Midwinter Manor 2 -Keeper's Pledge (9 page)

When they came back in from outside, Danny’s mood somewhat lightened, Mam was on her high horse again ready to darken it for him once more, even as she sewed his waistcoat for his wedding. “You’re a decent man, Danny, but you’re a fool, for all that. Marrying a lass just because your brother’s left her in the lurch!”

“And what else am I to do, Mam?” Danny asked angrily. Damn it all, half the reason he was doing this was for his mam, so her first grandchild wouldn’t be born a bastard.

“You could go up to Pontefract and find that brother of yours, that’s what you could do,” Mam said, stabbing viciously at her embroidery.

“What’s the use?” Danny said bitterly. “He’s made his feelings plain by running off there. What am I to do if— when—he tells me straight he’s not coming back? Hit him again?”

She bit off her thread. “Maybe it’d knock some sense into the boyat that.”

“It was me knocking sense into him that led to him running off in the first place! ’Sides, I can’t go off now. Not with guests at the manor. I’m needed here.”

“Are you now? You’ve a high opinion of yourself, Daniel Costessey, if you think the estate can’t get along without you for a day.”

“There’s to be a shooting party in three days. Would you have me leave Mr. Luccombe and his guests to beat their own pheasants?” Danny ran a hand through his hair. “Mam, you know me and him have been, well, close?”

She nodded, tight-lipped. It wasn’t something they ever spoke of.

“I think it’s over, Mam. I can’t risk my job, not when like as not he’ll be looking for a reason to fire me. What’d we do then?” He tried to keep his voice steady, Lord knew, but the pain was too great not to let it show a little.

“Oh, Danny.” Mam put down her sewing and rose to lay a gentle hand on his arm, then gathered him to her. “Oh, love. Hush now. Don’t you worry. I’ll not say another word about it. You just do what you think is best.”

I
F IT
hadn’t been for his guests, Philip wasn’t sure he’d have survived Christmas. Perhaps he’d spend the season abroad next year. Somewhere with no snow, nothing at all to remind him of Danny. At night, as he lay sleepless in his vast, lonely bed, wild schemes to prevent the final schism would pass through his mind: he would buy the girl off, or pay one of the other staff to marry her.

And what would Danny think of him then? He’d think Philip had used his wealth, the power of his status, to selfishly rob Danny of a chance at a normal family life. And he’d be right.

At times, he thought of going to Danny and saying he’d changed his mind, that he wanted them to carry on together, despite the marriage. But he couldn’t; he just couldn’t. It bothered him enough, in his darker moments, to know their relationship was condemned by the law and the church. To add to that becoming complicit in the breaking of Danny’s wedding vows, made before God…. No. He couldn’t.

Matthew was his crutch, his only support. Lucy did what she could, but she didn’t
know
what was eating him up inside, leaving him a fragile, hollow shell. Matthew knew everything. Millie was well-meaning but ineffectual; Frederick was oblivious and uncaring. Mrs. Standish exhibited a sort of motherly kindness that manifested itself in too-hot fires and overly stodgy meals. Only Matthew could really feel for him.

And speak for him, Philip found, with the misguided righteous indignation of youth.

Philip had been dreading the shooting party, where he and Danny would be forced into contact practically all day long, as Danny directed them where to shoot and organized the beaters and the guns. Matthew, it seemed, had sensed this, and took obvious delight in speaking to Danny as condescendingly as he could. It was all “Gamekeeper! Fetch me another gun, would you?” and “Gamekeeper! Bit of a poor showing, these birds.” He sounded like a bad parody of his brother.

Danny bore it all without complaint or backchat, and Philip’s heart—what was left of it—went out to him. He seized an opportunity, when Matthew was elsewhere for a moment and the others busy, to speak to Danny alone. “I’m sorry about Matthew’s behavior. He’s only doing it for my sake, I’m afraid. He’s become a little protective.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Danny said, not looking at him. “Will that be all, sir?”

 

The repeated “sir” made Philip’s chest hurt. “Danny, I—”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I think Mrs. Cranmore needs assistance. Good day, sir.” Danny strode off, a fine figure of a man in his velveteen suit. And lost to Philip, utterly lost.

Philip’s aim, never very true to begin with due to a distaste for the sport he did his best to hide, went completely to pot after that.

Once again, Matthew came to his aid, sauntering back across the field. “‘He is very well-favored and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him’,” he murmured as he reached Philip’s side. “Lord, haven’t we killed enough birds now?” he complained more loudly. “Millie, I’m sure you’ve had enough, haven’t you?”

“Well….” Millie glanced timidly over at her husband, who was currently vying with Lucy as to who could amass the biggest bag of the day. He looked to be losing. “I think Frederick would like to carry on.”

“But you won’t mind if Philip and I go back to the house, will you?”

 

“I think actually,” Philip broke in, reluctantly, “I should probably stay with my guests.”

“Am I not also your guest?” Matthew pouted, making one of his theatrical gestures, untroubled by the shotgun in his hand.

Frederick happened to glance over at the wrong moment. “For goodness sake, keep that pointed away from the rest of us!” he snapped. “Are you
trying
to kill someone?”

“Perhaps we will go in,” Philip decided. “You stay and enjoy yourself with the others, Millie,” he added, feeling a little guilty at the knowledge that the latter would almost certainly evade her.

He and Matthew left their guns in the care of one of the beaters and strode off back toward the house, Matthew linking their arms together as he settled into step beside Philip. It was a comfort, this physical contact. Philip felt starved for touch, as if he needed it to stop him fading away, back into the half ghost he’d been before Danny fell into his life.

“Matthew,” he said, when they were well out of earshot of anyone of the party. “I wish you wouldn’t speak rudely to Dan—to Costessey. He doesn’t deserve it. But I really am very grateful for your support,” he added with emphasis, not wishing to appear churlish.

“Think nothing of it,” Matthew said graciously, the effect slightly ruined by his rather studied air.

“You’ve been a great comfort to me this last week,” Philip persisted. Matthew, he felt, received very little praise from his older brother; perhaps that was the reason he’d ceased making any endeavor to earn it.

“I could do more to comfort you, you know,” Matthew murmured, with a squeeze of Philip’s arm. “Much, much more. If you’d let me, that is.” His tone was pregnant with warm promise.

There was a moment of utter silence. Even the birds, Philip was sure, ceased their calls in that shocked instant; certainly he could hear no shots fired. “Matthew….” Philip struggled for words. “I’ve never…. I’ve only ever considered us friends, Matthew. And cousins, of course. Not… not what you askfor.”

“And so?” Matthew grabbed hold of Philip’s arms and stood facing him, his eyes dark and seductive. “Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.”

Philip smiled a little sadly. “I’m flattered, truly—but….” Lord, how to put it? Like a gift, the words came to him: “‘Love is not love, that alters when it alteration finds.’”

“Your fancy for the gamekeeper, you mean to say, is neither ‘giddy’ nor ‘infirm’?” Matthew sighed. “Fine, then. Friends and cousins only. I suppose I shall survive.” He let go of Philip and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“You’re far too young to be with an old fogey like me anyway,” Philip offered in commiseration as they resumed walking side by side.

“‘Let thy love be younger than thyself, or thy affection cannot hold the bent.’” Matthew shrugged. “But then the gamekeeper can’t be so very many years older than I am. Certainly a good deal younger than you,” he added a little petulantly.

Philip nodded. “He is. But I’ve always thought…. These things aren’t simply a matter of years lived. He’s been supporting his family since he was fifteen.”

“Whereas I have been merely a tick, sucking upon the family veins. Perhaps I shall fall off soon, fat and bloated,” Matthew mused, sounding oddly cheerful at the prospect.

Philip bit back a laugh. “I doubt I should like to see that.”

 

“Lord, no,” Matthew agreed. “Corpulence in youth is really
quite
disgusting.”

He took Philip’s arm once more, his good humor seemingly entirely restored, and they strolled back to the house companionably.

Chapter 9

O
N THE
day of Danny’s wedding Philip rose early, choked down some breakfast, and dragged his weary body to the drawing room, where he sat and stared wretchedly at the clock. Half past eight. In under seven hours, Danny would be good and married. Should he go? Should he try and stop it?

But what right did he have? Danny would be safe as a married man. Respectable. And the girl—God, no, he couldn’t do that to the girl. Or the child, come to that. Lord knew, bastardy wasn’t the stigma it once had been, but it was the decent thing to do, given his brother’s abdication of his responsibilities, to marry her. The right thing. The safe thing, and God, Philip was going to go mad, thinking of his Danny, lost to him forever…. He stifled a sob.

“Philip?”

Matthew’s voice recalled Philip to himself, aghast at being discovered in such a state. He spun around, his tumultuous emotions no doubt writ large upon his face.

“Is everything all right?” Matthew asked, frowning. “I… ah… some bad news,” he faltered.

“Oh?” Matthew tilted his head to one side, staring at Philip intently. “It wouldn’t just be that your gamekeeper is to be married this afternoon then?”

Philip closed his eyes in despair.

 

“If you’re so against him marrying, why don’t you put a stop to it?”

As if it were so simple. “These aren’t feudal times. I can’t just forbid two of my employees to marry one another. And don’t you think the girl’s suffered enough, having been abandoned once already?”

“Then why not see if you can fetch back the brother who
should
be marrying her, from what I hear? Put the fear of God into him; bribe him, if necessary. I doubt it’d take much, and he can’t have gone that far, surely?”

“No. Pontefract, Dan—Costessey said. But how would I even begin to look for him? I can hardly stand in the market square, calling out his name.”

“Hmm…. Does he know anyone in Pontefract? Has anyone from the village ties with the place? I mean, why did he go there, particularly? Leeds is larger, more anonymous, should one wish to disappear.” Matthew sprawled in a chair, one leg hanging over the arm. “I, of course, should have gone to York, or Edinburgh, or Whitby—somewhere with a little romance. Still, he’s only a gardener; one can’t expect too much.”

Philip tried to tune out Matthew’s rather snobbish drawl and
think
, damn it. “A stonemason,” he said at last. “There’s a stonemason there, who came from the village. Billy Wainwright. Danny, I mean Costessey, used to know him.”

“
Know
him?” Matthew asked pointedly.

“They were friends. That’s all I know.” It wasn’t, quite; Danny had confided he’d had deeper feelings for Wainwright, but he hadn’t said if they’d been returned, or acted upon, and Philip hadn’t wanted to ask. In any case, he failed to see how any of it was Matthew’s business.

“Well, then. Why don’t you take a trip up to Pontefract? It’s only an hour or two away by motor. There can’t be that many stonemasons in the place, so it shouldn’t take long to locate whatever-his-name-was.”

It sounded so simple and obvious the way Matthew explained it. Philip couldn’t help thinking there must be a hundred ways it could all go wrong.

But damn it; it was better than sitting in the house despairing. “All right, we’ll go. Come on, Matthew.”
“Me? You want me to go too? At this hour? It’s a miracle I’m even walking at this ungodly time in the morning.”
“You’re the man with the ideas, aren’t you?” Philip retorted recklessly. “Come on, there’s no time to lose.”

He strode out of the drawing room and almost collided with Lucy. “Is the house on fire?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

“I—ah, so sorry, but we’re in something of a hurry,” Philip said, torn between the need for haste and his natural horror of appearing rude.

“Off somewhere exciting?” Lucy looked wistful, as if she wouldn’t mind a little excitement herself.
“Just up to Pontefract. Actually, Lucy, you’re the very person,” Philip said, still in the grip of his unwonted devilmay-care mood. “Fancy a drive?”
“It’s a secret mission of the utmost importance,” Matthew encouraged her, looking positively gleeful. “Lives may depend upon it.”
Lucy’s eyes lit up. “Well, in that case, we must go at once. Come along, Matthew, don’t dawdle!”

“Don’t worry—Lucy drives like the wind,” Matthew whispered to Philip. “If anyone can get us there in time, it’s her.”

T
HE
countryside seemed to race past them as they sped towards their goal in Lucy’s Morris Cowley. Miraculously, no herds of sheep or slow-moving wagons appeared on the road to delay them unduly, and Philip’s high spirits lasted until they reached the town of Pontefract itself. His hopes faded a little as they drove more sedately through Butter Cross and past the strange, squat tower of St. Giles’s Church.

“How on earth are we to find him here?” he wondered aloud. The place seemed so big and so populous.

“Slow down, Lucy, and I’ll ask someone,” Matthew suggested. He leaned out of the window to hail a young woman who seemed quite charmed by his manner, and they soon had directions to the nearest stonemason’s workshop.

Perhaps inevitably, it turned out not to be the place they sought, but the workman they spoke to directed them cheerfully enough to a rival establishment.