“Come on, Trev,” Freddie encouraged his friend. “It’s not much farther, just down a bit more and into the room just over there.” He took a few steps, supporting the ailing Trevor.
Freddie slowed before reaching the doorway, finally coming to a standstill. He could swear he could hear someone, or something, breathing down the corridor in the darkness beyond. Although heavy in his arms, Trevor’s breaths had not been labored. He could not have been the source. What Freddie heard were guttural, animal-like sounds. He stared into the darkness and still could not puzzle out the unsettling noise.
“Come on, best get you comfortable straightaway.” Freddie managed to get his friend to the doorway where they had paused. Inside a boy squatted near the hearth encouraging a fledgling flame while nearby his father tended to making up a pallet.
By the looks of the room it might have been the library. Two of the walls held half-empty, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the third had a massive desk pushed against the paneling, which might make this room Freddie’s library.
This wasn’t the comfortable place he’d imagined, where he and Trevor would sit and put their feet up and have a good laugh at their minor misfortunes while enjoying brandy.
“Com’ on in, gents.” Jacob beckoned them with a wave. “This here’s ma son Drew.” A brown-haired, slender lad, dressed in the same worn, tattered clothing as that of his father, looked to be about twelve but Freddie suspected he was a few years older.
“How-de-do?” Freddie offered and nodded to their hasty, informal acquaintance.
“Lad, that’s Mr. Freddie there, and the fella that’s lookin’ poorly is Mr. Trevor.”
“Sir.” Drew tugged his forelock. “We can put Mr. Trevor on this pallet here near the fire where it’s warm.”
“Aye, let’s get him settled.” Jacob helped guide Trevor toward the pallet. “We best ’ave his coat off first. We’ll ’old him, lad, and you work it off.”
It took the three of them to remove the garment. Trevor’s jacket came off next. One might have thought it could have survived the accident unharmed but both sides of the tailored Stultz creation had been torn apart.
“Mayhaps we leave his wescot on, might be all that’s keepin’ him ta-gether,” Jacob suggested and squinted an eye while he reached under his hat to scratch his head.
After having his boots removed, Trevor finally lay on the pallet with both his jacket and greatcoat covering him. He had fallen fast asleep.
“I’m sure the Mrs. will have summin’ ta say ’bout wot’s ta be done wi’ him, and if the pair of ye knows what’s best fir ye, ye’d listen to ’er. She knows best, Mrs. Morley does.”
No doubt Jacob was correct; Freddie would not attempt to contradict anyone. If he had learned anything this last fortnight it was that he had no head for traveling or gaming, nor would he even contemplate offering advice on medical care.
“We’ll leave ye to get settled and check ta see if the Mrs. has summin’ fir ye ta eat.” Jacob clapped his son on the back. “Let’s move along now, lad.” Father and son shuffled away, disappearing into the blackness of the corridor.
Freddie stood alone in the warmth and quiet. He’d already removed his greatcoat, what there was left of it being not much more than shredded material with sleeves. His jacket looked worse. He feared there would be no repairs for the once-stylish, lavishly embroidered silk garment.
While Trevor, who had packed a small trunk with a few items, was able to remove his evening wear for a more appropriate dress during their very first overnight stop, Freddie could not. His book satchel, as Trevor called it, contained only a few starched cravats, shaving kit, and dancing pumps. Enough, or so Freddie thought, to see him to Penshaw Manor, where he could step into a set of new clothes. He had no notion from where this wardrobe would appear, certainly not from the bowels of this establishment.
There was no need to contemplate the complexities of dressing himself in new clothing when he had difficulty extricating himself from his current attire without the aid of an experienced pair of hands. If it had not been for the ruinous state of his current rigging, undressing himself might have been an unmanageable chore. Ah—to be without a valet!
Perhaps next time, and he sincerely hoped there would never, ever be a next time, he would be able to make better preparations. All of this, on every level, was completely and entirely his fault.
Freddie had managed to remove his dampened boots, giving his lower limbs and trousers a chance to dry. He would certainly not go about in his small clothes so he retained his shirt and the very same waistcoat that had garnered so many flattering compliments nearly a fortnight ago in London.
His ivory satin waistcoat was now smudged with travel grime. Its exquisite embroidery appeared faded and old. He took care with the small, delicate buttons, not wishing to do further damage to the once-splendid garment. The only shirt he possessed, the one on his back, certainly needed a good laundering. Freddie had never, ever been so . . . so . . . foul smelling, even to his own nose.
He had done his best to keep up appearances, trying to shave during the first few days of their journey, but it wasn’t too long before he gave up that exercise. It had always been a manageable challenge but, with his hands shaking with cold, he found the task impossible. He must have been a sorry sight indeed.
Freddie drew his hand over his jaw and, from beyond the doorway, he heard those odd sounds again. They were the very same type of noises coming from down the corridor. He turned his head to concentrate on the source. Wild animals? Burglars? Murderers?
While Freddie vacillated between reality and his imagination, Jacob entered with a bottle and two glasses.
“Lookie wot I’ve got!” He raised a bottle of what must have been spirits and glanced over his shoulder. “But don’t ye go tellin’ the Mrs.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Freddie replied, making his sacred vow. His stay at Penshaw was improving more and more. Then he heard the breathing again. “Ah . . . is there something out there?” Freddie couldn’t help himself but ask.
“Summin’?” Jacob quizzed back. “Summin’ like wot?”
“Other guests?”
“Well, we’ve got the livestock down a ways. Wot’s left of them, tha’ is.” Jacob moved to the opposite side of the room and walked along the edge. “The barn’s not been fit for them since the first snowfall.”
“Animals? In the house?” Maybe not wild animals but animals all the same. It hardly seemed civilized.
“Well, there’s nowheres to put ’em. The barn’s fallin’ down last summer and we’ve got to keep ’em out of the snow.” The old man stopped and rummaged about, hiding the offerings he’d brought and coming away with empty hands. “The house is plenty big, if you’ve not noticed.”
“I’ve noticed,” Freddie murmured under his breath. Living under the same roof with the livestock would not be how he cared to take up residence. He muttered wistfully on a sigh, “There’s so very much that needs to be done here.”
“Ah, here comes the Mrs. with yer supper.” Jacob moved quickly away from his hiding spot near the door, toward his wife. “Let me help you there, ma dear.”
There wasn’t much light to illuminate the room, only that which was provided by fire. Trevor still slept on the pallet.
“Ye are a treasure, ye are, Jacob.” Hetta handed him the laden tray that burdened her. “This would have been so much nicer if we coulda gone to Thistles an’ sat down ta a proper Christmas meal but no’ this year.”
“Aye, the ’arris celebration will be thin o’ company, can’t be ’elped.” Jacob followed his wife and watched her for directions. “Ye don’t know how lucky ye are, gents. Snow really came down fierce-like just after ye arrived, it did.”
“They’ll be no mummers tonight, that’s fir sure.” Hetta craned her neck, looking over her shoulder at Freddie. “Ye sure ye weren’t expectin’ ’is Lordship to show?”
“Er . . . I have no expectation he will arrive,” Freddie repli
ed. He had no plans to reveal himself as the earl and owner of the house. “Don’t expect he’d find much of a welcome, would he?”
“Not from me, ’e wouldn’t.” Hetta settled next to Trevor, preparing to tend to him.
Jacob set the tray on a table, took up a bowl and a hunk of bread, and handed them to Freddie. “Here ye go, lad. Wish it could be more but it’s all we got.”
“I am very grateful, sir. Thank you.” Taking the bowl, Freddie caught the aroma from its contents. The weak broth may not have been the most appetizing aroma but it was hot and would be satisfying going down, filling his empty stomach.
Hetta lifted the two greatcoats covering Trevor. “Look at this . . .” Then she tsked at the other, holding each garment from the shoulder, checking it with a critical eye. “Aw . . . neither one o’ these are made fo’ any-fing other than show. I’ll see wot I can do wit’ ’em.” She had decided, for whatever reason, to take Trevor’s greatcoat. “Sit this Mr. Trevor up, will ye, Jacob?”
“Do ye think we should wake him?” Jacob eyed the sleeping man.
Freddie half thought he might set his own meal aside and give his host a hand, then dismissed the notion, thinking he’d best leave his friend’s comfort to the couple.
“He’ll rest much better once he has summin’ in his belly,” Hetta assured her husband.
“I s’pose so.” He groaned, lowering himself to the ground, and tried to gently wake the patient. “Oi, come on, lad. Get up, now. The wife says ye need summin’ ta eat.” Jacob helped Trevor into a semisitting position. “That’s it; there’s a good lad.”
Hetta fussed and cooed, coaxing a bit of broth down Trevor’s gullet with minimal protesting. It had been the only real food he’d eaten since . . . since . . . Freddie couldn’t recall when the last time was they had anything close to a proper meal. They’d existed on ale and whatever free bits they could manage to lay their hands on for more days than he cared to remember. These last two weeks had been miserable for them both. The journey would not have been extended if not for the abominable state of their transport, not to mention the inability to change their sorrowful cattle, and the deplorable weather and road conditions.
After a few bites of broth-soaked bread, Trevor could no longer keep his eyes open. Soon he was resettled on the pallet, sleeping more comfortably than he had been earlier.
“Thank you, Mrs. Morley.” Freddie could only offer words to show his appreciation. He wished there were some way to make amends and he felt ashamed that he was to blame for her current situation as well.
“I’ll wish ye and yer friend, there, a Happy Christmas.” Hetta set the dishes on her tray and, with Trevor’s jacket and greatcoat draped over her arm, she left.
Jacob cackled softly with his wife’s departure. He kept careful watch at the doorway then made his way to the opposite side of the room where he had tucked away the bottle and two glasses he’d brought earlier.
As far as Freddie was concerned, Jacob was welcome to any sort of joy, with or without his wife’s approval, even if it came from a bottle. It was a vice Freddie had turned to once too often.
Retrieving his stash from its hiding place, Jacob removed the cork and poured a bit of the liquid into each glass and handed one to Freddie. “Thar ye go, lad. Wot shall we drink ta? Yur health? Mine? Mr. Trevor’s certainly, eh?”
“To your hospitality and that of your Mrs.” Freddie raised his glass to complete the toast before bringing it to his lips to drink.
“An’ ta our host, Lord Brent. Huzzah!” Jacob cheered, winked at Freddie, and drained his glass in one gulp.
Freddie nearly choked. “Wot?” His eyes watered when he swallowed hard. “Why would you toast to— He’s done nothing to warrant—”
“We’re toastin’ with the finest from the cellar of his nibs.” Jacob refilled his glass and raised it in appreciation. “’E ain’t here ta drink it but we are, eh?”
“Ah . . . no, he ain’t,” Freddie lied and drank to their good fortune.
Jacob refilled both glasses. “I’ll bid ye a good evenin’ and goodnight, then.”
“And to you also, sir,” he replied before being left to sit in his shirtsleeves, bootless, next to a glowing hearth. He cherished the glass of sherry in his hands. Not a very good sherry but it had been dispensed by Jacob Morley as if it were a treasured, aged French brandy and Freddie would not think of valuing the spirit any less.
He sat there for a time, maybe hours. Freddie tried to get comfortable on an old upholstered armchair for sleep, but met with minimal success. The small, weak flames, the room’s sole light and heat source, could only cast faint shadows on the ceiling. He glanced at Trevor who lay still, breathing heavily at regular intervals, sleeping soundly.
Freddie felt more than a touch of guilt when it came to his friend. He looked at his dismal surroundings, and their situation hadn’t turned out quite as he had expected. He had to admit their circumstances were far better than what they had been only a few hours earlier, and that was saying a lot. He could even have called it a Christmas miracle.
Chapter Four
Rosalind, are you causing that infernal racket?” her father complained from the corridor leading to the main parlor.
Rosalind Harris’s immediate reaction was to remove her hands from the keyboard and stand, stepping away from the pianoforte. She would be the first to admit her skill was not the best, but it was not for want of trying. The few years of instruction were enough of a foundation for her to go off on her own, but she would have liked more. Her family’s financial circumstance was not the same then as it was now.
“Father! That is no way to speak to Rosalind when she practices,” Clare scolded their parent. “She had every intention of performing for our guests last night.”
“I cannot say how fortunate they are that our Christmas gathering was canceled.” Mr. Harris entered the room, moving through as if the only purpose for his presence was to aggravate his daughters. “I’m certain that enduring an evening of your sister’s talent is not worth sitting at our table for a holiday meal.”
“Not only have you been unkind to Rosalind, you have also insulted Cook.” Clare replaced her sewing in the basket and set the whole aside. Their father had successfully ruined the mood. Not only would Rosalind’s practice cease, the mending for the poor would come to an end as well.
“I’m certain you could improve if you only had proper lessons.” He passed a hand over his brow in a calculated gesture. Rosalind truly doubted he cared a fig.
“You know we cannot countenance lessons, sir.” She straightened the pages of her sheet music and placed them flat on the pianoforte.
“It is not beyond your reach if you wished to make it so.” Another plea for her benefit? She imagined it was her father who wished to divert some interest she received from an untouchable inheritance in his direction, seemingly by the ruse of improving her skill. “You must have some to spare from our generous food budget, no doubt.”
“Do you not see the conditions of the neighbors around us? They are poor, most of them are hungry, and some barely have a roof over their heads. No, Father, I cannot see that music lessons have any place in my life.” If it were up to Rosalind she would spend every shilling of that money to help those she cared for.
“Then you’d best put more time into practice, my girl.” He rounded upon his eldest. “Perhaps that will make a difference. I expect you will have another opportunity to play before them when Twelfth Night is upon us.”
“That is the exact reason why she continues.” Clare came to her sister’s defense. “You may not recognize her talent, but there are others to whom it would bring much joy.”
“Ah, my dearest Clare!” He reached out to pull his youngest daughter near and draped his arm around her in what he would, no doubt, consider a display of affection. “You have a most sympathetic heart.”
“Rosalind and I intend to deliver food baskets.” Though Clare mentioned her sister’s name with her own, Rosalind
knew her participation would not improve her standing in his eyes.
“And I, too, will be calling on some of our good neighbors as well,” he added. Rosalind knew all too well Clare’s words would make no impression on him. “Perhaps I will not be as welcome as you with your offerings.”
“That is good to know, Father.” Rosalind believed his dislike of her was not personal. However, he would continue to display an obvious bias between the sisters and subject Rosalind to sporadic, unkind treatment until he could extract the additional funds he so dearly craved. She would never fuel his vice. His gambling had caused problems in the past and it usually began with extra income. Currently they had no such worries; money was scarce.
Nothing could convince Rosalind to do exactly what, she knew in her heart, she should not.
“Surely I can be of some assistance, ma’am?” Freddie, with his hat in hand, had no doubt the addition of two unexpected visitors could only add to the burden of the Morley family’s hardship.
“You can give Drew, there, a hand gathering wood this mornin’ if you have a mind,” Hetta told him over her shoulder.
“I am happy to do so, ma’am.” It was a task Freddie had to admit he had never done before, yet he would be more than happy to accomplish. That morning he had pulled on his top boots, which had mostly dried before the fire last night, buttoned his waistcoat, wrapped his scarf around his neck, and snapped up his gloves before venturing to find the other inhabitants with the determination he should make himself useful.
“Ye’d best take yur friend’s coat, there.” Hetta motioned to the wall behind him. “I’ve finished mendin’ it and I’ll wager it’s in far better nick than yur own.”
“I cannot argue with you there.” He set his beaver on his head before making to retrieve Trevor’s coat.
“Yer hat there ain’t right, freeze ta death, ye will.” Hetta turned from Freddie and rummaged around on her side of the table. When she faced him again she held out a knit cap. “Been savin’ it for—never mind . . . Happy Christmas ta ye! Oh, and ye be needin’ these gloves.”
A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) Page 3
