Chapter 6
T he McConnells began work immediately. Within days, there were men with plumb lines, folding rulers, and brass instruments whose purpose Dominick couldn’t even begin to guess climbing all over the crag, the captain leading the charge. The gardens were similarly overrun, albeit at a slower pace. Apparently, there were good times and bad times to cut back plants, and late summer was good for some but not others. It made about as much sense to Dominick as the brass instruments, but he left that to the experts.
Each morning when the men arrived to begin their work, he felt a stab of guilt that he wasn’t among them. After a life of scrounging for any penny he could get, sitting back while others laboured was a strange feeling, but it wasn’t as if he knew how to tell if a rock was solid, or if the wild brambles in the garden were weeds that should be burned or the rarest blooms in all the world. Perhaps when the real work began, he could lend a hand. He might not know what he was doing, but he had a strong back and could dig where pointed.
And so the summer rolled on, the heat of August at last giving way to the cool of September. More men began to trickle in then as they finished their own harvests and sought other work. By the time the first lashings of autumn wind came tearing through, bearing the scent of storms at sea, the garden had been transformed from a thicket into a patch of near-bare earth, the few plants deemed worthy of remaining spotted amongst the stacks of their fallen comrades. So much had been cut back that he couldn’t walk from the back of the house to the forest without encountering stacks of brush taller than a man and twice as wide waiting to be burned. As soon as they were, new piles would be built upon the same spot, even larger than before.
Judging by the greater circle of ash surrounding it, the nearest one wasn’t quite at the burning stage yet, but was more solid than some of the earlier stacks, containing off-cuts from trees felled at the top of the crag and now stacked neatly in piles of logs ready to be trimmed down to firewood. Captain McConnell’s men had stripped the forest from the crag’s peak and in its place, the tower was beginning to take shape. Dominick could see it from his bedroom window and every morning it delighted him anew.
It was a silly, frivolous thing, something he would’ve sneered at back when he was Dominick Trickner. But he was Mr. Dominick Trent now, and what was the point of having an earl for a lover if you didn’t indulge in the occasional bit of fancy?
Someone certainly needed to teach Alfie how to indulge like an earl. His adoptive parents might have gotten him the education and clothes he needed for the title, but when he’d found Dominick, he’d still been living in their dusty townhouse with only a single servant. Back then, it had seemed like a disgusting amount of luxury for one man, but after spending time in Bath and seeing how toffs lower on the social scale than Alfie lived with their wild fashions, glittering parties, and foods so fancy as to be nearly unrecognisable, Dominick had to wonder if by society’s standards, Alfie had been living like a pauper this entire time.
Well, that was one thing Dominick could fix. If Alfie wouldn’t spoil himself, then Dominick would have to do it for him. Because the folly was a silly, frivolous thing, but it was one he could tell Alfie enjoyed as much as he did, despite his protests. If he truly thought it a terrible idea, he wouldn’t stand with his arms wrapped around Dominick in the mornings, chin tucked over his shoulder, pointing out the progress that had been made the day before and placing wagers on how much would be completed by day’s end.
By now, it looked like progress had about reached the point where it went from work that needed minds to work that needed manpower. Perhaps tomorrow he’d see if a free hand was needed. He’d have bet on it this morning with Alfie, but the lazy sod had still been abed when Dominick got up for his morning walk, still wrung out from claiming the prize of their daily wager the night before.
Dominick slowed as the dirt path beneath his feet turned to gravel. If someone had told him a few years ago to envision himself as a country squire, he’d have told them that sort of thing cost extra. But now here he was, returning from his daily morning stroll like a proper little parson. Today he’d explored several of the forest paths and couldn't hold back his smile when this one let out on the road just before the manor’s gateposts, exactly as he’d thought it might. A few more minutes and he’d be back at Balcarres with a real, Hirkins-cooked breakfast waiting for him, then a full day of riding or exploring or simply annoying Alfie to look forward to. He was the luckiest man alive.
His smile faded as he approached the pillars marking the manor’s gate.
Even from a distance, he could tell there was something wrong. The pillars were made of grey stone, but today each of them was topped with something white.
Something white and also red.
At first, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but the droning hum of flies that grew louder with every step convinced him.
He stopped in front of one pillar and stared up into the dark, dull, dead eyes of the sheep’s head. Just the head. The other pillar held the same, although the mouth of that head yawned grotesquely, jaw hanging open in one last silent bleat as flies landed on its lolling tongue. Blood still oozed from the stumps of the necks, the red obscenely bright against the dull stone. In some places it had begun to thicken and darken, but not before running down the pillars in ghastly rivulets.
“Christ,” he whispered, the full horror of the scene striking him at once.
Then another, even more horrifying thought struck him. Someone did this intentionally.
Suddenly, the woods at his back didn’t seem quite so peaceful and inviting. Someone did this. At best, it was a sick joke, but who would behead two sheep just for a joke? And why?
He remembered the farmer’s pointed avoidance of Alfie at this very gate just months ago, but surely no one here could hate him so much that they’d kill precious livestock just to make a point. Still, two mollies in the manor, two dead beasts at the gate. If someone had left the heads after hearing rumours about him and Alfie, the message was a clear one.
A crawling sensation came over him and he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulders, looking each way down the empty road. Perhaps the animals were being butchered anyway and some of the village youths had decided it would be fun to frighten those toffs up at the manor. Or to impress one of their mates hired to work on the folly.
“Christ,” he whispered again.
It was a Sunday, so there weren’t any workers today, but by tomorrow the heads would be an even more gruesome sight. At least he’d come across them first, before anyone else saw them. But he couldn’t just leave them there. The few members of the manor household who attended church would be leaving any minute.
Message or not, the idea of poor Janie being subjected to something so terrible steeled his resolve. Biting back bile, he reached up and gripped the sheep’s head by an ear before flinging it into the bushes beside the road. Then he did the same to the other head, gagging when a fly crawled out of the ear and across the back of his hand.
He shook his hand reflexively and stared at the pillars—now head-free but still bloody. There wasn’t anything he could do about that, however. He’d have a quiet word with Martin when he got back, see if he couldn’t run down with a bucket and rag as quickly as possible. He’d speak to Gil too. If the sheep had been stolen before being killed, he’d know best how to handle it.
With that, he slowly made his way up the drive, resisting the urge to look back with every step. By the time he made it to the manor, he’d almost stopped listening for the sound of footsteps following him. Almost.
As he handed his coat off to Mr. Howe, he quickly told the man what he’d found, trying to make it sound less sinister than it felt.
“Good heavens, sir. What a dreadful thing. I’ll have Martin see to it at once,” said the butler, as if Dominick had said nothing more shocking than he’d gotten a spot of mud on his coat. Perhaps Dominick was overreacting and this sort of thing happened all the time in the country. Or perhaps the butler just did a better job of hiding his worry than Dominick could.
“Breakfast is just being laid out, sir,” Mr. Howe continued, the matter already resolved or at least doing a good job of pretending it was.
“Thank you, Mr. Howe.”
Dominick wasn’t sure he could eat, but he didn’t know what else to do, so he followed his nose towards the breakfast room.
By the time he arrived, the smell of eggs, bacon, and freshly baked bread had almost driven the horror from his mind. Certainly his stomach had already forgotten, and growled in anticipation as he stepped into the room.
The pale green walls glowed in the morning light that streamed in through the French windows, their gleaming white trim seeming ready to float free. The windows looked out now onto the empty garden, but from the final drawings McConnell provided, come spring it would be beautiful.
For all the art and armour displayed throughout the manor, it was this room Dominick thought the most impressive. A room for no other purpose than to have breakfast. It was a luxury he’d never even considered possible. Or necessary. Well, it still wasn’t necessary, but it was damned nice.
Feeling a little better, he patted one of the stone lions beside the door and made his way towards the sideboard. Mrs. Hirkins was stood there, just setting down a tray that smelled of such perfectly seasoned kippers that his mouth began to water.
Since their return, he’d eaten like a glutton at every meal, Mrs. Hirkins having taken command of the kitchen like Admiral Nelson stepping onto the deck of the Victory , with Agnes as her trusted second-in-command. From what he could tell, Janie didn’t put up much of a fight and neither did anyone else after the first batch of Bath buns.
“Good morning Mrs. Hirk—ah, and Agnes.” Dominick stumbled as Agnes stepped out from behind her grandmother. He’d seen rather more of Agnes than he needed to the night baby James arrived and neither of them had quite been able to look each other in the eye since.
Mrs. Hirkins scowled. “What kind of a morning can it be when you have a thankless grandchild intent on driving herself into a grave?”
Dominick didn't have an answer for that and sincerely doubted he ever would.
Agnes slammed the toast caddy down. “Oh, you’re one to talk! You’re retired, gran! How many hours have you spent in that kitchen this week? This morning even? That’s not your job anymore. It’s mine!”
“You just had a child! You should be resting. Besides, what’s to be done with him if you’re working? Put him in the cook pot? Let him play with the pretty little knives? ‘Oh there goes Old Hirkins’ great-grandson. You can tell which one’s him by counting the fingers.’”
The women glared at each other. If Dominick laughed now, he’d be back to eating Janie’s raw eggs in no time.
“You’re lucky Master Alfie offered you this position,” Mrs. Hirkins continued. There was anger in her voice, but worry as well. “You think many other houses let their servants have children? Never mind any houses this grand, any houses at all? The least you could do is be thankful I’m making it easier for you.”
“I am grateful!” shouted Agnes. “But I’m worried for you too. You should be knitting by a fire, not stirring a cauldron over it.”
A small fist appeared over Agnes’ shoulder as if to say, “Hear, hear!” Then the crying began.
What Dominick had thought was simply a shawl tied around Agnes turned out to be some sort of complicated sling from which could now be heard the shrill cries of an infant, likely ringing throughout the entire manor. While Balcarres was sprawling, the thick stone walls which usually muffled every sound to an eerie silence carried the baby’s cries far further than they should. More than one night Dominick had awoken to hear the wailing and each time it took him longer to fall back asleep. He’d slept through far worse, but there was something haunting about the way the sound echoed through the manor until the cries seemed to come from both within and without.
Those nights, he’d reach across the bed to make sure Alfie was there, that this wasn’t some awful dream.
“And now you’ve woken him,” Agnes sighed, shrugging the sling off one shoulder so she could tend to James. The two women ceased arguing then, engrossed in trying to comfort the baby. His face was red and he was having none of it, freeing a second fist from the sling and swinging both as he wailed.
Dominick didn’t have much experience with babies, but based on the strength of his lungs, this one seemed healthy enough, so Agnes must be handling things well. But there was no reason not to make her life easier if possible, and the happier she was, the happier Mrs. Hirkins was, and the happier they all would be.
“Gil hired some women to clean out the east wing. They’ll be starting soon, but I could have some moved to the kitchen instead,” he offered. “More help there should make things easier for you. Or one could even mind him while you worked.”
Dominick felt quite proud of his solution. James would be safe, Mrs. Hirkins would stop fretting, and he could continue to enjoy Agnes’ excellent breakfasts. His empty stomach growled again in approval.
The two women, however, looked less pleased.
“Sir,” Agnes tried but was cut off by her grandmother.
“You think it’s all much of a muchness, is it? Airing linens or roasting duck? It’s a miracle that Janie girl didn’t poison you all. And as for his own personal minder! Why not just hang up a banner in the town square saying, ‘His Lordship’s mistress has come to roost and his by-blow with her!’”
“Nan!” Agnes shouted, while Dominick was still reeling.
James was not Alfie’s child. It was impossible for many reasons. Firstly, Dominick himself—that was a major one. And even if Alfie had somehow taken leave of his senses, become a completely different man and thrown Dominick over, he certainly wouldn’t do it with Agnes .
Not only was Alfie not inclined towards women at all, but Agnes was barely more than a girl. Alfie would never take advantage of a near-child in such a way. And if he had, he certainly wouldn’t have survived Mrs. Hirkins finding out about it.
Dominick’s confusion must have been clear on his face, because Agnes looked up from soothing James to add quietly, “There’ve been whispers, sir.”
He gritted his teeth. “There fucking won’t be any more. Who?”
“And how would that look?” Mrs. Hirkins asked. “The more it's denied, the more it’ll spread. Start punishing them who spread it, and it’ll go like wildfire. James will be known as the earl’s bastard all his life. No. Ignore it and let the gossip burn out on its own.”
“It doesn’t even make any sense. Any fool who can count to nine months would know Alfie was still here in Scotland when James was…” He trailed off, not knowing how to finish that sentence without getting slapped.
“Gossip doesn’t need to make sense,” sighed Agnes. “Especially not when it’s this good.”
Dominick understood. The bachelor earl sending his personal carriage from London to his secluded manor carrying a pregnant woman with her own driver, footman, and an elderly female servant to attend her, then dashing home himself just in time for the birth.
Bloody hell. That was scandalous enough, but to then hire his mistress to be his cook? That was more than just scandalous, that could truly hurt Alfie.
Dominick had seen enough to know reputation was everything with toffs. It wasn’t just that he’d stop being invited to parties, Alfie probably wouldn’t mind that. But proper folk might not want to do business with him, or his bank want him as a client. All to save their blessed reputations. Not that half of them hadn’t done the same or worse. And if they started whispering about that, what other odd behaviours of the earl might suddenly seem worthy of closer examination.
Gil had hinted at such a thing that night at supper. And that sort of scandal— their sort of scandal, would do more than just hurt Alfie, it would ruin him.
Dominick would never let that happen.
“What should we do?” he asked helplessly. “Just keep on as we have and wait for it to die out?”
“For the best,” said Mrs. Hirkins decisively. “And you’ll have a crib put in the kitchen—well away from the fires, mind you! And I will let Agnes do most of the cooking when James is in the crib.”
She sniffed. “I think that’s more than fair.”
James seemed to agree, because his crying had gone from shrieking to a mere grumble.
Agnes nodded. “Thank you though, for your concern.”
“Move along, Agnes,” Mrs. Hirkins tutted. “We’ve kept him from his breakfast. Much work to do.”
With that, they finally moved out of the way of the sideboard and headed off into the house, James bouncing along on his mother’s hip. Dominick’s worry was momentarily overwhelmed by his hunger and he helped himself to several platefuls. Then the worry returned, and he stewed on that for several hours. But by that time, he’d completely forgotten about telling Martin to fetch a crib from the attic.
He would regret his forgetfulness that evening.