep breath and forced a smile, which looked as fake to Harry as any of those he’d worn the past few hours.
“It was a shock,” he supplied for her as she seemed not to know what to say next.
She snorted and patted his shoulder. “That it was,” she said, her voice low, and something in her eyes that told him he wasn’t entirely forgiven, no matter her words.
***
“How much?” Harry exclaimed, feeling the colour drain from his face in a rush. His heart was beating too hard and too fast and he felt very much like he was going to be sick.
“Eighty thousand pounds, give or take,” Pennyworth repeated, saying the extraordinary figure like it wasn’t enough to give a man a seizure. “The interest on that will give you close to four thousand pounds a year, though, of course, with proper management,” he carried on with an approving smile at Harry. “Stamford itself should be able to bring in a tidy sum. But you’ll be wanting to invest in the place, I imagine, make improvements. I’ve actually taken the liberty in drawing up some notices to be placed. You’ll be needing men to repair buildings, work the fields, and stock men for the cattle and sheep, oh, and gardeners, of course.” Pennyworth continued listing provisions and staff that would be required, and Harry recognised all of the plans he’d divulged to the man, hoping between them that they could persuade Alistair to find some enthusiasm for them, too. “Oh, and I brought these as well. Arrived this morning,” he said with a chuckle, pushing seed catalogues and various leaflets about the latest in farm equipment towards him across the desk.
Harry stared down at them, the first tentative seed of hope daring to take root in his belly. He could really do everything he’d dreamed of. All of his plans could become reality if he stayed and simply ... pretended.
The longing for it hit him hard and fast and with such clarity that he caught his breath.
He could marry Clarinda.
He could make Stamford the place he knew it ought to be.
He could be happy.
There was a knock at the door and Pennyworth paused for breath, glancing at Harry, who took a moment to realise it was for him to respond.
“Come in,” he called, feeling strange as Reggie came in bearing a letter.
“Just arrived for you, my lord. I didn’t like to interrupt, but it looked important.”
Harry nodded and broke the seal. The top of the letter was illustrated with great flourishes with the name of a grand London legal firm. He didn’t bother reading it and instead handed it straight to Pennyworth.
Reggie and Pennyworth exchanged a glance before Reggie gave him a nod and slipped discreetly out of the room. Harry watched as Pennyworth’s scowl grew ever darker.
“What is it?” Harry demanded with growing misgiving.
“Nothing we didn’t expect, my lord,” he said, glowering. “They’re contesting the will, and until the case has been investigated, the assets will be held in probate.”
“Which means I can’t touch them, I take it?”
Pennyworth nodded, not looking up from the letter and cursing.
“Oh God, what else?” Harry demanded.
Pennyworth looked up at him with sympathy. “The family insist on staying on the estate until the matter is settled. To ...” Pennyworth looked torn between embarrassment and fury, and Harry decided to help him out as he obviously didn’t like to say.
“To ensure I don’t steal the family silver?” Harry suggested.
Pennyworth made a sound of disgust. “That’s about the size of it, my lord.”
“When do they come?”
“In two days.”
***
Harry was disgustingly drunk. He knew he was, and he knew he probably oughtn’t be, but dammit, a man could only take so much. He’d skulked into Alistair’s study, feeling like a naughty child trespassing in the grown-ups domain, and started the evening by polishing off the last of the old man’s brandy. Then he’d headed into the cellar, astonished by how much was actually stored down there, as he’d never really taken much notice, such things being Reggie’s responsibility. Still, it hadn’t been hard to find a couple more bottles, and he’d made good inroads into the first already. He thought he might not survive if he finished the second, too, and couldn’t for the life of him decide if this was a good or a bad thing.
According to Pennyworth, it might be some weeks before a court case could be presented, and in the meantime, he’d have to live with Satan’s spawn and the spawns’ mother.
The thought made him want to finish the second bottle.
He’d wandered outside, though it was dark now, and stumbled through the blackness to Alistair’s grave. Once there, he sat down, though the grass was sodden and it was still raining, a fine, mizzling, drizzling discontented kind of rain that seemed to soak through his clothes in short order and freeze the marrow in his bones.
“Well, you old goat,” he slurred, raising the bottle to the grave and taking a deep pull. “You’ve certainly caused a rumpus. Pity you ain’t ...” Harry paused, frowning as he realised that his accent had slipped and that wasn’t correct, and then belched before carrying on. “Pity you aren’t here to see it.” Draining the bottle, Harry threw it to one side and braced his head in his hands. “Oh, Lord, Alistair. What have you done?”
He didn’t know how long he stayed there in the rain and the mud, wretched and lonely and miserable. He wanted to run to Clarinda and pour out the whole sorry story and have her tell him she didn’t care. To hear her say she’d love him no matter what, no matter who he was, no matter what he’d done.
Hauling in a breath, he knew it was hopeless. But he didn’t want to let the old man down, wanted more than anything that it was true and he could refer to the old devil as his father. But he didn’t want weeks of the Preston’s sneering and vindictiveness. Didn’t want them poking around and turning up things about him he’d rather no one knew. Especially Clarinda. If they looked hard enough, they’d find that Harry Browning had been convicted for a number of petty crimes, all of them thieving, and that was by far from the worst of it.
Oh God, he didn’t want to hang.
By the time he’d roused himself enough to move, he was so cold that his teeth were chattering. Another lovely English summer, he muttered to himself, stumbling over something in the yard and crashing to the ground. Swearing and shivering, he made his way to the kitchen door and burst in, heading towards the fire and dripping all over Beryl’s clean floor. With little elegance, he collapsed in a soggy heap.
She’d have his hide in the morning, no doubt.
He was beginning to feel really rather unwell now, dizzy and sick and freezing cold one moment, boiling the next.
“What in the name of all that’s holy?” came a disapproving voice from behind him.
With chagrin, he looked around and through bleary eyes made out the fuzzy figure of Beryl.
“H’lo,” he slurred, waving a hand at her.
“Good Lord,” she exclaimed, the disapproval growing exponentially. “You’re drunk as an emperor.”
Harry shook his head, wagging a finger at her, though it seemed to take a deal of effort. “Not an empa ... empor ... empra ... Not one of those,” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. “A viscount,” he said, and then gave a hiccuping sort of laugh before laying backwards on the floor with a groan.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Beryl snapped, galvanised into action. “Don’t think you’re sleeping there and throwing up all over my nice, clean floor.”
With a fair amount of effort, she forced him to sit up again. “Goodness, but you’re soaked through,” she snapped, sounding impatient with him. “Come on, then, off with those clothes, you silly de
vil. I’ll fetch a blanket to cover your dignity,” she added, scurrying off while Harry tried in vain to strip off his sodden coat.
By the time she’d returned, he’d given up and lain back down again.
With a fair amount of cursing (which Beryl was surprisingly adept at), a lot of effort, and some time later, they managed to divest him of coat, waistcoat, and shirt.
Beryl muttered to herself as she laid his clothes out by the fire to dry, and then returned to drape the blanker over his shoulders.
“What’s that?” she asked, her voice faint and shocked as she noticed the dreadful scar on his arm.
Harry turned his head, looking at the ugly, ropey mass of tortured skin, a thick line that ran from the top of his arm, diagonally across his shoulder.
“My uncle did that,” he said, feeling sickened again as he stared into the fire and remembered Joe pulling the poker from the burning embers, remembered the searing pain, the stench of his own flesh burning, and then nothing much more for days after, as the wound got infected and he drifted into fever. It was a miracle he’d survived.
“Oh, H-Harry,” she said, her voice far away and full of pain for him. “You ... you poor boy.”
Harry closed his eyes, touched by the gentleness of her words and appalled by the fear that he might actually cry. But the memory of it all, of the horror and the pain and the sheer terror of Joe screaming abuse at him, had stirred his already delicate guts. He tried to scramble to his feet, intending to head for the door to throw up outside instead of sullying Beryl’s kitchen, but his legs wouldn’t co-operate and he stumbled. Knowing he would infuriate her by acting so badly, he forced himself to his feet, sure he wouldn’t make it until Beryl thrust a large bowl into his hands and guided him to a chair by the table.
“Here lad, it’s alright,” she said, as he relieved himself of the contents of his stomach.
Once he was done, she took the bowl away and Harry laid his head in his hands with a groan, utterly mortified.
“Come on now, my lord,” she said, her voice soft as she put the blanket back round his shoulders. “Let’s get you to bed.”
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