The Shepherd and the Solicitor

by Bonnie Dee

  “Here, now. She’s getting close. The caul, er, the sack has appeared, and that means she should lamb within the hour. Look how restive she is. You like animals, eh? See if you can calm her down.”

  The old ewe was pawing the ground and bleating—all normal signs. But watching over her labor would serve to distract Tobin from his relentless questioning.

  Without another word, Tobin removed the jumper Bennet had lent him and rolled up his shirtsleeves to the elbow, then opened the gate to the enclosure and came inside.

  He knelt in the straw by the aged sheep’s head. She shook him off and lowered her head, threatening to butt him, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Poor thing. Does it hurt too much? Be calm, milady, and it will all be over soon,” he soothed. Tobin’s glance at Bennet as much as said the words were directed at him too. Be calm, and it will all be over soon.

  Bennet almost told him to go away, that the ewe wasn’t in any real distress, but then the old girl moved close to Tobin and leaned against him, panting.

  The lawyer really did seem to have a way with animals. Bennet pursed his lips and turned away.

  Chapter Six

  Tobin shivered in the chill morning air. He’d washed himself in the bucket of freezing water, but he suspected shit and blood still clung to him. Once he got back to the inn, he would order as hot a bath as Meaks could manage.

  He didn’t expect to return to the relative civilization of the Faircliffe until he got what he needed from the pestilential Bennet—a promise, a signature, something. Tobin would get what he needed because he almost always did. As one of his preceptors once told him, patient, friendly men often outlasted hotheaded, swaggering braggarts.

  Yes. Eventually he, hot water and soap would be reacquainted. He would soak in clean water and the triumph of a job well done.

  But for now… He knew he grinned like a fool down at the small family. His lambs.

  The farmer hurried past. He poured some grain from a bucket into a trough in the next stall.

  Tobin asked, “How do you know she can manage to nurse all of them?”

  “You’ve asked me a version of that question three times—one for each lamb.”

  Tobin pointed at the smallest—and half noted that his fingernails hadn’t been this filthy since he was a schoolboy. “But Jeffers is making the devil of a racket. I’m worried he’s not getting enough.”

  “Jeffers?”

  “Mm, yes. That lamb wears the oppressed, long-suffering expression of Jeffers, my clerk.”

  Bennet put down the bucket with a thump and gazed at Tobin’s little family. “And have you named the others?”

  “The big one is Bagsworth, and the bouncier one is Childs.”

  The gray light of dawn came through the open door so he could see Bennet fighting a smile. Tobin hid his own smile of triumph.

  “Also clerks?” Bennet asked.

  “Barristers. The white wooly caps remind me of the wigs they wear in court. Bagsworth is a new silk—queen’s council—and is so extremely proud of himself. He has the biggest head of the lot.”

  “Are you a silk?”

  “No, and I don’t expect I ever shall be. I’m a solicitor, not a barrister. Criminal cases are interesting, but the rest of the business suits me better.” Tobin leaned against a wooden rail, then changed his mind when it made an ominous creaking. “I enjoy the fussy business of drawing up wills and helping settle land matters.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I appreciate the fiddly bits, but mostly I like people.” He hesitated. Was it time to finally have it out with Bennet? “I could help you, you know. I would like to.”

  Bennet stared at him for a long minute. “I’m cold. I’ll make tea.” He picked up the bucket and stalked out of the barn.

  Impossibly bad-mannered man.

  When he’d started this search, Tobin had interviewed the heir’s far-removed relations, four of them, older than Pierce and wrapped up in their own busy lives. He’d been surprised at how little those relations had known the heir. An unfailingly polite but quiet young man, one had said. A soft-spoken boy who didn’t laugh or smile often but wasn’t overly serious either. They didn’t seem to notice him but weren’t surprised when his grandfather, who’d raised him, left him the company. Most of them, also wealthy, didn’t seem to resent Pierce’s wealth. None of them had seemed particularly curious about his whereabouts—until the matter of the company remained unsettled.

  This man, the bitter farmer, unfailingly rude, would get plenty of notice in any well-bred crowd, that was certain. Tobin couldn’t imagine him in any of the Pierce relations’ well-appointed residences. He could picture him in Meaks’s small room that smelled of smoke and damp earth. Bennet wouldn’t stand out there, just another farmer.

  Had he always been so solitary and that was why the Pierce relations didn’t know him?

  One second cousin once removed, the most sensible of the lot, told Tobin about an attack near the Strand in London. Pierce hadn’t been hurt that night, but he’d had been changed, the cousin said. He’d become even more silent.

  Pierce had gone to the murdered man’s funeral and then vanished without notice. The cousin had decided the disappearance and the murder went together, because he knew Pierce had been friends with the man and the last time anyone had seen Pierce was at that service.

  Tobin had visited Pierce’s two London clubs, and Pierce hadn’t even spoken of the attack to his fellow members—gentlemen who also described Pierce as quiet and polite. They also hadn’t seen him since the funeral.

  Curious, Tobin had done more research and found only a single newspaper item about a man beaten to death on the street. The account was confused. More than one person had set upon the victim, but how many was unclear. Apparently, some sort of shouting match had triggered the event—the phrase “vile imprecations” appeared in the article without explanation. He was rather surprised the attack didn’t draw more attention since it might have been a case of class war, usually sensational and a way to sell more papers.

  The man killed had been described as a prominent clubman, which Tobin supposed meant a man with no occupation other than spending money.

  There was no mention of anyone else attacked other than the murdered man. So perhaps Pierce hadn’t been witness to the killing. Perhaps he was so sensitive, the death of a friend set off a kind of madness that made him flee everything he’d known.

  If that was so, Tobin would best serve him and his grandfather’s company by letting him cut loose his old identity—the road Pierce obviously thought he’d already taken. They could follow the legal steps to turn over the ownership, perhaps to a board. Tobin could leave Pierce/Bennet to this windblown hillside on the back of nowhere.

  Tobin absently rubbed Jeffers’s woolly head as he considered what should be done.

  “It seems he’s given up on the world. I should just allow that.”

  Querulous Jeffers bleated and rubbed back. Tobin stood and tried to push him toward the old ewe, but the other, much larger siblings took up too much room.

  This would not do. Jeffers was obviously hungry, and the current arrangement wasn’t working. Tobin gathered the warm body, all legs and wiggles and sharp little hooves, and stood. He looked around at the other stalls. One sheep had only a singleton lamb. He walked over and placed Jeffers near her, but she lowered her head threateningly.

  Tobin gazed at the ewe for a long minute while he tried to formulate a plan. Muttering “Fool, fool, fool,” to himself, he carefully dumped Jeffers into a closed and empty stall, then grabbed up the ewe’s new lamb and raced back to the stall where Jeffers complained. The ewe put up such a racket, Bennet would surely come see what Tobin was doing.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Tobin closed the rickety wooden stall door and sat on the floor by the woolly babies. He gathered
the lambs up and rubbed his hands over each of them and then, awkwardly, rubbed them together. The one he’d just stolen from its mother was still covered with some of the fluids of birth or her saliva. Disgusting, but maybe that would help the process of getting her to accept the stranger.

  Tobin barely took the time to grimace at the thought. He’d gone from reasonably fastidious to messing about with unspeakable muck in less than a day.

  Jeffers bleated piteously, and so did the other lamb, but their outrage was nothing compared to the bawling mama.

  “All right, let’s get this over with,” he said. That had to be enough. And if it wasn’t, he’d take Jeffers back to his mother, Old Lady, no harm done. He hoped.

  He opened the door to the stall and carried the lambs back to stall, where the mother complained and pawed the straw.

  Perhaps it was the relief of getting her baby back or perhaps she hadn’t really minded Jeffers. The ewe greeted the lambs joyfully, treating Jeffers as her own, licking him and allowing him to nurse—as if she’d always had twins.

  Jeffers didn’t seem to notice he was with the wrong mother. “You never were the brightest lad,” he told the lamb.

  He grinned down at this new family he’d made. How easy to arrange the affairs of sheep. If only people were so easily sorted.

  He walked out of the barn. The breeze blew over him, spicy-sweet and biting. It woke him entirely, and he drew in deep breathes. He’d been awake most of the night with only an hour of sleep snatched here and there, yet he felt entirely refreshed.

  The cottage was warm and smelled of frying butter and eggs.

  “I’ll give you a thousand pounds if you give me some of those eggs,” Tobin said. “Two thousand pounds if you include a few cups of tea.”

  The man at the stove grunted.

  “But you don’t need my money, do you?”

  Bennet turned. The object in his hand, a small shovel, perhaps, looked like a weapon. “You eat, and then you leave.”

  Tobin cursed himself for pushing too hard. He would back away from the truth and allow Pierce to remain Bennet—for now.

  Bennet served them both bowls of eggs. Apparently, plates weren’t available. He also handed over a chunk of bread that was slightly singed from being toasted over the fire. The meal was delicious. Hunger, Tobin decided. He couldn’t recall being this hungry since he was a lad.

  The other man hunched over the bowl and wolfed down the food as if he were in a race. Tobin tried to imagine him dining in a club. Impossible.

  There was something almost hypnotic about the deft, animal way his host went after victuals. His long fingers held bread and he used it to scoop the eggs.

  “I figured out how to help Jeffers,” Tobin said.

  Bennet put down his bread. He swallowed before speaking. “What are you talking about?”

  “The lamb. Mama was obviously overwhelmed by her triplets, so I found another source of food and care for Jeffers.”

  Bennet rose from his seat without a word and strode out the door. Tobin rolled his eyes and followed.

  The sun was almost warming the air, but the breeze still blew at them, pushing the pale lank hair from Bennet’s face, exposing his sun-darkened forehead.

  Inside the barn, Bennet growled, “Show me.”

  Tobin pointed to the ewe, who placidly chewed cud as the two lambs nursed. “She took over the job.”

  Bennet went to the ewe and sank to his knees. He seemed to rub Jeffers’s belly, then rose.

  For a moment, he paused by Tobin but didn’t meet his eye. He looked around the stalls and then back at the new little family.

  “Damnation,” he said at last. “You had no notion what you were about, but you grafted that little bugger onto a new mum.” He shook his head and mumbled something about morons and luck, and walked back out of the barn.

  Tobin stopped to say hello to the old ewe he’d played midwife to and check on Bagsworth and Childs. By the time he returned to the hut, Bennet was stacking the dishes in the basin. The dogs had done with the bowl and were licking their chops, and Tobin supposed that meant he’d missed the rest of breakfast.

  He snatched up the mug of lukewarm tea before that could be dumped out. “I can do the wash-up. You did cook that marvelous breakfast.”

  Bennet muttered, “Sarcasm.”

  It took a moment for Tobin to understand. “I’m not being sarcastic. That was delicious. Did you make the bread?”

  Bennet paused, then nodded.

  “I’m impressed, and no, I am not sneering.” He wanted to add something about whoever had taught him how to lead this farmer’s life had done a fine job, but he wouldn’t make any more direct or indirect references to Bennet as Pierce. Not yet. “Please allow me to wash up. I have taken care of myself on occasion.” The last time had been in university, and even then, he’d had a washerwoman, but no need to mention that fact.

  Bennet stepped aside and collapsed back onto the chair.

  “You must be exhausted. I don’t think you slept at all,” Tobin said, and then remembered he wasn’t going to remind the man of his presence.

  But Bennet grunted what sounded like agreement. “A bit of a rest, then I’ll check on the ladies. Fresh milk out in t’other barn…”

  His words petered out. A soft snore came from him.

  Tobin washed the dishes the best he could figure out how, then put them up on the shelf, still wet. He wasn’t going to rummage around to find any sackcloth.

  He considered searching the hut for more evidence to take back to London that Bennet and Pierce were one and the same, but rejected the idea because, for all he knew, Bennet was lying about being asleep. He leaned down and gazed into the bushy-bearded face.

  Now that he was certain, the resemblance was obvious, although this man looked more like Pierce’s older brother than the fresh young gentleman in the photos.

  Lines had been etched at the corners of his eyes—from pain? From squinting into the wind? His face was more rough-hewn, probably because it was thinner. Yet the bones echoed the face of the elegant young gent.

  Bennet stirred and grunted something in his sleep.

  Tobin went back to straightening up and dumped the wash water outside the door.

  He glanced down at a piece of paper on the table, a bill of sale for clean raw wool to Wool Stapler Chas Tolland. The seller’s name was Jacob Bennet.

  Restless, Tobin decided to explore the other barn. Maybe he’d find the milk and drink it himself. He wondered if Jeffers would tolerate cow’s milk—not that he’d interfere with Bennet’s sheep anymore.

  Jacob. Tobin walked out into the sun, which actually felt warm on his face. He paused to breathe in the scent of grass.

  Jacob. He remembered now. The murder victim had been Mr. Jacob Phillips.

  Not a coincidence. Tobin would wager his year’s salary on that one. The few facts he knew clicked into place, and suddenly Pierce’s dramatic reaction to the death of a friend made perfect sense. If the two men had been lovers, that might be more than reason enough for a heartsick Pierce to flee his old life.

  Chapter Seven

  Bennet started awake and almost fell off his chair. Good Christ, he hadn’t meant to actually sleep. The presence of another person in his hut had jangled, yet also comforted him—obviously, or he wouldn’t have allowed himself to collapse like that.

  His instinct must be to consider Tobin a friend rather than an enemy. He didn’t trust that part of himself at all.

  Bennet had seen guard dogs that looked like sheep, big white animals as large as ewes, carnivores that stood around with the flock. An unwary hunter looking for a meal might meet up with sharp teeth from that innocent-looking animal.

  He rubbed his eyes and almost smiled at the thought of Tobin showing pointy teeth in a snarl. But with humans, who knew what form the weapons could take? Club
s, knives, indifference, interference—he’d do well to stay alert and stop the lawyer from dragging in the unwanted world.

  He wondered if he could manage to bribe Tobin to keep his silence. Threats would hardly work. Just push him out the door and yap at his heels until he fled down the hill? That picture made him smile.

  Near his chair, Bets panted up at him. She thumped her tail, once, twice.

  “You’ll have them soon, lovey,” he crooned at her. Please he added silently. He could lose a lamb or an ewe and not shed a tear, but Bets was too important.

  For a moment, Bennet wondered what Tobin would name Bets’s pups—but he’d be gone soon. Bennet didn’t need a big white dog to drive off potential enemies.

  Still, as the morning wore on, his uninvited guest showed no signs of wanting to leave. Tobin trailed after him as he performed his normal morning routine. The man asked more questions than a small child, peppering Bennet with a litany of “whys”. How much did the horse consume in a day, and how often did the cow have to be milked. He quizzed Bennet on sheep in general and the breed Bennet owned in particular. His persistent curiosity even got Bennet to discuss the horned Dorsets he coveted.

  “Their wool is finer than Swaledales. Merino sheep were crossed with the horned sheep of Wales. I hear they’re prone to flystrike, but someday I hope to add them to my flock.”

  “So you intend to raise sheep for the foreseeable future?”

  Bennet didn’t reply as he handed Tobin a pitchfork. “If you’re going to follow me around the sheep barn, make yourself useful and fork out one of the lambing jugs.”

  Tobin poked gingerly at the dirty straw before lifting a tiny forkful and tossing it in the wheelbarrow. “Smelly blighters, aren’t they?”

  Bennet recalled his role of curmudgeon and dropped his voice to a gruff growl. “I’d a sight more prefer the smell of sheep to the foulness of people.”

  “Bad experience?” Tobin asked brightly.