A Dog in a Doublet

by Emma V. Leech

  Harry felt fat tears roll down his cheek and could do nothing to check them, could find no words to express what he felt in return.

  “My lord,” he protested, shaking his head, too overcome.

  “No!” Alistair snapped, shaking his head. “No, my lord. I told you to drop that years since you stubborn, hulver-headed cub!” He pulled at Harry’s hand and Harry went to his knees beside the bed, leaning towards him. “I never had a son, Harry, but ... but I wish I had. I wish ... I wish you were he ... my boy.”

  Harry gave in and wept, clinging to the old man’s hand. Forcing himself to take a breath, he knew he couldn’t leave it unsaid and looked up, trying to force the words out.

  “I’ve wished it too, every day for years, sir,” he admitted, his heart fit to burst at the expression in the old man’s eyes. “You’ve given me so much. More than I deserve ... more than anyone ever did before.”

  Alistair shook his head, such a smile in his eyes that Harry would never forget the sight of it. “You got what you deserved, Harry,” he said, his voice fierce and urgent, his grasp on his hand determined. “You remember that, after I’m gone, son. Promise me now,” he demanded.

  “Another promise?” Harry said with a broken laugh as he wiped tears from his eyes.

  “Last one,” Alistair grinned at him but then his face grew serious. “Promise me, lad. Promise me you’ll be brave and do what I want for you, promise me.”

  Harry nodded, swallowing hard to keep the tears from overwhelming him. “Anything you want, sir. I promise.”

  The old man sighed and lay back against the pillows. His eyes seemed far away now, as though he were retreating from this world, but his hold on Harry’s hand was still strong. Harry sat with him, feeling like he was holding his breath until he heard him whispering his name. Harry leant closer, straining to hear the words.

  “Dog in a doublet, Harry ... don’t forget ... you promised.”

  Chapter 16

  To slip the wind - to die

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

  Harry didn’t know how long he sat by the old man’s bed afterwards. But when Mrs Fletcher finally crept in and put her hand on his shoulder, it was dark and the fire had long since died, the embers flickered out, leaving everything cold and grey.

  “Come along, lad. Come downstairs and warm up, and we’ll raise a toast to his lordship, eh?” she said, her voice soft and gentle, like she was talking to a child.

  He felt like a child, too, not wanting to leave though he knew Alistair was gone. His presence was no longer in the room, and he realised the frail shell left behind really was just that. All the vibrancy and stubborn force of will that had been Alistair Preston, Viscount Stamford, had somehow left the room, left the castle, and the world seemed a deal more ordinary and unfriendly without him in it.

  “Come along, Harry,” Beryl pressed, urging him to get to his feet. “We’ll come back in a bit and see him smart and tidy for the funeral, don’t you worry.”

  “I don’t want them here,” he said, a rush of anger overwhelming him all at once at the thought of his grasping, cold-eyed nephew. “Not for the funeral. Not with them all trying to figure out the worth of everything they look at. I’ll kill them,” he said with utter fury.

  “No, lad, no, no,” she soothed, shaking her head. “Mr Pennyworth has it all arranged, he’ll be buried right away, with just us there. That was his instructions. It’s all done, don’t need to worry. Now come along.”

  Harry nodded and scrubbed a hand over his face before turning back to the old man once more. “Goodbye, you old goat,” he said, though he knew he’d long since gone.

  He heard Beryl sob and got to his feet, giving her a hug as she buried her face in her apron.

  “Ah, I’ll miss the old devil after all,” she sniffled, shaking her head.

  They made their way down the stairs, and Reggie hunted out his lordship’s best brandy, and they all hoped he wouldn’t mind if they raised a glass of it to him.

  Harry tried to keep his head and fought the urge to down the entire decanter as he felt lost and set adrift, but there were arrangements to be made, and he wouldn’t let Alistair be buried with anything but dignity.

  “I’ll ride over to Tenterden first thing,” he said, trying to keep himself busy with what needed to be done. “I’ll get Ramsy to hitch up the old carriage so I can bring Bridgeford back with me.” Beryl and Reggie nodded in agreement at the idea of fetching the old preacher who’d been retired these past five years or more. “He’d turn in his grave to have that pompous young lobcock that came here preaching repentance droning on over him,” Harry said in disgust.

  “Blasted - prig - preacher,” they all said in unison, echoing the old man and then raising another toast him as they wiped their eyes, hardly knowing if they were laughing or crying.

  ***

  The funeral was brief and to the point like Alistair himself, and Harry thought he’d have approved. He was buried in his new suit just as he’d wanted, and Harry took care to make sure his cravat was neat and tidy, and not too tight, though he knew he was being daft. There was just him and Reggie and Beryl and Pennyworth, and once it was over, they all trooped back to the house where Beryl had laid on a spread for them. Harry stayed for a bit, but found he was too raw, his emotions all sharp edges and awkward shapes. He hated anyone to be kind to him for fear he’d blubber like a child, and hated to be seen looking miserable in case they thought he was sorry for losing his position more than Alistair. It wasn’t true, and he felt they knew that, but company didn’t fit his mood and so he made his excuses.

  He walked outside, feeling the wind whip up around him. Passing by what had been the gardener’s stores when such people had been at Stamford, he picked up a trug and a trowel and headed back outside. The storm that had threatened still hadn’t hit, but it lingered in the air, promising trouble soon enough. Harry drew in a breath and wondered what he’d do now. He’d asked Pennyworth if he might leave, and any token or bequest the old man had left him was to be sent on once he was settled, but the fellow had refused. Harry and the Fletchers must attend the reading of the will, and only then would Harry be free to leave if he desired.

  How Harry would bear to be in the room with Wilfred and the rest of the blood-suckers, he didn’t know, but he knew he’d never refer to Wilfred as Lord Preston. Not under any circumstances.

  His lordship was dead and gone and no one would take his place, as far as Harry was concerned.

  He made his way to the edge of the woods at the top of the rise, about three miles behind the castle, and set down the trug and got to his knees. Just beneath the soil were tiny bulbs, cyclamen that would bloom every winter. Their delicate pink blooms seemed to face frost and fierce north winds with aplomb, and Harry had always admired them. He doubted anyone would bother to put flowers on the old man’s grave once he and Beryl were gone, and so this was the least he could do.

  Once he had a good collection, he headed back to the little chapel and the still fresh earth. There would be a fancy marble statue standing at Alistair’s head soon. Another of Alistair’s last minute whims. Harry smiled as he remembered the look of gleeful devilry on the old goat’s face, as he’d considered Wilfred’s rage when he discovered the cost of it.

  Once all the bulbs were carefully planted, Harry sighed and sat back on his heels.

  “All neat and tidy then,” he said, feeling less foolish than he might have imagined at talking to thin air. “I’ll come back again, before I go,” he added, getting to his feet.

  The wind shook the trees, scattering fresh green leaves and buds like an angry man shaking his wife and scattering hair pins all around.

  Harry paused and held up his face to the storm, hauling in a breath as the air battered him. It was sweet and clean and colder now as the storm grew closer, and it eased the ache in his chest just a little. But as he opened his eyes, the hurt returned tenfold as he discovered Clarinda, standing just feet
away and gazing at him, her eyes all red, and with tear-stained cheeks.

  “Oh, Harry,” she wept, running to him. “I came as soon as I heard. I’m so terribly sorry.”

  Harry couldn’t help but wrap his arms around her, knowing that she had loved the old man, too. “Ah, well. It’s done now, Clara, love.”

  She looked up at him, a tremulous smile on her lips. “Clara?” she echoed. “No one had ever called me that.”

  “Then it’s mine and mine alone,” he said, touching a finger to her lips and knowing this was another goodbye he had to endure.

  “Harry?” she said, and his name was a question and a plea and all of her hopes and dreams, but he could do nothing but shake his head.

  “Go home, love,” he said, hearing the pleading in his voice that she not fight him, not now. “Before this storm comes and you get drowned in it.”

  “But, Harry, please, what will you do now?” she demanded, ignoring his request as ever.

  Harry shrugged and let her go with regret. He turned and began to walk back to the house with long strides, forcing her to scramble after him.

  “Harry?” she demanded, picking up her skirts and stumbling on the rough ground in her fine kid boots.

  “I’ve got to stay for the reading of the will tomorrow, but after that ...” After that, he didn’t have a clue where he’d go or what he’d do.

  “But Harry,” she cried, tugging at his arm, his name beseeching him as the wind whipped at her hair, the dark tresses dancing around her face. “What about us?”

  Harry turned back to her and felt the despair that had been creeping up on him crash down on his shoulders. “There is no us,” he shouted as the storm took his words and tossed them around, snatching at them as the sound of thunder rumbled through the skies. “For God’s sake, can’t you see it’s impossible?”

  Clarinda just stared back at him, incredulous and wide-eyed with shock. Harry started to walk again, turning his back on Clarinda and her heartache. His own was enough to bear, the pain of it clawing at his throat and leaving his heart feeling raw and exposed to the storm.

  “You’d leave me?” she said, running beside him and looking utterly bewildered. “You’d leave and not take me with you?”

  Harry laughed, a desperate sound as frustration lashed him. Why couldn’t she understand?

  “Of course I won’t take you!” he raged, turning on her and knowing he’d turn the world on its damn head if there was a chance to make it otherwise. “When will you understand? I’m nothing and nobody. I’ve got nothing to give you, Clarinda. You’re to marry a gentleman at the very least, a marquess, by God, if your father has his way. I’m none of those things!”

  To his surprise, she flew at him, striking at his chest with one small, curled fist. “Why must you persist in treating me like a spoilt child!” she shouted in return, her blue eyes wild with fury and frustration. “I would rather live a simple life with you, Harry, than an empty one with all the jewels and fine clothes in the world.”

  Harry stopped, staring at her as her words sank into his skin and made hope flicker to life as he wondered if she could truly mean what she said. But with regret, he realised that she didn’t understand enough of life to know what it was to go without; and the way her father had looked at him, he felt pretty certain that he’d not give his daughter a penny if she married against his wishes. If that weren’t reason enough to keep her from him, the shadow of his past was always there, too, a dark cloud lingering on the horizon. He could never return to London for fear of being recognised and the truth catching up with him. What would Clarinda think of him if she ever found out? Would she still feel the same, knowing he’d killed a man with his bare hands?

  Exhaustion settled in his bones. His body felt weary and worn, burdened down with the weight of sorrow in his heart and fear for what the future held now.

  “What will it take to make you understand?” he asked, taking hold of her arms and wanting to shake her, though his voice was kinder now, aching with regret. “If we run away, you’ll have nothing but the clothes you stand in. There will be a dreadful scandal and you’ll never be able to show your face in polite society again, is that what you want?”

  Clarinda stared back at him, her eyes wide and her face open and full of sincerity. “No, Harry. But I’d face it easier than losing you.”

  Harry smiled despite himself, touched that she should say so. “And what of the squire?” he asked, gentle with her now. “Your father will be shamed, all of his grand plans for you ruined. Is that so easy to face?”

  He saw the cloud cross her face at his words and knew he was right. She was brave, alright, and maybe she meant everything she said with her whole heart. He wanted to believe it. But she didn’t know what it was to want with no hope of getting. She had no concept of how it felt to be alone in the world with no kin - none but him, at least. She didn’t understand what she was giving up, what it would mean after the first flush of their love had faded and the day-to-day business of living began to wear on her. She might come to hate him for not being able to give her what she wanted. And even if she never did, never reproached him for it, he would know what she had sacrificed to be with him, and that was a heavy weight to bear.

  “Go home, Clarinda,” he said, his voice soft and defeated.

  “No,” she said, stubborn to the last, her eyes full of determination despite the truth of his words. “I know you’re afraid of what I’ll lose, and I’d be a liar if I pretended I wasn’t frightened, too. But I love you, Harry Thompson, with all my heart, and I’ll not lose you. Not for any price. So, if you are considering disappearing into the night without a word, know this ... I’ll follow you, and I won’t stop until I find you.”

  Harry’s heart was too full, too overwrought to stand much more, and all he could think of was that she didn’t even know his real name.

  He reached out a hand and touched her cheek, trying to commit the feel of her skin to memory. “I’ll not run off into the night without saying goodbye, love. I promise. But I will go, and I’ll not take you.” He drew in a breath, wondering if a kindly-meant lie would serve or only make things worse. “I think the old man has left me something,” he said, wondering if the words could be made true by hoping hard enough. “Maybe, if you love me like you say you do, you can give me time. I could make something of myself, perhaps, and then ... and then your father might not look so harshly on me.”

  Clarinda leapt forward, her eyes alight with excitement now. “Oh, Harry, yes! I mean, I don’t want to wait,” she said, the regret in her eyes at that fact only too easy to read. “But I’ll wait as long as you need, rather than marry another, and you can do it, Harry. If anyone can, you can. I believe in you.”

  Harry swallowed, wondering if he really could make a name for himself. He’d only said it to placate her, but ... the old man had thought well of him, and if Clarinda believed, too ... But without a viscount behind you, life would not be so simple. The harsh reality of life was something he’d escaped the past years, but the memory of it was fresh enough. He was just fooling himself, and her too.

  “Well, then,” he said with a smile that felt fake and uncomfortable. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, not daring to touch his lips to hers for fear of where it might lead. “We have a plan, do we not?”

  She nodded, placated for now. He would have to write to her one day, when he was far away, and tell her he had married another, or give her some reason to forget him, though the idea made him feel sick to his stomach. Perhaps he’d be forced to tell her he was going to hang for murder, he thought bitterly, that should do the trick.

  He pushed the dark thoughts away, trying to hide his misery from her as best he could. “Then run along home, love,” he urged, wanting her gone so he didn’t have to keep the lie going any longer. “This storm is closing in and you’ll not make it unless you hurry.”

  Harry watched as she ran back to the castle, relieved to see there was a carriage waiting for her, as he
doubted she’d reach home before the rain started. With a sigh, he waved her off, and headed back indoors.

  ***

  Clarinda traced a pattern on the plush velvet of the carriage seat and frowned. She wanted to believe Harry. Wanted to take what he’d said and hold it to her heart, but something niggled at her like a maggot in her brain. The idea that Harry had lied to her was an uncomfortable one, but she couldn’t dismiss it. He wasn’t lying to hurt her, she knew that. Knowing Harry the opposite was more likely. He was too blasted honourable for his own good. Besides which, even if he hadn’t lied, it might take him years before he’d reached the heights of success he deemed suitable before he could offer for her. All that time, she’d be waiting for him, alone and lonely whilst her father tried every kind of blackmail he could come up with to force her to marry some fool with a title.

  She wondered if she could seduce him? If he lay with her, he’d be honour-bound to marry her, surely? If that’s what she wanted from him? The thought of it made her skin grow hot, her cheeks flushing and her stays suddenly far too tight.

  She remembered the feel of his hands on her, the feel of his lips and the faintest rasp of his beard against her skin. Swallowing hard, she tried to get her thoughts away from such heated visions. She’d be in enough trouble when she returned, though she’d bribed the coachman to swear they’d only been to visit a friend of hers who was poorly. But if she came back red faced and flustered, she didn’t doubt her father would lock her in her room again. Nonetheless, it seemed like a reasonable idea, and one that appealed to her more than she liked to admit. Harry had always intimated she was a deal too bold.

  Perhaps it was time to see how bold she could be?