Chapter 6
The next few days continued uninterrupted in terms of Har-ding settling into the Eden estate. He familiarized himself with the grounds, with Christopher’s wardrobe, and with the quirks of the house. The two of them became more familiar as well, though Har-ding still resisted calling Christopher anything other than “Lord Eden” or “my lord” or, when feeling particularly frisky, “sir.”
Christopher knew he was more informal than most with his servants, but he -really couldn’t help it. It was in his nature. He’d always felt more comfortable around such people—-the “salt of the earth,” his father had called them—-than with those of his own social station. There were simply fewer dangers when conversing with the serving class, he supposed. With members of the ton, one had to be always on guard, especially in Christopher’s situation, where one wrong move could expose his most private secret. Of course he liked chatting with Cook more than he did the Marquess of Bumplishborne; Cook was too busy with her work to bother with things like collecting evidence of Christopher’s abnormal origins.
It was this attitude -toward the serving class that made Christopher insist quite firmly that Har-ding take an evening off every so often, and since there was not much to do about the manor until they needed to leave for London, he didn’t see why Har-ding shouldn’t start right away. Thus, Har-ding was expelled from the dusty halls of Eden Abbey one pleasant Friday evening with orders not to try sneaking back upstairs to rearrange Christopher’s sock drawer. He went with only a little grumbling, and Christopher felt very pleased with himself about it. He took his simple supper belowstairs with Plinkton and Cook as was usual, then found himself at loose ends.
He did not want to read. He did not much feel like replying to the scant few letters that still needed his attention before they left for the city. It was too late to take Orion on yet another ride. And it was too early to go to bed.
The last few days, his attention had been wholly taken up by James Har-ding, and now that the man wasn’t there, Christopher realized he was actually very bored.
“I think I will take myself on an evening ramble,” Christopher told Cook as she cleared away his empty dishes.
“-Really?” She frowned at him. “The weather’s foul tonight, m’lord.” She nodded to the fan--shaped window over the sideboard, where drizzle was sticking to the windowpane.
“If I wait for the weather to improve, I will be stuck inside for half a year.” Christopher gestured to Plinkton. “My hat and stick, if you would. It’s just a little rain, so no umbrella. It would only slow me down.”
“As you wish,” said Plinkton, and within moments Christopher was crossing the lawn on his way -toward town.
The air was damp with the kind of rain that is heavier than a mist but not heavy enough to do anything but cling to one’s sleeves and eyelashes. Christopher blinked away the drops as he contemplated the new upheaval in his life. Har-ding, stony but pleasantly efficient. Stubborn as Orion had been as a yearling. Now sleeping on the other side of his dressing room wall, no doubt able to hear every creak and groan of Christopher’s floorboards. All because of some loathsome expectation that valets must be kept as close as a faithful hound, or some kind of indispensable pocket watch. They might as well share a bed at this rate.
Christopher tried very carefully not to consider what sharing a bed with Har-ding might entail.
The rolling hills of Eden at last gave way to the flatter ground of the town, and Christopher reached the outskirts of it just as the sun was making its miserly way -toward the horizon. With all the clouds, though, it was already a hazy kind of night that fell over him. Market Eden, too, seemed ready to go to bed early. Every shop was closed for the day and only the occasional light glowed from the windows of the modest homes that lined the main thoroughfare. No one else was on the road, and Christopher felt, not for the first time in his life, that he might be the only living creature in the world.
His loneliness abated as he rounded a bend and saw the village inn lit up at the end of the lane. He smiled at the familiar sight. The place was unfortunately named Eden’s End, and the innkeeper had been compelled to replace the sign stating so numerous times over the years, as local youths were wont to scrawl a helpful “TAIL” in the center of it as a lark. Christopher eyed the most recent sign—-free of any vulgarity so far—-and thought it would be easier if the proprietor just changed the name to something else. But Eden’s End had stood on this spot long before any of Christopher’s ancestors came to this place, and he suspected it was a point of pride for the villagers to hold firm even after so many years.
As he walked closer, he could make out silhouettes of patrons standing in the windows, their mouths and arms gesturing like lively puppets. Christopher felt the knot in his chest unwind a bit. Here was life. Here was some measure of proof that he was not alone.
As he drew closer, Christopher could hear music pouring from the tavern, some country reel that had been popular these last few years; he’d heard it at village fêtes before. The figures in the windows were dancing, he realized, mugs of beer in hand. Laughter flowed forth, and he found himself admiring the scene. It didn’t much matter to him that he wasn’t a part of it. Lord Eden was so rarely a part of any happenings in the world, but it gladdened his heart to see the good folk of his bit of country enjoying their evening. He stepped closer to get a better look.
A new figure flitted across the window, one that was achingly familiar even after so little time to memorize it. Christopher blinked, but the vision did not abate: there was Har-ding, wearing a simple coat of dove grey, his shirt collar hanging scandalously open. He was reeling with the best of them, passing one girl then another along the line. The mug of beer in his hand never spilled a drop despite all the hopping and clapping the dance required; Har-ding merely clapped his free hand against his thigh, which gave him a chance to drink deeply before dancing off again. His dark hair hung in his eyes, damp in the close environs of the tavern, where steam clung to the windows. Har-ding swiped a lock of hair back behind his ear while turning to laugh at something one of the village girls had said. It was muffled behind the pane of glass and under the swell of the fiddle player, and Christopher dearly wished he could hear that laugh in full. He hadn’t the faintest idea what it would sound like and was rather miffed that the girl at Har-ding’s side did.
Christopher knew in an abstract way that his servants had lives and interests outside of their duties at Eden Abbey; he even encouraged the old guard to leave the grounds with a very generous full morning off on Sundays and free evenings thrice a month. And yet he had not imagined that James Har-ding, that dour undertaker in his dark suits, that absolute lunatic who complained about not being worked hard enough, would let his hair down in such a raucous manner. If pressed Christopher would have guessed that Har-ding’s personality was more like his own: a bit of a homebody, perhaps, content to spend a quiet evening in front of the fire with a good book or a tipple of sherry. This scene proved him wrong. Har-ding appeared to be the life of the party. Christopher watched as the dance drew to a close and the revelers broke formation to conduct loud, happy conversation. Yes, there was Har-ding at the very center of their attention, receiving titters from girls and older ladies alike, and slaps on the shoulder from the men. Seeing this easy intimacy made something burn inside Christopher’s gut.
If he was jealous, which was absurd, it was only because he had never experienced such casual fun with the folk of Eden Market. A certain distance had to be maintained. Oh, Christopher could have barged into Eden’s End, ordered a round for the house, and inserted himself into the dances if he cared to, but that would only put a damper on everyone’s spirits. No one wanted to drink and dance with their landlord.
Yes, Christopher told himself as he watched Har-ding through the window. That was the sort of jealousy it inspired in him. Nothing more.
He should have made his exit right then. He should have walked back to the Abbey and left it at that. But Christopher stayed frozen on the spot even as Har-ding turned -toward the window to sip at his mug. His eyes lifted just as he began to drink and he met Christopher’s gaze through the glass. Har-ding paused with the mug at his lips, and they both stood there, one inside and one without, their eyes widened in surprise. Christopher could see the hazy outline of his own dumb face staring back at him in the window’s reflection, overlaid atop Har-ding’s.
There was nothing he could do to erase the awkwardness between them, so Christopher did the only thing he could and raised a hand weakly in greeting. Har-ding moved back into action as well, like a clever automaton given a windup, and lifted his mug in a little toast.
No one else saw Christopher standing there, and before anyone could, he did what he should have done at the very start and departed, walking quickly back -toward the estate. The wind had picked up, and Christopher wrapped his greatcoat tighter around himself, fighting the chill that suffused his whole body. He was no stranger to loneliness after all these years, but it still managed to surprise him, the way it filled his throat and threatened to choke him. That feeling was his only companion for the long walk back to the Abbey.