A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) (4 page)

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 replied. 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

R
osalind, 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.”

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Morley.” Freddie accepted the cap, replacing his once-fashionable hat with the warmer one, and then the knit gloves.

“Ye look lik’ a daft quiz of a flash cove in that cap but it’ll do.” She turned to face the corridor and yelled, “Drew lad, Mr. Freddie, he’s going wit’ you to gather wood.”

“All right, Mum,” came the quick reply shouted from beyond. The scampering sound of feet heading in their direction soon brought sight of the boy. He stopped next to Freddie and gazed up at him. “You ready ta go, sir?”

“I am.” Freddie had taken the good-natured ribbing and pulled Trevor’s coat around him. It felt a bit baggy and hung a bit longer than he was used to. No matter, he was ready to step outdoors.

“This way, then.” Drew motioned to his mother. “Ta, Mum.”

“Behave yurselves, now,” she replied.

Freddie followed Drew outside. It had not grown any more pleasant. It was every bit as cold as he remembered. However, after this task he knew he would return to the warmth and comfort of Penshaw Manor, such as it was. It was no thanks to his own efforts, but Mrs. Morley would see him nicely housed and fed.

Drew walked purposefully from the house, snatching up a rope tethered to a small sled without stopping.

The few hours of cold could be tolerated, happily so. Freddie glanced from side to side and all around him. Nothing looked familiar. “I take it you know where you are going?”

“We’s headed to the far orchard.”

“That wouldn’t happen to be anywhere near the place where my rig crashed, would it?” Freddie had to sidestep the sled and lengthen his stride to catch up.

“No, sir.” Drew showed no sign of slowing and his pace remained quick.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where my vehicle is by chance?” Freddie now walked side by side with his companion.

“Yur rig is over by the road west of the house, just after the river crossin’.”

“How do you know?” Freddie thought the boy’s description wasn’t a mere guess. It sounded as if Drew knew exactly where the phaeton lay.

“’Ave already been out this mornin’, sir,” Drew replied.

“Have you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you’ve seen my rig out near the road?”

“Yes, sir, I ’ave. Whole thing’s covered in snow. But it’s there.”

“You didn’t manage to collect the bags from the back, did you?”

“No, sir. My mum sent me to do summin’ straightaway. She didn’t tell me to fetch no bags.”

“You’ve the right of it. Best do what your folks ask.” Freddie had learned that lesson in the most difficult manner. “Maybe you can take me there later?”

“If you like.”

“Good.” Freddie smiled. He walked companionably alongside Drew and soon they were singing to pass the time. Then they were laughing at jokes they took turns telling one another. Whether the cold had lessened or the distance they were to travel was not as great as Freddie believed, it appeared to him they had arrived at the far orchard in no time at all.

It was easy to find firewood. Small bits lay on the ground; snow had covered the trees and many dead branches had snapped from the weight. There were entire trees that had fallen, and cutting that into useable pieces took more work. The two of them gathered, chopped, and stacked the wood onto the sled. Freddie found it just as tolerable even if he, as the larger and stronger of the two, had managed the lion’s share.

With his last armful of wood, Freddie headed back to the sled where Drew waited to help stack the load and strap it down for the journey back to Penshaw. He glimpsed the young man kneeling by the sled and, when turning about to start in his direction, he stepped forward two steps before coming into contact with—

A woman’s scream split the air; the firewood flew from Freddie’s arms, knocking him off his feet, causing him to land, quite undignified, in the snow. His attention immediately focused on the lady in a brown cape, her eyes wide with shock. A tendril of her brown hair had escaped from under her hood.

“I am sorry
I
stepped in your path and
you
knocked me over,” he said in what was clearly not an apology.

The lady’s once-wide eyes narrowed and focused on him. Her lips parted to reply, or what Freddie thought might have been a reply, when Drew interrupted.

“Miss Harris!” Her escort, pushing a small sled, slid to a stop.

“Are ye all right, ma’am?” Drew came running to where the collision had taken place.

She soon regained her composure and it appeared to Freddie that she fared better than he. Drew and the escort retrieved the few items that had fallen from Miss Harris’s basket, leaving the armful of firewood Freddie carried scattered on the ground around them.

“I am quite unharmed. Thank you,” she said to Drew and lowered the edge of her basket. He replaced her items from the ground that had dislodged as a result of the collision.

Freddie was left, on the ground, off to the side, to get to his feet by himself. He brushed the snow off his lower limbs as if he were knocking travel dirt from his trousers and boots.

There was no escape for Freddie from the angry sideways glare she leveled at him as she secured the items in her basket and strode away with her escort in her wake.

What kind of rude person treated another in such a harsh manner when the incident was clearly her fault?

The man was an utter
rudesby
!

Rosalind steamed about her encounter with a stranger dressed in an ill-fitting coat and tight knit hat all the way home. Who was he? Only a stranger. She had every right not to trust or acknowledge him. Why Drew Morley kept company with him she would learn from him later.

Removing her outer garments and laying them out to dry, she returned her basket to Cook. Rosalind’s anger regarding the stranger finally subsided by the time she had gone abovestairs and changed her clothes. As she descended the staircase, Rosalind heard voices below. No doubt Clare had finished with her rounds and returned.

“Clare?” Rosalind joined Cook and Mrs. Harris, all vying for her sister’s attention.

“Was there enough bread for the Lowther family?” Cook had wished to send larger portions but the size of Clare’s deliveries was already as much as she could manage. The Harris family wished to share their holiday bounty with their neighbors, especially since none of them attended Christmas supper. “I thought we should send more. Ah, next time, then?”