The Earl Meets His Match

Chapter 19

The journey from London took much too long. The weather was foul, raining buckets one moment, miserably drizzling the next. The roads had been churned to muck, and it slowed the horses considerably. Christopher muttered that the hired driver should allow him to take over, as he was certain he could coax the team to move with a bit more alacrity. He even raised his fist to rap on the carriage ceiling but Har-ding stayed his hand.

“Do you -really think you should be driving in such an agitated state?” he snapped. “You’ll run the horses into a ditch, my lord, and us with them.”

Christopher hadn’t felt so chagrined since being scolded by his Quaker tutor during arithmetic lessons. Still, he couldn’t help but complain: “We’re just going so damned slowly.”

“We will arrive when we arrive. It’s out of our hands now.” Har-ding released his wrist and sank back into the plush cushions of the carriage seat opposite Christopher. “If I sleep a bit as I promised I would,” he murmured, “do you swear you’ll remain where you are?”

Christopher sighed, worrying the edge of his thumbnail with his teeth. A nasty habit, one he’d thought he’d discarded in his youth, but apparently today was proving otherwise. “If you insist, dear fellow. If it means you’ll get some rest.”

“Yes, my lord.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. Har-ding’s head was jostled back and forth with the rhythm of the carriage wheels, his whole body lax and easy. Christopher watched him closely, aware that, for once, those keen eyes would not notice him looking. He expected Har-ding to change in some way as he dropped into sleep, his head wagging to one side and the cadence of his breathing evening out—-he thought he might appear softer, more vulnerable, perhaps slightly messy. And yet he did not look that way at all. If anything, he looked more capable and handsome in sleep than he did in his waking hours.

Christopher watched him, unblinking, for a very long time. A thought came to him unbidden that, in some other world where Har-ding was not his manservant and he himself was not Lord Eden, Har-ding would be able to lie down, curled on his side, and place his head in Christopher’s lap while he slept. Just the thought of running his fingers through those perfect black locks of hair made his face go hot. Christopher jerked his gaze to the open window and watched the countryside roll by instead. Plinkton, the man who’d practically raised him, was terribly ill, and here he was entertaining more silly notions about his valet.

Guilt gnawed at his guts. He should be keeping his mind on important matters, not daydreaming about things that would never happen.

He resolutely did not think about it the rest of the way back to Eden.

When they finally did arrive, Christopher leapt from the carriage before dashing to the back entrance that led to the servants’ quarters.

“Have the horses seen to,” he called to the driver and Har-ding both as he went. “My baggage can wait.”

He found Cook in the kitchen with a tall, gaunt man who rose from his seat and introduced himself as Gingham, the doctor from the village.

“How is he?” Christopher asked in a rush without bothering to introduce himself. Plinkton would be disappointed by such a lack of manners, he knew, and the mere thought of the old butler’s displeasure was enough to bring a tear to his eye.

“He’s resting for the moment,” the doctor said.

“He’d been coughing an awful lot these last few days,” Cook broke in. She was as pale as a worn sheet and just as transparent when it came to her worry. “I told him to put his feet up and drink warm water, but of course he wouldn’t listen. And then I found him collapsed in the hall! Just lying there, oh!” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and cried into it.

Christopher folded her into an embrace. It was a bit awkward, as she towered over him by a fair margin, but she fell against him like a tree. “I’m so sorry, Cook. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s nothing you’ve done,” she mumbled against his shoulder. “I’m just glad you’ve come back home.”

“Of course. My place is here.” He stroked her fiery hair, shot through with more grey these days, and gave her one last squeeze before releasing her. He kept hold of her hands, though, as he looked to Gingham. “What do we do now?”

The doctor frowned. “At this point, I have done all I can. He will either cease being consumptive in a week or so, or he will not.”

The words washed over Christopher like a cold rain. He could not even parse what they meant. Distantly, he heard the door to the back garden open and registered Har-ding’s solid presence, but all he could do was stare at Dr. Gingham in horror.

“And then what?” he asked. He hated the sound of his voice, a plaintive lost little lamb. He cleared his throat and tried again. “If he does not improve, what shall we do?”

“I am truly sorry,” said the doctor. “There is nothing else to be done.”

Cook gave a little sob under her breath and clutched tighter at Christopher’s hands. Christopher felt his blood going cold in his veins. “If it’s a matter of money,” he said. “If there is some medicine that would help—-”

The doctor shook his head. “It’s in god’s hands now, I’m afraid.”

Christopher looked around the airy kitchen, grasping for words, for some negotiation that would make all this wretchedness disappear. What was the point of being Lord Eden—-of having all this money and land and a seat in Parliament—-if none of that could keep Plinkton alive? Christopher felt so useless.

“My lord.” Har-ding was at his elbow. “Would you like to see him?” He flicked his eyes to the doctor. “Is that possible?”

“Yes, can I see him?” Christopher begged.

The doctor said a short visit would be permissible, so long as they let Plinkton sleep, and Christopher was led numbly to Plinkton’s room at the end of the hall. Christopher couldn’t recall ever going through that door, as he had always respected the man’s privacy, but he wasn’t surprised to see a spartan cell of a bedroom with only an engraving of the king on the wall and nothing else. All four of them crowded into the small space, shoulders bumping as they arranged themselves around Plinkton’s bedside.

He looked so small and shrunken against the vast whiteness of his bed linens. His hair was thin and brittle, like grey straw. His breathing sounded like it was taking an enormous amount of effort just for a little wheeze every few moments. Christopher sought Plinkton’s hand atop the blankets and cradled it gently in both of his.

“Is he in much pain?” he asked, his eyes not leaving that sallow face.

The doctor cleared his throat. “I expect not,” he said, though he didn’t sound at all convincing.

Christopher felt himself sinking into a well of despair. It would close over his head if he wasn’t careful. He needed to be careful. “I will stay with him for a time,” he said, trying to sound firm. “If you could— There must be something you could do?” He’d never felt as young as he did then, looking to everyone else in the room for some indication of what would come next.

“We will hire a nursemaid to assist in Mr. Plinkton’s care,” Har-ding informed the doctor as if it were a decision Christopher himself had struck upon. He grabbed the single straight-- backed chair the room held and placed it at the bedside, guiding Christopher to sit. “If there are any instructions you could leave with me . . .”

“Yes, let’s talk outside.” The doctor ushered him back out, leaving Cook and Christopher lingering at the sickbed.

Cook stared down at Plinkton as well, her eyes rimmed in red. “He was fine a few days ago,” she murmured. “Just his old self.”

“Things change, I suppose,” Christopher said. He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. It all seemed so damnably unfair.

“He’ll improve, m’lord, just you wait and see. A little tumble won’t keep an old warhorse like him down for long.” Cook patted his arm, though her face didn’t look as convincing as her words sounded. “I’ll let you have some privacy.” She left him as well, shutting the door behind her as she went.

Christopher could hear the soft murmurs of the doctor and Har-ding discussing the matter of a nursemaid out in the hall. Plinkton’s labored breaths cut through the thick air of the room. Somewhere upstairs, a clock chimed the hour.

Plinkton’s hand felt so small in his, Christopher thought. He didn’t want to let it go.

“Such a fuss,” a voice croaked, and for a moment Christopher thought perhaps one of the Abbey ghosts was in the room with them. But then he realized Plinkton was awake and staring up at him. “Young master, did you -really come all the way back here for this?”

“Plinkton!” He clutched his hand tighter. “How are you feeling?”

“Old,” said Plinkton, though a smile stretched across his lined face. “Incredibly old.”

“Shall I fetch the doctor? He’s right outside.”

Plinkton raised his free hand with some effort and shooed the notion away. “I don’t care to be bled any more than I already have been. I’ll be all right, my lord.”

“You’re feeling better, then.” Christopher’s words came out thick with relief and elation. “You’ll probably be up and about in no time.”

“I’ll be all right,” Plinkton stressed. His weathered hand squeezed at Christopher’s, though its grip was weak. The old butler’s eyes, though, were as sharp as they’d ever been. “You’ll be all right too, my lord. You’ll be fine.”

Christopher swallowed. “I don’t want to hear that sort of talk, Plinkton. You make it sound as if this is farewell.”

“I think, after so many years of service, I have earned the right to say farewell,” Plinkton said, “rather than pretending I will live forever. I don’t want the important things to go unsaid before my time is done.”

Christopher opened his mouth to argue, but one look from Plinkton and he shut it. A tear worked its way from his eye, and instead of weeping in front of his most loyal retainer, Christopher bowed his head and pressed his face into the bedclothes.

Plinkton’s frail hand slipped from his grip and settled in Christopher’s hair. The simple touch forced more tears from him; even in this, Plinkton’s first thought was Christopher’s own comfort. It made him feel utterly wretched. He lifted his face and manfully wiped away the tears.

“Of course, dear fellow. Of course. If you have messages for your kin, tell me now and I will see they get word.”

Plinkton smiled again, indulgent and fond. “The only person I care to speak to is you. Please take care, Lord Eden. Keep yourself safe when I’m gone. I protected you as long as I could—-the best way I knew how.” His own red eyes became wet. “I never told another soul, I swear to you. But you have got to promise me you’ll keep yourself safe.”

Christopher felt a cold wind blow through him. “What?” he whispered.

“It was nothing anyone else would have noticed,” Plinkton said, and though his tone was reassuring, the words cut through Christopher like knives. “It was only because I’ve known you your whole life; practically raised you, I should think.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Christopher said. Plinkton’s hand slid from his hair to his cheek, and Christopher cupped it there, wondering if his face felt as hot to the touch as he suspected. “I don’t—-”

Plinkton clicked his tongue. “You always lick the sugar off the top of the morning buns. Your brother never did that.”

A terrible fear swept through Christopher’s soul. “My brother,” he said hollowly. He had known? This whole time, Plinkton had known?

Plinkton gave Christopher’s cheek a gentle pat. “You’ll be all right,” he mumbled. His eyes were drooping. “You always have been.” Then his hand went limp under Christopher’s, and the only thing holding it to Christopher’s cheek was his own grip.

Christopher placed Plinkton’s hand back down on the bedclothes, letting it rest there, so pale against the blankets. He imagined, briefly, na?vely, that Plinkton had perhaps fallen into a deep and well--deserved sleep. Then he looked, -really looked, at Plinkton’s rail--thin body beneath the bedclothes. The sheets were completely still. Not even the smallest breath moved them.

Oh, Christopher realized. He’s gone.

He hoped Plinkton—-dear Plinkton, who came to the stables with Christopher even though he detested horses and they detested him, who taught him table manners when he was just a tot—-wouldn’t begrudge him a moment to feel sorry for himself. He held the still hand in his and bowed his head, feeling nothing but the exquisite numbness of realizing that so much of his careful tiptoeing through life had been for nothing.