by M. J. Logue
“Cork-brained,” Hollie said firmly, and Het looked up at him and raised her eyebrows.
“Hm?”
“Him. Upstairs. I’ve known hedge-sparrows wi’ more common sense.”
“Dear?”
Hollie shook his head. “That one. No, he is not poking about in politics, and yes, he is still a soldier. He is yet respectable, lass, and I thank God for it. We are not harbouring a desperate villain. What he is, is a soldier with too much time on his hands –“
“Oh, I knew one of those, a long time ago,” Het said, and there was a little colour creeping into her cheeks and a little brightness in her eye. With relief, he rather thought, though she would not admit it even if he asked.
“Ah? And what became of him?” – as if he didn’t know.
“I found one or two jobs for him to do about the farm,” she said, and then smiled a wicked smile, “and then I found he had made himself too valuable to let go, and I married him.”
“Ah, well, I think Major Russell’s come a bit late to the party to marry you, lass, since I’ve already caught you.”
“Even if I – Major Russell?” Her hands flew to her mouth, which did her stitching a power of no good, and he grinned to himself at the fact that he could still astonish her after seventeen years of marriage. “Thankful is a major?”
“A major nuisance, aye. Better than that, lass, he’s on Monck’s own personal staff. That’s why we hear so little of him, I imagine. I guess that awkward old curmudgeon keeps his nose to the grindstone – but aye, he’s doing all right for himself. Done all right for himself. At Court and everything.”
“But then – Hollie, is he telling you the truth?”
She was happy, but warily happy, as if she didn’t know whether to believe it.
“He is. He might not have sufficient brains to come in out of the wet, but he’s dead-straight so far as honesty. That – “ he jerked his head up the stairs, “tertian fever, picked up in Scotland. So did every other beggar, so far as I hear. It comes back, when he gets too tired –“
“Or doesn’t look after himself. I can see that.” She picked up her stitching again, and spread it over her lap. “Do you think he would take it amiss, if I were to make him some fresh linen?”
“I think he is quite sufficiently placed to have his own,” Hollie said carefully. “That sixty guineas was his own – it was, uh, he meant to have a holiday.” Which was as discreet a way of saying it as any, he supposed. “He, um, yes. They, uh. They are not always kind to him, at Court. You know how he is. He don’t do fashions. So, aye, having him lurking about the place looking like the wrath of God is – well. He scares some of the lads witless, apparently, and some of ‘em like to poke fun of him, and he hates it – well, you would, I imagine. The idea of being trapped in London for the month while His Majesty forces everyone to have a good time didn’t have much appeal for our Hapless, so he lied and buggered off. I think he’s supposed to be spending time in prayer and sober reflection with his family. I think that’s what he said he told Monck, anyway.”
“And he was going to do what, Holofernes?”
Hollie scratched his ear, feeling slightly uncomfortable. It was not really a thing he felt quite happy to tell Het, in truth. “Hole up at the Spotted Dog in Maldon till the middle of January, I think,” he said eventually, which was half true. “He was hoping to pass unnoticed. Hence the, uh, unconventional attire.”
Het blinked once or twice, and her lips twitched. “Unnoticed?”
“Aye, I know. I told him that.”
“I thank God he does not fancy himself as an intriguer, dear, if that is his idea of inconspicuous.”
“Um. Het.”
She looked up again. She was happy now. Her boy was not a ragged vagabond, and he had made good, and he was here where she could fuss over him. And that was all good. Except -
“Het, lass, ah. Het. Um... He is an intriguer.”
At which point she dropped the sewing again, and he picked it up this time. “Intelligencer, then.” As if that made it sound better, and went on very quickly. “He says it’s very dull, mind you, and not at all what people think it is. He reckons it’s a lot of reading other people’s letters, and precious little else.”
“Well, he’d hardly tell you, dear, if he was – adventuring, the whole time! Oh, Hollie, I hope it isn’t dangerous –“
“It’s Hapless, lass. You know very well he’d tell me, if he was involved in anything exciting. He’d be close as an oyster for half an hour, and then it’d all pop out in one go and he’d sit there wriggling at me being happy in all directions. You know what he’s like. Oh, Het, don’t weep!”
“I am happy!” she said furiously, with her face in her sewing. “I should be happier if he were closer to home, and we could see him more often, and if he – well, if he were to settle, dear, and get married. I would like very much to see him with some sensible young lady who would be a comfort to him. And I could wish he had not lied to his superiors about his whereabouts, for that troubles me, that he should have it on his conscience –“
Hollie thought about it. “He didn’t,” he said, after a while and a while. “He didn’t lie. He is spending Christmas with his family. Such as we are.”
She appeared from the folds of linen, and her eyes were shining.
“I wouldn’t bet much on the matter of prayer and godly reflection, mind, in this house,” he grumbled, though, just in case the wench thought she’d got her own way.
