Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (21 page)

“Don’t you understand? I would have been alone, with no way to live. When my father died, his pension would end. There was nothing put aside for me, not even a roof over my head. Before he passed on, Father begged me to wed Mr. Greene so I’d be cared for. I agreed so that he could die in peace.”

“So now you’re a widow, with no one to look after you.”

“Married to you, I could have been a widow thrice a year, if that were possible, with the life you’ve led.”

“Who’s to say what path I would have chosen if you were with me? You cannot know that we would have been unhappy.”

“Connor, we were children! You were an irresponsible, daredevil boy then, and what are you now? I’ve been raising my sons, at least. You’ve been raising Cain.”

Viscount Royce was pacing now, with barely enough room for five long strides in any direction. “Your opinion of me is gratifying, Mrs. Greene, especially coming from one who has never been out of Chipping Espy.”

“I do not need to travel to London to hear the gossip. Besides, if you weren’t a here-and-thereian, a care-for-naught, you’d be in Chipping Espy yourself, looking after the people who depend on you.”

“No one depends on me, madam, and that is the way it should be. The duke is not in the ground yet.”

“But he is too cross and choleric to reassure his tenants. Why, you don’t even understand how the people you’ve known all your life live in fear of him, and more fear of his passing. It’s positively medieval, but the countryside depends on your family for its very life. What if the next duke brings in sheep, or raises the rents, or forbids fishing in his streams? What if he shuts down the racing stud and no more wealthy gentlemen come to purchase horses? What if he never resides at the castle at all, and the army of servants is dismissed? How will the village survive, Connor, and do you care?”

“Of course I care. That does not mean I need to be here holding the blacksmith’s bellows and the pig farmer’s pitchfork. Espinham has overseers, accountants, and land agents. No one has to worry.”

Sabina shot him a look of pure disgust. “It is you who has no need to worry; your inheritance is secure. You can do whatever you like, go wherever you wish. The rest of us have no such luxury. Hired stewards have no loyalty to the land, Connor, or to the people.”

“What would you have me do, then?” He’d already promised the duke to stay around, but he wanted to hear what Sabina had to say about his remaining in the vicinity.

“I’d have you be a son to your father. Help him manage the estate but, more important, assure the succession. That’s what you were born to do, Viscount Royce, and I shouldn’t be the one to have to remind you.”

“You are not the first today, madam,” he said through clenched jaws, heading toward the door. “But I shall not be forced into leg-shackles by any man, woman, or child, dying or otherwise. I suppose we shall continue to disagree about a son’s duty to his parent. Or a daughter’s to hers. Good night, Mrs. Greene. I am sorry to have disturbed your pleasant evening.” He turned before leaving. “And I always liked your freckles.”

4

The viscount stayed on, as he had promised his father. And he stayed away from Sabina Greene, as he had promised himself. He also stayed away from discussing any controversial topics, in deference to his father’s health. If the duke mentioned marriage and Sabina again in the same breath, Connor feared it just might be Espinwall’s last, and not because of that counterfeit cough the cad contrived for his son’s edification now and again. By mutual, if tacit, agreement, they did not speak of politics, the viscount’s way of life, the succession, or the duke’s miraculous recovery. There were some very long silences at the castle. Thank goodness for horses, a subject dear to both men’s hearts.

To fill the awkward moments, the duke took to inviting company to tea or dinner, for cards
or
conversation. He entertained the neighborhood’s first families, and any nobility or gentry or gentleman farmers near enough to travel to Chipping Espy. His Grace even invited a few of the wealthier merchant class who had bought property in the area. They all had one thing in common—daughters of marriageable age. Thank goodness for horses, which enabled Connor to put as much distance between himself and the company as possible.

Contrary to most people’s surmise, Viscount Royce was interested in good land management. He’d attended enough country house parties to accumulate farming techniques from every corner of the kingdom. He was knowledgeable and, now that his father seemed willing to turn over some of the reins, he was eager to bring modem improvements to Espinham. First, Connor had to survey the farms and fields. The more his father trotted young females past him, the more thorough his inspection. Returning from one of his long rides, he decided to while away another hour by scouting out a Yule log. Christmas was only a few weeks away now, and his father’s old friend, the bishop, was to spend the holiday eve at the castle. The kitchens were already working overtime, and the housekeeping staff was recleaning spotless corners of unused rooms.

When he was a lad, bringing in the Yule log was a celebration in itself. Lighting the log in the castle’s massive hearth was a tradition for the entire household, family, servants, and guests. They’d all gathered around as his father lit a sliver saved from last year’s wood, then handed it to him to light the new. Everyone had toasted the prosperity of the house, the continuity of succeeding generations. Hell and tarnation, Connor cursed. Even his recollections were turning into nags. He spurred Conquistador along the path through the home woods, more interested in losing his memories than in finding a log to burn for the twelve days of Christmas.

Some kind of melee was going on in the clearing, he could hear. So Connor headed in that direction until he could see a group of boys, fighting. Now, he wasn’t one to interfere in a good bout of fisticuffs nor a squabble among young hotheads, but this was different. Young Wilfred Snavely, who was nearly a man grown, had a much younger, slighter lad on the ground, and he was rubbing the other’s nose in the dirt. Old Wilfred was shouting encouragement while he held off a still smaller boy who was kicking and clawing to go to his brother’s aid. A third red-haired sprig, the smallest of the lot, was dangling by his coat collar from a protruding tree branch, screaming for all he was worth.

“You cost me da a day’s pay,” Young Wilfred was shouting as he pushed the boy’s face deeper into the ground. “You rich boys what can do charity work for nothin’.”

“That’s right, son, make ’im pay!” Snavely called out, cuffing the boy in his hands across the cheek to shut him up. The littlest lad had ripped his coat to get down, and ran toward his fallen sibling, but Old Wilfred grabbed him by his shirt front this time.

“I say it stinks,” Young Wilfred taunted. “An’ you stink, Martin Greene. Fartin’ Martin, that oughta be your name. Go on an’ say it, or you can eat some more dirt.” He raised the boy’s head so he could speak, and Connor could see blood streaming from Martin’s nose. The other two Greene boys were bellowing, and one managed to bite Old Wilfred’s fingers that were holding his arm. Snavely cracked the two boys’ heads together.

“Enough!” Connor shouted, leaping off his horse. He didn’t see a scuffle. He didn’t see bullies tormenting helpless infants. What he saw was Sabina’s face. My God, he thought, her children are being hurt! He would have gone to the aid of any outnumbered, out-muscled soldiers, but these, these were Sabina’s life. A tiny voice whispered inside that they could have been
his
boys, his own flesh and his own blood pouring onto the ground. “Enough, I said, you bastards.” Snavely did not release the little boys quickly enough to suit Connor, so he planted the man a facer that would have made Gentleman Jackson take note. It made Snavely keel over backward. Then the viscount grabbed Young Wilfred by the scruff of his dirty neck, lifted him off Martin Greene and shook him until he could hear his teeth rattle. “If you or your miserable father ever lays one finger on any of these boys again—one finger, mind you!—I’ll have you thrown off my land, arrested for trespassing, and transported. After I tear you to pieces. Is that understood?”

Young Wilfred nodded. The viscount was holding his neck too tightly for him to speak. The father was stirring, so Lord Royce called over, “Do you understand me, Snavely, or do I have to show you again?” He received a grunt in return. “Then get out of here before I change my mind, and take this offal with you.” Connor shoved Junior toward a donkey cart that stood nearby, overloaded with wood. Snavely Senior staggered aboard, then snapped his whip at the poor ass and was gone.

Blast, Connor swore to himself, looking around the clearing at the tattered, battered boys. Now he supposed he’d have to take the miserable maggots home to their mother. And she was sure to blame him for not protecting her progeny on his property. Damn!

The oldest boy’s nose was still streaming, and Connor thought his lip was split, too, but it was hard to tell through all the blood and mud. The viscount hoisted him onto Conquistador’s saddle, where he could hold Martin’s head back to stop the bleeding before Sabina saw the lad. The other two boys mounted double on their pony. The middle boy, Jasper, he learned, was developing a magnificently colored black eye. The youngest, Benjamin, was delegated to steer the pony, since Jasper’s spectacles were broken and he could barely see the mare’s ears, much less the path home. Benjy was missing all four of his front teeth, which made his excited babble nigh unintelligible, so Connor couldn’t tell if that was a recent loss or a previous condition. The infant’s clothing hung about him in shreds, so Connor wrapped his own coat around him, before mounting his stallion and leading the little caravan home to their mother. He thought of taking the halflings to the castle first, to clean them up, but the sun was sinking and Sabina would worry if they were late. Besides, the castle was filled with simpering young females who were sure to swoon at the first sight of blood. With any luck, he could sneak them into Sabina’s kitchen before she caught a glimpse of them.

As luck would have it, Sabina was in her kitchen, ironing, a task Lord Royce had never seen a well-born woman perform. As he’d predicted, the first words out of her mouth were, “My stars, what have you done to them?”

“Drawn and quartered the lot of them. What else do you expect from the ogre of Espinham?” he asked wryly as he half carried Martin to one of the worn chairs drawn around a battered oak table. The boy’s nose had started bleeding again from the walk to the kitchen door. Connor tilted Martin’s head back, over the chair rung. “Deuce take it, Sabina, he’s had his cork drawn, is all. You’ve seen worse, so don’t turn missish on me now.”

By this time, all three boys were nattering at her with the news of the fight, how the viscount had rescued them and threatened to have the Snavelys transported, and how Martin got to ride the stallion, but the others were promised a turn, too.

“And his lordship is going to teach us how to defend ourselves.”

“He has boxed with the Gentleman himself, Mama. Isn’t that marvelous?”

“And the viscount says that if the other chap is already fighting dirty, it’s all right to kick him in the—”

“Quiet!” Connor shouted over the din, winning instant silence in the small kitchen. “Your mother’s head is already spinning. What we need is some hot water and clean cloths, not all this racket. Where is the maid?”

“She’s gone to market,” Sabina replied, clearing the table of her clean linens and reaching into the laundry basket for towels. She filled a kettle with water at the sink and went to put it on the stove. Without thinking—and without the protective cloth she’d been using—Sabina picked up the flatiron that was heating there, to make room for the kettle. She screamed, which had all the boys and Connor at her side. Benjamin started whimpering. “It’s nothing, boys,” she reassured them. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just put some lard on it.”

“No!” Connor yelled. “What you want is cold water, not grease to sear the skin worse.” He picked up the kettle and poured it over her burned hand, and over her floor and her clean sheets.

“Now see what you’ve done,” she cried, pulling her hand from his clasp. “Let me tend to my boys first.”

“Deuce take it woman, I’ve seen burns fester and turn to blood poisoning. This one is already blistering, by Zeus. That’s a lot more serious than
t
a bit of spilled claret. Now sit down, Sabina, before you fall down! I’ll take care of the brats.”

Before she could protest further, he shoved her into a chair, with her arm resting on a clean pillow slip. In short order, he had the two youngest boys running to fetch soap and salve, bandages and brandy. While the water was heating to mop up Martin, Connor found a glass and poured Sabina a drink. He poured himself one, too, swallowed it, and had another. “Gads, the war in Spain was nothing to this!”

Sabina watched, numb with shock, pain, and simple amazement, as London’s premier rake tenderly dabbed at Martin’s face and chin, until her son reappeared from the muck. “His nose doesn’t appear broken,” Connor reported, to her relief. The viscount had Benjy and Jasper lined up for inspection and repairs, then ordered them all into fresh clothes while he brewed the tea. He added a bit of brandy to the pot, too. “So they’ll sleep better,” he told her. “Otherwise the excitement would have them up all night, and they’ll feel every bump and bruise. And you’ll need your rest, too.” When the boys returned and had their tea, and Connor felt fortified enough himself, he gingerly spread some ointment Sabina had over her hand. The whole palm was burned, with the flatiron’s handle imprinted on her soft skin. “Damn,” he cursed as she drew in a breath. “I’m so sorry, Sabina.”