The Earl Meets His Match

Chapter 25

Days passed, and without Har-ding’s presence to make them bearable. There was plenty of work to occupy Christopher’s mind: the rat--catchers were brought in to clear the vermin from the abandoned wing; the roof was inspected by the man Har-ding had arranged for; an oilcloth was purchased to cover the hole in the meanwhile. All these things necessitated payment, which Christopher furnished, though he wondered if there was any point to it all. More and more, he felt his efforts to keep Eden Abbey upright were akin to planning the next week’s dinner menu aboard a sinking ship.

Plinkton’s death had put everything in a horrible sort of focus. Without anything to distract him, the lingering image of dirt being shoveled onto his coffin lid plagued Christopher’s mind. When Christopher had previously pictured his own funeral, as a man might from time to time, he’d been more concerned with his eventual discovery. Would the doctor or undertaker remove the clothes from his corpse and shout his findings from the rooftops? Would there be a single person at Christopher’s graveside once the truth was known? Or, even more worryingly, would the churchyard be crammed with nosy gossips desperate for a look at the unusual specimen?

Now, though, Christopher found he did not care what happened after he was dead. He wouldn’t even be there, so what did it matter? It was the years leading up to death that worried him. Christopher was seized by the sudden fear that he might still be alone in the Abbey when he was old and grey, too feeble to climb the grand staircase, and with not a soul left who cared if he lived or died. What was he clinging to, shutting himself away at Eden?

The world was changing. He could smell it on the wind. The old ways of doing things wouldn’t last forever, just as powdered wigs and knee breeches had lost their place at court. Finding a wife, inheriting the estate, shoring up the Abbey for another decade or two—-what was it for? It wasn’t as if he would have a son of his own to carry on after he was dead. None of that was important anyway, Christopher knew.

There was only one thing that mattered. He knew it in his very marrow, in the traitorous beat of his heart.

He wrote the letter, sealed it, and left it in the care of the postmistress with instructions to give it to Har-ding should he come by. It wasn’t much, just a few lines, though Christopher had agonized over every word:

J.H.—-

I have so much to say to you.

Please come home.

He wasn’t certain when Har-ding would receive the letter, as he had no idea how long his sabbatical might last, and he thought leaving the letter at the post office as suggested in Har-ding’s own letter was the only course to take. Until he received a reply, Christopher merely rattled around the Abbey, impatient and restless.

Cook noticed, of course. Difficult not to when the two of them were the lone inmates of the estate, with only each other for company. Though if she guessed the source of Christopher’s distress, she held her tongue. Instead, she pressed regular meals on him, insisting he eat even when he had no appetite. One particular day, when the weather proved uncommonly fine, she proposed they dine in the garden. Christopher begrudgingly agreed, carrying their simple meal to the blanket she’d spread near the overgrown primroses. They ate their picnic with the sound of birds conversing all around them.

All at once, he could not stay silent. “Cook,” Christopher said. “I’ve been thinking—-”

Cook raised both brows as if to say, Well, there’s a first.

“—-would you like to go visit your family for a while? Surely you have some.”

Unlike Plinkton, went unsaid.

Cook stared at him. Loose curls of her burnished hair moved in the evening breeze where they escaped from her modest cap. “Oh, m’lord, I couldn’t leave you alone at a time like this.”

“I think this is the perfect time to leave me alone, actually,” Christopher said. He reached across the blanket and took her chapped hands in his. “Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but Plinkton’s death has me considering that perhaps a life spent almost entirely within the grounds of a derelict manor house isn’t the best idea. Even Har-ding is taking some time for himself. Isn’t there something you’d rather be doing?”

Cook considered this with a frown. “Well, I haven’t seen me sister in an age. But, oh—-” She crinkled her face at Christopher. “What about your meals? You’re not eating enough, if you don’t mind me saying.” She cast her gaze at the remains of their picnic. A good half of the chicken was still on the bone.

“I can handle my own toast and tea for a few days. And anyway, Har-ding should return soon.” Tomorrow or the next day, depending on the man’s definition of “several.” “I won’t starve.”

“It’s not just that. I worry about you,” Cook said. Her dry eyes took on a slight sheen.

“Please don’t.” Christopher lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Then he winced and said, “I might sound very stupid saying so, but I don’t know your name.”

Cook laughed then, a loud and sudden boom that rolled across the fields and startled some crows from a tree in the distance. “It’s Anne,” she said with a fond smile.

“Anne.” Christopher grinned. “Would you do me a favor, Anne? Would you take something with you when you leave for your sister’s?”

“What, m’lord?”

“I have an old box of baubles,” he said. They were, in fact, his mother’s jewels. He’d come upon them recently while taking stock of household items following the discovery of the rats’ pilfered treasure. They were probably worth more than Cook had earned in her lifetime in the kitchen, but Christopher had no need of them and thought it only right that they should be given to family. Cook—-Anne—-was clearly the closest thing he had. “Sell them off if you’d like, or drape yourself in a dozen necklaces every evening if it pleases you; I don’t mind. As far as I’m concerned, they’re yours.”

She balked, as Christopher suspected she might. “Oh, I couldn’t.” Then, quite unexpectedly, she straightened her spine and said, “I can’t stand the idea of you giving away all your things like you won’t ever have use for them again.” Her eyes bored into Christopher’s, pleading. “Like you’re . . . giving up.”

It dawned on Christopher that she was very worried about exactly the wrong thing. Bless her soul, she had no earthly idea she was talking to such an accomplished survivor. He covered her hand on the stone bench with his own and squeezed it. “I promise you, I’m doing nothing of the sort. In fact, I’m making certain plans for my future that—-please don’t take this the wrong way—-would go much smoother if I had a little privacy here at Eden. You would be doing me a kindness by going. As for the baubles, I simply have no use for them and wish to give them to a more suitable recipient. Do you— Is that all right?”

Anne’s eyes went wide with a certain understanding. “Well. If it helps the young master in some small way,” she said slowly, “I suppose I can take them off your hands.”

Christopher let out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

She turned her callused palm over and gave his hand its own reassuring press. “Is the box very heavy?”

“Extremely. I’ll hire a boy from the village to drive you in the carriage. That will solve it.”

“And you -really don’t mind me leaving?” Anne asked. “You’ll be all right?”

“I will,” he said, and he meant it. If all went according to plan, he’d be more than all right.

She left the next morning after one last simple breakfast enjoyed belowstairs, just the two of them. Christopher loaded her bags onto the carriage himself and saw her off, waving from the steps. He went back inside the silent Abbey and stood for a moment in the main hall. It was quiet save for the house groaning in the wind. He was truly alone, and he found he did not mind it so much.

Especially when he considered that Har-ding would soon join him, and they could say what needed to be said and hash out all these bad feelings between them.

The day slid into evening. Christopher poured himself a glass of something warming and took himself to bed with a good book. A few pages into it, though, he found his own pillows and mattress weren’t as comfortable as they should be. He considered letting himself into Har-ding’s quarters and curling up in his narrow bed, where the linens would smell of him, but that seemed too great a breach. He dithered over whether stealing a single pillow from Har-ding’s room would be just as pathetic before at last deciding to leave the man’s bedclothes unmolested.

There would be time—-there would be time enough.

For once, Christopher’s sleep was not plagued by terrible dreams, only sweet visions of reunion and reconciliation.