Sculthorpe Abbey

Thursday, 7:30 in the morning...

After last night, and her morning adventures with Mopsy, Emilia had thought she might be too nervous to eat, but that proved not to be the case. If there was one consolation in this charade — besides darling Mopsy, of course — it was the food.

Not that she wasn't fed well at Crewe House. Cook made nearly as fine a breakfast for the servants as she did for the family, but meals there were something to be consumed quickly so work could be done.

Here, breakfast was a leisurely thing and Emilia was struggling to slow her fork and enjoy it. With Miss Hartley here now, she would do best to savor the moments without her.

The guests were up and about earlier than yesterday. They drifted in and out, some lingering, some in more of a hurry before going off to find ways to occupy themselves in the rain.

Mrs. Baddeley, surprisingly, had yet to come down, but had been having Higgins inform the ladies that she would like them to gather in the drawing room in the afternoon for tea, embroidery and conversation.

Higgins cringed as he called it a "get to sew you" session, obviously at Mrs. Baddeley's bidding, though Emilia thought it quite amusing.

Miss Poole hadn't stayed at breakfast long, claiming there was a volume of Robinson Crusoe that called to her on rainy days. Lady Adele seemed miffed at spending the morning reading, at least from what Emilia could glean from their conversation, mostly in French. At the end, it seemed there was some sort of agreement that Miss Poole would meet her for lunch and then find something "moins ennuyant"* to do.

Lord Swinton and Mr. Walford were quite excited about the dreary day, one claiming he wished to observe the gardens and where certain insects congregated in the rain, the other talking of the stonework, wondering how the cellars might hold up under such a deluge. Emilia and Miss Marbury hadn't much to say about either, but nodded politely at their observations.

Miss Marbury had been the only one at the table when Emilia first came in and Emilia had tried not to be disappointed it wasn't him. He was another thing — besides Mopsy and the food — that made her want to carry on this charade just a little longer. But why should she want to see him at all? Hadn't Evie just said something about Mr. Byrne having scores of odd ladies about? Or something like that...

Well, it don't happen much, but Mr. Byrne does have the odd lady about sometimes. Not so many as this...

Very well, it wasn't scores, but he was still likely an artful seducer who could teach Byron a thing or two. His flirtation with her, if one could even call such an odd set of meetings such, was, like as not, one of many and she would do best to remember that. He was probably just as cozy with the others and she simply hadn't seen it.

And she should be grateful for the knowledge since she shouldn't be getting ideas in the first place! Even if he were not a ruthless rake, she was not Prudence Crewe! She was Emilia Finch and she would suffer through this, then settle into a very secure future at Crewe House — after getting her little nest egg from Miss Prudence.

One hundred pounds, she reminded herself. This morning, she'd had to remind herself several times. 

Prudence was still determined to continue on. Despite Emilia trying to tempt her with the notion of a grand speech as she revealed all, she kept waving it off.

"Do you think Mary won't ruin it somehow? And likely torture you after. No. Now that she's got us on her hook, we have no choice but to see what she means to reel in — as I highly doubt this will suffice," Prudence had said, tossing the pile of Mary's mending on the unmade bed, making Emilia's teeth clench. She would never! "Now, I think it's best you go down to breakfast," Prudence said briskly, helping her out of the nightgown and into the pale yellow morning dress Emilia had just plucked from the closet. "You can see if any of the guests suspect anything. And I'll see if I can get anything useful out of Meg. I'll bribe her if I must!"

"And you don't think that will raise suspicions?"

"Oh, very well. I won't go about tossing money at her, but I'll... do something until that little beast comes out of her cave. I'll let you know when she rings for me so we can present a united front." Prudence finished doing up her buttons — and without complaining for a change. Emilia sat down to do her stockings while Prudence paced and glanced at the clock on the mantle, frowning. "Dratted girl is still abed and it's well after seven. Didn't she say she disliked being roused before ten? Ridiculous. I'd be up, fed, and working by now."

"Working?" Emilia laughed. Granted, Miss Prudence didn't stay abed long, even when she stayed up well into the night. Emilia sometimes went to wake her to find she was already in the attics, getting paint all over her nightgown. "Don't you mean making more work for me?"

"It's no laughing matter. I'd been on a crucial series of paintings, and if Mother hadn't deprived me of my trunk, I'd be nearly done by now. It needs three more before I can—" Prudence seemed to stop herself there. "Before I can consider it done.... to my satisfaction," she finished, frowning at the clock again. "At least I have something to do here, lest I go mad. I'm to meet Miss Poole in the library by eleven-thirty. I only hope Queen Mary doesn't keep us too long."

"Can you not do that today?" Emilia turned to the mirror, hoping to make sense of her hair. She'd not done a thing to it last night, neither brushing nor taking it out of its pins. At least they'd held enough that she didn't look the complete slattern this morning. The fact that she'd been wandering about in a nightdress had been bad enough. "We have more pressing concerns."

"Yes, concerns. But there's very little we can actually do about them. We don't even know what her demands will be. But if we must busy ourselves, there's always Mary's mending." Prudence gestured to the pile again. "I suppose, if you teach me a few stitches, I might be of some help. So... what does one do about a frayed—"

"No!" Emilia interjected, then softened her tone. "Thank you. But I believe it's best to leave me to my skills and you to yours." She could only imagine how Mary would punish them if her finery was damaged.

"My skills," Prudence mused a moment, then suddenly smiled widely. "Emilia, you are brilliant!"

Emilia hadn't a chance to ask what she meant by that before Prudence rushed out the door. And even that should have made her too nervous to eat, but the bacon was so perfectly done and the eggs were scrambled in sunny, fluffy heaps. After meeting Mrs. Doyle, it would be rude not to sample all her hard work. And, obviously, she should take stock of the other guests and what they might suspect, but so far, all seemed to be clear, so...

"I'm glad they are gone," Miss Marbury said when Mr. Walford and Lord Swinton exited the room, both talking of the dubious delights this rainy day held for them. "I cannot let another moment go by without asking you..."

Emilia dropped a bit of egg on her plate, relieved it didn't go into her lap, staring at Miss Marbury across from her. So far, the girl had seemed pleasant, possibly much too pleasant to be friends with Mary Hartley. But had she observed her odd behavior last night? Worse yet, had she seen Prudence about in London? And had she looked closely enough to know that the woman sitting across from her was not Prudence Crewe?

"...your thoughts on opera."

Emilia let out a breath, thankfully able to eat again. "Oh, yes. Opera."

"I understand you to be a great lover of epic poetry, or at least Mary often says you do go on and on about it and—" She stopped herself, blushing. "I don't mean it as a censure. I also tend to go on and on about things I like," she said quickly. "And I am most passionate about music, whether the symphony or a truly moving opera or my own playing — humble as it is."

"I'm certain that's not true. Mrs. Baddeley has spoken so highly of your talents. Only yesterday she promised the rest of us were in for such a treat when you arrived."

"I rather wish she'd said I was terrible," she said breathlessly, blushing. "Then my passable skills would be much more thrilling. But let's not talk about me. I must know what you thought of the latest revival of Rinaldo. You must have seen it at Covent Garden when you were last in town."

She was certain Miss Prudence hadn't. If Miss Prudence was here, she'd very likely tell the girl she detested opera. "All that caterwauling. One can barely hear the words," she'd said more than once. "I much prefer a play."

But there was something about Miss Marbury's enthusiasm that Emilia couldn't find it in her to dampen. It was bad enough the poor girl had been forced into a very ill-fitting gown. Her impressive bosom was flattened so that it was pushed almost to her chin. Rather than being alluring, the effect looked painful, as if she were being choked. No wonder she sounded so breathless. Her morning dress was obviously restricting her ability to breathe properly!

"I... greatly enjoy the opera," Emilia said carefully, hoping the girl wouldn't press her on which. "And... er... Rinaldo is certainly one of the..." Was he a composer or a tenor? Or was he an opera? Hell if she knew! "Just simply one of the best there is." There. That might be vague enough to suffice. "But I'd really like to hear your thoughts," she said, not only because she knew less than nothing about opera, but she could tell the girl was bursting to discuss it.

"I am so happy you think so, too. You know, everyone rattles on these days about dramatic opera being out of vogue, and it's not as if I don't have a good laugh at a ballad opera, but there's something about the classics..."

Emilia put a bit more on her plate and sat back, glad the girl was so talkative. If she could go on this passionately about opera, perhaps she might have as much to say on other subjects, such as Miss Mary Hartley.

How loyal was this friend? Even if she truly liked the girl, people very often had friends they simply couldn't wait to complain about to a willing ear. She would often complain to Charity about Miss Prudence whenever she felt the need, which was quite a lot. And Emilia was certain Miss Marbury would have much more to complain about. She would be only too happy to listen...

*******************

If there was any person in his employ a gentleman of means must listen to, it was his valet. The butler and housekeeper might be tasked with a smoothly running household, but it was a man's valet who prepared him to face the world, both inside and out of doors. So when Fletcher spoke, Byrne listened — perhaps mostly because he spent half the time with him either with scissors nipping near his ears, a razor scraping his neck, or a hot towel smothering his face.

He was quite certain Fletcher often "forgot" to remove the towel after it had gone cold so he could put forth his interpretation of events as long as he liked without question or contradiction from his supposed master. And this morning had been no different. He had no choice but to take in the man's recitations of gossip, extremely biased opinions, and strongly-pronounced edicts, while he couldn't speak or he'd be told to keep still.

"... obviously, most of the staff agree with me — apart from Mrs. Doyle, Beth, Seamus, and Kitty, who is entirely too opinionated for a kitchen maid," Fletcher was saying.

Byrne wanted to point out that, by his count, that was more than half the staff. And he quite liked Kitty. Not everyone could give as good as they got where Mrs. Doyle was concerned. But he could only grunt.

"Evie seems to have also abandoned us now, but Sean is convinced she can be brought back to sanity."

Byrne finally plucked the towel from his face. "If by sanity, you mean having Sean fill the poor girl's head with frightening folk tales again, then I doubt you know the meaning of the word. Mrs. Stern tells me he's given her nightmares."

Fletcher huffed slightly and turned to fuss with something on the table. "Mrs. Stern is no longer even pretending to be impartial on the matter. I've been told she's gone and hid all the chains. I'd always thought Germans valued order above all else, but I must have been mistaken."

"Oh, yes. Mrs. Stern," Byrne chuckled. "Such a font of disorder and chaos."

Fletcher only huffed again, turning back with the shaving soap, stirring it around and muttering, "...already destroyed the boot brush. How soon before he sets his sights on the boots, but I suppose that's of no concern."

"I heard that. And I'm not unconcerned." Really, Fletcher's exacting standards were one of the things he liked best about him. "I simply don't think this will be the clothing massacre you are anticipating," Byrne got in before he was forced to shut his lips tight, lest Fletcher brush shaving soap directly into his mouth. The stuff smelled delicious, something Fletcher prided himself on as it was his own recipe, but the taste was revolting. Byrne had once made the mistake of speaking too much during a shave and he'd have rather been nicked by the razor. He'd tasted nothing else all day but that soap all day.

"So you have abandoned us as well," Fletcher grunted. "Are you forgetting the boots he nearly ruined yesterday? Took me an hour to make them look presentable again."

Byrne wanted to clarify that he was the one at fault. Mopsy might have been the reason, but it wasn't like the little imp dragged Byrne into the muck. "Could you perhaps concentrate on making me presentable now," Byrne said through his nearly closed lips. 

"I wish I could," Fletcher sighed, "but since you refuse to let me fully shave this beard of yours..."

"It's not even a beard," Byrne protested, still tightly through his lips. "Just shave around the edges."

"It's enough of a beard to be terribly unfashionable."

"I'm meeting with the villagers and a railroad man today. Being fashionable will not benefit me the way you think," Byrne insisted. "I'd rather look less primped."

"And your hair is also getting unfashionably long," Fletcher bellyached as if he'd not said a word.

Byrne wanted to shrug at that, but since there was a razor at his jaw now...

"But never mind that. Back to the dog..." Of course! "This morning, he was clearly eyeing my freshly starched cravats and, mark my words..."

Dear God, not the cravats. Anything but the cravats.

Fletcher was inflexible in his edicts on how a gentleman presented himself, but there was nothing as sacred as the cravat. He would allow no one else to press them or starch them and would require absolute silence from Byrne as he tied and twisted the cloth into whatever style he believed suited the occasion.

Fletcher's dissertation on the state of Byrne's dress, upon their first meeting, was the reason Byrne finally hired him... or stole him away, if one wanted to be precise. He'd not started that day with the expectation of hiring a valet. What he'd wanted out of the man was information. What little he'd had, at the time, was that Fletcher's master was a skinflint, so he'd been certain this valet of his would talk, for the right price.

He'd been wrong, of course. Fletcher was as tight-lipped on the matter then as he was now. It had been extremely irritating. He'd paid a handsome price just to find his father even before that... and in more than money.

*******************

Cloghroe, Ireland

1803

Domhnall tore the note off his front door, crumpled it as he let himself in, then tossed it into the unlit fireplace. It might be good for kindling if nothing else. Now Lord Linfield was inviting him to sample a cask of ale he'd just acquired?

He knew what the man really wanted and he wouldn't be getting it. Still, Domhnall supposed he should be miffed. Other times, Linfield had begged his company at lunch or dinner. He had sent his regrets back with his man each time, but he'd rather fancied Linfield might throw a damned ball in his honor next. 

Sampling a drink seemed a step downward.

Domhnall noticed Linfield hadn't had his footman wait for a response this time. The man likely expected that would press Domhnall to come to Ambrose Hall, even if just to refuse, but Linfield wasn't his landlord. He had no obligation to hop to the man's summons.

But damned if a drink of ale didn't sound more tempting than the rest.

His Uncle Ciarán often said that, after a long, hard day, there was nothing like a pint to tell a man that he could be at rest. His grandmother would argue back that a nice cup of tea would do the same, but she never put much heat behind it. Uncle Ciarán never drank to excess or stayed too long at the tavern.

"It's nice now and then, but a man can't escape all the time. The morning still waits," he'd say, toasting Domhnall's watered-down ale. He'd never had a pint of the real stuff. Uncle Ciarán had told him that he'd let him when he could show three hairs on his chest and not a moment before then. He wished he could tell his uncle he had nearly a half-dozen now.

These days, he remembered everything his uncle, his Maimeó and his mother said. A constant litany of instructions, observations, even teasing little jokes followed him about the house, the farm, the yards.

He wondered if he was going mad or if he was just that eager to fill the silence. Either way, it was better than feeling alone.

He removed his sweaty and soiled work clothes and washed up before carefully putting on his Sunday best. It might seem a strange ritual for a Thursday, but not to him. She died on a Thursday and he'd not let a week go by without seeing her since. And "a man doesn't enter a church without making himself presentable," as she'd say when he'd moaned about being forced into a cravat and waistcoat. And he would have to stop in the church for a moment, light a candle and say a prayer, before making his way to the graves. That was another one of her admonitions. "You don't pass by a church without stoppin' to say hello to your maker. It's the least you can do."

He wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse, but he heard his mother most of all. And when a day went by when he felt as if he hadn't heard her enough, he read her letters. That last day, when she'd pushed that box of letters on him, she told him to read them. Every one. But he'd refused. They were hers. They were private. He'd never touch them because she would get well.

But she didn't. She died before the sun was down that day.

He'd made it only four days before he found himself laying the letters, ordered by date, out on her bed, then his own, as there were so many. Then he read them all, one by one.

She'd written his father faithfully, every week, even though she had nowhere to send them.

"I know he reads them," she'd said on that last day. "I always imagine he's standing over my shoulder as I write, sighing at the memories of our romance, or laughing as I tell him about my sweet Dommy and what he's gone and done now. I can't wait to tell him all about you when we meet again."

The letters might have started with a romantic bent, even in her grief, but they became almost nothing but tales of her "sweet Dommy" from the night he was born. His life as seen by his mother was idyllic, indeed. Even times when he was sure he was an awful, ungrateful brat, she'd only call his behavior "spirited" or "strong-willed." She'd written about him so kindly and he was sure he didn't deserve it, even as he treasured every word.

He re-read every word like it was one of her tasks, as if she'd ask for a full report.

Back when he'd quit school early, she'd only allowed it under the condition that he read a book every week, and she expected him to answer questions on each. She'd often throw in tricky questions or fantastical happenings to see if he'd truly read the text or only skimmed the surface.

Hamlet's decision to toss away his vengeful thoughts and live a happy life in the end was very sensible, was it not?

I thought the earthquake, great wave, and the fire were fine, but Candide's fight with the one-eyed sea monster was far too fanciful.

He never took the bait, especially as he'd most often done the reading in question. Even when he did, indeed, skim the words, he was wise enough to her games to chide her over them. But she did catch him off-guard a few times when he didn't read it at all. She'd never let him forget his confident posturing after having read only the first portion of Jonathan Swift's A Modest Proposal.

While I agree that we Irish are an unfortunate lot, if you ask me, that part suggesting we cook and sell our babes to the rich for nourishment was a step too far.

He'd quite proudly declared that he would not be fooled by her falsehoods and that Swift had written nothing of the sort.

But he had. And she'd teased him mercilessly over it. And he'd had no pudding that night!

He wanted to smile at the memory. He even started to, but then it failed to take shape — his lips pulled down at the edge, his eyes watered, and he angrily swiped at his cheeks. What was it to remember happier times when they'd never happen again? What good was living when everyone you lived for was gone?

Despair is almost like a sin, Dommy. Not against others, but against yourself. We must keep fighting to survive, struggle to eke out some happiness in this world, even when it's hard.

Sometimes he gave in to despair, also anger, remembering her words. She'd given in, hadn't she? She'd given in to death and despair and left him alone.

He didn't let it take him for long. He might not be able to squeeze any happiness from his life these days, but that didn't stop him from working.

The farm, her letters, his duties... He kept fighting each day. Sometimes he thought, if he did everything right somehow — tend the farm, read the letters, go to mass, keep the house, keep moving through each day, week, month — he'd wake up one morning to find his family again. It was silly and childish, but it was always there — this idea that there was some reward at the end if he worked hard enough. It was as if he was waiting for it, waiting for something...

It was still light as he made his way to the village, a large basket in hand — cowslips for Maimeó, sheeps-bit for Uncle Ciarán, and Easter lilies for his mother.

His little Thursday procession might have seemed a strange sight last year, but people had grown accustomed to it by now, most left in the fields barely glancing his way, with the exception of Mary Mullen, who waved quite enthusiastically from her brother's cart. She looked as if she might jump down and walk with him, but he gave her a curt nod and then put his head down before pushing onward faster. He didn't desire company.

She'd been coming around lately, bringing sweets and breads and fussing over him. And she wasn't the only one. Quite a few of the village girls and their mothers had this sudden concern that he was starving or coming to tut over the state of the house, hinting he needed a woman about to tend it properly, saying what a shame it was his Uncle Ciarán never wed and hoped he wouldn't make the same mistake. It seemed the question of his birth didn't seem to matter very much these days. Not now that he had his own farm.

Perhaps he shouldn't be so harsh. Mary and John Mullen had lost their own parents and were struggling to make rent on their land. Lord knew Linfield was never one to let someone pay even a day late without adding unfair interests. Could he blame anyone for seeking a life that wasn't under that man's thumb?

Sometimes he thought he may as well marry one of them, maybe even Mary. She wasn't the worst of them and he was seventeen, which was old enough in these parts. If they were willing to look past his illegitimacy, perhaps he could look past the fact that he had no interest in any of them. It wasn't as if he didn't take note of a pretty girl, here and there. He just took little pleasure in it these days. And though he'd take himself in hand on the odd occasion a stubborn arousal wouldn't go away on its own, it was never about pleasure so much as an itch to be scratched.

Maybe a wife would scratch that itch better. And it might be nice to have someone to cook, to clean, to talk to him or, God, even make noise. Some nights, the silence was so stifling, he'd have one of the dogs in. Their shufflings and little whines were a comfort.

Uncle Ciarán would frown upon that, as they were working dogs and shouldn't become confused about their place, but there was something nice about having someone who was happy just to be with you, even if that someone was covered in fur. He did make certain to pick a different dog each night. It would be no use becoming too fond of one. Their work might suffer and... Well, dogs died. He'd lost three of his favorites last year alone. It was best not to become attached.

As tempted as he was to stop at the graveyard when St. Augustine's came into view, he passed it, knowing his mother would be cross if he didn't take care of the niceties first. He laid his basket at the back of the church and took off his cap, dropping to genuflect before moving to the votive candles. His mother had always said, after reciting prayers, to tell the Lord what you were grateful for before asking for things. I imagine he's constantly bombarded with people wanting this and that. It's only polite to tell him 'thank you' first. But these days, he couldn't find much to be grateful for, nor anything he wanted. So he just left it at the Aves before making his way to their graves.

In the last three years he'd had with her, he'd treated most of his mother's little edicts with a very annoyed roll of his eyes, but now it was like every word she said was gospel to him. He couldn't wash his hands for supper without hearing her tell him how to properly scrub under his fingernails. He stared at them now, standing in front of the grave, thinking she might not consider them clean enough and wishing she was here to scold him about it.

He laid all three bunches down before the large stone that held each of their names on it, along with the years that encompassed their lives. He'd rode all the way to Cork to order it and paid a pretty penny. And there was room for one more name...

"Grandest grave I've seen in these parts, outside those massive tombs in Rome." He didn't have to turn to know it was Father Fitzmaurice approaching. "I'd thought ye'd be after a mausoleum. So I'm grateful you restrained yourself, or the pair of us might not fit in this yard at all."

He smiled slightly. "I can imagine Maimeó balking at the expense, perhaps sayin', 'I have no need of something so grand if I ain't there to see it.'"

Father chuckled. "Your Uncle Ciarán might have said the same, but I think she would appreciate the grandness of the gesture."

"That she would," he agreed, running his hand over the carved lilies along the top. "She deserved it. And more."

"I think she might have a few things to say about your other decisions, but I'll say no more on that."

Domhnall nodded. "Good." He hoped that would be the end of it but, of course, it wasn't.

"I've seen so much death and sadness in my time," the older man sighed, "but nothing makes me sadder, not even the loss itself, than seeing those who grieve living only for the dead."

Domhnall turned to him, his eyes narrowed. "I am living just fine. I am running the farm. I am tending the sheep, the dogs, the... I am doing the best I damned well can, considering I just lost everyone I love."

"But you didn't just lose them," Father said, meeting his anger with a saddened gaze. "It's been nigh a year."

"I know that," Domhnall said, turning away, his anger melting into heartache. All the holidays had passed without them, seasons had changed, yet he still felt as if it all happened yesterday.

That night, Father had rushed to the house before the end, taken her last confession. Domhnall had taken himself out of the room, both to give her privacy and to stifle his tears. He'd not heard what she said to him, but he had heard the man say, "I promise."

Whatever she'd asked, Father had obviously taken it as some kind of leave to nose in and tell him what to do whenever the notion struck him. He couldn't get too angry, of course. If anyone missed his mother even half as much as he, it was Father Fitzmaurice.

Her funeral, so soon after Maimeó and Uncle Ciarán, had been sparsely attended. There had only been himself, Father, and those of her pupils who were left. "She should have had the whole town in procession," Domhnall said now, frowning. "She'd given everything for them."

"Another time, she might have had a trail of mourners without end," Father said softly, "but you can't forget what last year was. I think most people here were still sick, that or exhausted from burying their own dead."

"Perhaps," Domhnall said bitterly. "Or perhaps they didn't want to console a bastard. Everyone knows I'm not an orphan she inherited from some distant cousin."

"That's the tale she came back with when you were a babe, and I'd never have gainsaid her. I never counted it against her either."

"Why not just tell the truth? Why lie?" He demanded now, still staring at her stone. "They all knew anyhow."

"I might have my cassock revoked for sayin' it, but not all lies are a sin. People can be cruel. If she'd told the truth and brazened it out, they'd have used it to judge her even more. And, in my eyes, she'd done nothing wrong except... Well, she was a very intelligent girl, your mother, but too sweet for her own good, and so trustworthy herself that she always trusted others — even when she shouldn't. I've seen other young ladies fall prey to the rich English. They can be charming when they deign to—"

"Rich?" Domhnall turned sharply to Father. "My father was a soldier." Growing up, he'd been almost a figure of myth — selfless and heroic. "He fought in India. He died saving his battalion and he—"

"Perhaps he was a hero, perhaps not. Your mother and uncle had some arguments on the matter."

Domhnall frowned. His mother rarely ever talked of his father unless they were alone. The few times she'd mentioned him when Uncle Ciarán was about, he'd often quit the room, muttering to himself. Domhnall had always thought it was his distaste for sentimental nonsense, but had it been more than that? "But my mother's letters said—"

"I know what your mother believed. And she believed it because it was what she was told. As I said, she was a trusting soul. But the man was a friend of Linfield's, after all." The priest scoffed. "You think Lord High-and-Mighty hisself would have a common soldier as his honored guest?"

"Linfield?" He shook his head. Lord Linfield's name had been mentioned in the letters, but only once, and in so insignificant a way that he'd made himself ignore it, even if it had seemed strange. "What has he got to do with anything?"

"More than you think." Father stared at him a moment, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Come along. I'm certain you've not had your supper and Mrs. Ryan's left me far too much food, no doubt."

"Thank you all the same, but I've got—"

"A plate of cold beans to share with a dog, I'd wager. I've seen how you eat when left to your own devices." He started away. "As I said, it's been nigh a year. It's time we talked."

"What about?"

"The dog being obviously returned to the kitchen by Miss Crewe."

*******************

"What?" Byrne came back to the present quite sharply upon hearing the name.

"Hold still," Fletcher barked, "lest I scrape more than your beard. I confess, it does grow far too quickly. It would certainly make my task easier if you didn't turn into a wild beast every evening after supper."

"Never mind that. What about Miss Crewe?" Byrne settled back down, grateful to be back in a time when his primary concerns were Miss Crewe and her strange affinity for the dog. It was, at least, lighter than the crushing weight of grief that had defined his last year in Ireland.

"She suddenly appeared this morning, in the kitchen yard, prancing about with the dog, and in her nightgown, I might add. Very improper."

"Come now, I've seen the odd nightdress," Byrne said through his teeth, trying to hold his chin still. "You'd find more risque clothing in a nunnery. But how did Miss Crewe seem?"

"Like an inappropriate choice for a wife," Fletcher said with a last, flourishing scrape of his razor.

"For the last time, Miss Crewe is not my quarry," Byrne said, sitting up and swiping at the remaining shaving soap on his neck.

"I would be relieved to hear so," Fletcher droned, "if you hadn't spent most of last night asking after her."

He supposed he had interrogated Fletcher just a bit last night, but she'd been such an oddity. Could he be blamed for wanting to know more?

"And though I had very little to say on the subject then," Fletcher went on, "I can now tell you that she is every bit as impertinent as her revolutionary maid."

"Yes, I'm sure," he said absently. "But did she seem upset?" As much as he told himself it wasn't his business, her odd behavior last night hadn't left him. "I only ask for Sir Anthony's sake. Did she seem as if she might... leave?" Her words last night had an odd sort of finality to them.

"It was truly nice to know you, Mr. Byrne," she'd said. 

There had also been some nonsense about how she wasn't worth such concern and the look in her eyes as she said it. It was as if she truly believed it.

"I saw no such inclination. If anything, her excessive championing of that mongrel seemed to indicate we would not be rid of her soon, more's the pity. Even if she wished to leave, who could escape in this ungodly weather? Indeed, I wonder that anyone would venture out on a day such as—"

"For the last time, I am going," Byrne barked. "I have an appointment and it will be kept, rain or shine."

"It's not the rain that concerns me so much as the mud," Fletcher sighed, now attacking him with face oils and pomades. "But very well. Keep your foolhardy appointment. I have no concern with the outcome of that nonsense. I only hope that you find a wife in all this, so all of our suffering will not be in vain."

"What suffering is that? Your activities here are no different to those in London or Cumnock."

"What of this ruse of working for Sir Anthony? It is bad enough without all of us having to contend with playacting for this dog-obsessed Miss Crewe all morning."

"How much playacting could there have been?"

"More than I wish, which is more than enough."

"Well, do let me know if the others are suffering with it. As for you, I'm surprised you don't enjoy it. I think you'd be quite at home on the stage," Byrne said drolly. "A tragedy, perhaps. You've quite the skill for dramatically communicating your suffering."

"Very good, Sir. I will say no more on the subject. Indeed, I shall never bring a complaint to you again if it discomfits you so."

"I'm certain that's not true," Byrne muttered.

"There now. You look nearly presentable," Fletcher declared as he pulled the towel away, then frowned and began tugging at the hair over Byrne's ears and behind his neck. "On second thought, perhaps a trim is in order. Just a few inches off your neck or over—"

"No. Not today. You've primped me long enough. And don't think I don't know why."

His valet put on an affronted expression. "If you're implying I've prolonged your morning ablutions for some reason other than dedication to my work—"

"That I am. And it's not about the dog, either. I wish you would just say it and be done."

"Say what, sir?" Fletcher asked, all wide-eyed.

"Tell me not to go, not to do it." Byrne removed his robe. "Living well is the best revenge and all that."

Fletcher dropped his expression and picked up Byrne's shirt instead, handing it off. "And would you listen?"

"No."

"Then what good would that do? My concern with your doings extend to how your clothing fares and no further," he said blandly, standing back and crossing his arms as Byrne pulled his own shirt and breeches on.

"Good, then." Byrne was certain Fletcher was itching to do it in some better, more proper way, but Byrne had told the man from the start that he'd put up with the shaves, the unending ritual of ablutions, and the cravats, but he refused to be helped into his clothes like a child.

"I've told you from the very beginning that I will have no part in this mule-headed quest of yours," Fletcher said, "and that includes discussion of it."

"Excellent."

"No matter how much time and effort and money is wasted with this foolishness," the man went on, "I have nothing to say on the matter."

"Very sensible of you," Byrne droned, surrendering his arm for cufflinks.

"No, I shall hold my tongue," Fletcher said with saintlike suffering, "even if this ends in regret and ruin for more than—"

"If this is your way of not discussing it, I shudder to think what you'd say if you stopped holding your tongue. I now fondly miss your dissertation on the dog."

"Well, if you'd like more on that, I'll gladly—"

"The dog stays."

Fletcher looked ready to argue.

Byrne put up a hand. "Sir Anthony has opted to take him in, so while we are here, he is part of this house. I'm not fond of the situation either, but to put him out in all this rain would be cruel."

"Aye, and never mind how cruel it is to the rest of us," he muttered, "feeding and walking the thing."

"Since you will not be forced to participate in any of that, it's no concern of yours."

"And if I must spend endless hours removing white hairs from your coats and breeches—"

"Hand me a brush and I'll do it myself."

Fletcher seemed to stop his mutterings at that. He drew the line at letting Byrne do anything involving his clothing himself.

"And while we're on that, will you kindly stop taking things out of my coats?" Byrne gestured to the money pouch on his desk. "When I put something there, it's because I don't wish to forget it."

"It spoils the seams to have endless things hanging there all night?"

"Then I shall buy another. And a simpler knot, please" Byrne said, gesturing to the cravat Fletcher was now crafting. "I don't want to look too polished. As I've said, I'll not be dealing with the gentry today."

"That doesn't mean I will allow you to appear looking like a wild man. But very well. A simple knot it is. But tied with precision."

"You're a very precise man, aren't you, Fletcher?" Byrne sighed.

Fletcher chuckled. "I'd say that's why you hired me in the first place, but we both know that isn't true."

"Aye, I suppose we do."

Byrne had certain hopes when he hired Fletcher and they didn't involve being bossed about every morning and night. Back when he hired him, he'd truly hoped Fletcher would aid him in the very thing he so strongly disapproved of now. But he supposed it had to be enough that he hadn't quit on him. Fletcher must know that even that wouldn't stop him.

Nothing would.

And today was just the beginning.

TBC

****************

moins ennuyant = less boring

While I have you, and in case anyone missed my announcement, The Lady Pursues (the previous book in this series) will be going into Paid Stories very, very soon. It's quite a relief to me that, as I draft the rest of this series, my previous work has the possibility of giving me some financial relief that might lead to less stress and more free time to write. No guarantee, obviously, as Historical Romance is still a pretty niche genre, but it's always nice to be told your work is worth something.

It's been quite a confidence boost and has given me more urgency to finish, so you can expect quicker updates on my end. And a big thanks to everyone who supported TLP along the way and those who found and loved it after! You kept me writing even when my own confidence failed, I had yours to sustain me!

Also, feel free to follow me on Twitter @AWheelerRomance. I'd really love to chat with you guys over there! It will be a nice interruption of all the doomscrolling.