The Shepherd and the Solicitor

by Bonnie Dee

  His mind stuttered. Love?

  No, of course not. It was easy to list all the reasons he was a fool.

  The word love was utterly ridiculous. He didn’t know Bennet. People like them didn’t fall in love. They had known each other less than a week.

  Love. It seemed to ring along with the clack of the train’s wheels on the track, louder and more persistent than all the rest of the thoughts wheeling through his mind.

  The train whistle screamed, and Tobin joined it. Alone in his first-class compartment, Gregory Tobin howled as loud as he could, but it wasn’t enough. For the first time in months—in years, perhaps—he began to weep.

  He slept, succumbing to exhaustion formed by the long hours of tending sheep. He woke logy and confused, wondering why Bennet’s bed rocked.

  Tobin took a hansom back to his townhouse. His staff, particularly his valet, was glad to see him. The rooms were tidy, positively luxurious compared to what he had grown used to. The dust-and-dirt-free surfaces smelled of oranges rather than sheep and wet dog, and not a single chair had a book wedged under its leg. But the air was too still. He longed for the rush of a breeze.

  Bathed, shaved and wearing clean clothes made for his body and not someone taller and more muscular, Tobin went to his chambers as soon as he could, to make a report to the clients.

  The bright young clerk sat with a pencil ready to take down his words. Tobin stood by the narrow diamond-paned window in his office and stared out at the neatly clipped lawn below.

  “Sir?” the clerk said.

  “A minute,” Tobin said. “When did you say the formal meeting of the board of directors takes place again?”

  “Tuesday fortnight.”

  Tobin should recall that.

  The wild inexplicable grief had flown, but now he felt as if he’d been hollowed out. Thinking was difficult.

  If this was love, he thought sourly, he was just as glad to have avoided the damn thing as long as he could. It felt more like glandular fever.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tobin arranged to meet with the president of the board and the accountant of Pierce and Associates the very next day. They sat at a table in the library of their offices, the president a plump, balding, pleasant-faced man and the accountant, as sour-faced and thin as any penny-pinching miser.

  It occurred to Tobin he’d never actually been in any of the machining factories that all this fuss was about, never felt the heat of forges or heard the clang of metal on metal. Never smelled the oily bits of steel or the sweat of the men who took those pieces and assembled them into machines used in other industries. Tobin had only ever experienced Pierce and Associates’ factories as if they were a single entity on paper. As he sat across from the representatives of the board, it all seemed like a chess match with an invented king rather than concerning several factories filled with workingmen.

  What was best for the workers? Had he ever given a thought for that? But it wasn’t Tobin’s concern. He worked for the board. However, perhaps it should have crossed Daniel’s mind to consider how his grandfather’s company and all its many employees were being managed in his absence. Whether in despair over a dead lover or not, it was the man’s responsibility.

  Tobin’s simmering anger at Bennet—no, Pierce. The man was Daniel Pierce—grew a little greater as he showed his clients the sheet of paper with Daniel’s signature.

  The president beamed. “This is the best situation. Good work, Mr. Tobin.”

  “You may not use company funds to buy his shares,” Tobin warned.

  “We have means. We shall buy him out for a ha’penny on the pound and be done with the matter.”

  “I should think at least a sixpence per—” Tobin began.

  “You are our solicitor.” The accountant, who had never liked Tobin, glared. “You are not his. We don’t require your advice on how to deal with this matter. You located the heir. Your part in the matter is complete.”

  “That is why you hired my services,” he said mildly, though he was preoccupied with thoughts of Bennet on the windswept farm. Would he even want the damned money? No, he’d made that abundantly clear—he didn’t want anything that his old life had to offer. But what if he should fall and injure himself? He’d be trapped, unable to care for his sheep. He’d lose his dogs and that pathetic nag of a horse. No matter how annoyed Tobin was with him, that didn’t bear thinking about. So he shied away from that thought and found another. Didn’t Bennet want some fancy brand of sheep he said were too expensive?

  A vision of a newborn lamb made Tobin suddenly weak with longing. He flexed his hands, which felt too clean.

  Likely Bennet would be able to afford that flock if he got just a ha’penny a pound. But Bennet had already been cheated and, by God, the city had already taken away enough from him. Tobin would load him with good wishes and security despite his own idiotic self.

  No doubt if he knew what Tobin was about, Bennet would glare at him over that beard and scowl. Tobin found himself smiling for the first time in several days as he leaned forward in his chair. “If you swindle the grandson of your company’s founder, word will get out.”

  “No, it won’t. Unless you were planning to let it escape?”

  Tobin stared back into the accountant’s cool gray eyes. “No, of course I would never violate confidentiality. But any solicitor would demand to see the company’s books.”

  The thin man shot back, “No country lawyer would do that.”

  Tobin lied. “I have given him the name of a competent lawyer who will do exactly that.”

  Now the president, looking far less jolly and decidedly un-beaming, chimed in, “One rather gets the impression that you work on Daniel Pierce’s behalf rather than ours. That’s a conflict of interest.”

  “I had no notion it was an adversarial situation.”

  “We will offer him ha’penny for every five pounds.” The accountant’s gaze grew steel-cold and his tone sharp enough to flay flesh from bone. “You will take that offer to him on our behalf.”

  Tobin rose to his feet. “No, I will not.” He might not be the sort of man who could hold on to permanent love, but he would remain a loyal friend. He might have said good-bye to Daniel, but he no longer felt the anger that made him want to say good riddance, which was an improvement in his heart.

  “Mr. Tobin, please recall the board of Pierce & Associates is your client.”

  “I’m well aware of that. I have worked hard to find your missing heir. Do you expect me to help you fleece him like some sort of sheep?”

  “The company’s welfare is your only concern in this matter.”

  “The company’s welfare is my concern, yes. I shall do all in my power to make sure that it operates fairly.”

  “Your power? You have none. You’re an advisor, and one is inclined to believe that your advice is less than useless. This is a business, not a charity.”

  Tobin made the mistake of laughing. “You think it best to make enemies of a man who still holds a controlling share of your company?”

  “Not for much longer,”

  “We shall see,” Tobin said. He had no idea why he would make empty threats.

  “You surely can’t mean to contact him.”

  Tobin only raised his brows.

  The president’s normally pink face glowed beet red. Apparently, he had joined the ranks of the outraged. How odd, Tobin thought, when we are about to do something slightly immoral, the outrage goes deep.

  The president said, “Your head shall hear from us about your behavior today. We shall no longer retain your services and will make certain to spread word of our disappointment among those with whom we associate. You are in danger of making a great enemy today, young man.”

  Ice ran through his veins. Tobin abruptly recalled his father’s face on the day Gregory had first informed him of his prestigious ne
w job. One of the very few times he’d witnessed an expression of pride on the man’s face. But then his father had inevitably retracted his admiration with words to the effect of “You’re sure to muck it up”. God, it killed Tobin that he might prove the man right—even though Tobin Sr. was no longer alive to witness the fall.

  Gregory Tobin, the man who never lost control of his temper and his tongue, had done both and soon might lose this client and perhaps be reported to the Law Society. He didn’t regret speaking for Daniel’s interests, but did wish he’d been rather less strident about it. There were more circumspect ways to protect Daniel without ruining his own reputation.

  “I apologize, Mr. Beale. You are right. I work for you and will convey the price you choose to offer Mr. Pierce.” Though he could make damn certain Daniel’s representative would fight hard for more. He knew just the man to send to Yorkshire to champion the stubborn sheepherder, an old friend from university who was as whip sharp a lawyer as one could wish for.

  “I am deeply dissatisfied, young man.”

  Tobin gave a curt nod. He wasn’t going to throw away his career after all. No grand gesture on behalf of the man he cared for. He’d pay for the smaller one, then.

  A mere forty-two hours since Gregory Tobin had parted ways with him outside Constable Taylor’s home, and time seemed to stretch into years and decades. Of each block of sixty-minute increments, Bennet had probably spent forty of them thinking about Tobin—and that included time when he should have been sleeping.

  The sense of loss, although not with the terrible edge he’d felt after Jacob’s death due to its violent nature was no less acute. Thank God for the tasks of introducing many of the new lambs to the flock, replacing crumbling stones in the fence by the north field, and planting the more tender of his spring crops in the kitchen garden. Anything to keep him from fidgeting. If he didn’t have his work, he’d do nothing but pace and ponder and yearn for the company he’d grown to love so quickly, the man he felt like he couldn’t do without.

  One day, he knew Tobin’s freckled face and clever wit would fade to a slightly dimmer memory as Jacob’s had eventually done, but for now, the pain of loss was too fresh to ignore. Brutal feelings. No wonder he’d been content to remain secluded in the country for these past years. Other human beings brought nothing but heartache.

  Bennet stooped over the tilled earth in his patch near the house and tucked in another seed potato. The crops planted in this patch would eventually be combined with mutton into stews and soups, but this early in the spring, it was hard to imagine the profusion of green that would soon sprout. Dark brown dirt was all he saw.

  Bennet heard the pounding of distant hooves and looked up from his planting to see who might be riding across the field. For a moment, his heart beat faster and his spirit lifted as he could only think of one person it could be. But as he squinted against the sunlight, he realized the figure on the horse was an unfamiliar one, and slight, more of a boy’s build than a man’s.

  He put down his hoe and walked toward the rider.

  The boy slipped from the horse’s back even before it fully stopped and reached into the breast pocket of his coat. He adjusted the bill of his cap and marched toward Bennet with the cadence of a small soldier.

  Could it be a telegram? No, the package was too thick. “A man hired me to bring this to you quick as possible.”

  “Who was it?”

  “A kind of postman, but he rushes messages all over the country. Special delivery.”

  Bennet recognized the lad now as the boy who worked in the postmaster’s office. This special delivery seemed to be a thrill for him.

  Bennet was dry-mouthed as he reached for the envelope. There was no doubt it was from Tobin. No one else in London knew his whereabouts. But perhaps it was merely a formality to update him on the sale of his shares and not the more personal message he craved—one which said Tobin would return.

  With filthy and slightly trembling fingers, Jacob opened the paper. It was quite long, and with each word he read, his tension increased.

  Mr. Pierce: I am Oliver Fenton, an old friend of Greg Tobin, who has retained my services to assist you in the matter of Pierce and Associates affairs. I shall arrive by the 15th to discuss the matter.

  Two days? He read with a rising annoyance that Tobin would be so high-handed as to hire a representative on his behalf without consulting him. But then he came to a part in the note that erased all irritation.

  “From our conversation—and the fees he’s already paid me—I gather that you and Tobin are friends. Since he is the company’s representative, we shall be able to work this to our advantage. He said as much and didn’t tell me to hold back that information.”

  What the hell did that mean? Something to do with bloody money, no doubt.

  “He would be in touch himself, but he’s in trouble already for acting as your advocate. I’m not naming names, but he has rather blotted his copybook with his clients and his superiors at the firm.”

  Tobin in trouble. Tobin in trouble! That part of the missive struck him like a blow, knocking away every other concern. Bennet wanted to run, to physically do something. He couldn’t simply keep planting potatoes after learning this, nor could he wait until tomorrow noon to talk to some stranger.

  He cursed, and the boy, still standing nearby, stared at Bennet as if he were a wild-eyed loony. He’d probably heard the gossip about dual identities and missing heirs, and this hurried letter from the city declared that something exciting was happening at last in the boy’s small world.

  Bennet said, “The telegraph office is operational?”

  The boy nodded.

  “I can trust you to deliver a message there for me?”

  The boy’s mouth fell open, and he resembled Dickon. Best write it out, Bennet decided.

  “Hold on. I’ll be right back.” He strode to his cottage. The boy waited outside.

  He wrote: No need to come north. On my way to London. He copied Fenton’s address from the envelope onto the paper. Outside, the boy was watering his horse from the very trough by the pump in which Tobin had once doused his head.

  An image of that red hair soaked with water, tossed back to scatter glittering droplets in the sunlight flashed in Bennet’s mind. He ached with yearning at the memory, as he handed the paper, along with a great many coins to the boy.

  “Yes, sir!” The lad pocketed the money and note. He pulled the horse’s head away from the water, leaped onto the startled horse and cantered off as if entrusted with a message that would shake the world.

  Bennet stared after him as his figure grew smaller against the vast expanse of green. But though Bennet’s body was still, his mind flew, making preparations. He must see Dickon and tell him he’d be in charge of the farm and the sheep for a few days. He must pack and shave and dress suitably for the task he was about to undertake. He must see a train schedule and buy a ticket. And then…he must board that train and steam across the countryside to the one place in the world he’d sworn never to see again.

  And to the rescue of the one person in the world he most wanted to see again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A straight razor wasn’t easy to handle once one fell out of practice. With every scrape of the blade, Bennet felt as if he were removing a layer of skin as well as hair. He moved slowly and with great precision, watching in the small grimy mirror as each swath of brown fell away. The pink flesh beneath felt raw and exposed, making him want to cover up again. Good Lord, no wonder sheep bleated as if being slaughtered rather than shorn when he took a razor to them.

  He’d cut off the bushiest length of beard before beginning a close trim. And he’d cut his hair too, shearing it off at collar length and awkwardly hacking all over his head. The result was less than satisfactory. It would do for the train ride to London, but before he met Oliver Fenton, he would need to visit a barber.
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br />   And a tailor.

  The clothes he’d worn here four years ago, the clothing of a civilized young gentleman, no longer fit him. He had bulges where he used to be slender, thick slabs of muscle in his shoulders and arms. And his legs had grown more powerful and longer.

  He’d been little more than a boy when he arrived here, freshly minted from university. Now he was a man. But a country man with no appropriate clothing in which to present himself in front of a board of directors. He would purchase a suit and shiny new shoes and leave the farmer, Jacob Bennet, behind him. At least for a little while.

  Daniel Pierce would emerge from hiding and settle his affairs as he should have done before quitting the city.

  Bennet stared at his face in the mirror and tried to feel some connection to the man he saw there. The feeling of disconnection between who he was now, who he used to be, and the half-shaven face of the man with the terrible haircut gave him a touch of vertigo. He would like nothing more than to stick his head in the sand for another four years, lose himself in sheep and wind-tossed fields, but the time for hiding was over.

  As he finished the job he’d started, removing the stubble from the rest of his jaw, Bennet realized this wasn’t only about his powerful desire to rush to Tobin’s defense and make certain the man didn’t lose a career because of him. The incisive lawyer had been correct. He needed to do this for his own peace of mind—even if the thought of taking a train to London made him faint and short of breath.

  Stop thinking. Start doing. He’d mentally chanted those words to keep himself from going mad when he’d first bought this farm. Focusing on one single task at a time to its completion was the best way to keep fully centered in the world. He used the same charm now as he finished his toilet and dressed, picked up the bag he’d packed, and went out to the horse and wagon, which Dickon had gotten ready for him.