(Midwinter Manor)Poacher's Fall (3 page)

“Very kind of you, sir,” Danny told him. Funny how different people could be when you met them properly. He’d always heard Luccombe was a bit strange, but he seemed just fine as far as Danny could tell. Word in the village was that he’d gone off his rocker after the war, which was barmy when you thought about it, him not having fought since being wounded in 1915. Danny reckoned he was just a bit nervous. High-strung. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, when it realized what was coming. Danny liked to stroke them until the shivering eased, before he wrung their necks. Him and his family had to eat, but it didn’t mean he had to be cruel about it.

Luccombe was standing there, still holding the books in those fine white hands of his, so Danny reached out to take them from him. Luccombe jumped a little, making Danny think of small, frightened creatures again, and hastily handed him the stack of books.

“There’s a Dickens, and some Conan Doyles—I didn’t really know what you’d like, I’m afraid.”

“Not much for Dickens, tell the truth.” Danny grinned again. “Schoolmaster made us read
Hard Times
when I was a lad, and it bloody was and all.”

Luccombe smiled a little in response, and Danny realized with a shock that he was actually quite attractive, in his way. The smile seemed to change his whole face, making him seem less like a mole blinking in the daylight and more like, well, a young man. “Don’t worry, I’ve brought you the Christmas books. Much lighter fare. I, ah, I’ve always found them quite comforting.” Luccombe turned abruptly to look out the window.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d need much comforting, living in a place like this.” Danny kept his tone light.

Luccombe had his back fully to Danny now. “I’m afraid the Christmas season doesn’t hold very good memories for me.” His back, as he spoke, was ramrod straight, but something in his voice betrayed him. Luccombe turned suddenly, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I suppose you’re used to it being quite a jolly time, being part of a large family, I mean.”

Danny didn’t reckon Luccombe would be very interested in hearing how hard it had been since his da died. “Oh, aye, there’s plenty of us, right enough. Me and my brother Toby—he’s just turned ten this year; he’s a good lad—and the three girls.” He hesitated, then went on when Luccombe didn’t speak. “That’s Edie, she’s nine now; Mary, she’s six; and the littl’un, Abigail, she’s only four.”

Luccombe turned at last. He looked relieved at the change in subject. “When I was a boy, I always wished for a brother. It’s quite lonely, being an only child.”

Danny shrugged and then hissed in pain at what the motion did to his ribs. “Should’ve had two more between me and Toby, Mam says, but they both died their first year. Harold, the first one was called. Died of the measles before he could crawl. The second one didn’t last an hour. Cried once, Mam said, and then he died. That was Robert.”

Danny stared at Luccombe’s suddenly stricken look.

“I—I must be going,” Luccombe mumbled, and he left the room without another word.

Danny watched after him, bemused. Why had Luccombe looked so shocked? Babies died; everyone knew that. Or was it the mention of the name
Robert
? It was a common-enough name. Danny chewed his lip in thought. It meant something to Luccombe, that was for sure.

Remembering this time not to shrug, Danny gave up his wondering and opened up the topmost book. It was
A Christmas Carol
, and Danny was pleased to discover that Luccombe hadn’t been wrong about it being a lighter read. He found himself enjoying the tale with its sly humor, and looked up in surprise as Mrs. Standish, her entry unmarked, began plumping his pillows.

“Who’s Robert?” Danny asked after she’d handed him some broth and he’d thanked her politely. He had a strong suspicion she’d taken a shine to him despite herself. After all, there were plenty of maids who could have brought him his supper.

“Who’s been talking about Robert?” she asked sharply.

Good. He’d guessed right. “Mr. Luccombe mentioned him.”

She heaved a heavy sigh. “That was Mr. Luccombe’s friend from Oxford.” She paused and put her hands upon her ample hips, fixing him with a searching look. “I’m surprised he said anything to you about his friend.”

There was a strange emphasis on the word
friend
that set Danny’s mind to racing. “Has Mr. Luccombe got any friends that come to stay now?” Danny asked innocently.

“And what business would that be of yours, Daniel Costessey?”

Danny flashed her a winning smile. Leastways, it always worked wonders on Mrs. Cobb at the baker's when money was tight and they needed some credit. “He seems lonely, that’s all.”

Mrs. Standish gave Danny a long, hard look that took in every detail of his borrowed pajamas and his two-day stubble. “Not so lonely as he wouldn’t be
very particular
as to what company he keeps, young Daniel Costessey, and I’ll thank you to keep that in mind.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean, Mrs. Standish,” Danny told her, sinking back into the pillows with a grin.

U
NSETTLED
by his visit to Costessey and berating himself for ending it in such a bizarre fashion, Philip found himself unable to settle to his correspondence. Coming to an uncharacteristically quick decision, he flung open the door of his study and strode to the hall closet, where he stared in dismay at an unfamiliar array of dusty gabardines.

“Sir?” It was Standish. Philip fought the urge to snap at the man for creeping up on him like that.

“Damn it, man, where is my greatcoat?”

Standish stared at him mutely. “Your greatcoat, sir?”

“Yes, Standish, my greatcoat. I wish to go out. For a walk. And a muffler,” Philip added after a pause. “It’ll be cold out there, won’t it?”

Standish looked for a moment as if he were about to say something else, but he caught himself before anything untoward could be uttered. “Very good, sir,” he said respectfully, and then he was gone.

Philip paced impatiently until the man returned a few minutes later, laden with woolen garments that smelled strongly of mothballs. Philip swallowed. Damn it, had it really been so long since he’d gone out for a walk? He’d always loved taking the air when Robert had been here, showing him the places he’d played as a child and enjoying the beauty of the estate together, Robert as like or not quoting some verse or other to him. A memory of one day in particular came to him, and Robert’s teasing voice:

Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,

Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,

Casting the body’s vest aside,

My soul into the boughs does glide….

He’d laid his own emphasis on certain of Marvell’s words and had them both in fits. Philip’s hand shook just a little as he seized the errant greatcoat. It hung a little loose on his frame but was otherwise just as he remembered it. The bright blue muffler, he remembered that too. It had been a present from his aunt the year his mother died. Robert had mocked him fondly, saying it made him look like an overdressed snowman.

They’d been so happy. With a shock, Philip realized there was the ghost of a smile upon his face. Perhaps… perhaps it was time he stopped trying to forget, after all. With a determined air, he wound the muffler around his neck and stepped outside.

Everything seemed much brighter than he remembered. Brighter, and crisper too, as if the day had been freshly laundered and starched just for him. The crunching of the snow underfoot seemed absurdly loud, and Philip was acutely conscious of the sighing of the wind through the trees and the song of those few birds brave enough to stay at home for the winter. He drew a deep breath, the ice-cold air filling his lungs and making him feel more wide awake than he had for years. When he exhaled, the misty cloud brought back warm memories of bracing walks after companionable dinners. Rubbing his hands together reflexively—for there had hardly been time for the chill to penetrate his gloves—Philip crossed the lawn and stepped into the woodland.

It wasn’t hard to find the tree that had so nearly claimed young Costessey’s life. It stood in state in a little clearing, as if all the other trees were too awed by its majesty to approach. More than one branch, however, was broken, and the snow about its trunk was begrimed and trampled by the boots of Costessey’s saviors.

The clump of mistletoe still hung mockingly out of reach. Philip had a sudden vicious urge to have the whole damned tree cut down and burned. To think that young Costessey might have died for this. And damn it, what had he been thinking in any case, to attempt such a feat in the pitch-black and freezing weather to boot? Even had he not fallen, he could have caught a chill. And Lord knew, it was easy enough for such things to become serious before one realized. Philip hugged himself. Robert’s mother had been right: Philip should have taken more care of him.

But he hadn’t known, damn it. Neither of them had. They’d thought that with armistice reached, the worst was over.

The cold, no longer exhilarating, seeping through to his very bones, Philip turned and trudged back toward the house.

P
HILIP
went to see Danny again after dinner. It had been a lonely business, as ever, dining by himself at a table large enough to seat twelve with ease, and he’d felt the need for some company afterward. Odd, how he had managed perfectly well for several years without a companion but now, all of a sudden, seemed to crave society of an evening.

Costessey looked pleased to see him, which was gratifying, although Philip reminded himself that the man would most likely have been equally, if not more, pleased with the company of the boot boy or the scullery maid. Still, he found himself answering Costessey’s broad smile with a hesitant one of his own.

“How are you getting on with the books?” Philip asked, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Oh, they’re grand, sir. You’re right about
Christmas Carol
. It’s a far cry from
Hard Times
. I’ve had to lay them down for a bit, though. My head was starting to ache.”

Philip leaned forward, concerned. Without stopping to think what he was doing, he laid a hand on Costessey’s forehead. It felt mercifully cool, and Philip breathed a little more easily. Suddenly he recollected himself and snatched his hand away, walking briskly to the window to examine the darkness beyond. “You don’t appear feverish, but if you wish, I could fetch Mrs. Standish.”

“No, sir, there’s no call to bother Mrs. S. I’m just not used to spending so long looking at books is all. It’ll pass.”

“Oh, of course,” Philip said vaguely. Most likely Costessey didn’t have a lot of leisure in his day for reading, in the ordinary course of events. It seemed odd, somehow. All Philip
had
was leisure.

“But won’t you sit down, sir? Can’t offer you a chair, seeing as there are none, but there’s room and to spare on the bed.”

Philip turned and hesitated. Would it be proper? He felt his face grow hot. He was being an idiot. Obviously there was nothing untoward in his simply perching upon the edge of another man’s bed—and him an invalid to boot. A normal man, such as Costessey himself, would think nothing of it. Hoping his manner did not betray his absurd agitation, Philip sat down gingerly.

He cast about for something to say. “So, ah, mistletoe. Why on earth did you take such a risk? Were you hoping to sell it?” Lord, that was an idiotic thing to say. Remind Costessey that he was at the mercy of the man whose grounds he’d come to plunder. Not that Philip gave a fig for that, of course, but Costessey wasn’t to know that.

He didn’t seem particularly abashed, though. “No, that was to be for my mam. She’s always loved having a bit of mistletoe in the house come Christmas. Says it reminds her of how she met my da.”

“Oh? That was at Christmas? At a dance, I suppose?”

“There, sir, you’d be supposing wrong. See, she was the second chambermaid here, back when old Mr. Luccombe was alive, God rest him. Maybe you’d remember her? Right pretty she was, by all accounts. Helen Braithwaite, as was.”

Philip shook his head absently. He’d never really paid much attention to the chambermaids.

“Any road, she’d been sent to ask the men to cut some mistletoe for the hall, here. And it happened it was my da sent to get it for her. Now, Da being Da, he tells her she’s to come with him to get it. So he takes her out into the woodland, out to that very oak tree I came a cropper on. ’Course, I reckon it’s grown a bit since then,” he added, grinning.

It seemed to be infectious. “So I suppose he shinned up the tree and fetched the mistletoe, whereupon she was duly impressed and agreed to let him court her?”

Costessey’s grin had turned wicked. “Well, she never did go into detail, mind. But they were wed the following Easter, and I was born in time for harvest that year.”

Philip was arrested by an image of what had probably occurred beneath that oak tree, eighteen—no, nineteen—years ago. Lord, hadn’t it been a bit, well, cold? He looked at the young man lying on the bed and was struck anew by how like his father he was. But softer, somehow. Kinder.

And now he was looking at Philip with an odd expression on his face. Philip cleared his throat and hastened to change the subject. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how do you trap rabbits?” Costessey gave him a sidelong look, and Philip smiled apologetically. “Say, for instance, you were out and about upon the common, and you happened to fancy catching a rabbit.”

Costessey grinned. “I’d have poor pickings on the common, sir.”

“Oh! You needn’t call me ‘sir’ all the time. Luccombe will do. Or,” here Philip felt a thrill of… something, “you could call me Philip. After all, it’s just the two of us here.”

“Much obliged to you, sir, but I’m thinking Mrs. Standish would box my ears if she happened to hear me calling you by your Christian name. And my mam would have my hide and all.”