Mr. Skeffield leaned on his cane more than normal on his way to bed. "Sir, there's someone to speak to you," said his valet, Stevens, looking concerned. "He insisted he needed to stay. He...mentioned Robert."
Skeffield looked at his man sharply. "Blackmail? Surely not!"
Stevens looked troubled. "I don't believe so, sir. But I didn't know what to do."
"Never mind. You did well to tell me." He squeezed his valet's arm impulsively. They had been together a long time. Not sexually—he was not that way inclined, nor was Stevens—but they'd worked together long enough that they'd become friends. He trusted Stevens' judgment. About a great many things.
"In the library, sir. I gave him brandy."
"Thank you." He accepted the arm to lean on, since Stevens could be so unobtrusive about it. He really was exhausted.
Stevens let go before they reached the door and opened it for him.
Inside was Graeham, the small, graying, slightly stooped man who had been an unexpected guest, invited at the last moment. They did not know one another well, though they shared an interest. Skeffield found himself relaxing marginally.
Graeham took one look at his face and sprang to his feet. "Sir, you should not be standing. I apologize. I didn't realize—" He cut himself off, biting his lip.
"Yes, yes," said Skeffield irritably. He hated being reminded of his poor health. It was humiliating enough to have to deal with it himself without everyone else taking notice.
He thought again of the little decorator who had been in such anguish, and the treasure, and the magic, and the party which really could have gone better. There was so much to deal with, and he needed a good night's sleep if he was to have any hope of handling tomorrow without being stuck on bed rest. But he was here now and wanted to hear what Graeham had to say.
He got settled in a comfortable leather chair and grouched a little, but accepted the drink served him, and even let Stevens help him put his feet up, however reluctantly. Then Stevens left the room and he was alone with Graeham.
Skeffield knew Stevens was just outside if he needed help. Stevens could listen at doors with impunity, as far as Skeffield was concerned, and it had come in useful in the past.
"Sir," said Graeham. "I meant to ask you something important, but I would rather come again sometime. Perhaps when you're in the city we could have lunch. I don't want to endanger you."
"You're here now, man. Just spit it out. I hate it when people beat around the bush."
Graeham looked amused, one brow rising. "Do you? But it seems..." He shook his head. "Never mind. I believe we have mutual friends—perhaps more than one. Perhaps many." He looked at Skeffield closely and hard. "Your son is no longer serving in the army, I believe?"
Skeffield gave a short, sharp nod, his mouth tight. After all that he'd done to help keep Robert's condition concealed, his son had nonetheless eventually retired from the armed forces. He'd said he was needed more at home; he'd said it was becoming unsafe—unable to be hidden for longer. For all that, Robert had still turned over a promising military career—one that no longer required a great deal of physical effort, and where he was rising steadily in rank—to stay at home with his ailing father. And his delicate little designer friend.
Skeffield thrust that thought away, because it made him a little sad. He didn't know what the right thing to do anymore was, for his son or for himself. Except to love and accept Robert, no matter what. That was what his grandfather had given him, the greatest gift he'd received, more than the money or lands he would eventually inherit. His own father hadn't been able to give such unselfish warmth.
Though he failed sometimes, Skeffield wanted to be sure that love was his legacy to his own children. Catherine and Robert were dear to him, and they needed to know it. They were his reason for continuing, when he was faring poorly and had to take extra care of himself and bother with doctors and pills and powders and careful eating he didn't approve of.
And he did like the little designer, in his own way. The man was sweet and clever and gentle, without an unkind bone in his body. He reminded Skeffield of a little chirping bird sometimes, one that hopped about in bright feathers and large, shiny eyes. He could cheer up any room—or look so utterly drooping when he was sad, like a bird in the rain huddled on a branch, miserably waiting through the storm.
He was also rather feminine, and Skeffield found that didn't bother him overmuch. In fact, it reminded him a little of when his dear wife was young. He thought of her sometimes these days, wondering what life would have been like if she had lived longer. He had never remarried, and the Manor had never regained a female hand taking it into decorative order. Catherine had showed no interest in anything decorative or design related, and after a time, they had shut the Manor up almost completely. Now, with Louie here, it had come to life again: carefully chosen colors and patterns bringing the Manor back to being a joyful place. It was difficult not to think of Louie as someone girlish at times, but Skeffield found he didn't mind. He rather liked having a cheerful young woman about the place—even if it wasn't a woman at all.
"We may have mutual interests," said Skeffield cautiously now, still facing Graeham.
He had, of course, donated privately to Graeham's funds and Dr. Gregory's funds. They were both men who stuck their neck out politically to seek better treatment for the soldiers who had been mechanicalized during the war and then treated so shabbily by their government afterwards. Many such men lived on the streets, or had died already through lack of proper medical care. It was shabby, indeed.
Of course, because of his son's position, Skeffield had never dared to stick his neck out and invite scrutiny on Robert, but he'd given what he could for the cause. Graeham and Dr. Gregory had both been known to take in soldiers where they could, and that was a worthy cause, too. Political action was all very well, but these men were in need now.
He had not expected to be cornered in his own library about it, though. He cleared his throat, awaiting what came next. Graeham was a gentle man, with warm eyes, but he was also a zealot with a mission, and Skeffield eyed him cautiously.
"Well, I shan't beat about the bush," said Graeham, giving him a smile that looked genuine. "I think you could hire some of my...my friends...with impunity now that your son is home with you." He raised one brow. "You could start, perhaps, with our mutual friends, Misters Fowler and Newton."
"Wes? Kit?" Skeffield blinked in surprise. "Why? What can they need from me?"
"They need a living," said Graeham bluntly. "Kit is a clock man, and you have clocks. Wes is handy and could be an excellent member of the staff. He's already volunteered his efforts in the past, not that you had time to notice. I can't blame you there, busy as you've been, but the man would fit well on the estate. And he needs to be able to help support his partner. They might not have as long together as they would like, and it will be shorter if Kit has to work every day to support them both, even on the days when his heart can't take it."
"I had no idea they were in that situation." Skeffield blinked. Then his gaze narrowed. "How is it you know them better than I do? We've had adventures together and everything."
Graeham shrugged, nearly managing not to look smug. "People unburden their hearts to me—sometimes more than they realize. You will think about it, though?"
"Oh yes, I'll ask them tomorrow."
And he would. He would love to have a dedicated clock man, and he trusted Kit, who was skilled and loyal. While he hadn't thought about Wes from an employer's perspective, he did like the man and trusted his ex-military staunchness easily. There was nothing fake or fawning about him, and he was strong, loyal, and intelligent.
"Excellent. I appreciate it very much. They've done me a good turn, you know, bringing an injured man to my doorstep for help."
Skeffield wondered how that was doing Graeham a favor, as it sounded like one more burden to carry, but he didn't say so. "Will he recover?"
"We can only hope." Graeham smiled. "Now then, you have a large estate here."
Skeffield smile ruefully. "Why do I have a feeling a much larger request is in the offing?"
"Your feelings don't mislead you. But you do have a large estate—and you aren't afraid of...our mutual friends. You might be able to fit some of them onto your property as gardeners, labor, etc. There are surely a great many things that need done, especially when you've been remodeling recently." He gestured to the room, with its recent improvements. "The gardens could use some work, I believe." His eyes twinkled.
Skeffield grimaced. "Yes, I'm afraid we made rather a ruin of the pond and springhouse."
"Good, then you'll need to hire people to help you put it all to rights. And our friends...well, I know a number who are desperate for work, and diligent and strong, but whom no one will hire. It needn't be a political statement, if you're not ready for that. But I do know you care about this situation, and our friends, and I think you could do some of them a good turn."
"I think you're right," admitted Skeffield. "Goodness, I'm not very good at holding out against you, am I?"
Graeham's smile twinkled at him warmly. "I shan't hold out if you need my help someday," he promised.
"I think you've already done me a good turn, about Wes and Kit. You must visit us again sometime."
"I will," said Graeham. He got up, and they shook hands again, though Skeffield didn't rise. "Thank you very much. I'll write to you next week with recommendations and letters of endorsement, and we can work out all the details about whom you can take on and when. I know things are a bit hectic at the moment, so there's no rush. We can work it all out by letter or on the telephone."
"Yes," said Skeffield. "Leave your address and number with my man. We'll write if there is any further delay." He thought they'd have the issue with the treasure and magical interference cleared up by then—or at least that things would not be in such a state of flux. He smiled again, reluctantly but truthfully, at Graeham. "I think it would have been good if we'd met earlier."
"Oh, I think this is soon enough. I'm sure I couldn't have taken you on at all if you were at full strength."
Skeffield couldn't help it; he laughed aloud.
Graeham gave him a formal bow despite his stooped, rather pained posture, and then took his leave.
After he had gone away, Stevens came quietly into the room. "Everything all right, sir?"
"Oh, yes," said Skeffield rather faintly. "But I'm so very tired. I think I'll sleep here tonight, in front of the fire."
"Very good, sir," said Stevens. "I shall build it up for you and bring more blankets."
"Good man." Skeffield closed his eyes—just for a moment. Just to rest. Today had been such a busy day...
He dreamed. He dreamed of being a young boy, running to catch up to his grandfather, who was going to teach him to fish down at the pond. He was laughing, running as hard as he could. His grandfather looked down at him, warmth shining in his eyes, a smile on his face. He did not look important just then, or powerful—just the most important man in the world to a young boy who loved him.