For his own sake… He wished being a nice fellow wasn’t such a dashed nuisance sometimes.
Jack swung a greatcoat over his shoulders, and even that simple, quotidian activity was executed with a sort of manly panache. The coat settled about broad shoulders, the wool hugging a figure every lady must find worth an extra look.
“You are right that I endured horrors in India,” Jack said, tapping a hat onto his head at the perfect angle between rakish and dapper.
Debonair was the word for that angle. Vicars were never debonair.
“Is there a but?” Jeremy asked, stuffing his arms into the sleeves of his own coat.
“I’m coming to believe there is,” Jack said, tugging on gloves. “I got myself into a lot of trouble, and I got out of it, eventually, with the help of those who by rights should have left me in the ditch to die.”
“Your native butler?”
“And his… family. When my own commanding officers had conveniently given up on me, rather than let my capture create awkwardness for them, Pahdi and his relatives kept looking for me. They posted a ransom, without which, I would never have been able to bribe a guard and eventually escape. I had adventures, Jeremy. India was for the most part an adventure, rather than a horror, and some of it was…”
Miss DeWitt had best not see the smile Jack wore just then. She’d melt into a womanly puddle of tenderheartedness, because whatever Jack was recalling, he was recalling it with buckets of handsome wistfulness.
“We’re racing into the village,” Jeremy said. “I’m smaller, younger, lighter, and I will beat you on a good horse, even if you are a hero and an adventurer, and everything a young lady could wish for in a husband.”
With a flick of Jack’s wrist, Jeremy’s hat came spinning through the air, straight at Jeremy’s middle. Jeremy caught it with his left hand and jammed it onto his head.
“Beat me to the village if you must,” Jack said, opening the door and letting a blast of cold air into the house. “I’d rather you bested my performance beneath the mistletoe the next time Miss DeWitt becomes determined to observe quaint holiday customs.”
He sauntered out into the chilly day, leaving Jeremy to debate whether Jack, the great adventurer and hero who’d nearly caused a war, was teasing—or issuing a challenge.
* * *
“Mrs. Weekes claims it was sitting there when she came in to dust the altar this morning,” Vicar Weekes said. “I have no notion how it got here, and was on my way to fetch you when you met me on the road.”
The winnings jar, nearly overflowing with coins and bills, sat on a shelf in the church vestibule. To Jack, the slotted wooden poor box perched atop the jar looked worn and small by comparison.
“I can’t help but think somebody was offering the congregation a reproach,” he said.
“A metaphor,” Vicar murmured, regarding the arrangement as if it were a work of art.
Jeremy lifted the little wooden box and shook it. “Not much in the poor box, and this being the needy time of year.” He set the poor box back atop the winnings. “If I were a widow or an orphan, I might find another parish to be poor in.”
Except, affiliation with a parish required residency for a certain duration, and without residency, no entitlement arose to charitable benefits. The poor moved to better their lot—in search of a job, family connections, or an easier climate—at their peril.
“Has a crime been committed?” Vicar asked. “The winnings jar was on one side of the street earlier in the week, now it sits on the other side.”
The jar was the size of a small keg, and doubtless weighed a fair amount. No child had effected this mischief, particularly not with a foot of snow on the ground.
Bartholomew Tavis came through the church’s front door, a dingy white apron dangling to his knees beneath his coat.
“You found it!” His smile transformed his countenance from hard man to amiable publican. “You found the winnings and the very same day. Well done, Sir Jack.”
Well done, somebody.
“I did nothing,” Jack said. “Vicar’s wife came upon the jar just as you see it now, with the poor box crowning the lot. Somebody wanted to make a point.”
Tavis’s smile faltered. “I should lock up the Weasel, I know. Ma never did, but times are different now. The custom from London and the north can’t be trusted.”
Vicar was being no help at all.
“Your mother was very much respected, wasn’t she?” Jeremy asked. “I’ve been in the area only a short time, and already I’ve been told what a fine establishment the Weasel is.”
Thank you, baby brother.
“Ma was a saint,” Tavis said. “She never turned away a customer, never let a body go hungry. I hold the darts tournament in her honor.”
Mrs. Tavis had raised a man prone to self-deception, if not lying. The darts tournament was in honor of the Weasel’s profitability.
“I have spent time in the East,” Jack said, walking up to the winnings jar, but not touching it. “I have seen many odd and wonderful things that science cannot explain. I had not thought to see such goings-on in dear old England, but then, it’s a special time of year.”
Vicar cleared his throat.
“What’s odd?” Tavis asked, lumbering across the vestibule. “That’s my winnings jar, and it looks full up to the brim, same as it was last I saw it. I’ll just be returning it to its rightful—”
“Your mother passed away over the holidays not two years ago,” Jack said, shaking the nearly empty poor box. “She was a widow, noted for her hospitality and kindness, and now you’ve memorialized her legacy with a tournament that’s the talk of the shire. I am not convinced a thief moved your winnings jar, Mr. Tavis.”
Vicar finally got into the spirit of the drama. “Mrs. Weekes remarked just the other day that our poor box is a disgrace. Your own mother, Tavis, was nothing if not generous, and without her good example, I regret to say that we’re forgetting the needs of the less fortunate. They have nowhere to go for a meal in the middle of a hard week, nowhere to warm their feet when their own coal bin is empty.”
The Weasel had served both needs, up to a point, but under Tavis’s management, the policy had become “pay to stay.”
“Everybody misses Ma,” Tavis said. “But a man has to make a living too.”
Jack said nothing. He tithed generously and probably more conscientiously than other wealthy landowners or merchants in the parish. That wasn’t the point.
“You would certainly know more than I about running a tavern,” Jeremy said, “but did your mother’s approach gain custom that might otherwise have passed the Weasel by? The ladies can be very shrewd about such things.”
“Good will has ever been part of a prudent business strategy,” Jack observed, handing Vicar the poor box.
“Charity is part of our Christian duty,” Vicar added. “I cannot believe….” He opened the little box and upended three coins into his palm.
“That won’t exactly buy a Sunday ham,” Jeremy muttered. “Much less coal or a new pair of wool stockings.”
“I have a suggestion,” Jack said, after a suitably unhappy silence. “Tavis, if you announce an intention to donate your portion of the winnings to the Widows and Orphans Fund, the rest of the darts teams might follow your example. The tournament would become even more of a tribute to your late mother, and a fine testament to the Weasel’s role in the community as a beacon of kindness and generosity.”
The Weasel was best known for its indifferent winter ale. Nobody remarked as much, for Tavis appeared to be considering Jack’s suggestion.
“You don’t think the money was stolen?”
Vicar set the empty poor box on the shelf and dropped the three pathetic coins inside. “Very odd sort of thief that moves a jar of coins from the tavern to the church without taking a single penny. I’ve certainly never heard the like.”
“I think your mother was also warning you,” Jack said. “You can run a fine, hospitable, graci
ous establishment, and set a shining example of charity for the rest of us, but lock up at night, hang a bell on the doors, and mind who has a key.”
“Aye,” Tavis said. “A bell is a fine idea. That’s quite a large jar.”
Jack thought of Theodosia Hennessey’s weak tea and stale bread, her sister’s fallow ewes and sagging gates.
“If your example inspires the entire contents to be placed at Vicar’s disposal for charitable purposes,” Jack said, “the Weasel could start a holiday tradition that spreads to coaching inns throughout the realm. Your mother would be very proud to know that her good influence did so much for so many.”
That was true, if a bit… ambitious.
“You’d be an inspiration,” Jeremy said. “I’ll certainly tell this tale to my bishop when I return to London. I’ve witnessed a miracle right here in Oxfordshire.”
“I’ll tell our bishop as well,” Vicar said. “You’re a fine man, Bartholomew. Your own mother often said as much.”
Tavis’s sigh should have shook the rafters. “I was never one to argue with Ma. Nobody with any sense did. I’ll make the announcement at the championship. I’d like to take the jar back to the Weasel though.”
“Of course,” Vicar said. “The better for all to admire the magnitude of your generosity and your good mother’s wonderful example. Happy New Year, Bartholomew.”
Tavis looked anything but happy as he cradled the jar in his arms and left the church.
“That part about the beacon,” Jeremy said in the ensuing silence. “That was inspired. Perhaps you should consider a career in the Church, Jack.”
“Somebody should,” Vicar muttered. “I mention charity as often as I dare in my sermons, but after having importuned the more fortunate parishioners for a new roof last year, I dare not over-emphasize my pleas for the widows and orphans. The day Matilda Tavis earned her wings was not a good day for the poor of the parish.”
Because feeding widows and orphans mattered less than putting a few buckets under the eaves?
“My team will agree to give up any winnings,” Jack said. “Belmont’s team will as well. That ought to get the momentum going.”
“The widows and orphans thank you,” Vicar said, “as do I.”
“I’m not the one who should be thanked,” Jack said, leading Jeremy to the door. “This is the most creative bit of thievery I’ve seen on three continents.”
“Or the most creative miracle,” Jeremy said. “Happy New Year, Vicar, and may the best team win.”
They left the Vicar in the empty church, smiling despite his nearly-empty poor box.
* * *
“I caught him stealing her boots, bold as a pirate!” Mrs. Abernathy brandished Madeline’s boots under Sir Jack’s nose.
Pahdi stood before the library hearth, radiating indignation.
“Mrs. Abernathy, you will please lower your voice,” Sir Jack said, wresting the boots from her. “What use would Pahdi have for a pair of lady’s boots?”
A pair of worn lady’s boots much in need of new heels. Madeline felt awful for the butler, and ashamed for herself too.
“Miss Hennessey’s boots have plenty of wear left in them,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “They can be sold in Oxford at any number of shops.”
Madeline was under no delusions about why Sir Jack had asked her to vouch for Pahdi’s whereabouts earlier in the week. Bartholomew Tavis had doubtless accused Pahdi of stealing the darts winnings. In what passed for Tavis’s reasoning, a man surrounded every day by expensive silver, spices, crystal, and porcelain would of course tramp through deep snow on a winter night to steal money on public display.
“When was Pahdi to travel the more than ten miles to Oxford to negotiate this sale?” Sir Jack asked. “Half-day is not enough time for such a journey in this weather, and the shops are closed on Sunday.”
Mrs. Abernathy looked to Madeline, apparently expecting support on the basis of gender—support that would not be forthcoming.
“He had the boots, sir,” Mrs. Abernathy insisted. “I saw him with my own eyes, sneaking down the corridor with the boots in his hand. If you doubt my word, I will turn in my resignation this very day.”
Please let her turn in her resignation. Madeline sent up that silent prayer on behalf of the entire household.
“I do not doubt your word,” Sir Jack said. “I doubt your judgment. Pahdi, what have you to say?”
Surely the blood of princes flowed through Pahdi’s veins. He shot such a glower at Mrs. Abernathy, she ought to have gone up in flames on the spot. The glance he gave Madeline was apologetic.
“Miss Hennessey does not leave her boots out each night for the boot boy to clean, and yet, in this weather, footwear needs attention if it is to keep the feet warm and dry. I thought to bring the boots to the kitchen for the boot boy, and have them back in Miss Hennessey’s room before she noticed they were missing. In Teak House, we care for each other’s well-being, and Miss Hennessey is deserving of every kindness.”
He spoke with gentle deliberation, as if explaining basic concepts to somebody of limited understanding.
Mrs. Abernathy’s complexion turned nearly the same shade as the holiday ribbons festooning the tall candles on the library mantel.
“A fine and clever story,” she snapped. “Sir Jack won’t listen to that taradiddle if he wants me keeping house for him. You, Mr. Pahdi, may take your lying, stealing, disrespectful—”
Sir Jack had cocked his head, as if curious to learn how badly Mrs. Abernathy had misjudged the situation.
“Tell him, Sir Jack,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Tell him his kind aren’t welcome here. I don’t care what Bartholomew Tavis puts about regarding angels and miracles, we’ve a thief in our midst, and I know who it is. You show these people an ounce of kindness, and they take endless advantage. It’s not your fault you’ve a kind heart. Many a good man has gone out to India and come back addled.”
In Madeline’s opinion, Mrs. Abernathy was the one who was daft. But then, she mostly lurked below stairs. She’d never known Sir Jack to chop wood for an old woman living alone, hadn’t seen him patiently partnering his mother at whist, didn’t know how conscientiously he took his duties as magistrate.
And had no idea how deep his loyalties ran. Mrs. Abernathy took Sir Jack’s coin and bullied his maids, which she probably considered a fair exchange.
Jack set the boots on the desk blotter. They were pathetic, as boots went, though they didn’t give Madeline blisters anymore.
“Only a fool would steal boots such as these,” Sir Jack said, “and I know for a fact that Pahdi is not a fool. Mrs. Abernathy, I understand that you are no longer comfortable with employment at Teak House. I will regretfully accept your resignation and provide you with a character suited to the service you’ve rendered. I’m sure you have family who would delight in your company. In the morning, you will be paid generous severance and conveyed to the Weasel along with your effects.”
Like Pahdi, Jack did not raise his voice, and yet, Madeline wanted to cover her ears and run from the room. Mrs. Abernathy beat her to the door, after an enormous sniff, and the merest twitch of a curtsey.
The housekeeper slammed the library door closed just as Sir Jack murmured, “Happy New Year, Mrs. Abernathy.”
“Miss Hennessey, I apologize.” Pahdi bowed to Madeline. “I should have asked your permission before appropriating your boots.”
“No, you should not,” Sir Jack replied. “Permission would have been denied, as we all know. You were being thoughtful, and Mrs. Abernathy is a disgrace. I am in your debt, in fact, because I should have let her go long ago.”
The two men exchanged a look, one communicating volumes of resignation, understanding, and—if Madeline wasn’t mistaken—some humor.
“I will see to my own boots,” Madeline said, “though I thank you for your thoughtfulness, Pahdi.”
She reached for her boots, but Sir Jack stopped her with a hand around her wrist.
“Pahdi, if y
ou’d excuse us?”
Madeline slipped her hand free of Sir Jack’s. Pahdi bowed and withdrew.
The boots sat on the desk blotter, the knotted laces and worn heels a testament to years in service, and more years of service to come.
“Teak House is without a housekeeper,” Jack said. “The holidays are barely behind us, we have company underfoot, and I’m sure Mrs. Abernathy will not leave without sowing a few seeds of discord. I am trying without success to find a sense of alarm over these developments.”
Madeline was alarmed. She’d been a fool to kiss Jack Fanning before, but a lonely fool was allowed a few missteps. She had no excuses now, and yet all she could think of was the mistletoe dangling a few feet away.
Jack Fanning was the very last man she ought to be alone with, and under no circumstances—
“Madeline?”
“Pahdi could not possibly have been stealing my boots,” she said. “Mrs. Abernathy was a lazy, mean-spirited, bigoted old fool.”
“A fool?”
“Anybody can see that Pahdi is devoted to you. He’s far from home, has no family, no mates, and he’s the butt of endless unkind speculation. I would not remain by your side under such circumstances unless I loved you dearly. Even if Pahdi were stealing boots, you ought not to dismiss him.”
Sir Jack set the boots on the floor. “If he was engaging in wrongful acts, I might not have a choice, my dear. I am the magistrate, and stealing is stealing.”
And Jack Fanning was a former soldier, and a gentleman, and he was… right. Stealing was a crime, in the eyes of the idiot, damned, stupid, perishing law.
“It’s fortunate I’m not stealing boots, then.”
“You ought to consider it, at least once,” he said, taking her by the hand and drawing her down beside him on the sofa. “Your footwear is barely recognizable as such. Belmont should be ashamed.”
“Do not malign Axel Belmont in my hearing, Jack Fanning.”
He leveled the smile at her, the bashful, brash, mischievous, delicious smile. “Will you rescue me from my own folly, Madeline? I know you are here on temporary assignment as a lady’s companion, and Mama has yet to express a single complaint regarding you. Now I have rendered us without a housekeeper at a highly social time of year. This was not well done of me, when, as Mrs. Abernathy so helpfully pointed out, a thief is on the loose.”
Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4) Page 13
