A Loyal Companion

by Barbara Metzger

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  A Loyal Companion

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A Loyal Companion

  By Barbara Metzger

  Copyright 2012 by Barbara Metzger

  Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 1992.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Barbara Metzger and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The House of Cards Trilogy

  A Suspicious Affair

  An Angel for an Earl

  An Enchanted Affair

  Cupboard Kisses

  Father Christmas

  Lady Whilton’s Wedding

  The Duel

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  A Loyal Companion

  By Barbara Metzger

  To Yang-Sho Sundial Jim, who is my sunshine

  Chapter One

  Squire Elvin Randolph was a proud man. He was proud of his vast, well-tended Berkshire acres, and proud of the wealth they brought him, so he and his wanted for nothing. He was proud of the ancient name he bore, and of the sons who would bear it after, and the daughters who graced his fireside. If Squire Randolph had any misgivings, it was that his beloved wife had passed on to an even better life, if such were possible. His chest still swelled, albeit over a comfortable paunch, when he recalled the day Allison Harkness, daughter to the Duke of Atterbury, had chosen him, a simple farmer, to receive her hand and heart. She had never regretted her decision, despite that widow in the village, no, not even when he turned down Atterbury’s offer of a title. “A title does not make a better man,” she’d said, to his everlasting gratification. He missed his dearest Allison still, despite that widow in the village, but he took comfort knowing she would have shared his pride in the fruits of their union.

  The boys were George and Hugh, an heir and a spare as the saying went, solid lads with good bottom. They’d be educated as gentlemen farmers the same as their father: as much book learning as they’d sit still for, with the mud of Randolph’s Deer Park Manor only temporarily scrubbed off their hands and faces. There was enough property for Hugh, the second son, to claim a tidy parcel, or enough income to purchase his colors if the little hellion didn’t outgrow his love of knights and dragons, pirates and Indians.

  The girls would be well provided for, too, their mother’s portion making them heiresses in their own rights. Catherine, Squire’s firstborn child, had also inherited her mother’s delicate beauty. She was soft-spoken and well mannered, even as a tiny moppet in sparkling, starched pinafore and smooth blond braids. A lady to her fine-boned fingers, she was destined to grace London ballrooms, to shine as an ornament of society, to make a noble marriage. Her grandmother, the dowager Duchess of Atterbury, was already planning her come-out, with the squire’s blessings. Frankly, Catherine’s perfection terrified Randolph. What if he got her dirty, or uttered a profanity in her hearing, or touched her soft skin too hard with his rough hands? Better the dowager saw to such a paragon. He’d look after the boys, and Sonia…

  If the dark-haired, sturdy boys were as alike as two cherries on the same vine, the squire’s daughters were as similar as apples and oranges. Catherine was refined elegance, with the cool essence of silvery moonlight. Sonia was exuberant sunshine, all bouncy golden curls and bluebell eyes and a dimpled smile that could melt the frostiest heart, which the squire’s certainly was not. The baby of the family, younger than Catherine by ten years and soon left motherless besides, Sonia was pampered and spoiled and adored by the whole household.

  “You’ll ruin that child,” the dowager duchess warned. “Letting her run wild after the boys like that, taking her up on your horse with you every time she holds her arms out, instead of sending her back to the nursery where she belongs. Mark my words, Elvin, that gel will be a rare handful. No man will take a hoyden to wife.”

  “But she’s just an infant, Lady Almeria,” Squire replied, brushing cookie crumbs from his now-rumpled cravat. “Time enough to worry about a husband later.”

  The dowager only sniffed. “She doesn’t even know the meaning of the word ‘no.’”

  “Of course she does.” Randolph tossed the babe up in the air and asked: “Precious Sunny, do you want a fussy old rich man with a title to take you away and keep you in some cold, dark castle?”

  “No,” she shouted between squeals. “No, Papa, no!”

  Squire called her Sunny, not Sonny with an o. He denied his mother-in-law’s claims that he was trying to make another son out of the girl. He was content with his boys, and absolutely delighted with this pink and white bundle that was soft but not fragile like porcelain, sweet but not cloying like wedding cake. Besides, no little boy would be so generous with sticky hugs and sloppy kisses. He called his youngest child Sunny simply because she lit up his life. When she looked up at him with adoration, he saw her mother, Allison, and he was proud all over again.

  Unfortunately, when Sonia looked up at him like that, Squire Randolph could deny her nothing. Even more unfortunately, perhaps, Sonia also inherited, beyond Allison Harkness’s beauty, fortune, and loving nature, her mother’s knack of knowing her own mind. Allison had always known what she wanted, and had accepted nothing less. Didn’t she marry plain Elvin Randolph, Esq., despite an uproar that shook stately Atterbury House in Grosvenor Square to its very foundations? So, too, did Miss Sonia Randolph make her wishes known. Poor Elvin had more than one opportunity to think back on the dowager’s dire warnings. Especially when it came to his hounds.

  Now, as proud as he might be, Squire Randolph did not take credit for his lands. They were passed down to him, as he’d hand them on to George. That they were fertile was a gift from on high, to be nurtured and tended as best he could. Even his children, as much as he loved them, were more products of Allison’s goodness than his own, he felt. But his hounds? Ah, now, there was something a man could brag about to his cronies. He could invite those toffs down from London and show off his darlings till the titles turned green with envy. Hadn’t he bred the dogs himself, for generation after generation, to get just the right conformation, just the perfect pitch, color, and temperament? Hadn’t he trained them all himself, right from the weaning box, till he had
the best fox-hunting pack in the county, maybe the country? By Jupiter, he had!

  Sheltonford was not Quorn territory, and the squire was too conscientious to let anyone destroy his tenants’ fields or disturb their herds, fox or no, but an invite to ride with the Deer Park pack was seldom refused. When there was no company or no fox, Randolph had one of his kennelmen drag a hide for him, just so the hounds stayed keen, just so he could have the joy of riding behind, a fine piece of horseflesh between his legs, the wind in his face, and the sound of a dog on the scent like music in his ears. Aw-roo! Aw-roo!

  Squire could pick out the individual hounds’ voices the same as he could identify his children’s. Better, for there was Belle, first to find the scent, loudest to bay, sweetest in timbre. Belle was the best dog Squire ever owned. Gold and white, with velvet ears and doe eyes, her tail arched just so, she stood foursquare and jaunty, always eager. Her heart was in the hunt, and Elvin Randolph’s heart rode with her.

  * * *

  Bud Kemp was also a proud man. He ran over three hundred head of fat and fluffy black-faced sheep on hundreds of acres of land he leased from Squire Randolph, just like his father before him, and he’d never missed a rent day. He had three strapping boys to help him at lambing, shearing, and market days, with another gone for a soldier. The youngest was studying with the vicar to see if he’d suit the priesthood. His wife still looked good to him, especially in the dark, and they had enough money set by in case times got hard. Bud Kemp could rest easy nights, knowing he’d done right by his family, his landlord, his church, and his country. He could also sleep soundly knowing his woolly assets were safe out in the valleys with his dogs, the smartest, loyalest, most competent sheepdogs in the shire. Hadn’t Bud bred them himself for generations, right since crossing his older border collie bitch with Shep Hayduck’s Belgian herder? Damn right, he had. And kept breeding the good ’uns back to the lines to weed out the bullies, the daydreamers, and the weak of body or soul.

  Those sheep were the stupidest creatures on four legs. They’d get lost in the front yard if not for the dogs. They’d panic at the slide of a pebble on a slope, graze clean off a cliff, or baa in the face of a long-knifed poacher, if not for the dogs. Bud Kemp’s sheepdogs kept him snoring, and the dog that brought a smile to his weathered face, even in his dreams, was Jack.

  Jack was a handsome black dog, well-furred to keep him warm out in the hills on cold, wet nights. He had a white blaze and a white bib, and half-cocked ears that were always vigilant for warning sounds. He carried his feathered tail low, in the habitual low profile that let him swivel quickly or bunch his muscles for a quick burst of speed. Jack was so smart, Bud boasted, he could drive those sheep through the eye of a needle. And he never harmed a one of the plaguey beasts, nor ever let anyone or anything else hurt one either. Jack was so smart, Bud swore down at the local, he could sense danger when it was two valleys away.

  The only thing Jack never did understand was market day. He and the boys and the other dogs brought the sheep to whatever place Bud told them and then…nothing. No sheep, no job, just a saucer of ale on the floor of the tavern.

  Now, Squire Randolph wasn’t too stuck up on his own worth to bypass the local alehouse on his way home through Sheltonford village, nor to share a mug with his tenant, nor to admire Bud Kemp’s fine working dog. The two men had a lot in common, but this was not France. Neither man, in fact, would think of getting their dogs together any more than they’d encourage the sheepherder’s sons to go courting the landowner’s daughters. There was just no way in King George’s England for Squire’s Belle and Kemp’s Jack to know each other, in the biblical sense, that is…except for Miss Sonia.

  *

  “But, Papa, they were only playing!”

  Squire’s bellow of rage could be heard two counties away. “Hell and damnation, Sunny, didn’t I tell you I wanted Belle in the house tonight? I should have listened to your grandmother and beaten you years ago. It’s not too late. I’ll ship you off to boarding school, see if I don’t!”

  “But, but, Papa,” she said, sniffing, “you just said Belle was to keep me company tonight because you had to go visit Mrs., um, someone on business.” At his narrow-eyed look, Sonia hurried on, her bottom lip trembling. “And, and Belle missed her friends in the kennel so much, she was crying by the door.”

  “You are never, ever permitted to open the front door by yourself at night!”

  Sonia shrank back from his roar, her blue eyes awash in tears. “I didn’t, Papa, truly. Jack came around by the library door, you know, the one Taylor leaves open for you when you’re coming home late from—from wherever you go. Isn’t Jack clever, Papa?”

  Squire Randolph sank down in an old leather chair in what used to be his orderly library, in what used to be his well-ordered life. He shook his head in resignation and motioned to Sonia, who promptly launched herself into his lap. “Ooph, poppet, you’re getting too big for your poor old da. And you are surely too old to be in such scrapes. Why, you are all of ten now—”

  “Nearly eleven.”

  “And country-bred. You know what happens when a, uh, ram and a ewe get together.”

  “Yes, Papa, but you didn’t tell me that Belle was feeling motherly like you say about the ewes and the mares and the sows and the hens and—”

  “All right, Sunny, I should have—”

  “And I didn’t know Jack was feeling frisky like you say when the stallion—”

  “Enough! Here, blow your nose.”

  She took the handkerchief he held out to her, snuffled into it a few times, then squirmed around to look up at him, blue eyes shining despite the tear streaks, dimpled grin showing a missing tooth. “Papa, can I keep one?”

  *

  Squire Randolph was still saying “No” some two months later. “You know you cannot have one, poppet. They just wouldn’t make good house dogs. They’d be too big, too wild. I’ll buy you a puppy, love, see if I don’t. What would you think of a little pug you can carry around? You know, with those cute little squashed-in faces? Or a Pekingese you can comb and brush and put ribbons in its hair. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sunny?”

  Sunny stamped her foot. She wouldn’t like a lap dog at all. She was too old for dolls.

  “No matter, the pups’ll likely be sickly anyway.”

  And she was too old not to know what happened to unwanted puppies and kittens. Someone would tell her the babies were sickly, and the next day they’d disappear. Not this time, she vowed.

  The men in the stables were like jackstraws under the weight of Miss Sonia’s desperate coaxings: they crumpled immediately. So she managed to be on the scene for the grand event and could see for herself that all three of the pups were strong and shiny, suckling avidly. Her eyes big with wonder, Sonia turned to share this marvel of new life with her father, and intercepted his signal to the head kennelman, Tom. Squire jerked his head once to the side, and Tom nodded.

  Sonia ran to her father and clutched his hand. “No, Papa! No!” she cried in a pathetic little voice.

  Randolph stroked her gold braids, tumbled, as usual, out of their ribbons. “I’m sorry, Sunny, but the bast—babies are neither fish nor fowl. You know they’re no good for anything.”

  “No, I don’t know that, Papa, and you don’t either! You can’t yet. Why, that would be like deciding someone was guilty before you heard the evidence. And you wouldn’t do that, Papa, I know. Everyone says you are the fairest man in the shire. They made you magistrate, didn’t they? You didn’t even send Eddie Spears away when everyone knew he was poaching. No evidence. That’s what you said, Papa. So you have to give Belle’s puppies a chance, too.”

  *

  The pups were weaned young, though not for lack of attention, despite Squire’s best efforts. He wanted to avoid future disappointments and heart-wrenching scenes. But no governess or nanny or nursemaid had yet kept Miss Sonia from where she wanted to be, so she knew Tom’s report before he gave it to her father.

&n
bsp; “Very well, Sunny, we’ll keep the blondish pup for now. Tom says she follows a scent right smartly for such a young bitch, and sticks to it. She won’t look so out of place with the pack, either. But she’s not a pet, mind, and if she doesn’t work out, she’s gone. Now, let that be the end of it and these other two wretched whelps. I don’t want to see them around here anymore.”

  Sonia patted his knee. “Of course not, Papa. Mr. Kemp will make sheepdogs out of them.”

  *

  “I’ll keep the spotted bitch, sir, Miss Sonia. Seems to take to the sheep. Quiet-like an’ gentle with ’em.” Kemp not-so-gently nudged the last pup, the only male, away from chewing on his heavy boot. “Not like this fool. Barked in their faces, he did, then ran the silly beasts in circles till we could catch ’em, and him no bigger’n a minute. I got no time for a dog what only wants to play.”

  The mostly black dog had noticed Squire’s riding crop, tap-tapping against Randolph’s thigh, and was lunging at it, trailing mud and straw and other stable debris down the well-clad leg. Squire kicked him away. Ferocious infant growls turned to a soft whimper as the squire nodded sagely. “My man Tom had no better luck with him. He wouldn’t stay on a scent, just hared off in twenty directions at once. Wouldn’t bring a stick back, so he’d never make a retriever, and he sure as Hades isn’t quiet enough to go on point.” Squire turned to his daughter to make his final, sad ruling in the case.

  And there she was, his baby, his heart’s ease, sitting cross-legged on the stable floor amid the muck, with a miserable mutt on its back in her muddied lap, teething on one of her blasted braids!

  “I’m sorry, poppet, but there you are. No one wants this one.”

  She looked up at him, his angel, with that smile so like her mother’s, and his eyes almost watered. Then she declared, in a tone of voice also reminiscent of Allison Harkness Randolph: “I do.” She set the dog on his white feet and ruffled his shaggy black coat, pulled straw out of the arched and plumed tail with its white tip. She bent over and kissed the puppy right between his clownish gold eyebrows.