A Dog in a Doublet

by Emma V. Leech

  Whilst she still had the chance.

  Chapter 17

  To face it out - to persist in a falsehood

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

  Harry stood by Alistair’s grave. The fresh-turned earth was studded with new leaves, fresh and acid-green against the dark, sodden earth. The storm had been violent and noisy, and even if he’d been able to sleep, the thunder would have kept any but the stone-deaf awake. This morning, he’d walked the estate and the castle, looking out for damage and slipped tiles, and then stopped in his tracks half way around as he wondered what the devil he was doing. It was no longer his concern.

  “Well, they’ll all be here soon,” he said to Alistair, quite unable to sound anything but gloomy. “And Wilfred will be my lording it over us, I don’t doubt.” He gave a snort and grinned to himself. “Though I shan’t be calling him my lord, I promise you, so I hope that pleases you. Though I’ll probably get myself thrown off the estate. It will stick in Beryl’s throat, too. She misses you more than she lets on, I reckon,” he added with a frown and gave a sigh. “But there we are.”

  Harry looked around and felt his chest ache as the sight of the countryside, the little patchwork of fields and hedgerows that had come to be so familiar and beloved to him, filled his vision and his heart. He’d come to love it here, and leaving it was like leaving a part of himself behind, the best part.

  “Well, I’d best be off or I’ll be late. I don’t doubt Wilfred will contest whatever it is you’ve left me, but I won’t let him thwart your last wishes, so you may rest easy.”

  Harry stared down at the grave and kept the image of Alistair and his tombstone grin in his mind. “Be seeing you, you old goat,” he said with a smile and turned back to the castle.

  By the time he got to the Baron’s Hall, Beryl rushed up to him in a fluster. “Where’ve you been all morning?” she exclaimed. “Pennyworth was here at the crack o’ dawn to speak with you, and not a sight nor sound did we find!”

  Harry guided her to the side of the room, aware of members of Alistair’s family gathered at the far end. Edwin was watching him like a cat with a mouse, and it was an unsettling feeling.

  “What did he want me for?” he demanded in an undertone.

  Beryl shook her head, making the feather on her best bonnet wave in a jaunty manner. “I don’t know, and neither will you, now, but he gave me a message for you.”

  Harry frowned, perplexed and raised his eyebrows at her. “Well?” he asked with impatience as she failed to pass the message on.

  “Oh,” she said, looking flustered. “Sorry, though it doesn’t make any sense,” she said looking perplexed. “He simply said, whatever you do, don’t react.”

  Harry frowned harder still. “React to what?”

  Beryl threw up her hands. “Well, if you’d been here we might know,” she said with a huff of frustration. “He just said to keep your mouth shut, say nothing - no matter how provoked - and whatever you do, don’t react.” She shrugged at Harry. “Clear as mud, eh?”

  “Oh, it’s clear enough,” Harry said, suddenly filled with foreboding.

  “It is?” Beryl asked, obviously surprised. “What does he mean by it, then?”

  “He means,” Harry muttered as his stomach tied itself into a tight little knot, “that the old goat is still pulling all our strings, and he’s been up to something that I’d wager his nephew won’t like one bit.”

  Beryl’s face grew white and she stepped closer to him. “What do you think he’s done?” she hissed.

  “I’ve no idea,” he admitted. “But I reckon we’re about to find out.”

  Beryl looked around as her husband hurried up to them. “Come along then, they’re going in,” he urged.

  Harry sat at the back of the room, as far from the family as he could get, with Beryl and Reggie. Old Ramsy stood by the door, turning his battered hat round and round in his hands whilst looking terrified, and like he might bolt back to his beloved horses at any moment. Harry could hear his terrier, Ratty, howling outside somewhere, and wondered what would become of him and Ramsy and the old horses now. He resolved to ask Clarinda if her father couldn’t find a place for him. He doubted Wilfred Preston had heart enough to keep the strange old fellow on, and leaving the horses would likely kill him.

  Looking up as Pennyworth began to speak, he let the solicitor’s words wash over him, trying to tell himself it didn’t matter. Whatever the old man had done, he’d be gone tomorrow and he’d not have to see any of them again.

  He studied the backs of the heads in front of him with misgiving, trying not to worry what would happen to Stamford Place with them in charge. It wasn’t his affair, he reminded himself, though he felt a surge of jealousy that he’d never get to do any of the things he’d hoped to persuade Alistair into agreeing to.

  Wilfred sat upright, proud, like he had a bloody poker up his arse, supercilious bastard that he was. The voracious Norah lounged beside him. She’d already given Harry a look that made him feel he was standing in nothing but his skin. Edwin, nasty piece of work that he was, sneered at everyone without distinction, and a frail, timid-looking creature that Harry’s heart went out to at once, cowered in his shadow. She looked like she hoped no one noticed her, but darted anxious smiles all around, just in case they did. If she were Edwin’s wife, he could do nothing but pity her.

  Mariah was there, the malevolent mother of Satan’s spawn, smug and well-satisfied, her wide backside spilling over the sides of an elegant chair that looked like it might buckle beneath her. There was also an extremely handsome fellow, in whom Harry thought he saw a faint resemblance to Alistair. He was dressed in the latest style, and whilst he was no fop as Alistair had implied, he was certainly perilously close to looking the dandy. Though his coat was a sombre dark blue, it was pared with a canary-coloured waistcoat, which had been volubly disapproved of by everyone, and a number of ornate fobs dangled alongside his watch.

  Baden, then.

  The young man seemed sublimely unaware of his family’s disapproval, or at least uncaring of it. He had a beautiful blonde hanging on his arm, who sent him adoring looks from time to time, and whom, Beryl had whispered, was his fiancée.

  Good luck with that one, lad, Harry thought with a wry smile. She looked a flighty piece, if ever he’d seen one.

  Pennyworth droned on for a bit, and then everyone sat a little straighter as he got to the only bit they were interested in. Harry watched the fellow with interest, his round face was flushed and Harry thought he looked a little nervous.

  “To old Ramsy,” Pennyworth began. “I bequeath the use of the cottage at Roadend, including the outbuildings and pasture for as long as it may please him, an annuity of thirty pounds a year as long as he shall live, and all of the horses in my stable.”

  There was a collective gasp at the generosity of this from a man who had resisted spending a farthing more than he must for most of his life. Even from behind, Harry could see Wilfred was more rigid than ever, indignation practically vibrating down his spine. Harry turned his head to see that Ramsy was stunned, as well he might be. Then he began to chuckle, his strange glittering gaze full of delight as he escaped the room, no doubt to tell the good news to Ratty and his beloved horses.

  Harry heard a muffled sniff to his side and turned to see Beryl dabbing at her eyes. “Well, I never did,” she murmured. “What a kindness he did.” She looked up at Harry and gave a watery grin, and then clutched at his hand as Pennyworth said their names.

  “To Mr and Mrs Fletcher, my good and faithful servants, I bequeath Stonelink cottage for as long as it may please them, an annuity of forty pounds each to be paid as long as they shall live, and my gratitude for the many kindnesses bestowed on me for which they got little thanks in my lifetime.”

  Harry beamed at Beryl, who had cried out in shock and was now sobbing in earnest. He hugged her as she shook her head in disbelief and reached over to shake Reggie’s hand. The man looked utte
rly stunned, but managed a choked laugh as Harry congratulated him.

  “Well-deserved, too,” Harry said, loud enough to earn himself a look of utter fury from the despicable Mariah.

  Pennyworth coughed and everyone fell silent. Harry thought the man’s voice trembled a little as he began, and Harry felt a stab of misgiving that his name hadn’t yet been mentioned.

  “The entirety of my estate, comprising Stamford Place and all surrounding lands, Granthom House in Mayfair, and all of my worldly worth, to my heir apparent ...” There was a pause and the entire room seemed to hang suspended with anticipation. “My son, Harold Thompson.”

  Harry blinked, and for the space in which it took his heart to remember to beat again, the silence was absolute.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Wilfred was shouting with such absolute fury that Harry wondered vaguely if the man might strain something, but he himself was frozen. The room around him had erupted, everyone out of their seats and clamouring at Pennyworth, who was looking increasingly annoyed and outnumbered.

  “By God, I’ll have your neck for this!” Wilfred was screaming, his voice becoming higher and ever more shrill as he worked himself up. His mother was snarling at Pennyworth with such venom that though Harry had never believed in the supernatural, he couldn’t help but wonder about evil spirits and possession. Surely the woman was part demon? Pennyworth, however, ignored her with icy dignity and got to his feet.

  “Mr Preston,” Pennyworth said, seeming to take particular pleasure in the use of that very ordinary prefix. “I have a sworn affidavit here, signed by the late viscount, that Harry Thompson, who has been living at Stamford this past nine years or more, is his son.”

  “Balderdash!” Wilfred exploded. “I’m his legitimate heir! Whether or not this ... this ...” He waved a disgusted hand in Harry’s general direction. “Imposter is truly the man’s blood or not - which I strongly doubt - it makes no difference. He’s illegitimate!”

  Pennyworth glared back at Wilfred with cold contempt. “Oh, but it does make a difference. Alistair Preston recognised the man you see there as his son, whether or not the union was blessed by marriage makes no difference to the law. The title goes to the heir apparent, and, as his son, legitimate or not, Harry is the next in line.”

  “Infamy!” Wilfred raged, apoplectic, his thin limbs rigid with anger. “You’ve not heard the last of this,” he shouted, his outraged words echoed in various manners by Edwin and Mariah. “I’ll get every lawyer in the land on you! You’ll be struck off, disbarred! I’ll ruin you!”

  “You must do as you see fit, Mr Preston,” Pennyworth said, looking perfectly unruffled, now that he’d let the cat well and truly out of the bag.

  Harry jolted as Wilfred turned on him, his face a snarling mass of vitriol, little specks of saliva flying from his thin lips as he raged. “You,” he growled as Harry reminded himself of Pennyworth’s words - don’t react, don’t say a word. It wasn’t hard, he couldn’t have found a sensible word to react with if his life depended on it. “You damned mountebank,” he swore, his face growing increasingly purple. “Imposter! I don’t know what hold you had on my uncle, but I’ll find out, and I’ll make you pay for this. You wait,” he warned, shaking a white knuckled fist in Harry’s face. “Just you wait!”

  Harry sat, unmoving, as the family filed out. He caught a faintly amused and rather curious look in Baden’s eyes as he left, following his kin at a leisurely pace as they ran to consult their lawyers with all haste.

  Harry looked up once the room was quiet, wondering where Mr and Mrs Fletcher had gone, and found Pennyworth mopping his brow and fumbling the cap of a small silver flask. He held the flask to his lips with a shaking hand and drained it with a sigh of relief. Catching Harry’s eye, the man gave a rueful grin.

  “Well, then, my Lord Preston.”

  Harry groaned and put his head in his hands. “Oh, Alistair,” he said. “What the devil have you done?”

  ***

  Harry tried to put the ruby signet ring back in Pennyworth’s hand but the old solicitor wasn’t having it.

  “Take the blasted thing, damn you. It’s yours.”

  “But you know it isn’t true!” Harry persisted as Pennyworth looked ever more mutinous.

  “I know no such thing!” he retorted, his round face taut with indignation. “What I do know is that Viscount Stamford swore to me that you were his son. He signed an affidavit and every other legal document I could think to draw up to make that as water-tight as it might be.” Pennyworth snorted and shook his head as he sat back in his chair. The poor man looked wrung out. “Harry, I know this must be the most dreadful shock to you.”

  Harry snorted at that; a shock didn’t quite cover the turmoil that was boiling in his chest. “But for heaven’s sake,” he continued. “Think what it means, lad. This place,” he said, gesturing around him at the castle and lands. “The place you’ve loved and done your best for all these years, it’s all yours now. Think of the good you could do. Think of the people on the estate you could help, the jobs you could create. All of those plans you made, hoping the old man would come around.” He sat forward, then, his eyes intent and more serious than Harry had ever seen them. “He wanted this for you, Harry. He wanted you to do all the things you’d dreamed of. Don’t throw it back in his face now.”

  Harry rubbed a hand over his face, wondering if he would wake up at any minute and find this was some bizarre dream. He rather hoped he would. For as wonderful and incredible as it was, he’d been plunged into dangerous territory. For now Wilfred and his vengeful kin would try and drag Harry’s past up. They’d investigate him, who he was, where he came from ... and if they found he was Harry Browning, and not Thompson ...

  Alistair could very well have unwittingly put a noose around his neck.

  Harry sighed. He couldn’t tell Pennyworth that, and he didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the extraordinary gift that Alistair had given him. That he had done it made Harry’s heart hurt and swell with pride in equal measure.

  “Well,” he said at length, and with as sincere a smile as he could muster. “It won’t be down to me at any rate. I doubt Wilfred will go quietly, do you?”

  Pennyworth snorted. “That I don’t, lad,” he said, looking grim as he got to his feet. “But I reckon I got you tied up neat and tight, so don’t fret too hard.” He paused and stared at Harry, his face stern. “For all his finickity ways, his lordship was a good man. He was always fair to me, though he did shout the odds every time I gave him his bill, and he always paid up ... eventually,” he added with a crooked smile. “He did what was right for the title, for the land, and for you. So don’t go thinking you’re not entitled, for if you’d rather see the place go to that miserable hector ...”

  Harry held his hand up in defeat.

  “Alright, alright,” he said, too overwhelmed to argue about what seemed beyond his control. Pennyworth gesticulated to the ring with impatience and Harry sighed. Pushing the big ruby signet onto his finger, he found himself disconcerted that it was a perfect fit. He stared at it, watching the big stone sparkle as he turned his hand. This was madness, surely? Folding his arms, he tucked the damn thing out of sight. He needed a moment to get over the shock, and wanted very much to talk things over with Beryl and Reggie, who must be every bit as stunned as he was.

  So he shook hands with Pennyworth, who promised he’d be back the next day to go over things with him once he’d had time to calm down a little. Privately, Harry thought it would take a lot longer than twenty-four hours for that to happen, but he kept his counsel.

  Making his way down to the kitchen, he opened the door and stepped in to find Beryl and Reggie sitting at the table in silence. Reggie was holding Beryl’s hand and she looked red-eyed and wan. As he walked in, she got to her feet, the chair screeching a little on the flag stones as she turned her back on him and bustled about the kitchen.

  Harry rubbed the back of his neck, awkward and ill at ease after the
commotion upstairs.

  Reggie stood up, nodding to him respectfully. “Lord Preston,” he said, with a polite smile every bit as awkward as Harry was.

  “Oh, damn it, Reggie,” Harry exclaimed. “Don’t start doffing your bloody cap to me, I shall run mad.”

  There was a snort from Beryl, who was slamming about, rattling pans and tidying things that were already tidy with unnerving violence.

  “I didn’t ask for this ...” he said, really uneasy now as the atmosphere in the room seemed suddenly hostile and unfamiliar. “I had no idea. None at all.”

  “We know that, lad,” Reggie said, his expression sad for some reason Harry couldn’t fathom.

  “It isn’t right.”

  It was Beryl who had spoken, the words so soft that Harry almost didn’t catch the meaning. But she turned then, her face full of anger and misery and she said it again, the words strident now. “It isn’t right. You’re not his blood. It should have gone to his kin, his blood ... not ... not ...”

  She dissolved into tears as Harry looked on, stunned and hurt by her outburst.

  “There, there, Beryl,” Reggie soothed, pulling her into a hug and rubbing his hand in slow circles on her back. “Calm yourself. It isn’t the boy’s fault. You know that.”

  He looked up at Harry, his face apologetic. “Forgive her, Harry. It’s ... it’s all been rather a shock. She doesn’t mean it, she’s ... overwrought, is all.”

  Harry nodded his understanding, even though he didn’t understand, and watched as Reggie escorted Beryl out of the kitchen, still weeping audibly, big heaving sobs that wracked her plump body.

  Harry sat at the big scrubbed table once the door closed, his large frame hitting the chair with a thud as his legs seemed suddenly too tired to carry him. Ruefully, he wondered if he ought to be sitting in the parlour or in Alistair’s office now, but the idea made his skin prickle. He was a fake, a phony, everything that Wilfred had accused him of being.