Somewhere in the house a door slammed. Like the battle-scarred veteran he was, Robert reached for his nonexistent sword. For the first time in his life, he felt more vulnerable in his own home than he had on any battlefield. Maybe he would order Bookman to bring his pistols up to his room after all.
Chapter 6
The next morning, Lucy approached the ramshackle cottage Joseph Cobbins called home with some trepidation. She’d had to hide in the copse at the end of the lane until she’d seen Ben Cobbins stride past, a poacher’s bag on his back and a thick cudgel clasped in his meaty hand. Picking up her presence, his dogs fawned and jumped around him, barking and snapping at each other until he cuffed the nearest on the head and quieted them down. All she could hope was that he wouldn’t decide to return home too quickly. His dogs were a nuisance in the village and their owner was even worse.
A thin wisp of smoke emerged from the lopsided chimney, encouraging Lucy to believe that someone was at home. The Cobbins house was on the end of a row of four stone and brick-built cottages and was in terrible repair. The thatch was sliding off the roof, and the front door was without a latch or a lick of paint on its scarred surface. Unlike most of its neighbors, the long front garden bore no evidence of neat rows of tilled earth or fruit trees awaiting the promise of spring. The grass was knee-high, and several objects Lucy failed to identify had been left to rust or mold in situ.
One couldn’t entirely blame the Cobbins family for the state of the property. The cottage was owned by the Kurland estate and did not reflect well on Major Kurland’s land agent’s management at all. She’d heard complaints that the elderly agent, Mr. Scarsdale, was a penny-pinching Scot and couldn’t help but agree. He seemed more inclined to spend his days in his own well-maintained cottage and his nights in the arms of the Widow Gavin at the Whistling Pig.
With that thought hastening her up the path, Lucy knocked on the thick oak door. There was no answer, but she could hear the wail of a baby and the roar of an enraged toddler. With a sigh, she took herself around the back of the house, picking her way through the debris and glad of her strong boots. The back door sagged ajar, and the top hinge appeared to be in the process of falling off.
She knocked again and then felt a tugging on her skirt. Looking down, she saw a young child, his face smeared with porridge, grinning up at her.
She smiled back. “Hello, is your brother Joseph at home?”
“Timmy! Come back ’ere, before I wallop you proper!”
Joe erupted from the house, making the disheveled child hide his face in Lucy’s skirts and start to bawl. She carefully disengaged Timmy’s sticky fingers from her dress and picked him up.
“It is all right, dear. Please don’t cry. Good morning, Joseph, how are you?”
Joe’s expression darkened. “What do you want?”
“That’s hardly a civil way to greet someone. Is your mother at home?”
He shoved the door shut behind him. “She’s sick.”
“Well, it is good of you to take care of your siblings in this manner for her.”
“Got no choice. Pa said I had to make myself useful, seeing as I had no job anymore.”
His cheek was discolored and bore the marks of a fist. Lucy tightened her hold on the squirming toddler and angled him more firmly on her hip. “I was sorry to hear about that, Joe.”
“I didn’t steal nothing.” He met her gaze. “I liked working there with the old ladies. They didn’t thump me.”
“Would you like another job, then?”
He looked away, his lip stuck out rather pugnaciously. “Who would have me now? Everyone thinks I’m a thief like me dad.”
“If you would care to present yourself at Kurland Manor this afternoon at three, Major Kurland wishes to ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
She smiled encouragingly at him. “Maybe your future employment?” She hated to use subterfuge, but if her suspicions were correct, and Joe was innocent, she intended to ask Major Kurland to offer the lad a job on the estate that would keep him away from his father for good.
“I’ll see.”
“I hope your mother can spare you.”
He shrugged. “She won’t care either way as long as I’m not under her feet.” He held out his arms. “Hand Timmy over. I have to get him dressed.”
A warm feeling spread down Lucy’s thigh, and she held Timmy at arm’s length. A dark stain now ran down the length of her walking dress. Timmy grinned at her and so did Joe.
“Sorry, miss. He ran off before I put his breeches on.”
“So I see.”
Lucy relinquished her damp burden and patted the little boy on his no-doubt lice-ridden head. “I’ll be at the manor later, too, Joe. I look forward to seeing you.”
“All right then, miss.” Joe nodded, grabbing his small brother by the collar as he made another run for it. “Come ’ere, you.”
There was nothing left for Lucy to do but pick up her wet skirts and retrace her steps through the garden. Despite her plans, she had no choice but to head home and change into something a little less malodorous.
“But what if I don’t want to sit at the window and admire the view?” Robert demanded.
Foley and Bookman, for once united, exchanged a glance and then looked back at Robert.
“Doctor’s orders, sir,” Bookman said cheerfully. “If he wants you sitting up, that’s what we need to do. We’ll put a bell beside you so that if you need anything, you can ring it, and someone will come.”
“How long do I have to sit in this damned chair?”
“Dr. Baker said to take it easy. An hour or so the first day, and then we’re to see how it goes.”
Robert eyed the new footman lurking behind Bookman, who was pretending not to listen to the conversation. Did he sound as petulant and invalidish as he feared?
“All right, then. I’ll try it.”
“That’s the way, sir,” Foley cried. “We’ll have you up in a flash.”
Bookman was consulting with the footman, and they both advanced on Robert.
“If you would let me assist you, sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. We’ll make sure your feet are firmly on the floor.”
Robert didn’t tell Bookman that he’d already mastered this part, and meekly let his valet help him. He set his teeth as his bare feet touched the wooden floor and a jagged pain lanced up his left leg. Foley rushed to kneel in front of him.
“The major’s slippers, Bookman!” Foley slid Robert’s feet into his slippers and then gestured to the footman. “Fetch the major’s banyan.”
“His what, Mr. Foley?”
“His dressing gown. It’s on the bed.”
It took a few moments for Bookman to help Robert into his loose-fitting robe, fasten the silk frogs, and settle it around his body. For a moment Robert considered how it might feel to be forced into one of the tight-fitting coats he had favored as a younger man. He doubted he could stand the effort required now.
“Would you like a sleeping cap, sir?” Foley asked.
“I thought the object of this exercise was to wake me up, not send me to sleep.”
Foley’s face fell and Robert regretted his acerbic comments. “If I feel cold, I’ll make sure to ring the bell and summon help.”
“Right then, sir.” Bookman stood on his left. “Would you prefer us to carry you over to the chair, or shall we bring the chair to you?”
“Does it matter?”
“We’ll carry you then, sir.” He nodded at the footman. “All right, James. Let’s lift the major on the count of three.”
Robert fought an absurd desire to close his eyes as he was lifted carefully off the side of the bed and carried twenty or so feet to a chair facing the window. Foley hurried to place a footstool beneath his legs and Bookman rearranged the cushions.
“How’s that, sir?”
Tentatively, Robert allowed himself to settle against the back of the substantial wing chair. He swallowe
d convulsively as black spots danced in front of his eyes and a wave of nausea coiled in his stomach. He inhaled through his nose, willing the sensations to pass, aware that his servants were all watching him.
“Perhaps a blanket to go over your legs, Major,” Foley suggested and bustled off to procure one.
“Major?” Bookman asked quietly. “Would you like some brandy?”
Robert managed to nod, and a moment later, a glass was put in his hand. He held on to it with all his strength, noticing the way the crystal caught the sunlight and the amber jewel tones of the brandy sloshed around inside the glass. He concentrated on stopping his hand from shaking. As if at a distance, he heard Foley telling the footman he might leave and the sound of the door closing. He took another, deeper breath and the world settled back into place.
A tentative sip of brandy helped even more, so he took another.
“That’s the way of it, sir,” Bookman said, as Foley continued to fuss around, placing a bell at Robert’s elbow, the latest London newspaper from the rectory, and his unread correspondence.
“Do you have the major’s reading glasses, Bookman?”
“I do.” Bookman handed them to Robert with a flourish. “Now, shall we leave him in peace for a while to enjoy the view?”
Before Robert could thank them, they both retreated, leaving him alone in his chair. He took a longer swig of brandy and contemplated the sight of his blanket-covered legs. The left one was already aching, but there was nothing new in that. It never stopped. Sometimes he wondered if it ever would. He was so used to the pain that it had become part of him, a new facet of his personality that turned him into a snarling, unreasonable monster.
A beam of weak sunlight fell on the woven pattern of his blanket and traveled upward toward Robert’s lap. He placed his hand into the brightness and was shocked to see how thin and pale his fingers looked. He clenched his hand into a fist, marveling at his own weakness. Lying in bed for months was not conducive to a man’s overall health in many ways.
He raised his gaze from the contemplation of his fist and studied the view outside. He’d lived at Kurland Hall all his life and inhabited this particular set of rooms since the death of his father, but how often had he really looked at his home? It had been so familiar, he’d hardly bothered. After months of illness he was able to view the gardens with a fresh eye and appreciate them so much more.
To the right was the boundary hedge, beyond which was the bulk of Kurland Church with its Norman tower and nave. The church had been endowed by the Kurland family and was filled with the names of Robert’s dead ancestors since the Crusades. At one point he and his brother, Matthew, had begged for permission to dig up the grave of Sir Roger De Kurland in the firm belief that the lost treasure of the Knights Templar was buried with him.
In front of him was a gentle grass slope that ran down toward what had originally been a moat and the fishponds for the medieval kitchens. The moat no longer surrounded the house, redeveloped by a later Kurland into a series of connected ornamental ponds that meandered through the formal gardens into a small lake with an island. The water wasn’t particularly deep. Robert and the local children had spent many happy hours there learning to swim or handle a small rowing boat. To the left, a set of stone steps led down to a rose garden his mother had planted and a rather scrubby maze.
Robert narrowed his eyes and stared at the dark green ranks of hedges. He’d have to speak to the head gardener about either replanting the maze or taking it out. Damnation, he couldn’t remember the name of the man. Foley would know. His hand hovered over the bell, and then he paused. Did he really want Foley coming back to see him so soon? In truth, he was enjoying the sensation of being alone and free of the smothering confines of his bed linen.
A male peacock strutted out from the maze and headed toward the slope of the lawn, his tail dragging behind him. Was it his mother who had introduced the dratted birds or his grandmother? Between his long absences fighting abroad and his recent illness, he’d lost touch with his heritage and his staff. Did he want to reach out and reclaim it, or was the effort required too great?
He gave in and rang the bell. The speed with which Foley reappeared made Robert think he’d been lingering outside the door the whole time.
“Yes, sir? Is your leg paining you, do you need your medicine, or should I send someone for Dr. Baker?”
Robert waited until Foley ran out of breath. “I’m fine, Foley. What I would like is my spyglass. Bookman will know where that is.”
When Lucy entered Major Kurland’s bedchamber, her gaze was drawn to the unoccupied bed and her hand went to her mouth.
Foley cleared his throat behind her, making her jump.
“As I was attempting to tell you before you decided to forge on ahead, Miss Harrington, Major Kurland is sitting up by the window.” He mitigated the reproof of his words with a beaming smile and a wink.
“That’s excellent news.” Lucy walked over to the bay window, her basket on her arm. “Good afternoon, Major.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Harrington.”
She inspected him carefully, but although he looked pale, he seemed to be bearing up rather well. In place of his usual nightshirt, he was arrayed in a glorious green silk banyan with wide embroidered sleeves. He had his spectacles in his hand and a long metal tube in the other. For some reason he looked far more formidable sitting up.
“Oh, is that your spyglass? May I see?”
He handed it over without hesitation. “You need to close one eye to use it properly.”
“I know that, Tom had one.” Lucy brought the spyglass to her eye and rotated it around to the window. The maze swung suddenly into view and she gasped. “Oh my word, this is remarkable! Everything looks so close.”
“I admit to having amused myself spying on the moles and the peacocks for the last half hour. It made the time pass rather quickly.” He took the spyglass back. “Did you bring Joseph Cobbins with you?”
Lucy glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I asked him to come here at three, which is in less than a quarter of an hour. I told him you wanted to question him. I also intimated you might have a job for him on the estate. I hope you don’t mind, but it was the only way I could think of to ensure he turned up.”
“The likelihood of my giving him a job, Miss Harrington, depends on the truthfulness of his answers.”
“I understand that, but I do feel sorry for the boy. It was obvious his father had beaten him quite badly for losing his situation.”
“Or for getting caught. The boy would probably prefer to stay home and terrorize the locals like his father rather than earn a proper wage.”
“I don’t think he would. Joe has always been different from the rest of his family, and no one would want to stay in that cottage.” She shuddered. “It is in such a state of disrepair I wonder why it hasn’t fallen down around their ears.”
Major Kurland snapped the spyglass shut. “That’s one of my cottages, isn’t it?”
“I believe it is.”
“Then why hasn’t my agent either repaired it, or turned the family out? We have no obligation to house the family. Cobbins doesn’t work for me.”
“I believe Ben still considers himself on your payroll as one of your gamekeepers. I doubt Mr. Scarsdale wants to disagree with him.”
“That’s Scarsdale’s job.”
“I know, but—” Lucy hesitated, then plunged on. “He doesn’t seem interested in carrying out any repairs to the property, or care to listen to any complaints from your tenants.”
“And how would you know this?”
“Because everyone talks to me.” She half-smiled. “I’m like Caesar’s wife.”
“I suppose you are.” Major Kurland regarded her seriously. “I will speak to the man.”
Lucy took the chair opposite. “That isn’t for me to say, sir.”
“Because you’ve meddled enough for one day?”
“Hardly ‘meddled,’ sir. I’ve just drawn your
attention to a situation that is within your control to alleviate.”
“If I choose to.”
“Why would you not? This is your home, too. I doubt you wish to see it fall into ruin.” With a sense of having pushed her companion as far as she could for one day, she contemplated the table beside the major’s chair. “Would you like me to read the newspaper to you?”
“No, thank you. I believe I have been given quite enough to think about in my own small environment to be worrying about the state of the nation and abroad.”
His tone was acerbic, but Lucy pretended not to notice. No man liked to be corrected, especially by a woman. It was better to make one’s point, and leave the gentleman to make up his own mind where he could convince himself that it was all his own idea after all.
The major handed her a letter.
“Perhaps you might attempt to make head or tail of this correspondence from my aunt Rose. I must confess that I cannot read a word of it without bringing on a headache.”
Lucy squinted at the crossed and then crossed again pages. She turned the page this way and that, but to no avail. “I think she is suggesting she might come and visit you, but I’m not quite sure when.” She looked up. “The rest of it makes no sense to me at all, but seems to be about dates, and times, and what she intends to bring with her. Do you need laying hens?”
“That’s all I made out of it, too.” He took the letter back with a sigh.
“Do you want her to visit you?”
A smile flickered across his face. “If my aunt Rose decides to visit, nothing I say will change her mind.”
“She is your mother’s sister?”
“That’s correct. She visited quite regularly when my mother was alive.”
“I think I remember her. She was always very pleasant. Her company will do you good.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I have no inclination to rejoin society at this time.”
Death Comes to the Village Page 8
