The Earl Meets His Match

Chapter 4

After a long day of avoiding everyone, especially his new valet, Christopher was ready to retire to his room with a glass of brandy.

Retiring to his room with a glass of brandy was one of Christopher’s favorite things to do. He held the glass beneath the circle of his fingertips and in his other hand carried a book. It was Ovid, in the original Latin, and Christopher was eager to dive into it. He had always had a knack for languages, and poetry was a true weakness of his.

He set his accoutrements on the bedside table before adjourning to his dressing room, where he slipped off his coat and hung it in its appropriate spot. He was about to unknot his cravat when he heard a distinct shuffling noise coming from the room next door.

Christopher froze, his hands still at his throat. That room should have been empty. No one had gone into it for at least a decade, as far as Christopher was aware.

Yet, in the ensuing silence, he heard it again clearly: footsteps, the thump of things being moved. Either there was a prowler or the Eden ghost was back, and Christopher was not certain which he preferred. A prowler at least might be reasoned with, but in his experience, ghosts never listened.

He grabbed a walking stick from a stand in the corner of the dressing room and hefted it in his hand. The door was at the back of the dressing room, and Christopher noted that the row of slippers he usually kept in front of it had been moved aside. With his heart racing, Christopher took hold of the doorknob and breathed deeply.

He threw the door open wide and charged forth with his walking stick aloft, ready to beat a thief.

There was no thief. There was only Har-ding sitting motionless in a straight--backed chair, watching him with an unimpressed look. He was in his stockings, a boot in one hand and a polishing cloth in the other. “Did you require something, my lord?” he asked.

Christopher stood frozen in the doorway with the stick still lifted above his head. “Har-ding?” he yelped. “What are you doing here?”

Har-ding looked about the tiny room with his brow pinched. “I live here, my lord.”

Christopher felt he was on the verge of a nervous attack. He lowered the stick to his side and groaned. “Please, forget the ‘my lords’ for a moment. You needn’t bother with them when it’s just the two of us.”

Harding put down the boot and stood politely with his hands clasped behind his back. “It’s not easy to forget that sort of training, my lord.” At least he had the decency to wince at his misstep.

Christopher closed his eyes and reminded himself that screaming in frustration was a response unbecoming of the Earl of Eden. “Right. Of course. To return to my original query: What do you mean, you live here?” He opened his eyes to see Har-ding glancing around the tiny room as if the question was some sort of joke, or perhaps a test.

“These are the valet’s quarters,” he said slowly. “This is where I am to sleep, is it not? If you have need of me, it’s better that I’m close at hand.”

Christopher vacillated. He’d known in a sort of vague way that the room was, indeed, traditionally meant to house the earl’s valet. Christopher had fuzzy childhood memories of his own father’s valet emerging from the room like a spirit from a crypt. He could not for the life of him recall the man’s name.

James Har-ding was nothing like that nameless man. He was entirely too memorable, every part of him: name, looks, annoying habit of figuring out Christopher’s plans, etc. The thought of such a man sleeping so near to Christopher’s own bed with only the dressing room between them made Christopher break into a sweat.

Christopher’s unique situation made this arrangement impossible. If Har-ding was allowed to traipse in and out of his master’s bedroom at all hours, there was a chance he might catch Christopher in a state of undress. Normally such a thing would be standard for a man and his valet, but for Christopher it would spell disaster. Even his current state of half dress—-coat off and shirtsleeves bared—-was already much too dangerous.

“There must be empty rooms belowstairs that would be more comfortable,” Christopher pointed out. “You needn’t live in this tiny closet on my account.”

“These are valet’s quarters, sir,” Har-ding repeated. “They are meant to contain your valet.” He pointed to the various dust--covered tins of bootblack and what looked like sewing notions in worn cases. “Everything I require to tend to your wardrobe is already here, and more importantly, should you need me—-”

“I won’t need you,” Christopher insisted. “I can function perfectly well on my own. We’ve discussed this.”

“Should you need something after you retire for the evening,” Har-ding plowed ahead, ignoring him, “I will be right here, ready at a moment’s notice.”

“What could possibly happen that would require you at a moment’s notice in the middle of the night?” Christopher propped his hands on his hips. “If I should lose a button on my flies or misplace a pot of hair oil, it’s not exactly a disaster of epic proportions, is it? There’s nothing that cannot wait till morning, my dear fellow.”

Har-ding did not give up an inch of ground. “My lord,” he said slowly, “I understand that employing a valet is a new experience for you. Giving up your privacy, even a sliver of it, must . . . chafe. But the whole point of my being here is to be of service to you. So if you would rather not know I am here,” he met Christopher’s gaze with something like steel, “I will be a ghost to you, and I promise you will never see but glimpses of me.”

Christopher sighed and looked away. “Don’t be ridiculous. That is not what I meant.”

“Then pray tell, sir, what you desire.”

Christopher faced him again, looking carefully. Har-ding endured his gaze with a straight back and shoulders set. It gave Christopher the strangest sensation, not unlike what he’d felt when Orion had first come to Eden Abbey as a temperamental horse in need of training. Except now, Christopher was the unruly stallion and this man, this impossible mirage of a man who looked so dour, he was the one offering a calming hand, palm up and flat. And would wait for Christopher to take it.

“All right. Here is what I desire.” Hesitation colored Christopher’s words. He chose them carefully so that they would be as truthful as he could manage, yet reveal nothing. He had enough sins piling up against him, after all. “I am set in my ways at this stage, and I do not want to give up my privacy, as you say. Yet I can see that the idea of taking a room elsewhere—-or doing anything too out of the ordinary—-gives you pause. You’re clearly a man who prides himself on doing his job to the letter.” Christopher licked his dry lips. “I propose a compromise: you may make your bed here in the old valet’s quarters if you truly wish to, and I promise I will call upon you if I ever do need your assistance. But you will not leave this room in the mornings unless and until I call for you. Is that clear?”

Har-ding’s thick black eyebrows winged upward like startled crows. “That is . . . rather backward, my lord. My day should by rights start much earlier than yours. While you are still abed, I should be—-”

“What? Selecting my ensemble for the day? Readying my creams and hair oils? I told you, I dress myself, Har-ding, and I will continue to do so no matter how many valets I keep about the place.” Christopher crossed his arms over his chest. “There would be nothing for you to do for me first thing in the morning anyway.”

“Still.” Har-ding frowned. “The thought of lying in bed whilst you begin your day is . . .” He stood up even straighter, if such a thing were possible. “It’s abhorrent to my sensibilities, my lord.”

The image was abhorrent to Christopher as well, if only because it conjured a damnable palpitation in his head and chest. His mind, which was turning traitor just like his horse, briefly wondered if Har-ding was the type to sleep nude.

“Noted,” Christopher said in a strangled voice. “It changes nothing about my desires. Either you agree, or you can find another room.”

Har-ding gave a frustrated scoff. “You would have me be a prisoner here.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I am allowing you another hour or so of sleep for no less pay.” Christopher stuck out his hand. “Are we agreed?”

Har-ding narrowed his eyes at him, but eventually clasped his hand and shook it. Rough palms, Christopher noticed. Likely from a lifetime of scrubbing and polishing. They weren’t so bad, actually. “It will be as you say, my lord.”

They went to bed much earlier than grown men -really needed to, but since further conversation seemed rather awkward, there was no other choice. Christopher lay in his too--large featherbed with its too--soft pillows and too--heavy bedclothes and wondered if Har-ding was in his own bed, staring up at his ceiling in much the same way. The thought led to other, less appropriate thoughts, and Christopher pulled a pillow over his face to muffle the ensuing groan. He prayed that sound did not carry. If Har-ding could hear him, that would be unfortunate. Not only because Christopher was often the victim of terrible dreams, but because he was a man much like any other and indulged, as many men did, in that shocking practice of self--gratification. He didn’t think he was very loud when he brought himself off, but he couldn’t say with absolute certainty that he was completely silent. He wondered idly which would be the lesser embarrassment of the two—-frightful visions or onanism—-should Har-ding indeed overhear him. It was an impossible decision. They were equally mortifying, albeit for different reasons.

Christopher flung the pillow from his face and forced himself to stop thinking of his panicked mind, and his own right hand, and Har-ding two doors away in his own little bed, and anything at all, -really, until sleep finally took him.

That first morning, Christopher awoke in the usual way, in a panic and covered in sweat. The dream dissolved as soon as he opened his eyes; though he could not remember the exact details, he still felt the sensations.

Quite annoying, but he marshaled his courage. He flung the bedclothes back and got himself upright, stuffing his bad dreams into the sea chest in the back of his mind, the one that was labeled winterthrope—-to remain locked at all times .

He instead focused on the task of washing and dressing himself, despite knowing that his vulnerable, nude form would only be one thin door away from James Har-ding. He stood in his nightshirt in the dressing room and stared at said door, waiting to see if it would indeed creak open, and whether Har-ding would break his solemn oath. Christopher cleared his throat, but heard no response from within the valet quarters. He shifted in his slippers, considering. He’d worn his bandages to bed the night before despite the discomfort; he’d have raw patches of skin along the edges of the bindings from where he’d thrashed in the throes of his dream, no doubt, but he hadn’t wanted to risk being caught out by Har-ding.

He hadn’t even known the man for a full day. He couldn’t possibly trust him, not with this.

He knew, then, what he would need to do to ensure that Har-ding was being truthful in his promise to not exit his quarters until given express permission. He cleared his throat again, louder this time, and stamped one slippered foot against the floorboards. No valet emerged from behind the door.

Christopher coughed, a terrible, hacking thing that, for all that it was false, sounded extremely alarming.

That got him a response, at least. From behind the shut door came a tentative, “My lord?” Har-ding’s voice sounded even softer with the wrappings of sleep and disuse.

With feline indifference, Christopher reached out to grasp a rack that held a smattering of his winter scarves and cloaks. He tipped this away from the wall and watched it crash to the floor with a loud bang.

“Lord Eden!” came the cry from within the valet’s quarters. Twin thumps sounded against the wood of the door, and Christopher imagined it was Har-ding’s palms making contact with the barrier between them. “Are you well? What was that?”

“What was what?” Christopher returned brightly as he began slamming every drawer in his dresser.

“I heard a noise. And coughing. Are you in any distress? What is that racket?”

Christopher did not answer, only kept banging. The stocking drawer especially made a delightful sound.

“Please, sir, if you do not answer me, I will have no choice but to open this door,” Har-ding called.

Christopher plucked his dressing gown from its peg and wrapped himself up in its warm velvet embrace, ready in case his valet proved to be a lying scoundrel. Another layer of armor was always a good idea.

The door did not budge. From within the depths of his lair, Har-ding’s voice came out in a muffled, tense thread. “My lord, is this a test ?”

The smug grin that had taken up residence on Christopher’s face dropped off.

“I don’t appreciate being baited like a lapdog being taught tricks. My lord.” Har-ding sounded like a man pushed to his limits.

It seemed like a very childish game, all of a sudden, to tease Har-ding like this. Christopher could not even manage to form a reply. He walked to the door, reached for the knob, and then retracted his hand. He’d never allowed a single living person to see him in only his nightclothes, not since—-well, since it mattered. Half a lifetime of caution was not so easy to throw to the wind, no matter how disappointed in you a valet sounds.

Christopher swallowed and spun around, leaning his back against the damned door. He felt exhausted, like he could crawl back into bed and sleep the day away. He heard a thump behind him in the region between his shoulder blades. His imagination conjured an image of Har-ding pressing his forehead to the door. Perhaps he was tired too.

“Sir, I understand my presence in your life is a drastic change, one that will take time for you to become accustomed to. And I know you must have your reasons for wanting me to stay in this room until you allow me out. But you must realize, I cannot possibly be expected to remain here if I have reason to think you are in distress. What sort of man would I be if I did that?”

“I have terrible dreams sometimes,” Christopher found himself saying to the ceiling. “I’m not sure, of course, but I might cry out in my sleep occasionally. It’s not—-though I may sound troubled, I am truly in no danger, and I would be embarrassed if you were to fly to my bedside at the smallest whimper.”

“Then let us agree,” Har-ding said. “If I hear you cry out, I will not come. I will only come if you call for me.”

Christopher blinked hard, tears coming unbidden to his eyes. What a thought, having someone he could call for. How long had it been since he’d done such a thing? In the cradle? How could he explain that he would never call for anyone, not even in his darkest hour? That in those moments, he was completely alone by necessity? There was a reason Eden Abbey was so empty of life, and it hadn’t occurred to Christopher until that moment to expect anything different. He sniffed and ran the side of his hand under his nose.

Har-ding continued. “But if I hear this sort of thing—-the coughing, the crashing, something that cannot be explained by a bad dream—-I will not wait for your permission.”

Christopher nodded, even though he knew he couldn’t be seen. “Agreed,” he said. “My apologies, dear fellow. I don’t know what came over me.” He lifted the lapel of his dressing gown to his face to dab the wetness from his eye.

“No apology needed,” Har-ding said, and the warmth in his voice seemed to suffuse the door between them. Christopher felt the back of his neck heat. “We are both navigating new waters. It takes time and frank discussion for a man and his valet to understand each other.”

“You didn’t open the door,” Christopher said. It felt important, somehow, that Har-ding had kept himself locked away. “You kept it shut.”

“Well, unless there was a burglar loose in the house who was ransacking the dressing room while simultaneously causing you to cough, I thought it unlikely my services would actually be required.”

Was that a hint of a smile he heard in those words?

Christopher slumped more of his weight back against the door, letting out a barked laugh. “Next time I’ll make sure my acting skills are up to snuff,” he said.

“Please don’t.” There was a short silence from Har-ding’s side of the door, and then, “May I come out now, my lord?”

“Ah.” Christopher’s gaze swept around the disordered dressing room. “Not quite yet, sorry. I still need to dress.”

“Very good.” The creak of worn bedsprings marked Har-ding’s retreat back to his narrow bed. “Please let me know when you are finished.”

“Right! Yes. Good,” Christopher said, and hurried to restore the rack he’d tipped over.

Once he’d put the dressing room more or less back to rights, Christopher rushed through the rest of his morning routine. He chose a tawny pair of buckskin breeches with the matching waistcoat and cream--colored coat. It seemed strange to be knocking about the room in silence when Har-ding was waiting patiently behind the door, so he began talking as he dressed. Nothing of great consequence, mere pleasantries and musings made aloud.

“The weather looks especially fine at the moment,” was his opening foray. He finished freshly rebandaging his chest and ducked to look out the small window just above the vanity table to confirm. “Yes, just a few clouds in the sky. Orion should have a good run of it this morning.”

There was a slight pause whilst Christopher wriggled his muslin shirt over his head and stuffed the tails into his riding breeches.

“Do you take the horse for a ride every morning, my lord?” Har-ding called through the door. His voice sounded a bit strained, as if this sort of idle talk was quite new to him. Christopher felt a surge of gratitude; he would have felt like an ass if his ramblings had gone unanswered.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Rain or shine, it does not matter to Orion. He will eat up the ground in any weather.” He shrugged into the tan waistcoat, the one with the chased silver embroidery that resembled palm fronds, and began buttoning it up.

“May I ask, my lord, where you found such a creature?” Har-ding asked through the door.

Christopher’s hands paused on his topmost button. A serene sort of smile took over his face. “A nearby farm. Their plow mare had birthed this colt that—-well, Orion just refused to be told what to do, even at that early age. I’d heard they were going to sell the little hellion for dog meat, and I just had to have a look for myself.”

“You must have had an instant bond with the animal, sir.”

Christopher snorted. “Not even close, actually.” He finished with his buttons and grabbed up his cravat. “He tried to stomp a hole in my foot. I found him an awful little thing and told the farmer he was best rid of him as soon as possible.” He laughed as he twisted his knots at his throat. “But then, as I was walking back to the Abbey, I thought, Well, just because he’s ornery and foul--tempered, does that -really mean he should be sent to the butcher? Cook and Plinkton can be some of the most foul--tempered people I’ve ever met, yet I can’t imagine my life without them. So I turned around and went back to the farm, where I proceeded to offer a grotesque amount of money for him.” Christopher slowed his movements, finishing with his cravat. “I appreciate creatures who are wholly themselves, I suppose. I wouldn’t want Orion to lose his independent streak. He’s not at all ashamed of it, and for that, I cannot help but be impressed.”

There was another bout of silence in which Christopher wondered if he’d spoken too freely, if there was some clue in his chattering that might give Har-ding pause. But the moment soon passed, and Har-ding called out, “Are you nearly done dressing, my lord?”

“Oh! Yes.” Christopher pulled on his coat of cloudlike cream with the self--styled buttons. “Emerge from your prison, my dear fellow. The young master is decent now.”

The door opened to reveal Har-ding, the long, narrow shape of him filling Christopher’s field of vision.

Christopher blinked. He had been expecting more of the same immaculate black clothing that Har-ding had worn the day before. He had not been expecting . . . this.

“What on earth are you wearing?” he cried.

Har-ding glanced down at himself. Affixed to his person was the livery of the Eden household—-at least, the livery that used to be worn by all the male footmen in Christopher’s dim childhood memories. It was a uniform that spoke of a bygone age: starched white stockings that showed the shape and sturdiness of the calves, knee breeches that clung to the thighs, and a surcoat of rich purples and blues (the colors of the Winterthrope family crest, a rabbit rampant) buttoned nearly to the throat. And to top off the bizarre ensemble was a powdered wig, curled at the sides and no doubt clubbed at the back.

“It’s your livery, my lord,” Har-ding replied.

“Yes, I can see that! Why are you wearing it? It’s dreadful.”

Har-ding gave him a look. “It’s traditional. I acquired the ensemble from Plinkton last night.” He held out his arm to examine a sleeve. “I admit it was rather musty from being stored in a chest for so many years, but I gave it a good beating to get the dust out and made a few adjustments to the fit. Once we are in London, I suspect it will add a certain amount of gravity. Do you not approve?”

“No, I certainly do not approve.” Christopher wrinkled his nose and gave one powdered curl an experimental tug. The wig shifted a bit off--center, the false hair feeling crispy under his fingertips. No doubt it had once belonged to a footman, back when Eden Abbey employed dozens of them. It had likely been sitting in that chest since the day the last earl and his family had left for America, leaving a skeleton staff behind. “You should wear your own clothes, honestly.”

Har-ding sighed. “If I do that, I might be mistaken for . . .” He searched for a word. “Your peer, my lord, and not your valet. It would be embarrassing for all involved.”

Christopher made a gesture that encompassed the entire estate. “And who, pray tell, would even be around to make such a mistake? No,” he shook his head, “I cannot abide this pageantry. At least not when it’s just the two of us, here at the Abbey.”

Har-ding glanced to the heavens as if asking the divine for strength, then said, “Shall we compromise once more, my lord? I will wear my own clothes when it is unlikely any outsiders will come to call, but I will wear the livery if I accompany you in public.”

Christopher considered these terms. He hated inflicting a powdered wig on a fellow human being under any circumstance (thankfully they were becoming less common by the day), but he had to concede that having a manservant in livery togs in London would certainly be fashionable. The entire point of employing James Har-ding, after all, was to show all of society—-including a potential wife—-that Lord Eden was as normal and unimpeachable as an earl could be.

“We are agreed,” he said at last. “Now will you please change into something more suitable for riding? I’m going to saddle Peaches so you might join me. I promised Orion we’d visit the seaside, and I don’t want to disappoint.”

“Peaches?” Har-ding floundered like a flat fish. “Join you?”

“Yes, is that acceptable? You said you were well acquainted with horses.”

Har-ding opened and closed his mouth a few times, lending more credence to his fishlike appearance. “My lord, I would be happy to accompany you, of course. It’s only, in my previous positions—-this is highly unusual, I would say.”

Christopher was going to pretend at being not unusual for months; he didn’t see why he should have to get an early start on it. He turned on his heel and called over his shoulder, “Up to you, of course. I’ll be in the stables in half an hour should you decide to meet me there.”