A Dog in a Doublet

by Emma V. Leech

  “Will you never forgive me, Harry?” she asked, her voice soft. He stared back at her, silent and perplexed at her words, and frustration seemed to glitter in her eyes. “I have an answer of sorts, I suppose,” she said, turning away from him.

  “Wait,” he said, moving forwards though he’d be better served to let her go. He was too anxious to know what he was accused of, why she should look at him with such reproach. So he held the door closed so she could not slip past him. “Forgive you for what?”

  She stared up at him, as if trying to judge if he was mocking her and finding it hard to believe otherwise.

  “For being such ... such a beastly child,” she exclaimed, looking mortified. She looked away from him, staring at her toes. “For almost losing you your position here.”

  Harry frowned, though everything inside him seemed to melt at the sorrow in her expression. His anger over that incident, which had been held so much in his mind for so long, seemed to have slipped away from him without him even noticing. So much so that he couldn’t understand how she could even consider it still relevant. Though he hadn’t accepted her apology at the time, and he’d not exactly gone out of his way to be kind to her, so why should she think otherwise?

  Harry let out a breath, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her. “It’s I who should apologise,” he said, the words stilted and awkward as he wished his heart wouldn’t kick in his chest as it did when she looked up at him, those blue eyes wide with surprise. “You were very brave that day, coming back and apologising as you did, and I ... I was ungracious, and unkind.”

  It was the least he owed her, as it was true, but her mouth parted in a little ‘o’ of surprise, and Harry tried not to stare, and failed. The desire to kiss her consumed his thoughts and he struggled to attend to her words at all.

  “Oh, but I never blamed you for that,” she said, and then blushed, looking rather guilty and making Harry want to kiss her all the more. “At least not for so very long,” she added with disarming honesty. “I was the ... the most dreadful child. Oh, I know well that I was,” she added with a wry grin as he opened his mouth to protest out of politeness, at least. She laid her hand on his arm, looking up at him with such ... longing that his breath caught in his throat. “But I ... I have changed, Harry.” She said his name in such a way that his skin prickled with desire.

  He swallowed, staring back at her, and the moment hung suspended between them. He could kiss her now, he knew he could. He could pull her into his arms and kiss her and she would not protest. She was all but demanding he do just that, with that soft, pleading look in her eyes, and then he would be caught up in her with no escape, desperate to see her, pleading for another meeting, and another until someone discovered them ...

  But what then?

  “But I haven’t,” he replied at length, his voice hard and implacable, though his chest ached with remorse at the words. “I’m still the same gutter-born nobody I was then.”

  She flinched as though he’d slapped her. “And you said you’d forgiven me!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing with hurt.

  Harry laughed, though perhaps it wasn’t a kind sound as he felt so damn bitter and enraged by circumstance, bitter that some rich, pompous fool would marry her when she should have been his. “And so I have, but it doesn’t make the truth any less palatable, does it, Miss Bow?”

  “You think I care where you were born, Harry?” she demanded, her voice growing strident now, and that fire he admired so flashing in her eyes. Oh God, how he wanted to believe her, to take at her word and not care for the consequences.

  “No, not now, you don’t,” he said, knowing he’d have to hurt her to protect them both. If he hurt her, she’d leave him be and he’d be safe, they both would. “Not when all you’re thinking of is getting me to kiss you, same as what you’ve wanted since we first met,” he said, watching the shock and embarrassment bloom on her face and knowing it would only grow. “But you would if I got a babe in you and you were forced to be plain Mrs Thompson. No fine dresses and trips to the assemblies then. Not with hungry mouths to feed. Do you know how to butcher a pig, Miss Bow, can you bake a loaf of bread? Because if you can’t, you’re no good to me.”

  She gasped, her eyes glittering with hurt and mortification, and he saw her fists clench, knowing she wanted to slap his face so badly it was killing her not to. But the anger leeched away as suddenly as it came, and what was left in her expression struck at his heart like a blade.

  “You didn’t have to be cruel, Harry,” she said in the end, the words thick with emotion as she turned on her heel and left.

  She didn’t look back.

  Harry watched her go and then closed the door, the burden of regret unfurling in his chest, as dark and cold as a storm.

  Chapter 13

  A facer - A straight blow to the face

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  Harry did his best to shake off his gloom before returning to Alistair, but the hope in the old man’s eyes as he entered the room only made it worse.

  “Well?” Alistair demanded, gripping the arms of his chair and sitting forward. “Did you kiss her?”

  Harry scowled at him and went to pour a drink. “No, I did not, you old fox, so stop trying to cause mischief. No good will come of it.”

  “Piffle!” Alistair exclaimed, banging one scrawny fist on the arm in frustration. “The girl’s in love with you, can’t you see that? By God, if I were a younger man, I’d steal her away from you. You don’t deserve her if you’re going to be so white-livered about it!”

  Harry turned around, stung by the implication he didn’t have the guts to court her. “And you’d have every right to, seeing as you’re a bloody viscount!” he shot back, the rage behind the words making Alistair jump a little in surprise. But his rage was short-lived, and sorrow and regret consumed him readily enough. He gave a sigh and shook his head, holding his hand out to the old man and willing him to understand. “What can I offer her, Alistair?” he said, his voice bleak as he fought to control his emotions. “I’m a nobody with little or no future, and even if the squire would allow it, I’ll be damned if I’ll be thought her blasted fancy man for living off her money!”

  Alistair’s face darkened and he huffed with annoyance. “It’s her father, that blasted, jumped up mushroom that he is. You’re good enough, my boy. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He looked uncomfortable, shifting a little in his seat as he glanced up at Harry. “You know I’ll see you right, Harry? I wouldn’t leave you with no prospects after all you’ve done.”

  Harry’s irritation with the old man dissolved all at once and he took his glass, pulling a chair up beside Alistair. “I know it, but you know as well as I do, you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” He gave the old man a rueful smile, but Alistair didn’t smile back, just studied him with those watchful dark eyes. Harry looked back at him and the words were intent and sincere when he spoke again. “You know that’s not why I’ve stayed, though, don’t you?”

  The old viscount grinned at him then, and Harry felt a jolt of sorrow, wondering for how much longer he’d see that crooked, tombstone smile.

  “I know it, lad,” he said quietly. “I know it.”

  ***

  It was two days later before Harry saw Clarinda again.

  He was riding the twenty hectares that had been planted with turnips and found himself pleased and proud by the neatly turned fields, impatient to see the green shoots bursting through the soil. On the far side of the largest field, he saw her atop a huge, powerful bay horse that he recognised as one of her father’s. Damn the fool girl, what was she thinking? He’d lay his last farthing on the fact her father didn’t have a clue what she’d done.

  It was only then that she turned her head and saw him, and for a moment his heart leapt in his chest, expecting to see a smile of recognition. Only, there was no smile for him today, no jaunty wave. Instead, she turned away and cantered off, back
towards her father’s land.

  Harry watched her go with regret and a strange, unsettled feeling in his chest. He ought to let her go. He’d made his point and she’d finally taken it, best leave it at that. Yet a feeling of misgiving niggled at him and he worried for her. She was a masterful horsewoman, but, nonetheless, that horse of the squire’s had a nasty temper and had tried to take a chunk out of Harry’s leg for no good reason the week before. Telling himself he was only concerned for her safety and would simply shadow her home, Harry set off after her.

  To his chagrin, he saw her take the tangled path that led through the woodlands. It was a pretty route and there were some fine jumps which she’d done a time or two before with not so much as a scratch, so he didn’t know why such foreboding stirred in his gut, but the feeling increased as he saw the big bay, nosing at a patch of grass, deep in the woods, and Clarinda nowhere to be seen.

  Harry leapt down with fear tugging at his heart, scanning the surrounding for sign of a fall, but there was nothing to see, and no Clarinda.

  “Clarinda!” his voice rang out across the woods and he strained his ears for an answer, but none came. Surely she couldn’t have strayed far from the path, but why had he not see her if so? He’d not been so far behind. Going on gut instinct, he saw how the land slid away to his right, down to the river and he scrambled down, hearing the water rush with misgiving. Oh God, don’t let her have fallen in. Terror wrapped around his heart, his chest growing tight at the idea. The sound grew louder as he descended and he realised it was a waterfall, the power of the water hitting the rocks filling the air with sound.

  With a rush of relief that almost drove the air from his lungs, he saw her. Standing by the falls, perfectly unaware of his presence and with a face full of misery, was his Clarinda.

  Harry felt his heart lurch in his chest at her expression. Had he done that? Had he driven the smile from her eyes and made her so unhappy? Guilt and sorrow warred in his heart and the sensation only grew stronger as he saw that she was crying.

  “Clarinda?”

  She jolted at the sound of her name, and he reached to steady her before she lost her footing on the rocks.

  “Harry?” she exclaimed, wiping her eyes with her gloved hand and looking away from him. “You startled me,” she added.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, hearing the weight behind the word and wishing she knew it was for so much more than giving her a fright. “What’s that?” he asked, realising she held something in her hands.

  She clasped her fingers around whatever it was, but Harry took her hand, staring at her as she reluctantly revealed a beautiful amethyst brooch. Harry was no expert, but it looked to be ringed in gold, and were those diamonds around the edge?

  “What’s this?” he asked, puzzled, wondering what on earth she was doing with something so valuable in her hand.

  “It was my mother’s,” she said, her voice unsteady.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said, keeping his voice even, unsure of why she looked so fragile and nervous. “Worth a pretty penny, too. Did you drop it?” he asked, not understanding why she was staring at it with such longing.

  “It’s priceless. To me, at least,” she said, the words barely audible over the rush of the water. “And no, Harry, I didn’t drop it,” she added, looking away from him.

  Harry stared at her, utterly perplexed, until he realised where they were, and why the place was famed in the area.

  “This is the fairy spring,” he said, as a terrible, wonderful truth dawned on him.

  Clarinda gave him a rueful smile and laughed, though it was a desperate sound, rather than a happy one. “I don’t believe in fairies, Harry. But ...” She hesitated, clearly torn between laughing it off and telling him the truth. But Clarinda was too brave and too honest to pretend she hadn’t hoped. “But there are legends about this place,” she said, sounding just a little defiant. “People say it does have the power to ... to ...”

  “Give you your heart’s desire?” he said, careful not to sound scornful, though such things seemed ridiculous to him. Surely she didn’t feel so strongly for him? It was just a girl’s fancy for a handsome fellow. There was nothing more to it than that, surely? Even as he refused to believe it, the hope that it was true grew in his heart, and he stared at her.

  “You think me a fool,” she said, her voice faint as she looked steadfastly away from him. He could see the blush in her cheeks though.

  He reached out and took her arm. “No, I don’t,” he said, hardly daring to ask if it was him she was wishing for. He could be wrong, after all, there could be another ... “Though perhaps tossing something so precious to you in the river is a foolish thing to do,” he added, not liking the fact that she could so easily throw something of such value away, as it only illustrated the gulf between them as nothing else could.

  “It has to be something precious, though, Harry, or it wouldn’t have any power,” she said, and she sounded at once angry and lost.

  Harry ran a hand through his hair, bewildered that such an intelligent woman could behave so irrationally, not knowing what to do. While he dithered, however, Clarinda reached out her hand, and he only just caught the brooch before it plummeted into the churning water below.

  “God, Clarinda, this thing is worth a fortune!” he cried, wondering how many fields he could plant from the value of this one small piece of jewellery. Good God, he’d be able to buy a bloody cottage with it. The idea made him angry.

  “Oh, damn you!” she cried, trying to prise the brooch from his hand. “Why do you have to bring everything back to money? Some things are more precious than gold!”

  He almost caught his breath at her fury, but indignation at being thought merely banal and prosaic set his own temper alight.

  “Aye, says someone who’s never been hungry,” he said, mocking her. “If you’d ever known what it was to go for months at a time so damned starved you think you’ll go mad from it, or trying to find somewhere warm to sleep when the streets are frozen and filthy, you tell me then about what’s more precious than gold!” he shouted in fury, wishing with all his heart that it wasn’t true, wishing he was the kind of man who could write her a poem, or give her diamonds. Anything rather than a plain spoken man with dirt on his hands and little to show for his time on earth to date.

  Instead of flying off in a rage with indignation as he might have imagined, however, Clarinda just stopped in her tracks, staring at him with such compassion that his throat tightened.

  “I-I’m so sorry, Harry,” she whispered. “I never considered ...” She turned away, her head downcast. “You always make me see how shallow and thoughtless I am,” she said with a little laugh, though she sounded on the brink of tears. “I suppose it’s no wonder you don’t want me.”

  “Don’t want you?” Harry echoed, incredulous, the words raw and desperate. He reached for her then, grasping her wrist and pulling her back to him. She stumbled on the wet rocks and Harry hauled her to him, his arms pulling her hard against him.

  Clarinda gasped in surprise and he gave her no time to decide that she’d changed her mind as his mouth took hers, harsh and urgent. To his delight and despair, she clung to him, responding with equal fervour, tangling her fingers in his hair.

  Oh, God. What had he done?

  For one thing was only too clear: he couldn’t not kiss her again, couldn’t unlearn the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms. He couldn’t ever forget the perfection of it. He let her go, seeing her lips red from his kisses, her eyes wide and dark with desire.

  “Who were you wishing for?” he demanded, raising his voice over the roar of the waterfall that still couldn’t drown out the thud of his heart beating in his ears. He held her by her wrists, fighting the desire to shake her for turning his world and his life and his heart upside down. His words were rough and he felt quite certain that his expression must be wild and frantic and damn near unhinged, for he certainly felt all of those things.

  Clarinda stared up at h
im, looking shocked and delighted all at once.

  “You, Harry. It’s always been you.”

  Harry pulled her back to him, proving with no shadow of a doubt that her foolish notion of him not wanting her was just that. Desire thrummed in his blood with all the power of the river beside them, and he devoured her with a hunger that only grew the more he tried to sate it. His hand went to her face, feeling her cheek so soft and smooth under his hand and the gentle curve of her jaw with wonder. She was precious and lovely and so very fine that he feared his rough need of her would break her, hurt her in some way. But he couldn’t stop, wanted more, needed more, everything.

  That he could never have her, though ...

  That was a reality that just wouldn’t go away. With regret he saw all the impediments looming before them, and even if money and station hadn’t been an issue, there was always Joe. How would she feel, then, knowing the hands on her perfect skin were covered in blood?

  He pulled back, trying hard to ignore the rapid rise and fall of her breasts and the look in her eyes that told him she’d refuse him nothing he asked for. He wasn’t such a bastard, though he’d admit to coming damn close. Though he’d have hurt her badly enough with this day’s work in the end. Better she’d lost the blasted brooch and given up hope when nothing had come of it.

  He took a breath, closing his eyes and accepting the pain in his chest as an agony he would live with now. He’d grow used to it ... in time, perhaps.

  “Come on,” he said, his voice dull as he let her go, swallowing down the emotions that clawed at his throat and his heart. “You should get back home.” He pressed the brooch back into her hand. “Keep that safe,” he muttered.

  Harry avoided her eyes, not wanting to see the confusion he knew would be there. He took her hand and helped her back up the slope to where the horses stood.