Barbara Metzger (17 page)

Old Dan turned for home. Jake didn’t. He didn’t land in the ditch—hallelujah!—but he did land in the path of the prize sow, all three hundred mean, myopic pounds of her.

Sailor and Handy had to drag him home, through the ditch. Sal wouldn’t come with them, they smelled so bad. When they got to the cottage, Jake was shaking so hard, he couldn’t even hit the boys with his cane. “A fire,” he croaked. “Light the fire.”

But the fireplace smoked worse than before, so much that Jake couldn’t breathe at all, not without moving his cracked ribs. He shoved his wet coat on the flames to douse the fire, which at least got him some steam. “Get up on the roof an’ stick a branch down the chimbley,” he gasped at his nephews. “Someat’s stuck in there.”

Jake waited until he heard a lot of noise above him before he raised his head to look up. First he saw sky through the holes in the roof. Then he saw Sailor’s big foot. And Handy’s little foot. Then
lots
more sky all of a sudden. “Oh, sh—”

Sailor carried him outside to a little clearing. Handy started him a fire out of the squirrel’s nest they’d found, then tossed on parts of the roof as they cleared the debris out of the cottage.

When Jake was almost warm and dry, Sal returned from wherever she’d been, dripping water all over him again. But she also laid a fish in his lap. “My friend,” Jake rasped as he impaled the fish on a stick with great effort and shakily held it to the fire. “My best friend.” He hauled his bruised arm around the damp dog and buried his battered head in Sal’s mangy fur while the fish cooked. “You’re more like family than those two jackasses can ever be.”

When it was ready, Jake split the fish and gave half to his best friend, his comfort and provider. Then he choked on a fish bone.

Chapter Seventeen

“I got me a shovel!” Sailor bragged. “I knew it would come in handy, Handy.”

They couldn’t take Jake into the village to be laid to rest in the churchyard. They couldn’t afford the burial, and they couldn’t afford to be recognized. Besides, Jake had never stepped foot in a church that either Sailor or Handy ever recalled.

“And he was happy here.”

Handy nodded. “Best days o’ his life.”

So they planted him in that little clearing, not far away from the tumbledown cottage in the Woodhill Manor home woods. While Sailor dug, Handy gathered leaves and twigs and pebbles to cover over the grave so no one would notice. They thought of making a cross out of the rotten roof lumber, but that would have been too obvious, so they stuck the cane in the ground as a marker.

“Too bad we got no way to write his name on it.”

“Couldn’t spell it anyways.”

As a final act of mourning, Handy picked a bouquet of wild violets—and stuck them in his buttonhole. Sailor did the same. They were free! It was time to go make their fortunes.

They gathered all their belongings, Jake’s belongings, and the dead man’s belongings, and left the cottage without a backward glance. And without Sal.

But Jake had warned them they had to get prettified before they could get hired on at any fancy house, and they still did not have the wherewithal for such luxuries as soap. Sailor was all for trying the bridle lay again. They still had the pistol, and he liked the sound of “Your shaving kit or your life.” Handy thought they’d do better waiting till dark and breaking into the emporium in the village. They stood in the roadway arguing until they heard carriage wheels. As luck would have it, the painted wagon that trundled by belonged to the first of a Gypsy caravan that was headed toward the other side of the village. A fair was going to be set up to honor the earl’s wedding, and to make a profit off his wealthy guests.

Gypsies being prodigious traders who asked few questions and gave out less information, the boys soon bartered the silver flask and the brass-fitted satchel for soap, razors, scissors, boot polish, and a soft leather tunic for Sailor.

“Giorgio roms go courting, eh?” The old Gypsy mother nodded and put some colorful ribbons
in
with the bundle. “For your sweethearts.” When Handy reached for the package she grabbed his wrist and turned his palm up. “For free. Yes, a pretty fair-haired girl is in your future.” For Sailor: “A golden female will be sharing your bed.”

This was getting better and better. They hurried off to the pool by the icehouse. It wasn’t any hot-spring bath, but it was better than the ditchwater. And it was a good thing for Lady Whilton that it was springtime and not winter, or her ice would be black from their ablutions.

Clean, combed, and shaved (Sailor, at least), they each donned one of the clean shirts that had been in the baron’s portmanteau. Sailor’s just made it to his waist, Handy’s fell to his bony knees. They put on the dead man’s hose and surveyed the rest of the choices from Sal’s clothesline foray. There was a pair of breeches from the blacksmith’s laundry that almost fit Sailor. With his new tunic, no one would notice that the buttons didn’t meet. But there was nothing that fit scrawny Handy without sliding down to his toes, except the blacksmith’s daughter’s skirts and petticoats. Sal was quick; she wasn’t a genius.

Handy shrugged and donned the skirts, threading the Gypsy’s ribbons through the long pale curls he hadn’t cut off yet. “She said I’d have a fair-haired girl in my future.”

“She didn’t say you’d be one. Now if they take us on at that manor house, you’ll have to sleep with the maids.”

“Too bad, ain’t it?”

*

The housekeeper at Woodhill Manor was in a dither. The guests were starting to arrive for the wedding, provisions were being delivered, and the house was not up to her standards. Lady Whilton was no help, with her head in the clouds all the time and the earl where he hadn’t ought to be even so close to the wedding, in Mrs. Binder’s considered opinion. Not that she’d whisper one word of disparagement about her mistress, but it didn’t set a good example for Miss Daphne, nor for the silly maids who were giggling in corners so much they weren’t getting half the work done. The footmen were worse, with their rolling eyes and knowing grins. At least the footmen were Ohlman’s concern, for all the attention he was paying, what with spending half his time in the wine cellar and the icehouse. The guests weren’t coming just to drink the cellars dry, for heaven’s sake.

Not even Miss Daphne was up to her usual competent self, worried about that handsome devil staying in the guest wing, the housekeeper guessed. Now, if
that
rascal overstepped the line, Mrs. Binder’d have at him with her rolling pin, the same as she used to when he filched cookies from the kitchen. Meantime, Miss Daphne was losing her lists and changing her mind about the menus and room assignments, causing more work rather than less. Mrs. Binder would be sore glad when this marriage took place.

Thus it was that she was happy to see two clean, neat young persons apply for positions. She could use the help, if they proved worthy.

“We got references, ma’am,” Sailor offered, handing over the forged letter.

Mrs. Binder read the glowing commendation, but frowned. “This here is for two brothers, Sailor and Handy.”

The boys hadn’t thought of that. “Well, he’s Sailor, all right. And I’m…I’m his sister Andy. T’other one stayed on at the last post.”

Mrs. Binder wasn’t happy. She peered at the pair in front of her. “You don’t look like brother and sister.”

“We don’t look like brothers, neither,” Handy muttered, but Sailor kicked him.

Mrs. Binder ignored both, her eyes narrowed. “I bet you’re sweethearts, that’s what. Well, I’ve got enough of that kind of nonsense already. If there’s one thing I won’t put up with, it’s canoodling among my staff.”

The boys swore they weren’t, never did canoodle together, never would. Mrs. Binder didn’t quite believe them, but she was desperate. She fixed Sailor with a steady glare. “One wink and you’re out, understand?”

Sailor never had learned to wink, so he nodded.

Mrs. Binder went on: “I can’t hire any footmen, that’s Ohlman’s province, but they’re short at the stables, what with all the carriages they’re expecting. Know anything about horses, boy?”

Sailor had just stolen one that week. He nodded.

“No matter, you’re big enough to handle a shovel.”

Sailor nodded again, grinning. He knew all about shovels.

“Good, go on with you and tell them I said you were to help. And you, girl,” the housekeeper addressed Handy, “can you polish?”

He’d gotten that boot polish to darken Sailor’s red hair all right, hadn’t he? With visions of silver polish—and silver plates, silver candlesticks, and silver tea sets—floating in his mind, Handy swore he could polish with the best of them.

Mrs. Binder handed him an apron and some rags and escorted Handy to a narrow closet with row upon row of chamber pots. “Here, you’re hired. Start polishing.”

*

Relief, that’s all it was, Daphne told herself, when Gray strode into the room, barely using his cane. He was returned safely and successfully, she gathered, from his wink in her direction and jaunty grin before he turned to greet her mother and the others. It could only be relief that made her spirits lift instantly and her heart start beating faster. She refused to entertain any other notion, although he was looking so devilishly handsome in his tight-fitting riding breeches with his dark curls all wind-tossed that her feet were itching to run her across the room and into his arms. Relief was a powerful emotion. Luckily she was serving tea.

Daphne was the first person Graydon saw when he entered the parlor. He thought she’d always be the first one he’d spot, no matter how many others were around, that his eyes would seek her out, instinctively knowing where she was. He winked so she’d know his mission was accomplished, then grinned when he saw how a cloud seemed to lift from her brow. She
was
happy he was back. Lud knew he was happy to be here.

His grin faded when he realized who else was there for tea. Of course. And he was sitting in her pocket, that dashed mushroom Miles. Graydon paid his respects to Lady Whilton and the other ladies, slipped a small package into his father’s hands, and returned to take a seat on Daphne’s other side.

“I say, Pomeroy, there’s a curious noise out on the highway you might want to look into. Sounds like a wolf howling in the woods.” It was a broad hint, but had merit.

“There are no more wolves in Hampshire. A lost dog or something.”

“Well, I couldn’t see anything from the road and couldn’t leave my cattle, but I asked a field worker passing by to go see. In case the dog was in trouble, a trap or something, don’t you know. Offered the fellow a coin, but he crossed himself and said it was a banshee, before he ran off.”

Miles dabbed at his mouth with his handkerchief. “There are no banshees, either.”

“Of course not. It’s most likely just a lost dog, as you said, but the noise could frighten little children. Perhaps you should take a ride that way, if you have so much time on your hands.” He stared pointedly at what else Miles had in his hands, a plate full of almond cake.

Miles resented being called to account by a Bond Street lounger, dressed to the nines and bang up to the mark, after a four- or five-hour curricle ride. He snapped, “I’m not the dogcatcher, by George.”

Cousin Harriet grumbled, “You haven’t caught a lot of anything else, either.” She turned to the newcomer. “Howell, did you hear there’s a gang of outlaws working the countryside, stealing anything not nailed down? Homer Riley says they even tried to get his pigs, right on the highway, in broad daylight.”

And Graydon had driven along that same highway, his head in the clouds, with a fortune in a ruby brooch in his pocket. While Cousin Harriet nattered on about missing laundry, even before the Gypsies came to town, Graydon wondered when he could give Daffy the locket he had in his other pocket. He still wished it weren’t such a trumpery bit, but she used to like the other one. She used to like him, too, he reminded himself.

She did seem pleased when, after Cousin Harriet went to fetch her needlework, he was able to recount his London adventure. Even Miles turned pleasant when the major told them how a London magistrate had signed an official death certificate. All was in order, he explained, right down to the blurred date of death.

“And there’s no need to mention Albert’s passing yet, since the ashes won’t be back for days. The undertaker won’t spread it around and neither will the magistrate, respecting the family’s wishes.”

“Then you don’t think I should discuss it with Mama?” Daphne asked, looking toward her mother across the room.

Graydon’s gaze followed hers to where the governor had his arm around Lady Whilton and was whispering in her ear while she giggled like a schoolgirl. The rubies had done the trick, then. “I’d hate to ruin their idyll. They seem so…” He couldn’t think of the right words, but Daphne understood.

She nodded and smiled. “So…”

“So preposterous, if you ask me,” Miles finished. “At their age! Dashed embarrassing, I’d say, and highly improper.”

If Miles considered that a little cuddling was improper, Daphne thought, heaven help them if he found out about the earl’s late night rambles. Perhaps Gray was right again and Miles was a trifle stiff-rumped. Well, he’d just have to learn to relax a little. He might start taking lessons from Graydon, who was grinning fondly at the older couple. No, then Miles might learn too many raffish ways. She’d rather have him this way, starch and all. She smiled at him and passed a box of chocolates.

Now that everything was all right and tight with the baron, Miss Whilton was looking better to Miles, downright appealing in fact, in a plain blue frock. Amazing what a crisis averted could do to a female’s prospects. And if this leering son of an earl thought she was suitable to be a countess one day, Pomeroy supposed Daphne could learn to be an adequate squire’s wife. With his mother’s help and example, he could check her wilder starts. Get her breeding, he figured, that ought to do it. It calmed the mares down, anyway.

Lord Howell was contemplating similar notions as she smiled, but mares had no part in his musings. Damn, that jaconet muslin hugged a figure that any opera-dancer would envy. Those simple lines had to come from one of London’s premier modistes, to be so demure yet so alluring at the same time. And the minx knew it, the way she was flirting with that maggot Miles, batting her eyes at him.