by JL Merrow
Or perhaps it was merely the father’s heritage? Philip had shivered upon seeing him properly for the first time. Daniel Costessey was the image of his father, although there was more of a softness about the young man’s features, and his hands, too, had a delicacy that Costessey senior’s had lacked. But the mop of unruly dark curls, the stubble that showed even on a freshly shaven chin, and the full mouth that seemed but a breath away from laughter even in repose, those were all unmistakably from the paternal line.
And those shoulders, and that darkly haired chest—why the Devil hadn’t Mrs. Standish dressed him decently in pajamas after Newton had strapped his ribs? Philip drew a deep breath. It wasn’t decent, where a maid might walk in at any moment.
Robert’s teasing voice filled his mind. “You pay far too much mind to accepted notions of propriety, Lux!” Lord, how Philip missed him. They’d been everything to one another, ever since that first day as awkward undergraduates at Balliol. Well, Philip had been awkward. Robert, of course, had been in complete mastery of the situation. The first time Philip had seen him, he’d been holding forth in the bar upon some Eton exploit that had had all those present in stitches. A Winchester man himself, Philip hadn’t been particularly disposed to like Robert upon first sight, but like everyone else, he’d been won over by Robert’s easy charm. By Lent, they’d become inseparable, and the following summer had seen an invitation to Robert’s estate in Herefordshire and an introduction to his mother.
Philip’s blood chilled suddenly. The bell not producing an instant response, he strode to the door and flung it open. “Standish?” he yelled. Propriety be damned.
“Yes, sir?” There was a world of reproach in those watery eyes.
Philip coughed. “Costessey’s mother. She must visit him. At once, you understand?”
Lord, where did servants learn to keep such poker faces? “Very good, sir,” Standish replied after the barest possible pause, and he departed.
* * *
Danny was bored. It’d been nice to see his mam, although she’d ripped into him good and proper for risking life and limb like that, just as he’d thought she would. She’d told him Drayton had taken her the rabbits, after all. Danny had wondered if the old bugger was going soft in the head. Of course, as he’d wondered that aloud, it’d nearly earned him a clip round the ear for swearing until his mam had remembered his broken head.
She hadn’t stayed long, though. Well, it was only so long she could leave young Toby to mind his sisters, wilful little creatures that they were. She’d told him to get well soon and not play any more daft tricks. Before she left, she wished him a happy Christmas, the mask not slipping until the end where she looked so worn down by troubles Danny reckoned he deserved two broken legs for adding to them.
But now he’d been left alone with his guilt and his aches for, well, he didn’t know how long, but it felt like a week or more. So when Luccombe walked in carrying a small stack of books, Danny flashed him a big grin in welcome even though the top volume was clearly a Dickens.
Luccombe coughed. “I, ah, thought you might welcome some reading material. I’d have brought you the Times, but I felt that in the circumstances something lighter might be indicated.”
“Very kind of you, sir,” Danny told him. Funny how different people could be when you met them properly. He’d always heard Luccombe was a bit strange, but he seemed all right as far as Danny could tell. Word in the village was that he’d gone off his rocker after the war, which was barmy when you thought about it, him not having fought since being wounded in 1915. Danny reckoned he was just a bit nervous. High-strung. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, when it realized what was coming. Danny liked to stroke them until the shivering eased, before he wrung their necks. Him and his family had to eat, but it didn’t mean he had to be cruel about it.
Luccombe was standing there, still holding the books, so Danny reached out a hand. Luccombe sort of startled, making Danny think of small frightened creatures again, and hastily handed him the stack of books.
“There’s a Dickens, there, and some Conan Doyle—I didn’t really know what you’d like, I’m afraid.”
“Not much for Dickens, tell the truth.” Danny grinned again. “Schoolmaster made us read Hard Times when I was a lad, and it bloody was and all.”
Luccombe smiled a little in response, and Danny realized with a shock that he was actually quite attractive, in his way. The smile seemed to change his whole face, making him seem less like a mole blinking in the daylight and more like, well, a young man. “Don’t worry, I’ve brought you the Christmas books. Much lighter fare. I, ah, I’ve always found them quite comforting.” Luccombe turned abruptly to look out of the window.
“Wouldn’t have thought you’d need much comforting, living in a place like this.” Danny kept his tone light.
Luccombe had his back fully to Danny now. “I’m afraid the Christmas season doesn’t hold very good memories for me.” His back, as he spoke, was ramrod straight, but something in his voice betrayed him. Luccombe turned suddenly, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I suppose you’re used to it being quite a jolly time, being part of a large family, I mean.”
Danny didn’t reckon Luccombe would be very interested in hearing how hard it had been since his Da died. “Oh, aye, there’s plenty of us, right enough. Me and my brother Toby—he’s just turned ten this year, he’s a good lad—and the three girls.”
Luccombe turned at last. He looked relieved at the change in subject. “When I was a boy, I always wished for a brother. It’s quite lonely, being an only child.”
Danny shrugged and then hissed in pain at what the motion did to his ribs. “Should’ve had two more, Mam says, but they both died their first year. Harold, the first one was called. Died of the measles before he could crawl. The second one didn’t last an hour. Cried once, Mam said, and then he died. That was Robert.”
Danny stared at Luccombe’s suddenly stricken look.
“I- I must be going,” Luccombe mumbled, and he left the room without another word.
Danny watched after him, bemused. Why had Luccombe looked so shocked? Babies died; everyone knew that. Or was it the mention of the name Robert? It was a common enough name. Danny chewed his lip in thought. It meant something to Luccombe, that was for sure.
Remembering this time not to shrug, Danny gave up his wondering and opened up the topmost book.
* * *
Unsettled by his visit to Costessey and berating himself for ending it in such a bizarre fashion, Philip found himself unable to settle to his correspondence. Coming to an uncharacteristically quick decision, he flung open the door of his study and strode to the hall closet, where he stared in dismay at an unfamiliar array of dusty gabardines.
“Sir?” It was Standish. Philip fought the urge to snap at the man for creeping up on him like that.
“Damn it, man, where is my greatcoat?”
Standish stared at him mutely. “Your greatcoat, sir?”
“Yes, Standish, my greatcoat. I wish to go out. For a walk. And a muffler,” Philip added after a pause. “It’ll be cold out there, won’t it?”
Standish looked for a moment as if he were about to say something else, but he caught himself before anything untoward could be uttered. “Very good, sir,” he said respectfully, and then he was gone.
Philip paced impatiently until the man returned a few minutes later, laden with woollen garments that smelled strongly of mothballs. Philip swallowed. Damn it, had it really been so long since he’d gone out for a walk? He’d always loved taking the air when Robert had been here, showing him the places he’d played as a child and enjoying the beauty of the estate together, Robert as like or not quoting some verse or other to him. A memory of one day in particular came to him, and Robert’s teasing voice:
“Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,
Casting the body’s vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does
glide”
He’d laid his own emphasis on certain of Marvell’s words and had them both in fits. Philip’s hand shook just a little as he seized the errant greatcoat. It hung a little loose on his frame but was otherwise just as he remembered it. The bright blue muffler, he remembered that too. It had been a present from his aunt the year his mother died. Robert had mocked him fondly, saying it made him look like an overdressed snowman.
They’d been so happy. With a shock, Philip realized there was the ghost of a smile upon his face. Perhaps… perhaps it was time he stopped trying to forget, after all. With a determined air, he wound the muffler around his neck and stepped outside.
Everything seemed much brighter than he remembered it. Brighter, and crisper too, as if the day had been freshly laundered and starched just for him. The crunching of the snow underfoot seemed absurdly loud, and Philip was acutely conscious of the sighing of the wind through the trees and the song of those birds brave enough to stay at home for the winter.
It wasn’t hard to find the tree that had so nearly claimed young Costessey’s life. It stood in state in a little clearing, as if all the other trees were too awed by its majesty to approach. More than one branch, however, was broken, and the snow about its trunk was begrimed and trampled by the boots of Costessey’s saviors.
The clump of mistletoe still hung mockingly out of reach. Philip had a sudden vicious urge to have it cut down and burned. To think that young Costessey might have died for this. And damn it, what had he been thinking of in any case, to attempt such a feat in the pitch black and freezing weather to boot? Even had he not fallen, he could have caught a chill. And Lord knew, it was easy enough for such things to become serious before one knew it. Philip hugged himself. Robert’s mother had been right; Philip should have taken more care of him.
But he hadn’t known, damn it. Neither of them had. They’d thought that with armistice reached, the worst was over.
Feeling the cold seep through to his very bones, Philip turned and trudged back towards the house.
* * *
“Who’s Robert?” Danny asked as Mrs. Standish plumped his pillows, having brought him some broth. He had a strong suspicion she’d taken a shine to him despite herself. After all, there were plenty of maids who could have brought him his supper.
“Who’s been talking about Robert?” she asked sharply.
Good. He’d guessed right. “Mr. Luccombe mentioned him.”
She heaved a heavy sigh. “That was Mr. Luccombe’s friend from Oxford.” She paused and put her hands upon her ample hips, fixing him with a searching look. “I’m surprised he said anything to you about his friend.”
There was a strange emphasis on the word friend that set Danny’s mind to racing. “Has Mr. Luccombe got any friends that come to stay now?” Danny asked innocently.
“And what business would that be of yours, Daniel Costessey?”
Danny flashed her a winning smile. Leastways, it always worked wonders on Mrs. Cobb at the bakers when money was tight and they needed some credit. “He seems lonely, that’s all.”
Mrs. Standish gave Danny a long, hard look that took in every detail of his bare, bandaged chest and his two-day stubble. “Not so lonely as he wouldn’t be very particular in what company he keeps, young Daniel Costessey, and I’ll thank you to keep that in mind.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean, Mrs. Standish,” Danny told her, sinking back into the pillows with a grin.
* * *
Philip went to see Danny again after dinner. It had been a lonely business, as ever, dining alone at a table large enough to seat twelve with ease, and he’d felt the need for some company afterwards. Odd, how he had managed perfectly well for several years without a companion but now seemed to crave society of an evening.
Costessey looked pleased to see him, which was gratifying, although Philip reminded himself that the man would most likely have been equally pleased with the company of the boot boy or the scullery maid. Still, he found himself answering Costessey’s broad smile with a hesitant one of his own.
“How are you getting on with the books?” Philip asked, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Oh, they’re grand, sir. You’re right about Christmas Carol, it’s a far cry from Hard Times. I’ve had to lay them down for a bit, though. My head was starting to ache.”
Philip leaned forward, concerned. Without stopping to think what he was doing he laid a hand on Costessey’s forehead. It felt mercifully cool, and Philip breathed a little more easily. Suddenly he recollected himself and snatched his hand away, walking briskly to the window to examine the darkness beyond. “You don’t appear feverish, but if you wish I could fetch Mrs. Standish.”
“No, sir, there’s no call to bother Mrs. S. I’m just not used to spending so long looking at books is all. It’ll pass.”
“Oh, of course,” Philip said vaguely. Most likely Costessey didn’t have a lot of leisure in his day for reading, in the ordinary course of events. It seemed odd, somehow. All Philip had was leisure.
“But won’t you sit down, sir? Can’t offer you a chair, seeing as there are none, but there’s room and to spare on the bed.”
Philip turned and hesitated. Would it be proper? He felt his face grow hot. He was being an idiot. Obviously there was nothing untoward in his simply perching upon the edge of another man’s bed—and him an invalid to boot. A normal man, such as Costessey himself, would think nothing of it. Hoping his manner did not betray his absurd agitation, Philip sat down gingerly.
He cast about for something to say. “So, ah, mistletoe. Why on earth did you take such a risk? Were you hoping to sell it?” Lord, that was an idiotic thing to say. Remind Costessey that he was at the mercy of the man whose grounds he’d come to plunder. Not that Philip gave a fig for that, of course, but Costessey wasn’t to know that.
He didn’t seem particularly abashed, though. “No, that was to be for my mam. She’s always loved having a bit of mistletoe in the house come Christmas. Says it reminds her of how she met my Da.”
“Oh? That was at Christmas? At a dance, I suppose?”
“There, sir, you’d be supposing wrong. See, she was the second chambermaid here, back when old Mr. Luccombe was alive, God rest him. Maybe you’d remember her? Right pretty she was, by all accounts.”
Philip shook his head absently. He’d never really paid much attention to the chambermaids.
“Any road, she’d been sent to ask the men to cut some mistletoe for the hall, here. And it happened it was my Da sent to get it for her. Now, Da being Da, he tells her she’s to come with him to get it. So he takes her out into the woodland, out to that very oak tree I came a cropper on. Course, I reckon it’s grown a bit since then,” he added, grinning.
It seemed to be infectious. “So I suppose he shinned up the tree and fetched the mistletoe, whereupon she was duly impressed and agreed to let him court her?”
Costessey’s grin had turned wicked. “Well, she never did go into detail, mind. But they were wed the following Easter, and I was born in time for harvest that year.”
Philip was arrested by an image of what had probably occurred beneath that oak tree, eighteen—no, nineteen—years ago. Lord, hadn’t it been a bit, well, cold? He looked at the young man lying on the bed and was struck anew by how like his father he was. But softer, somehow. Kinder.
And now, looking at Philip with an odd expression on his face. Philip cleared his throat and hastened to change the subject. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how do you trap rabbits?” Costessey gave him a sidelong look, and Philip smiled apologetically. “Say, for instance, you were out and about upon the common, and you happened to fancy catching a rabbit.”
Costessey grinned. “I’d have poor pickings on the common, sir.”
“Oh! You needn’t call me ‘sir’ all the time. Luccombe will do. Or,” here Philip felt a thrill of… something, “you could call me Philip. After all, it’s just the two of us here.”
/> “Much obliged to you, sir, but I’m thinking Mrs. Standish would box my ears if she happened to hear me calling you by your Christian name. And my mam would have my hide and all.”
“But really, there’s no need to be quite so formal,” Philip protested.
“Well then, how about I call you Mr. Luccombe, and you can call me Danny, if you’ve a mind to?” There was a teasing light in those black eyes of his.
Philip smiled. “Well, then, Danny, will you tell me how you’d go about catching rabbits? In, er, some hypothetical place that was well-stocked with the creatures? I mean,” he added hastily, not wishing to appear totally ignorant of country practice, “I’ve seen the men at it, of course, with nets and dogs. But that’s always struck me as rather a noisy business, and besides, you don’t have a dog, do you?”
“No, I’ve no dog, nor did my Da.” Danny hesitated a moment. “Would you have known my Da, Mr. Luccombe?”
Philip felt a little hot. “I remember him, of course, working on the estate. I don’t suppose we ever spoke, more than to wish each other good day.” Should he offer Danny his condolences? The man was three years dead, after all, and Philip had no wish to dampen the rather pleasant mood between them.
“Well, when my Da was alive, he’d use a net, as you’ve seen, and instead of a dog, I’d be the beater for him.”
“Oh! Like shooting grouse, you mean?”
“Aye, but Da never owned a gun. Never needed one. No, he’d lay out his long net, and I’d drive the rabbits to it for him to kill. But since I’ve been on my own, I set snares. It’s slower work, mind, but quieter. And I can do it alone. Toby’s getting big enough to help, but mam won’t let him come, no matter how much he mithers her.”