Chapter 13

 

“Wherein hopes and dreams and fears hang in the balance.”

The next morning, Dev escorted Mrs Baxter and Charity into Tillforth. He drove the cart with Mrs Baxter and Charity huddled next to him. Sadly, Mrs Baxter was in the middle but perhaps that was for the best.

Mr Baxter had been meant to accompany her to visit her uncle, but he was still too unwell and the dampness after the storm had set Kit coughing and hacking this morning. Though her twin had insisted he was perfectly able to go, it was clear Charity would worry herself sick about him if he did, so Mrs Baxter had offered to go in his stead. Kit had insisted on coming as far as the village, though; he was expecting a letter to be awaiting him at the post and seemed jittery with excitement. He was riding Goliath, trotting beside the cart as they followed the track into town. Dev noted the flush in his cheeks with misgiving, but he was a grown man and as stubborn as his sister.

Mrs Baxter fussed the entire journey, explaining what there was to eat and how Dev should prepare it. She seemed to think they’d starve, though he’d seen the pantry and knew it was stacked floor to ceiling. There was enough there to survive an apocalypse never mind four days without her. He let her words wash over him, his own worries too profound to linger overlong on hers. They’d live on cheese if it came to it. He’d done it before.

As the small market town of Tillforth got closer, Dev’s fears only grew. He was known here, though it was unlikely anyone would recognise him now. Dressed like any common labourer, despite Mrs Baxter’s protests that he should smarten himself up a little to go to town, he looked nothing like a viscount. His best chance of remaining incognito was to look as different as possible and he’d done just that. He’d not even shaved, though he was rather expert with a razor now, and had tied a kerchief around his neck in a rough knot, pulling a battered old hat Mr Baxter had lent him down low over his eyes.

“Now he wears a hat,” Mrs Baxter grumbled, as she looked as the misshapen thing with horror. “When I think what a fine gentleman you looked when we found you,” she added with a heavy sigh.

“I’ve changed,” Dev replied, meaning it. He glanced over at Charity, but she avoided his eye as she’d done all morning. Not that he could blame her. Heaven alone knew what she was thinking. He only hoped this journey they were making was a waste of time.

Charity’s uncle had written to say he’d found a small house near his own. He would help them with the rent as far as he was able, but the onus would now be on Kit to earn enough to keep them. Dev hoped to God his own plans came to fruition, for the reality of the family living off a poet’s income was enough to make his breath catch in his throat.

Once they’d seen the two women safely to the mail coach, Dev and Kit hurried off to the post office. He pulled his hat low and kept his head down, hoping to avoid scrutiny.

Dev let Kit go to the counter first. He had correspondence to post and Dev waited as he walked back to him clutching a letter and looking anxious.

“Here goes,” he said.

Though Dev gathered it had something to do with his poetry, he didn’t know what the young man was so agitated about. Kit’s bark of triumphant laughter made the elderly lady who had taken Dev’s place in the queue jump out of her skin and she sent him a reproachful look before continuing with her business.

“I’m going to be published!” Kit exclaimed, his face glowing with triumph and a rather feverish look that Dev knew would worry Charity.

“You’ve been published before?” Dev replied, wondering why this was different.

Kit shook his head. “Only in journals,” he said, waving the letter in Dev’s face. “This is different. They’re publishing a book of my poems. A whole book, and I get a healthy advance!”

He flashed Dev a glittering grin and went to leave the post office.

“Wait,” Dev said, grabbing at his arm and wishing Kit had allowed him to bring the post home with him as Charity had wanted. “Where are you going?”

“To celebrate, of course,” Kit said, giving an incredulous laugh. “I’ve friends here and I want to share my good news. You get off back to the farm when you’re done, I’ll see you back there for supper.”

Dev frowned, knowing Charity would not like this in the least. “Don’t you think you ought to come home with me now?” he said, feeling on shaky ground. Kit was a grown man and Dev would be the first to tell him to mind his own business if the situations were reversed, but Charity had left him in charge and… he didn’t want to let her down. “Perhaps wait a day or two to celebrate. You’re looking a bit feverish.”

An expression that Dev well recognised entered the young man’s eyes. Strange how they never looked like twins until their tempers were lit, then the similarity was downright eerie.

“I’ll do as I please, Mr David,” he said, his tone even. “Even if you’ve persuaded my sister you’re not a worthless scoundrel, I’m still her guardian. Remember that.”

“What the devil do you mean by that?” Dev demanded aware they were in a public place but not liking the implication one bit.

Kit stared back at him, the brightness of his eyes giving Dev even more to worry about. “I don’t know,” he said, a troubled note lingering behind the words. “But you’ve more secrets than any man has a right to if I know anything. I don’t trust you.”

Dev snorted, holding the man’s gaze. “No more should you,” he agreed. “But your sister means the world to me. I have only her best interests at heart. You have my word on it, for what it’s worth to you.”

Kit stared at him a little longer and it was rather unnerving. The man had a piercing gaze, so intense Dev wondered if he was somehow unravelling his secrets.

“Very well,” he said at length, and nodded. “I’ll take you at your word. For now.”

He turned, and Dev put his hand on his arm again, stopping him.

“I really do have your sister’s best interests at heart, Kit,” he said, wondering why he was so worried. Surely the young man knew his limits? “And she’d never forgive me if I didn’t talk sense into you. There’s rain in the air and another storm brewing if I know anything. Come home with me now. When that feverish look has gone and the weather fine again you can come and celebrate until you’re insensible. I’ll even fetch the cart to carry you home.”

“A tempting offer,” Kit said, flashing his charming smile again. “But carpe diem and all that.” He gave Dev a friendly smack on the shoulder. “Stop looking at me like I’m about to fall off my twig, for heaven’s sake. You’re not my mother, nor my sister come to that, and I’ll be back by supper. My word on it.”

There was nothing else for Dev to do. He’d tried his best. Short of giving the fellow a whack on the back of his head, he couldn’t stop him. With a sigh, Dev rejoined the queue. The letter he had penned to Mr Ogden was in his hands, and he hoped the woman behind the counter would not wonder why a man who looked like a farm labourer was sending letters to Lord Devlin’s steward.

To his relief, though the woman gave him a curious look, she was more interested in the elderly lady who stood behind Dev. That they were desperate to gossip was obvious, and Dev paid his money and left them to it as fast as possible and with a sigh of relief.

At least now the farm would be safe. Ogden would stop the sale on Dev’s instructions. The man had proved himself a backstabber but a written instruction would be hard to ignore. Dev himself was far from safe though. He had an idea of how he could make things right with Blackehart: a deal he could surely not refuse. Yet he knew the man’s reputation all too well. Dev had reneged on an agreement and that meant losing face. In Blackehart’s world, it was as good as a death sentence.

Dev shuddered and prayed he’d come out of this alive. For the first time in his life, he wanted to live. He had a future he wanted to grasp with both hands and hold on to for all he was worth. Killing himself slowly with drink and sordid living was the furthest thing from his mind. At long last he realised the greatest revenge he could have on his father was not to ruin everything the man had achieved, but to make a success of his own life. Perhaps he would be a father one day and—The thought stopped him in his tracks in the middle of the main street, and he had to apologise as an elderly gentleman ploughed into the back of him.

A father.

He might have a family if Charity was foolish enough to marry him.

Dev stopped breathing. The thought was a new one, fresh and startling, and a foolish grin curved over his mouth as he imagined her carrying his child. The ache below his ribs intensified and he rubbed at it with the heel of his hand.

He would be a good father. At least, he’d try his best. He would never leave his children in the hands of heartless nannies who valued discipline over love, and who had no interest in children whatsoever. They would find him at their side when they were ill or frightened, not forever on the other side of the country without the slightest clue of what was happening in their lives. Most of all, he would never send them away to school to be bullied and made so miserable that they wished they were dead.

Dev forced his feet to carry him back to the cart, plans for his and Charity’s future bright behind his eyes. His hopes and dreams were so close he could almost taste them. Everything would be all right. He would make the deal with Blackehart. The fellow was a businessman, if a ruthless one, and the deal Dev would offer him would be so tantalising he’d be a fool not to accept, and Blackehart was no fool. He would make it happen, just as he dreamed it. He had to.

Dev returned to the farm by midday. He warmed the thick soup that Mrs Baxter had left as the day was still damp and chilly and took a bowl up to her irascible husband. Mr Baxter was in a wretched temper, irritated to be confined to bed and frustrated that he was too weak to get out of it. He kept muttering about a crow that had sat on his window sill earlier. It was a bad omen, he reckoned, and made the hairs on Dev’s neck prickle by predicting dire consequences for the family. Dev plonked the tray in his lap and escaped as fast as he could with the voice of doom ringing in his ears.

John and Jane had done their usual chores, and John had milked the goats too. To Dev’s relief Charity had made time to milk the cow before she left as Dev hadn’t the faintest clue how to do that. He prayed Mr Baxter would be well enough to do it in the morning.

As he ladled the soup into bowls and cut bread for the children, he felt oddly domesticated. What on earth would his contemporaries in London think if they saw him now? To his surprise he discovered he didn’t give a tinker’s cuss what they thought.

Little Jane grinned at him as he placed her soup before her, and his heart lurched in his chest. “Thank you, Mr David.”

“Thank you, sir,” John said, as he took his bowl from Dev’s hand.

John needed guidance that was for certain. He needed a father. Someone who could teach him the things that Dev’s father had never taught him. Things he was only now discovering for himself, like what it really meant to be a man worthy of respect.

Dev’s own father might have been respected in the House of Lords, he might have done great things for the country, but he had neglected those who had depended on him most. He’d left his wife in the middle of nowhere until the loneliness ate away at her and she turned to opium to ease her pain. He’d ignored his son, never finding time for him and sending him away to school at the age of five when he became too unruly for his staff to manage. After that, Dev only saw his father when he came to reprimand him for his shocking behaviour. He’d never been expelled as his father paid too well for them to keep him. So, no matter what Dev did, nothing ever changed. Nothing he did mattered, for better or for worse.

At Brasted Farm, it mattered.

Here they noticed if he behaved badly, but they also noticed if he tried his best. Charity would tear him off a strip for rudeness and Mrs Baxter wouldn’t let him sit idle. Kit would mock him for not having a clue about books and literature, but he admired his horsemanship and had even asked his advice when he’d worried his own horse was lame. John was thrilled if he spent his leisure hours teaching him the finer points of pugilism, and Jane that he was teaching her to ride and was still tending the kittens for her. Mr Baxter could grumble all he liked, but he’d still appreciated Dev’s help around the place, and he’d said so too, albeit in a begrudging manner.

His actions had consequences here, and that was new and reassuring.

Though the weather was still unsettled, and so cool that Dev shivered a little working in his shirt sleeves, he spent an enjoyable afternoon. It was strange how squelching about the muddy farm in the drizzling rain made him happy. Tending the animals and ticking off the jobs left him gave him a sense of worth that no amount of fine clothes and gold coins had ever done. It only solidified his belief in the plans he’d made. He was doing the right thing. He was sure of it.

It was almost five in the afternoon when the rain began again. Dev cursed as he looked up. A strange purple colour lit the clouds, and the first strike of lightening juddered across the horizon like a crack in the sky.

“Damn you, Kit, where the devil are you?”

He hurried back to the farm, hopeful that the young man had returned whilst he was in the barn and he’d not noticed. When he got inside, he discovered the children playing with the kittens in front of the fire in the parlour. He’d given them permission to bring them inside, afraid the cold and the damp would be bad for them. Kit, however, was nowhere to be seen.

“John, look after your sister. There’s bread and dripping in the kitchen if I’m late back for supper, and make sure you take some to Mr Baxter with a cup of tea.”

“Yes, sir,” John said, putting the kitten he was holding in his sister’s lap. “But where are you going?”

John shrugged into Mr Baxter’s oilskin and gave the darkening skies outside an unloving look. To find your damn fool, brother, he didn’t say, though the desire to curse the young man hovered on the edge of his tongue. “Just to make sure Kit gets home all right,” he said, smiling, not wanting to worry them.

John, however, knew of Kit’s tenuous health as well as he did.

“He ought not to be out in this weather,” he said, clutching at Dev’s sleeve, his voice low so that Jane couldn’t hear.

Dev placed a hand on the boy’s thin shoulder and gave a squeeze. “Don’t fret, young fellow-me-lad, I’ll have him home and before the fire before you can say knife.”

John nodded, still worried but placing his faith in Dev’s assurances. “I’m sure you will, sir.”

Dev hesitated and then decided to err on the side of caution. “Best make up the fire in his room, John, and put a warming pan in the bed, eh? Just to make sure he gets warm and dry quickly.”

“Yes.” John nodded, his eyes grave, too full of understanding for a boy of his age. “I’ll see to it at once.”

“Good lad.”

Dev hurried towards the front door, fastening the oilskin as he went. God, it was a filthy night to be out on the moors. Cursing Kit Kendall to Hades, he put up the hood, and headed out into the deluge.