The following day brought a surprise to Chatton Castle. As Roger was looking over a list of rent rolls, he was informed that a traveler had arrived and was asking for him. The card he was handed startled him, but when he went to the front hall, he discovered that Lord Macklin was indeed in his house.
“I’m on my way to Scotland for some fishing,” said the newcomer. “When I found we were passing your home, I thought I’d stop to see you.”
“Splendid,” said Roger, and found he truly meant it. He’d recalled the dinner in London quite often since the spring. The occasion stood out in his mind as both unusual and, somehow, comforting. He was genuinely glad to see the earl. “I hope you’ll stay a few days.” He noted Macklin’s traveling carriage standing outside. An older man who was clearly a valet waited beside it, along with a homely youngster Roger couldn’t immediately categorize.
“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” said Macklin.
“Not at all. We’ll be glad of the company.” Roger turned to the footman. “Have Lord Macklin’s carriage taken to the stables,” he said. “And tell my mother and Mrs. Burke that we have a visitor.” He handed over the earl’s card to be delivered with this news. Only then did he remember his mother’s youthful romance with their guest.
Macklin had stepped over to the east windows and was gazing out at the cliffside and the expanse of the North Sea beyond. “This coast has an austere beauty,” he said. “I haven’t been here before.”
Roger went to stand next to him. “Yes,” he agreed. He knew some found the landscape bleak, but it was his home country and he loved it. “And some unique vulnerabilities. Denmark is there.” He pointed directly east. “A matter of five hundred miles for the invading Danes to sail. And Norway is about the same distance there.” He pointed northeast. “Once full of marauding Norsemen. That’s why Chatton is a fortification rather than an estate house. But we do have an up-to-date wing. We’ll make you comfortable, I promise.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“Arthur Shelton!” declared a melodious female voice.
They turned to find Roger’s mother framed by the arched stone doorway that led to the more modern part of the castle. One hand was pressed against the bodice of her rose-colored gown. The other held Macklin’s visiting card. Her blue eyes were sparkling.
“Of course you will remember my mother,” said Roger.
“The dowager marchioness,” she said with a throwaway gesture, as if to show how ridiculous she found this designation. “Helena Ravelstoke that was.”
Macklin blinked, and Roger was suddenly worried that his mother would be humiliated. He’d always accepted her tales of social success. But what if they’d been inflated in her memory?
“Helena Ravelstoke,” repeated the earl. He moved forward, holding out his hand. When he grasped Roger’s mother’s fingers, he bowed over them in the style of an earlier age. “Mademoiselle Matchless, the toast of the ton.” Without letting go of her hand, he turned back to Roger. “She had every young sprig in London pining at her feet.”
She retrieved her hand, but her answering smile was brilliant.
“There were Falconhurst and Gregg.” Macklin began counting off on his fingers. “Summerford and Dawes and Wingate, and others too numerous to mention. The Prince called you delectable.” He glanced over his shoulder at Roger. “Now the Regent,” he explained.
“My mother didn’t leave me alone with him,” replied Roger’s mother. “Papa was livid when he mentioned me in that way, but Mama was quite up to the mark. She was pretty well acquainted with the queen, you know.”
“Didn’t Lensford compare you to Botticelli’s Venus?” Macklin said. “Or shouldn’t I mention that?”
She laughed. “Such a shocking thing to say.” She didn’t seem at all bothered by this fact, however.
Was that the painting with the lady on the half shell clothed only in her long hair? Roger rather thought it was. Not a proper image to describe a young lady, especially one’s mother. He banished it from his mind.
“Many hopes were dashed when your mother accepted your father’s proposal,” Macklin said. “Lensford threatened to shoot himself.”
“Of course he didn’t mean it,” she replied. “He was such a dramatic young man. I wonder what’s become of him.”
“Gone to fat,” answered the earl promptly. “Lives in Somerset. Breeds prize sheep.”
“Oh no!”
Macklin nodded. “Married Wrenly’s daughter.”
“I did know that. But sheep! Couldn’t it have been hunting dogs, at least? What about his poetry?”
The earl shrugged. “He may still write it. But he never published another volume after the one that critic called ‘unmitigated bilge.’”
“He was crushed,” said Roger’s mother sympathetically.
“More of a sulk, I thought.” The earl smiled at her in a way that recalled a far younger man.
She gestured. Roger could almost see a fan in her hand, extended to rap the older man’s knuckles.
“I was among those spurned,” Macklin said to Roger. He didn’t seem particularly regretful, however. More amused and nostalgic.
“Hardly that,” Roger’s mother replied. “And it seems to me you were courting Celia Garthington well before I married.”
He acknowledged it with a nod as the Chatton Castle housekeeper bustled in.
“Is Lord Macklin’s room ready, Mrs. Burke?”
“Yes, my lady.” The housekeeper turned to Macklin. “Your valet is already above, my lord. Would you care to go up?”
He accepted with a nod and a punctilious farewell.
When Roger and his mother were left alone, she said, “How extraordinary that he came all this way to visit me.”
“I don’t think… He said he was on the way to Scotland for some fishing.”
“Well, he needed an excuse,” she replied. “But why else stop at Chatton?”
“To see me, he said. I had dinner with him the last time I was in London.”
“You did?”
“I was surprised at the invitation,” Roger admitted.
His mother looked thoughtful. “Would he go so far as to make friends with you so that he could visit here? Now that I’m a widow.”
“Papa has been dead for more a year.”
“Indeed. A proper period of mourning, which shows great sensitivity on Arthur’s part.”
Roger thought she was wrong. He was pretty sure Macklin had been startled to find her here. This could grow awkward. He began to worry that he’d made a mistake in extending the invitation to stay.
* * *
Only a few miles away, Fenella Fairclough was also welcoming a visitor, though this one was officially expected, if not quite invited. Fenella’s eldest sister had decreed that her son would spend the summer school holiday at his grandfather’s home. Her letter had simply assumed the boy was welcome, and Fenella knew there was no arguing with Greta, not without a monumental fuss.
The ten-year difference in their ages meant that she barely knew her sister. Greta had married at seventeen, in her first season, and produced a son and heir for her husband the following year. Two daughters had followed, and now Greta was expecting again. She’d declared that she couldn’t deal with her son under these circumstances, leaving Fenella to wonder what that meant precisely. But her father had approved the plan, and she had no reason to refuse. And so ten-year-old Sherrington Symmes had been packed into a post chaise, from which he was now descending, and sent along like a parcel into the North.
Her nephew was thin, with a narrow face, his dark hair a bit long, falling over his forehead. His long fingers moved nervously, and something in his eyes touched Fenella. Apprehension? It was true they weren’t really acquainted. Their interactions on family visits had been fleeting. She smiled. “Hello, Sherrington. I’m your aunt Fenella.”
“People call me John. It’s my middle name.” His voice was defiant, as if he expected objections and was ready to fight them off.
Fenella saw no reason to make any. He’d been named after his father, who might have known better, Fenella thought. She’d found Sherrington a ponderous name when it was announced. “John,” she repeated. “Welcome to Northumberland.”
He looked around without visible enthusiasm.
The servant supervising the unloading of his trunks seemed old for a boy, Fenella noticed. But perhaps he was more of a tutor.
“How far away is Scotland?” the boy asked.
“We’re about ten miles from the border here,” Fenella replied.
“It’s so cold in Scotland that the snakes don’t lay eggs,” he said. “They’re born alive, like mammals.”
“Really.”
He flushed as if he wished he could take back these words, then raised his chin as if Fenella had reprimanded him. “There aren’t any proper snakes here. Nothing like a cobra or a python. Pythons can be feet and feet long. They can crush a goat.”
“How?”
“They wrap their coils around them and squeeze.” John closed his hands into fists, demonstrating.
He meant her to shudder, Fenella thought. She disappointed him. “And where do they do this crushing?”
“What?”
“Where do pythons live?”
“In Asia and Africa. When I’m older, I’m going to visit my uncle in India and see the snake charmers.”
John spoke like a boy who was often contradicted. Fenella decided then and there that she wouldn’t. “Well, we may be short on snakes, but we do have cats and dogs and horses. Do you like to ride?”
The servant had left the carriage and was hovering behind the boy. “This is Wrayle,” John said. “He’s my minder.”
“Now, Master Sherrington.” The man glanced at Fenella as if to enlist her in a furtive cause. “I’m afraid Master Sherrington’s health is delicate. He will require a south-facing bedchamber, with tight shutters, and a restricted diet, with hot milk at bedtime.”
The boy seemed to deflate, like a creature resigned to oppression. He also looked as if he was made of whipcord and steel, and not the least bit delicate.
“I’ll introduce you to our housekeeper,” said Fenella to Wrayle. “She’ll see that you have what you need.” But perhaps not everything you want, she added silently.
He smiled like a man who had established his dominance. Fenella decided she didn’t like him. She vowed to have a talk with the housekeeper before Wrayle reached her with his list of demands.
* * *
Wrayle was part of the reason that Fenella took her nephew along that evening to a gathering at the house of a local baronet. Sir Cyril and Lady Prouse loved to entertain, and they didn’t let the fact that their children were all married and settled elsewhere stop them from inviting young people to gather for a bit of music and dancing. Lady Prouse said that nothing cheered her like watching youngsters enjoy themselves. In a somewhat isolated neighborhood without local assemblies, the Prouse home was a lively social hub.
Fenella hadn’t accepted one of their invitations for a while. Caring for her father and his estate took much of her time, but the truth was she hadn’t been as active in neighborhood society since Arabella’s death. That event, and its aftermath, had cast a pall. But that was clearing, and anyhow she had John to think of now.
The Prouses lived nearby. Their evening wouldn’t run too late, and beyond thwarting Wrayle, Fenella thought John would enjoy the jovial atmosphere. There would certainly be plenty of young people present. Not as young as he, admittedly. But she wasn’t going to mind that.
At this point in her thought processes, Fenella realized that she wanted to go for her own sake. Gaiety had been missing from her life recently. She was ready for a dose of Lady Prouse’s shrewd good humor. And so she put on one of her favorite gowns, bundled John into the carriage, and set out for the baronet’s.
They were among the first arrivals, but this was not an occasion for the fashionably late. Others entered soon enough, all of them friends or acquaintances. Fenella found John a comfortable perch and a plate of cakes and went to talk to her neighbors. Those who evinced an opinion seemed glad to see her. More were concentrated on their own enjoyment. A reminder, Fenella thought, not to exaggerate one’s own importance.
A wry smile still lingered on her lips when Roger entered the spacious drawing room. She was surprised to see him. He had been mingling in society even less over this past year. But the conventional mourning period, for his wife and his father, was over. He certainly had as much right as she to attend. Fenella turned away to speak to Mrs. Cheeve, the vicar’s wife, who had also just arrived with her husband.
The musicians in the corner struck up. Permanent employees of the Prouses, they included, as always, a piper, even though the bagpipe didn’t really fit with many of the usual dances. As well as the fact that the baronet and his wife weren’t the least bit Scottish. Fenella had asked them about this once. Sir Cyril’s gaze had gone distant as he declared, “It’s just such a magnificent sound, is it not?”
Now, accompanied by its eerie strains, Lady Prouse bore down on Fenella, took her arm, and turned her around. “There, you two dance,” she said, pushing her toward Roger.
Before either of them could react, she’d moved on, putting other couples together based entirely on proximity, as far as Fenella could judge. She meant nothing in particular by these pairings, except to set the dance moving.
Facing Roger, Fenella wondered what she ought to do. They hadn’t danced together since she came back from Scotland. Their past, and then a pile of complicating circumstances, had made it unwise.
The bagpipe shrilled, signaling a Highland reel. Fenella’s foot tapped. She wasn’t the awkward girl who’d been thrown at him five years ago. And she felt like dancing. She extended her hands.
Roger took them. They laced their fingers together, standing very close, and then they joined the others in moving forward and back, hopping and turning in the steps of the dance.
His hands were sure and powerful. He swung her around with practiced skill. She’d forgotten that he was a fine, athletic dancer, Fenella thought. Or, she’d just avoided thinking about it.
They hadn’t touched in ages, certainly not since she’d returned from Scotland, and that had been best. She had no doubt about it. But before that, there had been occasions. She suddenly realized that the first of them had been here in this very room. It must be, yes, eight years ago.
Lady Prouse had organized a dancing class to help prepare her daughter Prudence for a London season, and she’d invited all the local young people, even those like Fenella who were not remotely out. Lady Prouse had wanted enough couples to make up sets, and there weren’t a great many to choose from in the neighborhood. And so, although she was only fifteen, Fenella had wangled permission to go. She’d argued that the occasion was very informal and strictly chaperoned. Her mother had been ill at the time and had given in to her arguments. And so she’d come here, to this very spot, a pathetically gawky girl with unrealistic expectations. The draperies and furnishings looked just the same.
And then when Lady Prouse had to leave the room to attend to some household crisis, her daughter had cajoled the musicians into playing a waltz. Many of the boys, coerced into attending by their mothers, had been longing for a way to rebel, and they added their voices to hers. The musicians were persuaded, couples quickly came together, and Roger had been somehow left out, with only Fenella unpartnered.
He hadn’t been pleased, Fenella remembered. And he’d made no effort to hide his reluctance. But the others twitted him as a coward, or a bumpkin ignorant of the steps of the waltz. And so he had grabbed her, his arm tight around her waist, and spun her dizzily down the room. Fenella had found the dance intoxicating. She’d yielded to his masterful lead, senses swimming, until Lady Prouse returned and put a stop to their scandalous performance. “I wonder how Prudence is,” said Fenella.
Roger looked startled, as well he might. She’d been silent through much of the reel, and now she’d come out with this. He laughed. “No one ever had a more inapt name. She’s the least prudent creature I can imagine.”
Before he could think of that long-ago waltz, Fenella rushed on. “She married a man from Hertfordshire. The Prouses usually go to visit her down there.”
Roger nodded. “Do you remember those tableaus she organized one Christmas? Weren’t you in one?”
Fenella fought the blush, but it won out. Prudence had given her the part of winged Victory, to her utter delight. Even though she knew it was because she was the slightest girl and willing to perch on a tall plinth. But the diaphanous toga sort of thing she’d been draped in had turned out to be quite transparent when the banks of candles were lit for the tableaus. She’d been virtually naked, four feet above people’s heads. Her father had roared with fury.
“Oh yes,” said Roger. A spark lit his blue eyes.
He’d remembered. Of course he had. How could he not? “That incident gave me an enduring hatred of sarsenet,” Fenella said dryly. “I’ve never worn it since.”
He burst out laughing, which had been her aim. The music ended. Fenella stepped away, more breathless than a bit of dancing could explain. Roger left her with a smiling bow, shifting to another partner for the next dance.
“You and Chatton move well together,” said Lady Prouse at Fenella’s shoulder.
Fenella turned to find a speculative gleam in her hostess’s eye. She resisted pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks. Or saying anything that might encourage matchmaking. “Have you seen my nephew?”
“He asked about our library,” replied Lady Prouse, looking mildly disappointed at this response.
Fenella found John among the books. He was reading one about India, and he looked tired. She gathered him up to take him home to bed—and probably face the wrath of Wrayle, but she cared very little about that.
* * *
The local church service on Sunday held a good deal of interest for the Chatton Castle neighborhood, which seldom received strangers. Additions to society were always welcome in this isolated corner of the country.
The castle party itself included a distinguished older gentleman. Whispers soon identified him as an earl, and he was seen to be quite friendly with Lady Chatton, rousing a buzz of curiosity. There was also an unknown youngster at the far end of the castle pew, homely but amiable-looking. His status couldn’t be agreed upon within the limited opportunities for gossip inside the church. He did not appear the least cowed by noble company.
The group from Clough House also brought a new member, a slender boy soon identified as the old gentleman’s grandson. Parishioners murmured that this visit must be pleasant for the old man in his sickness. He hadn’t been seen in church, or anywhere else, since being felled by the apoplexy.
The vicar’s sermon that day added to the excitement of the occasion. Rather than his usual homily on responsibility or compassion, he stated that his subject would be Cuthbert, the area’s patron saint and, he declared, the savior of England. “For after this holy man’s death and the many miracles due to his intercession, Cuthbert came in a dream to Alfred, known as the Great, King of Wessex. Alfred was then engaged in a mighty struggle against the Danes, invaders from over the sea.”
The vicar paused and raked the congregation with his gaze. Roger, directly under his eye in the front, was taken aback. Reverend Cheeve was usually the mildest of men, but today his green eyes burned with fervor.
The man shook back the wide sleeves of his surplice, put a hand on either side of the pulpit, leaned forward, and continued. “Calling himself a soldier of Christ in this dream, Cuthbert told the king what he needed to do. Alfred must arise at dawn and sound his horn three times. Cuthbert promised that by the ninth hour, the king would have assembled five hundred men. And within seven days Alfred would have gathered, through God’s gift and Cuthbert’s aid, an army to fight at his side and vanquish the Danes. And so it happened. The battle was won. And England was not conquered.”
Roger stifled an impulse to applaud. Cheeve might have been rousing a fighting troop rather than preaching. Far more entertaining than his customary platitudes. The vicar did circle back after this to relate his story to his listeners, urging them to put their trust in the lord. But the jolt of energy he’d provided remained in the air. Roger put a bit extra in the collection plate to show his appreciation. He also congratulated Cheeve on a fine sermon as he passed through the church door after the service.
Outside, Roger came face-to-face with Fenella Fairclough, for the first time since their invigorating reel at the Prouses’. And he couldn’t help thinking that she looked particularly pretty this morning, curvaceous and assured in a deep-blue gown that echoed the hue of her eyes, with a shawl falling artistically over her shoulders. Her face, half-shaded by a chip straw bonnet, reminded Roger of an antique cameo. If such a piece of jewelry could shift expressions like wind passing over water, he amended.
The press of people leaving the church urged him on, and they moved away together. “This is my nephew John Symmes,” she said, indicating a dark-haired boy at her side. “Greta’s son. John, this is Lord Chatton, a neighbor of ours.”
“You live in the castle,” said the boy.
“I do.”
“John is spending his holiday with us,” Fenella added.
“Ah.” Seeing his mother and houseguest ahead, Roger moved toward them. “We have a visitor as well. Up from London. Lord Macklin, may I present Miss Fairclough and…” But young Symmes had faded into the small crowd between one step and the next. He appeared to be gone.
Roger’s mother offered happy greetings, and Macklin acknowledged the introduction with his habitual composure. Roger was about to suggest that they depart when Harold Benson edged around Macklin, plump and furtive to the earl’s tall and distinguished. Indeed, the self-appointed historian was half crouching, so that his rotund figure looked even more squat. “I’m avoiding Cheeve,” he informed them. “He thinks I can guarantee him the part of St. Cuthbert in the pageant, but I can’t. That decision is not up to me. He’s wasted his oratory.”
Benson moved so that Roger was between him and the church door, where the vicar still lingered. “But I have been asked to speak to you again, Lord Chatton. And also to Miss Fairclough. I’m happy to find you together. There’s a scene in the pageant that is part of a Viking raid on the Lindisfarne manor, and the committee wondered, hoped, that you two might enact it. As a gesture of support for the enterprise. To help make the venture a success, you know. And reflect well on the neighborhood.”
Despite this blatant hint, Roger started to refuse, but Fenella spoke first. “What sort of scene?”
“A Saxon noblewoman repels the Viking attacker with a broom.”
“A broom?” asked Fenella.
“She bashes him on the side of the head,” replied Benson. “Naturally we would take care—”
“I could do that,” Fenella interrupted.
“I’m sure you could,” said Roger. “And enjoy it, too. I don’t intend to be bashed, however.”
“The Viking prevails in the end, of course,” said Benson. “He sweeps her up and carries her off and, well, there is another bit, but we could make adjustments.”
“Throws her in the midden?” Roger suggested. “Or the pigsty perhaps?”
“After she kicks him in the face, repeatedly?” said Fenella.
Benson looked taken aback. “Whatever the exact, er, outcome, I’m glad to put you down as settled for the roles.” He whipped a small notebook from his coat pocket, pulled out a stub of pencil, and made check marks on a list inside.
“Wait,” said Roger. He noticed Macklin and his mother watching this exchange with interest. His mother leaned over to whisper to the earl, who would soon know all the history with Fenella that there was to know—from his mother’s point of view, Roger thought.
“Rehearsals begin day after tomorrow,” said Benson.
“Rehearsals!” repeated Roger and Fenella in unison.
“Just a moment,” said Fenella.
“Cheeve’s spotted me,” said Benson. “I must go.” He ducked sideways, scuttled along the path through the churchyard, and more or less ran away.
“Oh dear, I was going to ask him about taking a role myself,” said Roger’s mother.
“I suspect you’ll have your chance,” said Macklin.
Without meaning to, Roger met Fenella’s sparkling blue gaze. She was clearly irritated and amused and resigned. And why did he imagine he saw so much in a glance? Roger wondered. He couldn’t possibly. He was very bad at such perceptions. And yet he was certain. Roger felt an odd inner tug of emotion. He couldn’t identify it. And when he had been so sure about her feelings, too. That made no sense. And it was dashed uncomfortable. He turned away toward his waiting carriage.
* * *
On the other side of the churchyard, shielded by a tall monument, Sherrington Symmes, known at long last as John, was kicking pebbles onto the plinth when an older boy walked around the obelisk and joined him.
“Hullo,” he said.
John merely nodded. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
“My name’s Tom,” said the newcomer.
John kicked a larger rock. It struck the base of the monument, bounced back, and tumbled off into the grass.
“‘Dedicated to the memory of Malcolm Carew,’” Tom read from the stone. ‘“Beloved husband, respected father.’ They all say something like that. Have to, once they’re dead, don’t they?”
John felt a spark of interest in the newcomer.
“I mean, you never see a gravestone saying ‘rotten husband, mean old dad, and all-’round clutch-fisted blackguard.’ Ain’t done.” He consulted the inscription. “Plenty old when he died. I suppose nobody shells out for a great spike like this if they didn’t like the fellow.”
John laughed. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Tom,” the other repeated.
“Tom what?”
“Dunno.” The older boy shrugged. “Don’t got a last name.”
“But how can you not?”
“I don’t remember my parents. Grew up scrambling, like, on the streets of Bristol.”
John’s interest increased by leaps and bounds. “My name is John Symmes.”
“Grandson of one of the local gentry,” Tom answered. “I heard.”
“You live around here?”
“No, come up for a visit. With Lord Macklin.” Leaning out, he indicated a tall, somewhat intimidating-looking gentleman amid the parishioners.
John tried to figure out their association. Tom didn’t seem like a servant exactly. But he couldn’t be a relation of that high-nosed man. Not with the history he’d mentioned and the way he spoke. Still, better to err on the side of the complimentary. “Are you his grandson?”
Tom laughed. “Not hardly. I’m… Well, I don’t rightly know what. I heard his secretary call me ‘the earl’s current project.’” He grinned.
It was an immensely engaging grin. John felt a tug of liking for this older, homely boy. Which was a rare experience in his life. “What does that mean?”
“I reckon Lord Macklin wants to make something of me.” Tom’s grin widened. “Not going to work, howsomever.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You ain’t alone in that. Do you like walking?”
“Walking?”
“Tramping about the countryside. I’m partial to it myself. Like company, too. You could come along.”
“I’m not allowed out by myself.” Much as it pained him, John had to admit it. He felt it simply wouldn’t be right to lie to this new, intriguing acquaintance.
“Well, you wouldn’t be. You’d be with me. You could tell that aunt of yours that I never get in trouble. I’m right careful. And we’d just be looking about, ye know. ‘Reconnoitering,’ they call it.”
“It isn’t Aunt Fenella. It’s Wrayle.”
“Rail?”
“He’s my jailer.” John enjoyed saying it. Daring to say it.
“Eh?” said Tom.
“They call him a servant, but he isn’t really.” Now that he was launched, the words went faster. “My parents assigned him to watch me.”
“Why?”
There was something about Tom that made you want to be honest with him, John thought. He hoped they could be friends. He would like that very much. But Tom had to know the truth first. That was the only way it could be. And so, although his heart sank, John proceeded to tell it. “I like snakes,” he said. “They’re quite interesting. And when we were last in London, I found a shopkeeper who sells exotic animals. He had a boa constrictor!” John’s enthusiasm for his subject swelled. “A sailor brought it back from the Americas. Fed it on rats on the ship. It was a quite small specimen, really, and they’re not poisonous.”
“Boa constrictor,” repeated Tom as if interested in the sound of the words. “That’s a kind of snake?”
John nodded. “So I bought it and sneaked it home. To observe and learn, you know. But it got loose from its cage somehow, and it…” He stopped, swallowed, and then rushed on. “It ate my little sister’s new kitten.” Here was the depth of his disgrace. John saw again the horror in his sisters’ eyes, heard the heartbroken weeping. He cringed.
“Yer joking.”
John looked for signs of disgust in Tom’s face, and found none. He shook his head.
“Ate it, you say? I’d think a kitten could outrun a snake.”
“Constrictors throw their coils around their prey and crush them before they swallow them.” The kitten’s tail, still protruding from his snake’s mouth, had been the terrible, irrefutable evidence that sealed both their fates.
“Garn!”
“I never meant it to get near the kitten! Indeed, I don’t know how it escaped my cage. I promise you the wire mesh was quite sturdy.”
Tom nodded. “What happened to him?”
“Who?”
“The snake.”
“Oh. One of the gardeners killed it. With a hoe. Chopped it into four pieces.” John felt a lingering sadness at this summary execution.
“Huh.”
There was no sign of withdrawal on Tom’s homely face. John’s relief made him brave. He drew in a breath and took the risk. “What’s Lord Macklin?” he asked.
“What d’you mean?”
“What’s his rank?”
“Ah. He’s an earl.”
John’s mind worked. “If I told Wrayle that you’re here with an earl, perhaps his ward, he’d likely give me permission to go for a walk. Wrayle’s a dreadful snob.”
“I ain’t his ward,” replied Tom. He seemed to dislike the idea.
“No.” Disappointment threatened to engulf John. “But Lord Macklin is feeding and housing you, isn’t he?”
“For the present.”
“And you’re not a servant. He doesn’t pay you wages?”
“No. Didn’t want ’em.”
“So you’re practically his ward. Let me tell Wrayle.” John didn’t wish to beg, but he found this terribly important.
“Well.” Tom pursed his lips. “I suppose it’s all right.”
“I’ll speak to him when we get back.” John’s spirits soared. “Perhaps we could go walking tomorrow?”
Tom nodded. “I’ll come ’round and fetch you.”