“At once, my lord.”
They found Mildred already seated by the fire, humming to herself as she concentrated on a little embroidery frame.
“My lord,” she said with real pleasure, her sweet face breaking into a smile as Harry entered the room.
“Mildred,” Harry said to her, holding back a grin. “You have a visitor.”
“Me?” Mildred replied, her face one of such astonishment that Harry experienced a stab of sorrow for everything she must have endured over the years since she married Edwin. The squire cleared his throat, his ruddy face grave and awkward as he thrust the flowers in front of him.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, and that you have found yourself caught up in this ... this dreadful situation. Mrs Preston,” the squire said, and Harry was pleased to see real sincerity in the man’s eyes, “I just wanted you to know that if there is anything ... anything at all you need, any help we can offer, that I and my daughter Clarinda would be only too happy to oblige you.”
Mildred looked up at the squire, her pale eyes wide and full of surprise. She took the flowers from him, holding them with care and staring at them as though he’d given her a diamond necklace.
“Why, Squire Bow,” she said, her voice quiet and breathless. “What ... what a kind man you are ... how ... how thoughtful ...” Her eyes filled with tears, glittering as she blinked too rapidly, and she leapt to her feet. “I ... I must put these in water,” she stammered before rushing from the room.
The squire stared after her in horror. “What ...” he began in alarm, his jovial face full of anxiety. “I ... I didn’t mean to upset the poor woman.”
“You can be easy on that count,” Harry said, laying a hand on his shoulder in a soothing manner. He explained a little about how Edwin had treated his wife, watching as the squire swelled with fury and outrage. “So you see, she is unused to being treated kindly, and your flowers will have meant a great deal to her.”
The squire stalked the room, his rage palpable. “My God, if the fellow weren’t dead, I’d murder him again,” he said, clutching his hat so tightly in one ham-sized fist that Harry suspected it would be ruined.
“Papa!” Clarinda exclaimed, eyes wide. “Watch what you say, for heaven’s sake.”
The squire grunted and sat down, though he was still seething with agitation. “To think of a delicate creature like Mrs Preston, mistreated in such a way ... well ... it ... it fair makes my blood boil.”
“Yes, Papa,” Clarinda said, smiling at him with affection. “We can see that, and it does you credit.” She paused for a moment, and then with a nonchalant tone added, “Why not pop down to the kitchens? She’ll no doubt be in one of the back rooms arranging your lovely flowers. Ask her to take a turn around the garden with you. I’m sure it would do her the world of good.”
Harry watched as this idea took root and the squire nodded. “I will,” he said, pulling his extravagant figure and, with it, a truly startling waistcoat upright with haste. “I’ll do that.”
Once the door shut on them, Harry turned to Clarinda. “Matchmaking?”
She returned an impish grin. “Good Lord, yes,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. “My life will be so much easier once he has a wife to fuss over, and Mildred is a dear. I think it’s perfect.”
“And Edwin not yet cold,” Harry said, tutting and shaking his head in a grave manner that clearly didn’t fool her for a moment.
“Oh, pooh,” she said with a sniff, arranging her skirts with a dignified air. “The man was a monster. Poor Mildred needs some love and affection, and papa needs someone to take care of, to lavish gifts on, and to wrap in cotton wool - instead of me! Can you think of a better arrangement?” she demanded.
“No, dear,” Harry said, grinning at her and wondering if they would be left alone long enough for him to kiss her. “I bow to your judgement.”
“Wise man,” she murmured as he leaned in. They sprang apart as a quiet knock sounded at the door.
“Come,” Harry replied with a scowl.
Reggie entered the room with an apologetic expression. “Forgive the interruption, my lord, but this just arrived.”
He presented Harry with a letter, the enthusiastic scrawl of writing on the direction which he recognised as belonging to Mr Pennyworth. Tearing open the seal, he read the brief missive and let out a sigh.
“He’ll be here late this afternoon,” he said, catching Reggie’s look of relief at his words. “Well, don’t look too happy yet,” he said, his tone dark. “We don’t know what he’s got to say.”
Reggie returned an injured expression. “Mr Pennyworth will not do anything to jeopardise Stamford Place and Alistair’s Preston’s heir,” he said with considerable heat.
Harry looked back at him with surprise. “I never suggested it, Reggie,” he said, wondering why the man was so annoyed. “But he works for the title, not the man, as he’s so fond of reminding us, and we both know I’m no blood relative, in truth.”
“Hush, Harry,” Clarinda whispered to him as Reggie drew himself up to his full height, such as it was. He favoured Harry with such a quelling look that he felt his ears burn.
“I know nothing of the sort,” he said with hauteur. “Alistair Preston said you were his son. You are Viscount Preston, my lord, and always will be. Now, if you will excuse me.”
He left the room with a sweep of indignation and closed the door in a manner that further illustrated his displeasure.
“Oh, dear,” Clarinda said, biting her lip and looking up at Harry with big eyes. “I think you’ve offended him.”
“Offended who?” Baden enquired as he strolled into the room in his wake.
“Don’t you ever knock?” Harry said in frustration as the man sprawled out in one of the chairs.
“Oh, was I interrupting a little tête-a-tête?” he asked, stretching his arms behind his head and returning a good natured grin.
“I should be so lucky,” Harry muttered, getting to his feet. “But now that you’re here, you’d best go and tell the rest of the family the news. Mr Pennyworth will be here late this afternoon with the results of his investigations.”
Baden sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Oh? What does he say?”
Harry cast him an impatient look. “How the devil should I know? He didn’t say in the letter. You should know that he won’t say a word unless it’s before all of us.”
“True,” Baden said with a grimace. “Wilfred’s not up yet; that Brewer fellow said he’s not up to snuff this morning.” He gave a snort of disgust. “I’ll bet it’s worrying over the succession that’s troubling him, though, not the loss of our dear brother.”
“They didn’t get on?” Harry queried.
Baden pulled a face. “Edwin always did Wilfred’s bidding, but he was a toady, which Wilfred despised.” Baden paused as if really considering their relationship for the first time. “Edwin always resented that Wilfred was the eldest, I think,” he said, looking up at Harry. “Though he always treated Wilfred respectfully to his face, I don’t doubt he’d have stabbed him in the back if the opportunity arose.” He sat forward and put his head in his hands with a groan. “Oh Lord, I hope it’s you, Harry. I don’t think I could bear it, having Wilfred lord it over me for the rest of his days.”
“Even if you’d inherit in the end?” Harry demanded with the lift of one eyebrow.
Baden glanced up with a snort of amusement, though Harry thought he looked a little hurt. “Still don’t believe me, eh?” He shook his head, regarding Harry with a quizzical expression. “Suppose I can’t blame you. Having people trying to knock you on the head can make you suspicious, I imagine.”
Harry gave a huff of acknowledgement. “It’s not just that, though,” he said, staring at Baden with the admission and wondering if he was really everything he seemed to be. “It’s just that I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want it, I suppose.”
There was a sharp bark of laughter and Baden almost doubled over with mirth, wip
ing his eyes. “Oh, Lord, Harry. If you can look at this crumbling old mausoleum with such rose-tinted glasses, then you truly do deserve it.”
“It isn’t crumbling!” Harry snapped at him, growing ever more impatient as Baden just returned a faintly pitying expression.
“All right, old fellow, if you say so,” Baden said as though he were soothing an over excited child.
He turned to Clarinda for support to find a fond and indulgent expression coming at him from that quarter. “Harry, I love Stamford, you know I do. It’s beautiful and romantic and ancient, but you must admit, there’s a deal of work to be done.”
“Of course I admit it,” he replied, stung by the implication he was blind to the enormous task before him, assuming it was ever his to tackle. “But that doesn’t mean it’s crumbling.”
Clarinda leapt to her feet and ran to clutch at his arm, staring at him with such love and affection, his objections seemed to melt away. “Of course it isn’t, dearest. I just mean that I can see why Baden shouldn’t want it. It needs someone who truly loves it, all of it. The good and the bad, the responsibility and the burden of securing its future.” She stopped and stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “It needs you, Harry,” she whispered.
Harry huffed out a breath, mollified by her words. He tucked her hand in his arm and gave her a rueful smile. “Well, then,” he said, hoping she couldn’t see the fear that was making his heart pound in a rather sickening manner. “We’d best hope Mr Pennyworth has good news for me.”
***
Despite protests from Wilfred and Mariah that they were not family and should not be present, Harry overruled any complaints and insisted that the squire and Clarinda stay. He needed the support of both Clarinda and her father nearby if things went his way and he had to fight his corner, and if things didn’t ... if they didn’t, he needed them to hear it first-hand.
The idea of having to go to Clarinda afterwards and admit he had next to nothing and few prospects ...
He couldn’t do it.
He watched as Reggie fussed around the desk, helping Mr Pennyworth settle himself and his papers, the two of them chatting in low voices as the rest of the room became increasingly fractious. Once satisfied that the lawyer had everything he required, Harry saw a smile pass between them that puzzled him a little. Surely Pennyworth wouldn’t have given anything away? He was too much the professional for that.
Reggie took his place beside his wife. The two of them had also been allowed admittance by Harry, which naturally infuriated Wilfred further still. His wife, Norah, had already taken her seat, her lovely face looking haggard and drawn this morning. She was staring into space with a vacant expression, occasionally taking sips from a silver hip flask and not bothering to be discreet about it, either. Harry thought it likely she was already drunk.
Wilfred ignored her completely, which seemed to be his usual practise. His thin face was sweaty by now, and he looked grey and unwell, to the point that Harry suggested he sit down with Norah, instead of striding around the room as he was at present. This suggestion was met with cold disdain and a vitriolic remark about Harry’s parentage that made Harry get to his feet.
“That will be quite enough of that, sir!” the squire bellowed in fury before Harry could speak. “I’ll not have such language in front of my daughter.”
“Then I suggest you remove her,” Wilfred replied, his thin lips drawn back in a sneer. “No,” the squire replied with a hard look of his own and a tone that brooked no argument. “She’ll be mistress of Stamford soon enough, and so she’ll stand by her intended.”
Harry groaned inwardly as Wilfred looked apoplectic, now.
“Over my dead body!” he raged, looking as though he was contemplating the risks involved in calling the squire out.
The squire, who as Harry knew was a very fine shot, returned a broad grin that implied he dare him to try it.
“Good Lord, don’t tempt fate, you bloody fool, Wilfred,” Baden snapped at him, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Fate?” Mariah cried, adding her shrill voice to the rising melee of sound. “He’s directing the hand of fate,” she shrieked, once again pointing the finger at Harry. “He murdered my boy,” she sobbed, her vast bosom heaving.
“He did no such thing,” Clarinda snapped back in fury.
“Oh, good God,” Harry muttered, moving between Clarinda and the spawn’s mother before all hell broke loose.
“Gentlemen, ladies!” The voice of Mr Pennyworth cut through the increasingly fraught atmosphere and everyone fell silent. “If you would please control yourselves in a manner befitting your station,” he said with indignation.
“You may sit on the floor, then,” Wilfred said to Harry with a nasty smile as Mariah laughed.
Harry controlled his temper with difficulty, though it was easier as Clarinda laid her hand over his, keeping him steady. He turned back to her, wishing he could tell her what she meant to him, what it would mean to him to lose her, but there were no words that could cover the vast and terrifying emotion that bloomed in his chest at the very idea. She stared back at him as the pain twisted like a knife.
“Clara,” he said, the word barely a whisper but full of longing for everything he’d ever dreamt of.
“Whatever happens, Harry,” she whispered, clutching at his hand. “It changes nothing. I love you.”
Harry tried to smile back, but found he couldn’t. She could say the words easy enough, but she was wrong no matter what was in her heart.
It would change everything.
Mr Pennyworth cleared his throat and began to speak.
“As you know, I have been consulting with my colleagues and have also visited the House of Lords to make sure that the letter of the law has been carried out during the course of this investigation into the correct disposition of the title and estates of Stamford Place.” He paused then, looking around the room as if he dared anyone to contradict him after the efforts he’d made. “All of the relevant documents, copies of the originals, I might add,” he said with a dark tone, “are here for you to regard at your leisure, along with signed papers from my colleagues stating their opinion on the legality of the documents provided by the late Viscount Stamford, Lord Alistair Preston.”
Pennyworth paused again, and Harry had the fleeting and rather uncharitable idea that Pennyworth would have done well on the stage as the entire room seemed to hold its collective breath. “The results of my investigations,” he continued, his voice becoming a little more strident with each word, “are that the original claim holds. Harold Thompson is heir to Stamford Place and is the rightful Viscount Stamford.”
Chapter 29
It’s high water with him - he is full of money
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
The room exploded.
Harry was numb with shock, enveloped in the scene around him, but strangely removed from it. He had never before been aware that so few people could make such a cacophonous sound. It seemed to swell in his ears and burst through his chest. The squire was beaming, his ruddy face more florid than ever as he pumped Harry’s hand with enthusiasm. Clarinda was crying, blowing her nose on her father’s copious handkerchief as Beryl and Reggie huddled around him, fit to burst, but none of that could bury the sound of Wilfred’s fury.
“What about our witness?” Wilfred demanded, banging his fist on the desk in front of Pennyworth. To Harry’s admiration, Pennyworth didn’t even flinch.
“After a deal of investigation, it was proven that the woman could not have been mother to the present Lord Preston, seeing as she spent most of the year he was born in the Marshalsea prison, and no record of a birth was to be found,” Pennyworth said with dignity. “So I should deny knowledge of that line of enquiry as being anything but your brother, Mr Preston’s, lest his lordship feels the need to take further action.”
By this point, Wilfred was beside himself, any tenuous grip on his temper long gone as he ranted at Pennyworth
that he was a crook and a charlatan. Before Harry could shake himself out of his stupor to intervene, Reggie had insinuated himself between the two of them. The little man stood up to Wilfred, eyes flashing fury, and demanding with arctic tones that Mr Preston control himself and hold his tongue before someone knocked him down.
Sadly, this did not have the desired effect, as Wilfred, to everyone’s surprise, threw himself at Reggie, fists flying. Harry leapt forward and managed to wrangle the man away, but not before Reggie suffered a neat blow to his right temple. He went down with Pennyworth howling at Harry that Wilfred needed to be locked up, as Harry struggled to hold on to the increasingly frenzied figure struggling in his grasp.
Except then he wasn’t struggling at all.
Wilfred gasped, fighting for breath as all the tension seemed to leave his body at once, and he collapsed. Harry lowered him down, shouting for help as Mariah began to scream.
He pulled at the man’s cravat, hoping to give him air as Wilfred’s face grew a deathly shade, his lips turning blue.
“Don’t you dare,” Harry growled. “Don’t you bloody dare!” He looked up, seeing Clarinda’s horrified eyes meet his. “Call a doctor,” he instructed.
***
It was inevitable that Mr Formby arrived in the middle of the chaos. In truth, Harry was grateful for it, relieved to have someone else take over what remained of the Preston family, as he didn’t want to go near them.
He’d persuaded the squire to take Clarinda home, though the young lady had voiced strong objections to the idea, stating that he needed her support. The squire was obviously torn between agreeing with this and protecting his daughter from the terrible atmosphere lingering around Stamford at present. In the end, fatherly concern won out and he persuaded her home with a promise that she could return in the morning.
The doctor had sedated Mariah and had given his opinion that Wilfred had suffered an apoplexy and was now paralysed as a result of this. How permanent the paralysis was would take time to judge and a great deal of careful nursing. The doctor also gave his opinion that it had been of completely natural cause and brought about by an excess of temper and emotion.
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