“Nothing I’d want to ride across the moors at night, any road,” Tommy said. “Not with no moon, and riding alone and all, milord. Why, if you was to fall and break your neck, think how badly I’d feel.”
“I should not feel too cheerful about it myself,” Humphrey said. “You are right, it is too dark now to ride. May I take advantage of your hospitality, Tommy?”
“Course, my lord. Tilda, light a fire in the best bedroom for his lordship. And you’ll be wanting a parlour, I daresay?”
“No need for that. The taproom will serve me well enough. I hope Meg has something edible left in the kitchen?”
Humphrey was soon provided with a jug of ale and another of something Tommy assured him was wine, together with a bowl of brown liquid with unidentifiable lumps floating in it. He felt that opinions might differ on whether this concoction was actually edible or not, but he made a valiant attempt to find out. At least the bread was not too stale. He wondered what delights he was missing at Drummoor — goose, perhaps, or a tasty pigeon pie, with the first peas and strawberries from the vegetable garden, and a syllabub to follow, washed down with a decent drop of claret. He sighed, and pushed aside the bowl. There was nothing for it but to go to bed.
Here again the standards of the establishment left something to be desired. Humphrey was used to the best inns on the London to York route, with everything of superior quality. He had never stayed at the Old Cross Inn before, but he could see at a glance that the bedrooms were most definitely not of superior quality. The bedding was rough, and he suspected the mattress to be stuffed with heather. There was no other furniture in the room apart from a small table, a rickety chair and a stained rag rug. There was no bar for the door, and nothing more to secure it than a metal latch that rotated into a hook, but Humphrey had nothing with him apart from the clothes he was wearing, a small purse of coins and a thin dagger tucked into one boot. His pistols were back at Drummoor.
He sat down on the bed, and realised with a rueful smile that he had no way to remove his tightly-fitted riding boots, a task normally left to his valet. He sighed, toying with the idea of summoning a boy to wrestle them off, but then reminded himself of the consequences if his boots were inappropriately handled or even, perish the thought, damaged, and decided not to attempt it. Billings would sulk for a month! Never was a valet so proud of his way with boots. Humphrey himself cared little for such matters, but it never did to upset one’s valet. He would just have to sleep in his boots, indeed, in all his clothes, for he had the strongest apprehension of bed bugs. He lay down, his head on his folded coat, snuffed his candle and closed his eyes, but somehow sleep eluded him. For hours, it seemed, he turned this way and that, half-dozing before some horrid dream jerked him awake again.
But then something else woke him, a sound just on the edge of hearing.
He strained his ears, but all was silent. The room was no longer night-black, the dawn not far off. He turned over for the fortieth time, and closed his eyes. Still time for another two or three hours of sleep.
Scratch, scratch. His eyes flew open. Rats? But then a slight metallic clink, that was caused by no rat. Silently, he reached into his boot for the dagger and drew it forth. Even as he watched, the metal latch inside the door was lifted by some device from without — a knife, perhaps? The door opened silently on well-greased hinges. But Humphrey now had no apprehension that he would be murdered in his bed. The odd little latch, so easy to open from the outside, the greased hinges — all spoke of a regular type of thievery, perhaps even with the connivance of Tommy. This was one of the ostlers or taproom boys, looking to steal a coin or two from unwary travellers.
But Humphrey was by no means unwary. He lay still, the dagger hidden beneath him, pretending to sleep, but listening intently to the stealthy movements. The intruder crept into the room — Humphrey could hear him breathing — then stopped, no doubt looking about assessingly. But there was nothing to assess — no boxes or saddle-bags, not even a coat cast carelessly over a chair. There was nothing in the room but Humphrey, seemingly asleep on the bed, his coat under his head.
A sensible thief would judge the pickings thin and possibly risky, and make his exit at this point, but clearly this was not a sensible thief. He came nearer to the bed, his location betrayed by his heavy breathing and a certain horsey odour. One of the ostlers, then. Humphrey lay, eyes almost closed but not quite, as the would-be thief leaned over him and them stretched out a hand to investigate under the coat.
Humphrey’s eyes shot open and in one smooth movement he sat up and grasped the intruder by the neck. The man gasped, widening eyes just visible beneath a well-wrapped scarf. Definitely an inn employee, then, hiding his identity. Humphrey was on his feet, dragging the intruder across the room, before he had time for more than a squeak of alarm. Slamming him against the wall, he hissed in the man’s face, “Want something, my fine fellow? You are lucky I did not stick you with this.” He waved the dagger under the man’s nose.
“Sorry! Sorry! Please, I meant no harm! Just… just lookin’ about!”
“Just stealing,” Humphrey said. “You know the penalty for that, I assume.”
“Please, I’ve took nothing, mister, honest. I was just lookin’. Don’t send me to the magistrate, please!”
Humphrey realised too late that the fellow was right — he had as yet stolen nothing. His only crime was to enter a guest’s bedchamber, and if he were truly an inn employee, he could claim he was checking the fire or some such excuse. With an exclamation of disgust, Humphrey released him.
“Thank you, sir, thank you! You’ll not report me? I’ve done nothing wrong, I swear! I’ll leave you to sleep now, sir.”
“As if I could sleep a wink,” Humphrey said. “Even before you decided to pay me a visit, there was no possibility of sleep in this wretched place. It is not what I am accustomed to.”
“Aye — you’re a gent, sir,” the intruder said, grinning. “I could tell as soon as you opened your mouth. That’s no local accent.” And to Humphrey’s astonishment, he repeated his words with the exact intonation. “‘Even before you decided to pay me a visit, there was no possibility of sleep in this wretched place.’ That’s a real gent’s accent, that is.”
Humphrey laughed. “That is very clever. Who are you, my fine mimic?”
He reached for the scarf, but the man danced aside. “No need for that, sir. Just passing through, you wouldn’t know me.”
“Nonsense,” Humphrey said. “You work here, I am certain of it. You know your way around too well. Besides, you smell of the stables, so you must be an ostler here. I can get Tommy to find out who you are easily enough.”
“No, please, sir! I need this job, sir.”
But when Humphrey reached for the scarf, he stood still and allowed it to be unwound, revealing a mop of untidy blond hair and a surprisingly handsome face.
“Well, now,” Humphrey said, staring at him in astonishment. “What is your name, my good thief?”
“Not a thief,” he said sullenly. “I’m Charlie, sir.”
Humphrey laughed. “Charlie! Of course you are. Do you like your work here, Charlie? Do you like horses?”
“Aye, sir, I do. Horses don’t judge like people do. If you treat them right, they behave themselves and respect you and they’re glad to see you when you bring them hay or a carrot.”
“And people do not?” Humphrey said gently, sitting down on the bed and tucking the dagger away in his boot again.
“People see a poor man, a man with no money or learning, and they treat him like dirt, just cause he’s got less money than they have. See, if you was to take me to the magistrate and say I’d broke into your room, he’d send me to Australia without a second thought, even though I took nothing. Whereas if you was to stand before the magistrate, he’d waggle his finger and tell you not to do it again. And he’d probably have dinner with you after, and you’d be the best of friends.”
“That is very likely true,” Humphrey said thoughtful
ly. “But the world is an odd place, Charlie. Sometimes unexpected things happen. Now, if I were just another traveller passing through on my way to or from York, I might be so annoyed by a petty thief like you that I would haul you off to the magistrate, and there you would be, taking ship for Australia. But I am not just another traveller passing through. I am Lord Humphrey Marford from Drummoor, and I find you most interesting.”
“Me, sir?” His face was a picture of apprehension.
“Not for any sinister reason, I assure you,” Humphrey said. “In fact, it may prove to be materially to your advantage. I wish to know you a little better, Charlie. Would you like to be a groom at Drummoor? There is just one condition, however. You will have to give up your nocturnal wanderings and live a blameless life henceforth. What do you say?”
For a moment, Humphrey thought Charlie had been struck by some seizure or other, for he froze, his mouth hanging open, and his cheeks aflame.
“Charlie? Does the idea appeal to you?”
Charlie’s mouth flapped open once or twice, but no words emerged.
Humphrey laughed. “Might I assume that your silence signifies agreement?”
Poor Charlie was too much overcome to speak, but he nodded vigorously at this.
“Excellent. Then your first task as my employee is to get these wretched boots off, before my feet expire altogether.”
~~~~~
After an indifferent breakfast, Humphrey and his new groom found a lift from a wagon driver heading towards Drummoor, and began the slow ride home. They had not gone far, however, when they were hailed by a gaggle of riders with dogs, heading in the opposite direction.
“Good day to you,” called a familiar voice. “Have you seen any sign of a fine black horse, or perhaps a rider without a horse? For my brother is missing and he came this way yesterday, and we are concerned for his safety.”
“Carrbridge!” Humphrey cried, jumping from the back of the wagon before it had properly stopped moving. “I am safe and well, as you can see.”
Carrbridge leapt down from his horse and flung his arms around his brother. “Whatever happened to you? When you did not come home— Where is Ganymede? He did not fall?”
“No, no, he is fine, but… it is a long story. Thank you for coming to my rescue. It was not necessary in this instance, but I am glad of it, nevertheless.” He looked about at the assembled search party. Merton was there, and Reggie, who must only have arrived the day before, a couple of the Whittleton cousins, as well as several grooms. And Ben Gartmore was there with the dogs. He was a recently discovered natural son of their father, the eighth marquess, now employed as an under-gamekeeper.
That reminded Humphrey of his newest employee. “I would have you all meet my new groom. This is Charlie. Get down here, Charlie. Let everyone see you.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Charlie climbed down from the wagon. There was a collective gasp of surprise.
“Good God!” Carrbridge said. “How is that even possible?”
Merton laughed. “His name is Charlie, my lord. I daresay he was named for his father, would you not think?”
“It must be so,” Carrbridge said. “But it is extraordinary, nevertheless.”
Charlie looked from one to the other, bewilderment plain on his features. “What do you know of my father?” he said, lifting his chin. “Even I don’t know nothing about my father.”
Carrbridge gazed at him, then at Humphrey. “He does not know?”
“There has been no opportunity to discuss it. When we get to Drummoor—”
“No, now!” Charlie cried. “If you know something about my father, you’d best tell me right now, whoever you are!”
Humphrey and Carrbridge exchanged glances, then Carrbridge nodded. “Now, Charlie,” he said, “I am the Marquess of Carrbridge — the ninth of that line. And you — I will say this plainly, so that there is no misunderstanding, for your name and your looks all tell the same tale. You are the natural son of my father, the eighth Marquess of Carrbridge. You are, in fact, my half brother.”
“What?” Charlie said. “You mean I’m a bastard? Well, stone me! And my mother told me my father was a soldier what died in France. Women! Can’t trust a word they say!” And he spat disgustedly on the ground.
5: Reflections
“There!” Humphrey said. “Can you see the likeness now?”
Charlie stared into the looking glass on the wall outside the servants’ hall. “Lord love us! We could be brothers!”
Humphrey laughed. “Almost certainly we are brothers, or half-brothers, at least. The nose… that is a true Marford nose you have there, Charlie, and Father was blond like that, once, although all the portraits show him either powdered or grey-haired. You must be a little younger than I am, though. I am seven and twenty. Do you know how old you are?”
“Not sure.”
“I would guess you are about Monty’s age — three and twenty. You are a bit shorter and thinner than I am, but with a haircut and a shave and some decent clothes you could pass for me anywhere. In fact, if I teach you the quadrille and the proper way to a bow to a lady, I could send you to all the most boring balls of the season in my place.”
Charlie grinned. “That’d be fun — pretending to be you. And I can do the accent right enough. ‘If I teach you the quadrille and the proper way to bow to a lady, I could send you to all the most boring balls of the season.’ See?”
Humphrey laughed. “That is a neat trick. But it astonishes me that no one commented on the likeness. I am well-known at the Old Cross, and surely someone would have noticed.”
“Aye, the ostlers used to tease me about it when I first went there. You was never mentioned by name, but they said I looked like a toff, and asked if I knew who me father was. But only one of them called me a bastard to me face, and he’s still got the scars to show for it. They shut up about it after that. Never occurred to me there was anything in it. I always believed what me mother told me. Ha! That were a mistake.”
“Where is your mother?” Humphrey said.
“Still down the vale — Silsby Vale House, where she’s always been. I were born there. She’s the cook there now.”
“Now that is very interesting,” Humphrey said thoughtfully.
“Don’t see why,” Charlie said sullenly. “Don’t see why you care about any of this. Even if it’s true that your father planted one on me mother, what does that matter to anyone? Happens all the time. Why did you bring me here anyway? Do you really want me to be a groom?”
“As to that, it is up to you. When my father died, he charged my brother to look after his sons — all his sons. We did not understand him at the time, but it seems he left more than one natural son behind, and he wanted us to ensure they were looked after and given careers. It is probably too late for you to train as a lawyer, Charlie, but we will give you work here and make sure you never have to worry about finding your next meal. After all, you may have been born outside of wedlock, but you are still the son of a marquess.”
Charlie’s eyes widened. “Lord! Me, the son of a marquess — who’d have thought it?” And he grinned widely at Humphrey.
~~~~~
Carrbridge, Humphrey, Reggie and Merton had retreated to the ship room, leaving Charlie to the care of old John Coachman, who already accommodated Ben Gartmore and was very glad to extend his household to include another of the late marquess’s by-blows. Humphrey had told his brothers all that had occurred at Silsby Vale House.
“So Sharp keeps a mistress down the Silsby Vale,” Lord Carrbridge said thoughtfully.
“As to that, it may be so, who can say?” Humphrey said. “I should not like to malign the lady without greater knowledge of the situation. But what is certain is that Sharp goes there regularly — on my horse, if you please — and is regarded as the master there. Both the groom and Mrs Andrews herself told me that he owns the place, and perhaps it may be so, for ought I know.”
“He could have inherited it, I suppose,” Merton said, but
his tone was dubious. “But the expense of a house such as you describe would be beyond his means, unless he has other income. I know his salary to the penny. Although perhaps the lady pays the expenses. It is very much a mystery. All I can tell you for certain is that I have not encountered any reference to Silsby Vale House in the accounts or paperwork so far. Mrs Andrews… I might take another look at the accounts, to see if there is any mention of such a person, or her husband, perhaps. I do not like mysteries, and there are far too many surrounding Mr Sharp, as well as your late father, my lord, if I may be permitted to say so.”
“You may say what you like about him,” Carrbridge said. “I am beginning to feel as though I did not know him at all. This is the second of his little mishaps we have discovered, and who knows how many more there may be? But this one is your responsibility, Humphrey. The boy has had no education, so we cannot train him up for a worthwhile career.”
“He will do very well in the stables,” Humphrey said. “That is what he has been doing at the inn, after all. Tom will look after him, and show him how we do things here.”
“But what about Ganymede?” Reggie said. “Shall we all go over there and retrieve him? These people cannot deny Carrbridge, after all.”
Humphrey pondered the possibility. There would be some satisfaction in riding over there like a platoon of hussars to rescue the horse, which was legally his, after all, and it was always amusing to see his oldest brother in his full peer of the realm glory. But there were other ways to deal with the problem, which might be even more amusing. However, one aspect of the situation made him uncomfortable. “These people are terrified of Sharp and I do not like to expose them to his anger. Besides, I am certain Ganymede is being well cared for. When Sharp returns, I shall send him to fetch the horse.”
Reggie snorted with laughter. “Oh yes, send Sharp! An excellent notion. Although I should like to know how he explains the matter to his mistress, or whatever she is. Do you know, I used to like Sharp very well, but the more I discover about him, the less I like him. Where is he, by the way?”
Lord Humphrey (Sons of the Marquess Book 2) Page 4
