“I think Miss Harris will be the exact medicine you need.” Freddie pulled the rolled, makeshift pillow under Trevor’s head and saw him as comfortable as he could. He imagined with the improvement in accommodations, his friend would recover in no time at all.
“Ah, yes . . . Miss Har-ris.” Trevor’s eyelids slid shut, he drew in a deep breath, and with a whimsical smile touching his lips he was soon asleep.
Freddie and Drew started out fairly early the next morning and the weather had been moderate. Dragging the ever-useful sled behind them, Drew led the way to the wrecked phaeton. The lad knew exactly where to find what remained of the sorry-looking vehicle and proved a deft hand at retrieving the luggage.
If Freddie had tried to scale the mountain of snow collected on the wreckage, disaster surely would have followed. Drew neither caused a further collapse nor lost either piece of baggage. Once finished, they strapped their cargo to the sled and headed back.
They raced back to Penshaw through the worsening weather, one challenging the other. Freddie did not need to slow the sled on his approach to the house. He pushed on with all his might through the increasingly bad, snowy conditions. Drew ran past him through the knee-high snow in the walk and leaned against the front door until it opened. He waited for Freddie to pass him, coming at full speed into the foyer, then closed it firmly after they were safely inside. They laughed with relief, between trying to catch their breath at the accomplishment of their task and the safe arrival home.
“We made it back just as it really started comin’ down.” Drew slapped his arms and legs, probably trying to restore the circulation in his extremities.
Freddie unfastened and uncovered the luggage they’d retrieved. “All right, here you go.” He tossed his satchel in the lad’s direction and carried Trevor’s precious trunk himself.
“I hope Ma has somethin’ ta warm our bellies.” Drew headed down the corridor.
“I bet she does. Let’s go see, shall we?” Freddie motioned his young companion forward with the jerk of his head. The kitchen stood unoccupied and they found Mrs. Morley in the library keeping Trevor company.
“Ma-luggage!” Trevor called out in welcome. “You two are true champions to take on such a monumental task!”
“Come now, Trev, I can hardly call it that.” Freddie set the small leather trunk on the desk and Drew placed the satchel next to it.
“Hand ma-shaving kit first to me, if you please, ma-good fellow,” Trevor begged, propping himself up.
Freddie opened the trunk, pulled out the shaving kit, and handed it to his friend.
“I know my appearance is appalling; I cannot wait to shave.” Trevor opened the kit and took up the mirror. The unhappy groan that followed was his response upon viewing his reflection.
“Is Da in need of ’elp?” Drew appeared to ready himself for venturing out at a word from his mum. “Shall I go find him?”
“Na, didn’t you know? ’E’s gone off early this morning ta set out some traps in the orchard just as Mr. Freddie’s suggested.”
“Good. Perhaps there will be some meat on your table tonight.” It was Freddie’s right to grant their host permission to hunt and trap.
“Wif-out me?” With a tug the lad loosened the scarf that hugged his neck.
“Knew you twos were headin’ for Mr. Trevor’s luggage this mornin’.” Mrs. Morley shook her head. “I cannot think it proper, though. Poachin’ off ’is Lordship’s land ain’t right.”
“You may not have a high opinion of him but I can assure you he would not mind if he knew of your circumstances.” Freddie wondered how that would differ from squatting in the manor house? Or pilfering the owner’s liquor cellar?
“Jacob’s already come back after you left and brought word from Thistles,” Mrs. Morley told them and moved to a pile of clothing draped over the back of a chair. “We’re ta bring Mr. Trevor whene’re we’ve a mind, but I’m at a loss as to how we’re ta manage.”
“I s’pose we’ll use the sled to get ’im there.” Drew came up with a credible solution.
“I don’t think he can sit upright,” Freddie added. “Not well, at any rate, certainly not while he’s in motion.”
“We’ll bind him up tight,” Drew replied. “No worries, he won’t tip off.”
“I look forward to my journey.” Trevor winced while adjusting his sitting position to where he might more readily converse with the others, while still holding on to his mirror.
“Let’s see if we can dress you, shall we?” Mrs. Morley arranged the garments in front of her. “I’ve finished mending the jackets and such. Pull off yur coat, Mr. Freddie, and try ’em on.”
“Mine’s the bottle-green jacket,” Freddie told her and removed his knit hat, scarf, and the greatcoat he had borrowed from Trevor. He took the green jacket and slid his arm into the sleeve. “Splendid work, I must say.” But she could not match the workmanship of the celebrated London tailor Weston.
Freddie attempted to shrug into the jacket and Drew came to his aid.
“Ye did a good job of shreddin’ yur seams,” Mrs. Morley pointed out.
The garment, while snug across his shoulders, was a satisfactory fit. Freddie found a good two-inch gap prevented the fastening of the buttons.
“I expected as much,” Mrs. Morley mumbled in apparent disapproval. “Yur jacket’s so verra fine, it is. I’ve no doubt yur westcot will fare much the same.”
Freddie would not blame his hostess. His garments originally had an exact fit; its repair could not have restored it to new. He gestured to Drew to help extricate him from his previously favorite evening wear. It, and its waistcoat, would be of no use to him now.
He folded it and laid it over his forearm then retrieved the waistcoat and placed that over the jacket. “A bit late but, nonetheless, Happy Christmas, Drew.” Freddie offered the lot to his new, small friend.
“Oh, sir!” The lad gasped, wide-eyed with excitement. “Can I have ’em, Mum?”
Freddie spoke before Drew’s mother could answer. “I cannot see why not when I have clearly been given your new hat and scarf because I was in dire need of them.”
“Oh, Mr. Freddie . . .” Mrs. Morley could not refuse, not after the hospitality she had shown him and Trevor.
“I cannot imagine anyone more worthy. Please, Drew, accept them with my blessing.” Freddie handed the lot to his young companion. “They may be a tad large for you now but I hope you’ll have much use of them before you grow.”
“And without your own clothes, what do you expect to wear?” Trevor, who had been silent up to this moment, spoke from his pallet.
Freddie had not forgotten Trevor and turned to reply. “I’ve already been wearing your jacket, and your greatcoat this morning. As my own clothes no longer accommodate my frame, I doubt these would suit yours.”
“Oh, well. I had not considered that.” Trevor took in the picture of Freddie standing before him wearing his blue-and-yellow paisley waistcoat. “I suppose the waistcoat and brown jacket are ma-second best clothes, true. But you’ll not have ma-best jacket, I can tell you that!”
“One set of clothing will suffice. Even these,” Freddie replied. He was not overly fond of Trevor’s choice of patterns and colors. “Not that I have much of a choice.”
Chapter Six
The day following the invitation to Thistles, Rosalind declined to participate in the preparations for their unexpected guest. She had already spent the last fortnight decorating the house for Christmas with Clare. The plans for the many local parties they had looked forward to hosting were for naught because of the heavy snow trapping neighbors in their homes. Most of all, she did not wish to expedite the arrival of that bounder.
Rosalind kept her head bent at the keyboard practicing her music and did her best to ignore the busy household around her. Focused on improving her skills, she could not help but think the sound emitting from her instrument, for she could not call it music, did not have the soothing, melodic result she had wished
. She could not decide if this was due to her skill or the instrument itself; for shame . . . for how could she blame the pianoforte?
All of a sudden, a loud bang of a heavy door startled Rosalind. An army of footfalls sounded, rumbling through the foyer, and several upraised voices called out. Curiosity got the better of her and she left the keyboard to investigate.
Stepping into the corridor, she watched Harry rush through the front door with a gust of cold air and quickly climb the staircase. Gordon soon followed carrying a small trunk marked with the initials T. R. Sitting atop the trunk was a small leather satchel.
There could be no mistake, T.R. was Trevor Rutherford of whom Clare spoke. With great regret, Rosalind realized today was the day of his arrival and it would not be much longer until she would meet that unfortunate gentleman again.
Then in he stepped. Rosalind had barely recognized him. There was something different about the manner in which he stood. Although dressed in the same ill-fitting greatcoat, he wore a beaver hat instead of the knitted cap that added to his previous commonplace mien. Regardless of his appearance, it was him.
Once setting eyes on him, Rosalind could not help but feel her ire rise. Harry had returned and removed That Man’s ill-fitting outerwear which gave way to his equally ill-fitting jacket. She was being petty but in any case, outwardly he seemed presentable. Unfortunately, it was his ill-fitting presence that displeased her. How dare he prey on her sister’s good graces and work his way into their home.
“We meet again, ma’am.” The man’s voice was not exactly what she remembered but it was him, Rosalind had no doubt.
“You seem to be in good health,” Rosalind commented. It was not a compliment of any kind, merely an observation.
“I am doing reasonably well, thank you,” he replied in a curt manner.
“I see you have managed to acquire an invitation.” She had not realized how tall he was. The previous time she had seen him, he had been sprawled on the snow-covered ground. Nor had she seen him level such a steady, unwavering gaze at her. “Not by tripping and taking a fall in the snow but by inventing . . . a phaeton accident, no less. Doing it a bit too brown, don’t you think?” She could not help but feel a bit smug. How did he think he could get away with such a lie when she knew the truth about him?
“I was in a phaeton accident only three days past.” The pique in his reply made the sound of his voice even more familiar.
“I do not think you can easily fool me with that Banbury tale, Mr. Trevor.” How could he think he might convince Rosalind? She was far too clever for that.
Clare, who had descended the staircase, joined them. “That isn’t Mr. Trevor, Rosalind.” She blinked and glanced downward, displaying a bit of shyness before their guest. “I have yet to make this gentleman’s acquaintance. However, I gather this is Mr. Rutherford’s friend, Mr. Freddie. Would I be correct, sir?”
For a very long moment no one spoke. Rosalind met the stranger’s gaze knowing she had mistaken his identity and felt a bit sheepish about her error. He was due an apology and she would, of course, do so.
“Frederick Worth,” he replied, before she could finish her thought, and made a leg. “Your servant, ladies.”
It was the mark of a true gentleman to be gracious and Rosalind had to admit he had removed all discomfort by breaking the awkward silence with his introduction.
“You are, of course, Miss Clare Harris, which would make you?” he directed his attention to Rosalind. She dreaded being the source of his focused attention.
“My sister,” Clare replied. “Miss Rosalind Harris.”
“How do you do? It is a great pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” He inclined his head for a second time.
“How do you do, sir?” It was not at all her pleasure.
Clare turned to him. “Trevor . . . that is, Mr. Rutherford, asks that you attend him, if you please. He resides in the first room on the left at the top of the landing.”
“I shall see to him at once. If you will excuse me, ladies.” Mr. Worth made a hasty bow and departed.
Rosalind and Clare remained still, both quiet.
“Mr. Frederick Worth,” Clare mouthed with a bright, animated matter Rosalind could not understand.
Rosalind still could not like him. There was something not quite right about him. She thought it odd that Mr. Frederick Worth’s footfalls were not audible as he ascended the staircase. Why did he make no sound when he walked? Perhaps he was a burglar and would rob them all blind by the start of the new year.
Freddie reached the first-floor landing and stopped. The two of them were sisters. The realization shocked him. It was an occurrence he hadn’t expected.
Despite their obvious differences, one green-eyed, red-haired sister, the other brown-eyed with brown hair, they were remarkably similar. The shape of their faces was the same. However, ignoring the differences in their noses and fullness of their lips, one might think Trevor’s description of the lady he favored was the elder Miss Harris, but it could not have been so. The sweet, calm, soft, kind tenderness of which he spoke could only be attributed to the younger Miss Harris. Clare did not resemble the description Trevor had given.
Trevor . . . The poor man. Freddie gave himself a mental shake, gathered his wits, and continued to his friend’s bedchamber.
Freddie immediately spotted Trevor sitting on the bed, grasping the post, holding himself upright. His knuckles were as white as his ashen, perspiring face, damp with sweat from his exertions.
“Freddie . . .” he said on an exhale. “I knew you’d come.”
“Of course I would.” Freddie stepped closer, holding out his arms for an alternate means of support which Trevor took advantage of at once. “What is it you wish me to do?”
“Ma-nightshirt over there.” Trevor glanced to his left; on the counterpane lay the garment. “One of the footmen unpacked it, thinking he could help me with my clothing but . . . you know my thoughts on inexperienced help, they’re never careful and in ma-condition I cannot bear to be thumped about.”
“I understand. They’re all thumbs.” Freddie knew all too well. “I’m no valet but I’ll do my best. Let’s remove your jacket, shall we?”
Trevor shifted his grip on Freddie’s arm to his shoulder, thus allowing the buttons of his jacket to be unfastened.
“Did you see her?” Trevor’s pain seemed to ebb when he spoke of Clare Harris.
“I did.”
“Is she not beautiful? Like a goddess, isn’t she?”
“I don’t know many goddesses but yes, she is beautiful.” Freddie removed Trevor’s hand and drew off his sleeve. “Do try and help, will you?”
“Sorry . . . I was just thinking about . . .”
“I know what . . . of whom you were thinking.” Freddie moved around Trevor to pull off his other sleeve. “You haven’t stopped talking about her since you’ve met her.”
“You’ve seen her, spoken to her, so you can understand why, can you not? Is she not the most—”
“She’s very lovely, Trev. Only I was . . .”
“What? What is it? Say it to ma-face!”
“She, Clare, her appearance isn’t exactly what you believe it to be.” Freddie hated to bring up the subject of Trevor’s problem; not many people knew of his peculiarity and they had always explained it as a matter of personal taste.
“That’s a load of rubbish! What do you mean by that?” Trevor sounded almost offended, as if he were being challenged.
“Trev, she’s every bit as beautiful as you say she is except . . . except she has red hair and green eyes. Very lovely red hair, actually, and glorious green eyes like clear, bright emeralds.” It was a shame Trevor could not see her full beauty for himself. If it were possible, it might it cause him to adore her even more.
“Red? It’s red?” The news clearly stunned Trevor. “I cannot see red . . . You know I cannot . . .”
“Oh, it’s completely wasted on you!” There was no possibility Trevor could
have known. “You see brown, I know. It came as a bit of a surprise to me at first.”
Trevor had always had difficulty distinguishing colors, mostly reds and greens. He managed to work around this limitation by having his clothing made from fabrics in blues, yellows, and browns. Freddie glanced down at his borrowed brown jacket and Trevor-colored waistcoat.
“Did you know she has a sister?” Freddie imagined even if Trevor had known it might have slipped his mind. “To you they may resemble twins.”
“Twins? I thought Rosalind was older.”
“I believe she is. They share a physical resemblance only. In temperament there is almost no similarity. Miss Clare is sweet while the elder Miss Harris is . . .” How could Freddie state this kindly? “Er . . . not . . . sweet, that is. Or so I have discerned from my interaction with her.”
No further questions came from Trevor. With his continual hold of the bedpost, he appeared utterly exhausted.
“Perhaps it might be best if you were to lie down now.” Freddie drew the bedcovers aside, guiding Trevor to the mattress.
“This, the worst blow yet!” he lamented whilst easing onto the bed. “She is a titian-haired beauty, woe is me that I cannot truly admire her . . .” With that said, Trevor’s head sunk into the pillow, his eyes closed, and he fell immediately asleep.
“What are you doing there, dear?” Rosalind sat on the chair next to the hearth and thought it odd how Clare waited nervously at the open door.
“Oh, nothing,” she replied in a tone that denoted it was anything but nothing.
“I do wish you would sit and be easy,” Mrs. Harris, who usually worried more about her own nerves than her daughter’s, insisted.
“Mr. Worth will be down shortly, I imagine.” Rosalind thought it must be he for whom her sister waited, and how she did fret. Clare’s furtive glances and the wringing of her tiny hands demonstrated her anxiety. “And our house is not so large that he is in danger of becoming lost.”
A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) Page 5
