She wanted to see him, the brevity of her message suggesting she expected him to drop everything. Somebody ought to tell her that a bit of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘would you kindly’ went a long way towards getting people to do your bidding.
‘You aren’t her doctor,’ said Imogen.
‘Since I was in and out of Jackson’s House so regularly, she probably feels I’m hers to command, and never mind that Slater is back on his feet now. I’ll call on her, but it’ll be for the last time.’
And he wouldn’t go until he had fulfilled his other commitments.
It was late afternoon when he arrived at Jackson’s House.
‘Miss Rawley,’ he said a few minutes later, ‘I thought you sent for me in my professional capacity.’
‘Were I indisposed, which I never am, I’d summon Doctor Slater.’
‘Had I known the nature of your problem, I’d have referred you to Mr Porter.’
‘A fat lot of good that would have done. He’s the one who referred me to you. My brother named you as arbiter of disputes. Well, there’s a dispute for you to sort out. My nephew intends putting tenants in and says I must leave or stay on as housekeeper. Housekeeper, I ask you! What are you going to do about it?’
‘What does Mr Porter say?’
‘Hang Mr Porter.’
‘Has he given an opinion?’
‘The will doesn’t state that the house may not be rented out.’
‘But aren’t you entitled to live here for the rest of your life?’
‘I can presumably do that as housekeeper.’
‘I see,’ he said.
‘Is that the best you can do? My nephew wants to bully me into quitting my home. Mr Porter couldn’t get me out of his office fast enough. And you don’t seem eager to ride to the rescue.’
‘I don’t see what you expect me to do.’
‘Speak to my nephew, of course.’
‘If Mr Rawley won’t listen to you, he’s unlikely to listen to me.’
Helen Rawley’s eyes blazed; Nathaniel imagined those eyes in a younger, stronger body. He knew what was coming next. She would blast him to kingdom come and in two minutes flat, he would be marching out of the front gate with his ears burning.
Instead, she crumpled and he was unmanned. The thin shoulders sagged, even her face sagged, and his heart turned to putty.
‘Please, Doctor Brewer,’ she said, so softly her words barely travelled. ‘Won’t you please help me?’
Chapter Twelve
Greg strode home across the meadows. Home? That was a laugh. Jackson’s House would never be home. Helen was vexed with him, to put it mildly, though she couldn’t deny his right to dump his portmanteaux in the hall and order that middle-aged frump with the ridiculous frilly cap to take them upstairs. Helen had tried to fob him off with his old room, but he hadn’t stood for that.
‘I’d prefer Uncle Robert’s room.’ His tone had been one of intent, not request. ‘The master bedroom.’
‘It’s not ready, sir,’ the frump said.
‘Then make it ready.’
The master bedroom for the master of the house. Not that he had any desire to be its master. All he wanted was to sell up. It was tempting to fling that in Helen’s face, but he had held his tongue. He knew the value of keeping information close to his chest. It hadn’t occurred to her that his plan to put in tenants stemmed from being strapped for cash.
His uncle and aunt had never had any notion of his financial ups and downs. As far as they were concerned, he had used his inheritance from his father wisely enough to remain independent – and he had ensured they never had cause to doubt that opinion. He wasn’t having old Robert questioning his suitability as heir to Jackson’s House and the money bags. Indeed, the prospect of his inheritance had been such a sure thing that he had been able to borrow on the strength of it, which now left him well and truly up a gum tree.
It was a damn nuisance not being able to get his hands on the money that was certain to be left over from this year’s interest. Still, he couldn’t see there being any objections to his renting out the house – well, plenty of objections from Helen, but none based on the wording of the will. He was coming round to the idea of being a landlord. Not as satisfying, or as instantly lucrative, as selling, but it would provide a steady income and there was something to be said for that.
Letting himself in through the gate in the back hedge, he walked round to the front of the house. A carriage waited on the lane and his heart beat a little tattoo. He couldn’t see from here if there was a coat-of-arms on the door. Helen was out for the afternoon, so it wasn’t a friend of hers. If it was who he hoped it was, it most certainly wasn’t a friend of hers. He grinned at the thought of her splutters of outrage when she returned to find the two of them together.
He rang the bell, a quick dash of a ring, wishing he had brought his key, but he hadn’t bothered because he liked keeping Helen’s servants on their toes. Two old maids – in both senses, even if one did call herself ‘Mrs’.
The eyesore in the frilled cap opened the door.
‘Mr Rawley, you have a visitor.’ But even as his heart bumped madly, she was already saying, ‘He said he was a friend of yours. I knew you’d be back before long, so I let him wait. He was …’
‘Insistent?’ He thrust his hat and cane at the stupid female. Who was it? A London acquaintance, obviously.
‘Ever so polite, sir, but yes, you could say he was insistent. I put him in the morning room.’
He opened the door – onto an empty room. No, not empty – there was that vile smell and a smoke ring was rising from the wing chair that stood with its back to the door.
‘Please come in, Mr Rawley. Dear me, I sound like the master of the house. It’s a handsome place you have here, if I may say so.’
He stalked into the room, indignation replacing shock. His hands twitched towards the chair, wanting to tip it over backwards, preferably delivering Mr Jonas a knockout blow in the process.
‘Hardly polite to turn up uninvited,’ he remarked.
‘Surely not, between old friends such as ourselves.’
‘I’ve told you before. You’ll get your money.’
‘Indeed I shall.’
‘I had a go at getting cash from the estate, but the family lawyer won’t play ball.’ He kept his voice casual. ‘I’m looking into putting tenants in.’
‘So I gather.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘I like to protect my interests. But I have to tell you, Mr Rawley, it won’t do. I don’t want repaying over a period of years. It works to your benefit as well. The longer the debt lasts, the more the interest grows.’ Mr Jonas waggled a finger at him. ‘I know what you gentlemen are like. You take the loan readily enough, then you cut up rough over the interest, as if it’s the greatest surprise of your life.’
‘The rent on this place is the best deal you’ll get from me.’
‘What sort of manner is that for addressing an old acquaintance? Hardly courteous, if I may say so.’
He shrugged. ‘Take it or leave it.’
A sharp silence was broken by the ringing of the doorbell.
‘My, you are popular this afternoon,’ said Mr Jonas.
There was a knock and the frump appeared. ‘Doctor Brewer to see you, sir.’
‘Who? Oh, him. What the hell—heck does he want? Get rid of him – what’s your name?’
‘Edith, sir.’
‘Tell him to sling his hook, Edith.’
She pulled her lips into a tight little circle like a cat’s rear end. ‘I’ll say you’re engaged, sir,’ she replied primly and departed.
‘Brewer,’ Mr Jonas murmured. ‘Ah, yes, the man nominated by your late uncle to see fair play. Don’t tell me he’s locked horns with you over this renting business?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘No matter. I told you, renting the house won’t cut it.’
‘And I told you,’ he
replied, his voice loaded with mock patience, ‘take it or leave it.’
‘You’re not listening to me, Mr Rawley. People don’t, sometimes. Not that I let it worry me. They all listen in the end, and you will too. And now, my dear fellow, I must love you and leave you.’
Greg was glad to see the back of him. His facial muscles ached from maintaining an affable expression; his shoulders were rock hard with loathing. Aunt Helen didn’t keep so much as a decanter of sherry in her morning room. He jangled the bell.
‘Fetch the Scotch,’ he ordered the frump – Edith. He must remember her name or he would call her ‘Frump’ to her face.
When she brought it, he sloshed a couple of fingers into the glass and knocked back a mouthful.
‘Hey, come back!’ he yelled after her. ‘Is this what my uncle used to drink?’
‘I don’t believe he drank Scotch, sir. We never had it in the house before you came.’
‘This isn’t the single malt I told my aunt to get.’
‘I think she may have ordered something less costly, sir.’
‘Less costly? Well, here’s what I think of less costly. Tip it down the drain.’
‘But, sir—’
His look silenced her. Darting forward as though he were a wild animal, she grabbed the tray and made her escape.
‘Bloody females,’ he muttered.
No wonder there was due to be so much left in the coffers at the end of the year if Helen scrimped on the bills. Well, she could do whatever the hell she chose regarding everything else, but he wasn’t compromising on anything involving grain or grape. In fact, he would go out this minute and rectify the situation. Slapping a couple of bottles of his favourite malt, and a few of claret and hock onto the Jackson’s House account would be recompense for having to put up with Jonas – and for not seeing the person he had hoped to see. Any that he didn’t drink while he was here, he would take with him when he moved on, which couldn’t come soon enough.
He neither knew nor cared where the Jackson’s House liquor came from. He made a beeline for the smartest place he could find.
‘Jackson’s House? Certainly, sir,’ said the wine merchant. ‘We’ll be proud to have the Rawley account.’
Helen would lay an egg when the bill came.
It was early, but he went home and togged himself up before heading into town. The Rawley name had secured him guest membership at not Uncle Robert’s club, which was for old fogeys, but at the club inhabited by the old fogeys’ reprobate sons. An early meal was followed by a game of cards. Gambling wasn’t allowed, but there were a couple of rooms upstairs where the doors were shut and blind eyes were turned, and in one of these he passed a few hours, with an agreeable outcome.
Returning to Jackson’s House, he opened the gate and walked in, turning to shut it behind him. In that moment there was … something, and he didn’t know whether he heard or sensed it, but before he could react, they were on him, two of them – three of them. His knees folded, he huffed a great gasp as his ribs took one kick, then another. He held onto his cane, managed to get both hands round it, tried to swing, tried to get one of the bastards, but it was wrenched from his grasp. His empty hands flailed in the air after it, trying to wrest it back.
It bloody hurt being bashed with that cane. It bloody hurt.
Nathaniel came awake to an insistent rat-tat-tatting of the knocker. He shoved aside the bedclothes and stumbled to the window, throwing up the sash to lean out.
‘Stop your noise. I’m here.’
‘Doctor Brewer, sir? It’s Wally Brown from Hardy Farm. I’ve been sent to fetch you urgent.’
‘Wait there.’
Imogen began to roll out of bed. He put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Sleep. Doctor’s orders. You were up all last night with Evie.’
‘So were you.’
‘All the more reason for one of us to get a good night tonight.’
He threw on his suit, not bothering with the waistcoat, and laced his boots. Downstairs, he snatched up his bag and clapped his trilby on. The boy had come in a cart. He stood by the pony’s head, stroking its neck.
Wally eyed him doubtfully. ‘You sure you’re Doctor Brewer? Only you don’t look like a proper doctor.’
‘I look like one who’s been hauled out of bed in the middle of the night.’ He climbed up and the boy followed suit. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Dunno, sir. I were just sent to fetch you.’
‘You must have some idea. Who’s ill?’
‘I’m not here for the farm, sir. I’m here for next door – Jackson’s House. Their Edith came haring round in a reet frap and woke the household with her hammering. Then missus sent me for you. That’s all I know.’
An emergency at Jackson’s House? Had Miss Rawley been taken ill? Edith, used to his attendance on her late master, would understandably have sent for him with never a thought for Doctor Slater.
Wally dropped him at Jackson’s House, then peeled off towards Hardy Farm. Nathaniel strode up the path. The door opened before he got there. Edith appeared, swathed in a vast shawl over a long-sleeved, high-necked nightgown, wisps of hair escaping from a plait.
‘Madam says to go straight up. The late master’s room, sir.’
He ran upstairs. It gave him an odd feeling to approach the same old door. As ever, he opened it softly. As ever, Helen Rawley stood beside the bed.
She turned, her faded eyebrows climbing in a clear expression of surprise and displeasure. ‘Doctor Brewer,’ she said in her driest voice, ‘you look very … workmanlike.’
‘If you’d have more confidence in a doctor who spends time on frock coats and gold studs in the middle of the night, I can give Doctor Slater a knock on my way home. What are the symptoms? Ah.’
‘Indeed,’ said Miss Rawley. ‘Ah.’ She looked grey all of a sudden, a sickly grey in contrast to the dove-grey of her dressing gown.
He looked at Mrs Burley, hovering on the far side of the bed. ‘Take the bowl and cloths away, and bring fresh. Warm water, not hot.’
He scrutinised his patient’s condition as he spoke. It didn’t take a doctor to see Greg Rawley had received a sound beating. One eye was swollen shut, his nose and mouth were bloodied, his moustache encrusted. Bruises were forming on his knuckles.
‘I need to get him undressed to see what other damage there is.’
‘A lot, I fear,’ said Miss Rawley, ‘judging by the gasps and groans as we got him upstairs. He passed out at one point. How we didn’t end up all rolling down into the hall, I can’t imagine.’
‘You’d have done better to lie him on a sofa.’ He leant over Rawley. ‘Can you hear me? Good. I’m going to cut your clothes away.’
Rawley slurred something unintelligible that Nathaniel was sure included a fruity curse, then he tried to push himself up, only to collapse back with a groan. Beneath the bruising, his face was colourless.
‘What can I do?’ Miss Rawley asked. Nathaniel remembered her backbone.
‘Make yourself scarce while I examine him. I’ll see you downstairs.’
Soon he was fingering the tender marks on Rawley’s torso, feeling his way carefully over the ribcage.
‘Someone had a go at making mincemeat of you. Who was it?’
‘Just do your job.’
‘I’ll give you something to help you sleep. There’s no permanent damage, but you’ll be laid up for a while. Lucky for you, your aunt’s a competent nurse.’
Rawley muttered something, but Nathaniel didn’t trouble to decipher it. Going downstairs, he looked into the morning room, finding it empty.
‘Through here, Doctor,’ came Miss Rawley’s voice from the kitchen door.
Mrs Burley and Edith were sitting at a big table in the middle of the flagged floor. They jumped up as their mistress ushered him in. Mrs Burley moved hastily to close the scullery door, as if the sink weren’t fit to be seen, though if it was in the same scrubbed state as the rest of the kitchen, it certainly was.
&
nbsp; Noting the three cups and saucers on the table, he said frankly to Miss Rawley, ‘I’m surprised to find you supping tea here.’
‘There are times when you find out who your friends are. And if it’s good enough for me, I’m sure it’s suitable for a doctor minus his frock coat.’ She waved him into a chair. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s received a sound beating, but there’s nothing broken. What do you know about it?’
‘Nothing. We discovered him in a heap on the doorstep after he managed to get that far and use his cane to knock.’
‘I noticed he still had his hunter and his pocketbook, and a rather swish cigarette case fell out of his pocket, so that suggests it wasn’t robbery.’
‘That cane is worth a pretty penny, an’ all,’ Mrs Burley added.
‘Should I send for the police?’ said Miss Rawley.
‘No point right now. He’s out for the count. And something tells me he won’t let you in the morning.’ He drained his cup. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
‘You two get to bed,’ Miss Rawley ordered the servants. ‘I’ll see the doctor out.’ She led the way to the hall. ‘You’ll come tomorrow morning?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon.’ Tomorrow morning was for Evie.
‘A word before you go.’ She went towards the study. ‘The morning room is out of bounds at present. My nephew had a visitor who stank the place out with his cigarettes. How did you fare with him? I put up with Lady Harrington’s company for two hours to give you ample time.’
‘I didn’t get through the front door. Edith said Rawley had a visitor, though I wondered if he said that to fob me off. I half thought I ought to barge in and confront him. Good job I didn’t.’
‘I wish you had. He needs to be told he can’t rent out Jackson’s House.’
‘I think you have an exaggerated idea of what I might achieve.’
‘You won’t achieve anything if you don’t speak to him.’
‘Miss Rawley, I didn’t ask to be put in your brother’s will.’
‘You should be flattered.’
‘Frankly, I’m not. I’m a busy man and your quarrel—’
The Poor Relation Page 12
