A Dog in a Doublet Page 3

  Yes, he’d had to step in.

  Yet for all his excuses and reasons, Harry could not get past the fact that he had killed a man with his bare hands. Accidentally, perhaps, but it didn’t change the fact of it. Any judge would hang him for it, for sure. Harry pushed the thought away and concentrated on the rhythmic swing of the axe as it split the wood clean through. He didn’t know how long he’d worked, but his arms ached with effort and he was blazing hot despite the cold. By the time the kitchen door opened, he’d created a large pile of split wood.

  Mrs Fletcher came out and nodded her approval at his efforts.

  “Well, you’re strong, I’ll give you that,” she said, though her tone implied she was by no means in approval of him staying yet.

  “I’m not afraid of hard work, Missus,” Harry said, wiping his face on his sleeve.

  Mrs Fletcher snorted. “Just as well, if you’re to stay here,” she muttered. “You’ll not last with his lordship unless he’s got his pound o’ flesh from your bones, so don’t go thinking you’ve landed a soft place, my lad.”

  Harry looked at her and found that, despite the harsh expression and the suspicion in her eyes, she had a kindly face. She’d have been pretty once, he thought. There was a sweetness about her still that she couldn’t entirely hide behind that stern exterior. If he could get her on his side, he’d have an easier time of it, and be well fed, too, that was for sure.

  Suspecting that flattery was not the way to win her around, Harry simply gave her a meek nod.

  “Yes, Missus. I understand that.”

  She looked back at him, as if she couldn’t quite decide what to make of him, and then nodded to the scattered log pile. “You’d best restock the kitchen and then go and do his lordship’s library. He don’t use most of the other rooms. The library and his bedroom is all. You’ll need to make sure both fires are going well. Reggie, that’s my husband, Mr Fletcher, well, he usually does it, but he’s not as young as he was.”

  Harry nodded his understanding. “I’ll see to it, if you could direct me?”

  Reaching down, Harry gathered as much wood as he could carry in one go and followed Mrs Fletcher back into the kitchen.

  “How many work here?” Harry asked, by way of conversation and also so that he knew how many people he’d have to contend with asking questions about him.

  Mrs Fletcher cast him a look of amusement over one shoulder. “Oh, a vast staff, we have here at Stamford Place,” she said, chuckling to herself, though for the life of him, Harry couldn’t see what was funny.

  She paused with her hand on the kitchen door. “Let me see, there’s old Ramsy that sees to the horses; he’s not the full shilling you understand, but he’s harmless and loves the beasts like his kin. There’s me and there’s Mr Fletcher, and then ...” she raised her hands like she was going to count off the rest of the staff and then gave him a stern look. “And then .... there’s you.”

  Chapter 4

  Nip Cheese - a miserly, stingy person -

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  Harry woke with a start, the repulsive sound of Joe’s skull cracking on the cobbles ringing in his ears. He hauled in a deep breath, steadying his heart as he took stock of his bearings. Stamford Place, he remembered, as the past days resolved themselves into some kind of sense from the tangle of his dreams.

  He sat up, shivering as the cold air bit at his bare skin. Getting up out of bed, he poured water from the pitcher into the bowl and washed as fast as he could in the frigid air. The fire had died down long ago, and his skin prickled with gooseflesh, but, in all honesty, Harry couldn’t believe his luck.

  The room was tiny and spare but was the cleanest and most comfortable that he’d ever slept in. That he’d even been allowed a fire seemed an unheard-of luxury, though Mrs Fletcher had warned him to not let his lordship see him taking the wood up to his room, lest he was accused of taking advantage. The bed was aired, the sheets clean, and the mattress the most comfortable Harry had ever laid down upon. Having spent most of his days thinking himself lucky to get a blanket by a hearth - and especially after his nights out in the freezing countryside - Harry felt like he’d died and gone to heaven.

  Lord Preston was clearly touched in his upper works and from the little he could glean from Mr and Mrs Fletcher he was both a recluse and a pinch-penny of the worst kind. However, if that meant no one came nosing about the estate and Harry could live quiet and honest ... well, that seemed like the greatest blessing he could wish for.

  Perhaps Harry Thompson really was a lucky fellow?

  He dressed quickly, pulling on the clothes that Mrs Fletcher had dug out for him from heaven knew where. The shirt was a bit tight and pulled at his shoulders, but the cloth was good quality, better than he’d ever had before, at any rate. The waistcoat and jacket were thick and warm, as were the breeches, which were soft moleskin and so fine Harry felt sorry that he’d be making them dirty. His boots would have to do for now, though they were old and almost worn-through, but Harry wasn’t about to grumble. He was practically salivating, wondering what Mrs Fletcher would put forward for breakfast, and it was only the sound of voices that halted him in his tracks and made him pause on the threshold of the kitchen without bursting in.

  “But where’d he come from, Reggie?” Mrs Fletcher was demanding. “It’s too smoky by half, you ask me. What’s the old devil up to? That boy’s running from trouble, you mark my words. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. You see that shiner he’s got?”

  There was silence for a moment and Harry held himself still, wondering what came next.

  “You’re worried over nothing, Beryl,” came Reggie’s voice, soft and placating. “He seems a decent lad. We’ve all got things in life we aren’t proud of, don’t we? Everyone has a secret somewhere. He seems a nice fellow to me,” he said, sounding a touch defiant and adding, “I like him.”

  There was a snort which Harry was fast becoming familiar with. “Aye, you would say that,” his wife muttered, her tone dark.

  The silence that followed that comment was rather more stony, and when Mrs Fletcher spoke next her voice was a little softer. “Yes, well, he’ll help you with the heavy stuff at least. It ain’t right his lordship expecting you to fetch and carry at your time of life.” She gave a heavy sigh and Harry heard the sound of plates being set out. “As long as he don’t murder us all in our beds,” she added, obviously still of the mind that Harry wasn’t to be trusted.

  Harry felt his guts twist as he realised she’d be terrified if she knew the truth. It didn’t sit easy with him, that truth. He’d never been an angel, of course, would never had pretended he was. He’d stolen and thieved with the worst of them, but only when there’d been no other choice. When he could find honest work, he stuck to it, and he’d never hurt anyone except in self-defence or if they’d truly provoked him. He’d always considered himself the decent man of Mr Fletcher’s description, but now he wondered if that was really true.

  With a sigh, he pushed open the door and walked in, nodding a greeting to Mr and Mrs Fletcher as he pulled up a chair. The room was dim, as it was still dark out, and the flickering light of the fire in the hearth and a couple of tallow candles placed on the table gave the room a strangely intimate atmosphere. Harry stared at the table, wondering if they could see his guilt written as clearly on his face as he felt it ought to be. But when he dared glance up, Mr Fletcher just fiddled with his pipe, packing the tobacco in good and firm, and didn’t look at Harry at all.

  His sombre thoughts fled, though, as Mrs Fletcher placed a full plate on the table in front of him. It was brimming with eggs, bacon, and bread like doorsteps, spread so thick with creamy butter, you’d see the teeth marks left behind when you took a bite. There was a jug of milk on the table, the cream floating on the top still, and another of ale.

  He heard a snort of amusement and Harry looked up to find the cook looking at his rapt expression with a wry smile.

  �
�Oh, you’ll have earned it by the end of the day, my lad,” she scolded, settling herself down to a large bowl of porridge. “So you needn’t look like the cat that got the cream.”

  “No, Missus,” Harry replied, his voice serious as he lowered his face to his plate to hide his grin.

  All too soon, breakfast was over and he and Mr Fletcher were hustled out of the cosy kitchen into the house.

  “His lordship won’t wake for a good while yet, so I’ll show you about a bit,” Mr Fletcher said. Harry nodded and followed where the man led him.

  They started in what Mr Fletcher said was the Baron’s Hall.

  “This is part of the original building,” Mr Fletcher said with such obvious pride that it surprised Harry. “Built in 1341, imagine that!” he added, with a sense of wonder as he stared up at the monumental beamed roof that spanned the massive space. Towering Gothic windows flooded the room with light, and as Harry followed Mr Fletcher’s gaze and looked up, he wondered just how many candles the huge candelabras could hold. Lighting them must be a bloody job.

  He followed Mr Fletcher as he led him on, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous room in a way that made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end. He could imagine the years of use quite readily, he found, and wondered if ghosts lingered here. It seemed the place for them. Shuddering, he scolded himself once again for being so fanciful. The old place seemed to get under his skin in strange ways.

  Harry decided he didn’t know quite what to make of Mr Fletcher, as he seemed an odd choice of husband to his forthright wife. As sparse as she was round, he was a neat and precise man and appeared to be rather reserved. He was probably of an age with his lordship, or at least not far off, and his hair - what remained of it - was trimmed and combed. He had a rather long face that seemed inclined to be serious, but there was humour lurking in his eyes on the few times he actually met Harry’s gaze.

  There was something about him that Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he seemed a kindly soul and ready to give Harry the chance he so badly needed. Barely reaching Harry’s shoulder, he rarely looked up and met his eye, but gave Harry a comprehensive list of his duties as they walked around, and made sure to advise him how to keep out of trouble with his lordship.

  Mr Fletcher apparently served as a mixture of valet and butler combined, but wasn’t above cutting wood and any other job there might be, simply because no one else had been around to do it. His voice was soft and rather more cultured than Harry would have expected, and when he spoke, it was with a thoughtful and deliberate air.

  It didn’t take long to visit the only rooms used by the man himself or required on the rare whim of Lord Preston at a moment’s notice. Those were all draped in Holland covers and only added to the rather atmospheric and ghostly feel that Harry was trying hard to ignore. As Mrs Fletcher had advised him, the library was the man’s domain, and you touched his papers at your peril.

  Harry looked at Mr Fletcher with a frown. “What about the rest of it?” he asked. “This place is huge.”

  Mr Fletcher nodded and sighed, his long face looking evermore mournful. “It is, but there’s only Lord Preston, and he has no interest in it. It’s all locked up and covered in dust sheets, going to wrack and ruin,” he added with a deeply melancholy tone. “Beryl, Mrs Fletcher, that is, she’s worked here since she was a girl, and her mother before her. For the previous lord of course.” He smiled at Harry, his expression rather wistful. “You should hear her stories of that time. The grand parties, the scandalous affairs. The place thronged with the nobility, even royalty at times ...” He let out a breath at the idea of such extravagance, looking genuinely entranced. “There was a staff of over two hundred back then, if you counted all the gardeners. Oh, the gardens,” he said, his expression that of one lost in a dream. “Even when I arrived they were a thing of beauty, but ... Well,” he said, his reverie lost to him as he returned to the here and now and the gloomy, echoing corridor they stood in. “Lord Preston didn’t want the cost of the upkeep, and the old gardeners who’d been here all their lives got too old, and the younger ones found better places, better pay ...” He trailed off and turned to walk away.

  “He’s a regular pinch-penny, ain’t he?” Harry said, grinning, and then rearranging his face rapidly as Mr Fletcher gave him a reproving scowl. “What happened, though?” Harry asked, quite unable to help himself as curiosity stirred to life. “Surely he wasn’t always like that?”

  Mr Fletcher stood taller, his narrow shoulders taut as his eyes grew stern. “Lord Preston doesn’t like gossip, Mr Thompson,” he said, sounding stiff and formal all at once. “That’s often as not a blessing, don’t you think?” he added, meeting Harry’s eyes for once. Harry swallowed, knowing the fellow was referring to his own circumstances. “But that courtesy goes for him, too. We don’t talk about what doesn’t concern us.”

  “I’ll remember it,” he promised, reminding himself to not to poke and pry. They had their business and he had his. If everyone kept their noses out of each other’s affairs, well ... things could go on really quite nicely.

  ***

  As the weeks passed, and Harry settled in, the depths of Lord Preston’s miserly nature began to dawn upon him. Everywhere he turned, there was a leaking roof, rotten floorboards, fields flooded and roads impassable, carts with broken wheels, and fences beyond repair. Harry was no farmer, but he was no fool either. The estate was vast and ought to be bringing in a pretty penny.

  On his day off, he’d persuaded old Ramsy, who was indeed an odd sort, to lend him one of his precious horses. Not that there were many. Two decent hacks that belonged to his lordship though even they were nothing special, and a couple of sturdy cobs that lingered on though their working days were long behind them. Harry was slightly surprised the viscount hadn’t ordered them eaten to save on meat bills, but perhaps the old muck worm was frightened of Ramsy’s devotion to the horses. Harry wouldn’t put it past the toothless, glitter-eyed fellow to do someone harm if they raised a hand against the beasts he adored.

  Still, he’d managed to get in the strange man’s good graces early on by showing him a poultice to ease the slight sprain Delilah had come home with. He’d kept his mouth shut about the fact it had happened when she’d thrown his lordship over the cliff’s edge, too. So he’d been entrusted with one of the elderly cobs, and ridden some of the estate and seen at the borders where another farm stood cheek by jowl with Stamford.

  The same soil and the same conditions applied, but there was a world of difference. The farm beyond the sodden, neglected estate was orderly and well run, the beasts fat and healthy, and proof if any were needed that it wasn’t the land that was at fault but the management, or lack thereof.

  The more Harry looked about, the more frustrated he became, though he didn’t know why. It was none of his affair what the old man chose to do with the place, but he hated to see waste. It just ate away at him to see the land so mismanaged and neglected. Harry had always been driven with a desire to fix things, to mend things, to improve, whether himself or whatever dilapidated lodging he’d been able to afford. To see such opportunities as were being left to rot at Stamford seemed a crime of such magnitude that he began to feel restless and itched to do something about it. He was forever patching things up, knowing full well that he’d only need do it again with the next gust of wind or heavy rainfall.

  He’d hardly seen Lord Preston since the day he arrived, which he knew well enough was likely a blessing, as Harry was brim-full of questions he had no right to ask. But the castle was a fine and proud building, and he felt a kind of indignation growing under his skin, that a man who had so bloody much could be so contemptuous of caring for it. It was sad and melancholy in its decay when it ought to be providing work for hundreds and supporting itself in the process.

  Matters came to a head in the week before Christmas.

  The freezing weather continued unabated, and culminated in a heavy snowfall. In the night, he and Mr and Mrs Flet
cher were woken from their beds with unholy screams that had curdled Harry’s blood as they mingled with dreams of Joe, dead on the streets of London.

  Pulling on his clothes, he ran downstairs to find Ramsy hysterical. The roof of the stables had collapsed.

  Ramsy had gotten three of the horses out, but the old cob he’d lent Harry was trapped inside and, from what he could see, was unlikely to survive.

  It took them hours to get to the poor, terrified horse, only to find its leg too badly broken. Harry offered the shotgun to Ramsy first, not daring to put the poor creature out of its misery without his say so. But Ramsy had wept and put the gun back in Harry’s hands and he’d done the job, feeling heavy-hearted and sickened.

  He stared at the blood, spattering the still-falling snow, glinting wet and jewel bright against the perfect white. His stomach roiled and he turned in fury as Lord Preston trudged out in his thick velvet dressing gown and slippers, a ridiculous white cap on his head.

  “You did this, you miserable old bastard!” he yelled before he could tame his rage into something less self-destructive. He pointed at poor Ramsy, sitting in the snow clutching Ratty, the mangy old terrier that was another bosom companion, and sobbing his heart out into the creature’s dirty fur. “Too bloody tight-fisted to do anything but let the place fall apart around you. Well, maybe, if we’re lucky, the whole damned castle will fall in on your head!”