Pleasures with Rough Strife (2 page)

*  *  *

When
Danny woke up for the second time, everything seemed to be in soft shades of white, and he thought for a moment he was still lying in the snow. He felt far too warm and comfortable for that, but then he’d heard that was how it was when you froze to death; first you stopped feeling the cold, and then you stopped living. Wasn’t a bad way to go, at that, Danny thought, and then reality broke in. “Mam!” Danny cried, struggling to sit up. How in God’s name would she manage with Danny following his father into the grave?

“Shh, you’re safe now,” a low voice told him as firm hands forced him to lie down once more. Just as Danny’s vision cleared, nausea struck and he twisted and vomited to one side. The hands retreated hastily. “Mrs. Standish!”

Danny was aware of himself being mopped up by a new set of hands, these belonging to a stony-faced matron. “Sorry,” he said weakly. He was lying in a soft bed, he realized, in a warm room. To his right was a long window looking out upon a garden that defied the season with its beauty of evergreens and landscaping, lightly gilded with snow. It was daylight, Danny realized belatedly. He’d slept through the night.

Mrs. Standish’s face had softened a little. “Not to be helped,” she told him grudgingly, smoothing the pillow. “You hit that head a good, hard knock. Whatever possessed you, climbing a tree in icy weather?”

Danny was about to answer, but the first voice beat him to it. “Come, Mrs. Standish. I think we can let him heal for a while before we bombard him with questions.”

The only answer was a sniff, but the motherly figure said no more and moved out of sight.

“How do you feel?” the voice asked, and Danny forced his aching head round to look at the speaker. He saw a pale face, clean-shaven and somehow delicate, with the first suspicion of lines around the eyes that gave the face a strange young-old look. The sandy hair that framed it was just a bit too long, suggesting someone who cared little for his appearance and had no wife to do it for him. Lord love him, it was the lord of the manor himself—Mr. Philip Luccombe, Esquire.

Luccombe didn’t wait for Danny’s reply. “Stupid question, I know. You must feel absolutely beastly. But don’t worry, Dr. Newton’s seen to all your hurts. You’ve a broken leg and three cracked ribs, not to mention that goose egg on your skull. Lucky you didn’t break your neck, falling out of that tree like that. I suppose you were after the mistletoe?” Luccombe paused. Thinking he must be supposed to answer, Danny tried to gather his thoughts from where they’d gone off wandering like a will-o’-the-wisp, but before he could think of what to say, Luccombe was speaking again. “I, ah, I had Drayton deliver your, er, belongings to your family. In case you were worried.”

Danny almost laughed at that. Old Drayton, having to deliver poached coneys to Danny’s mam. The merriment died before he could voice it, though. Like as not, the bastard had just pitched them into a ditch.

“Sorry. I should have introduced myself. Philip Luccombe. And we know who you are, of course. Drayton recognized you.” Luccombe gave a weak smile. “It’s him you’ve to thank for being here, you know.”

Danny stared. “That bastard? Are you pulling my leg? He’d have left me to rot!”

Luccombe gave Danny an earnest look. “No, I can assure you, it was all down to Drayton. If he hadn’t found you last night, I shudder to think what might have happened. You’d probably have frozen to death if he hadn’t alerted us.” He laughed awkwardly. “And I don’t think pulling your leg would be a good idea in its present condition, do you?”

Danny found his head was spinning once more, and he wasn’t sure if it was due to the knock he’d had or to the thought that he might owe his life to the man he hated worst in the world. He lay back weakly and waited for the nausea to subside.

“So I’m afraid you’ll have to be my guest for the Christmas season.” Luccombe seemed embarrassed for some reason. “I’m afraid we’re not terribly festive, here, but I’ll do my best to see that you’re comfortable.”

Danny smiled ruefully from his goose-down pillows. “Only wish my mam could be half as comfortable.”

“Are your family in need?” Luccombe asked, looking for all the world like he actually cared. “I’m sure we could send some assistance if they’re suffering any kind of hardship—”

“We don’t need no charity.” It was a knee-jerk reaction, and Danny’s stomach flipped as he recalled what he’d been doing when he’d had his fall. No, thieves didn’t need charity, and they didn’t deserve none, neither.

Luccombe cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sure you’d like to get some rest. I’ll pop in and see you later.”

*  *  *

Philip
retreated to the drawing room, wiping his palms on his trousers and stopping when he realized what he was doing. Stupid of him, to feel so… stupid. The man—the boy, really, after all, he couldn’t be more than eighteen—was nothing but a common poacher. And on Philip’s land, to boot. If anyone should feel embarrassed in this situation, it was Costessey. Not that he had, of course. He’d seemed absurdly self-assured. Still, he’d been the man of the family for what, two, three years now? Philip supposed that was bound to have an effect.

Or perhaps it was merely the father’s heritage? Philip had shivered upon seeing him properly for the first time. Daniel Costessey was the image of his father, although there was more of a softness about the young man’s features, and his hands, too, had a delicacy that Costessey senior’s had lacked. But the mop of unruly dark curls, the stubble that showed even on a freshly shaven chin, and the full mouth that seemed but a breath away from laughter even in repose, those were all unmistakably from the paternal line.

And those shoulders, and that darkly haired chest—why the Devil hadn’t Mrs. Standish dressed him decently in pajamas after Newton had strapped his ribs? Philip drew a deep breath. It wasn’t decent, where a maid might walk in at any moment.

Robert’s teasing voice filled his mind. “You pay far too much mind to accepted notions of propriety, Lux!” Lord, how Philip missed him. They’d been everything to one another, ever since that first day as awkward undergraduates at Balliol. Well, Philip had been awkward. Robert, of course, had been in complete mastery of the situation. The first time Philip had seen him, he’d been holding forth in the bar upon some Eton exploit that had had all those present in stitches. A Winchester man himself, Philip hadn’t been particularly disposed to like Robert upon first sight, but like everyone else, he’d been won over by Robert’s easy charm. By Lent, they’d become inseparable, and the following summer had seen an invitation to Robert’s estate in Herefordshire and an introduction to his mother.

Philip’s blood chilled suddenly. The bell not producing an instant response, he strode to the door and flung it open. “Standish?” he yelled. Propriety be damned.

“Yes, sir?” There was a world of reproach in those watery eyes.

Philip coughed. “Costessey’s mother. She must visit him. At once, you understand?”

Lord, where did servants learn to keep such poker faces? “Very good, sir,” Standish replied after the barest possible pause, and he departed.

*  *  *

Danny
was bored. It’d been nice to see his mam, although she’d ripped into him good and proper for risking life and limb like that, just as he’d thought she would. She’d told him Drayton had taken her the rabbits, after all. Danny had wondered if the old bugger was going soft in the head. Of course, as he’d wondered that aloud, it’d nearly earned him a clip round the ear for swearing until his mam had remembered his broken head.

She hadn’t stayed long, though. Well, it was only so long she could leave young Toby to mind his sisters, wilful little creatures that they were. She’d told him to get well soon and not play any more daft tricks. Before she left, she wished him a happy Christmas, the mask not slipping until the end where she looked so worn down by troubles Danny reckoned he deserved two broken legs for adding to them.

But now he’d been left alone with his guilt and his aches for, well, he didn’t know how long, but it felt like a week or more. So when Luccombe walked in carrying a small stack of books, Danny flashed him a big grin in welcome even though the top volume was clearly a Dickens.

Luccombe coughed. “I, ah, thought you might welcome some reading material. I’d have brought you the
Times
, but I felt that in the circumstances something lighter might be indicated.”

“Very kind of you, sir,” Danny told him. Funny how different people could be when you met them properly. He’d always heard Luccombe was a bit strange, but he seemed all right as far as Danny could tell. Word in the village was that he’d gone off his rocker after the war, which was barmy when you thought about it, him not having fought since being wounded in 1915. Danny reckoned he was just a bit nervous. High-strung. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, when it realized what was coming. Danny liked to stroke them until the shivering eased, before he wrung their necks. Him and his family had to eat, but it didn’t mean he had to be cruel about it.

Luccombe was standing there, still holding the books, so Danny reached out a hand. Luccombe sort of startled, making Danny think of small frightened creatures again, and hastily handed him the stack of books.

“There’s a Dickens, there, and some Conan Doyle—I didn’t really know what you’d like, I’m afraid.”

“Not much for Dickens, tell the truth.” Danny grinned again. “Schoolmaster made us read
Hard Times
when I was a lad, and it bloody was and all.”

Luccombe smiled a little in response, and Danny realized with a shock that he was actually quite attractive, in his way. The smile seemed to change his whole face, making him seem less like a mole blinking in the daylight and more like, well, a young man. “Don’t worry, I’ve brought you the Christmas books. Much lighter fare. I, ah, I’ve always found them quite comforting.” Luccombe turned abruptly to look out of the window.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d need much comforting, living in a place like this.” Danny kept his tone light.

Luccombe had his back fully to Danny now. “I’m afraid the Christmas season doesn’t hold very good memories for me.” His back, as he spoke, was ramrod straight, but something in his voice betrayed him. Luccombe turned suddenly, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I suppose you’re used to it being quite a jolly time, being part of a large family, I mean.”

Danny didn’t reckon Luccombe would be very interested in hearing how hard it had been since his Da died. “Oh, aye, there’s plenty of us, right enough. Me and my brother Toby—he’s just turned ten this year, he’s a good lad—and the three girls.”

Luccombe turned at last. He looked relieved at the change in subject. “When I was a boy, I always wished for a brother. It’s quite lonely, being an only child.”

Danny shrugged and then hissed in pain at what the motion did to his ribs. “Should’ve had two more, Mam says, but they both died their first year. Harold, the first one was called. Died of the measles before he could crawl. The second one didn’t last an hour. Cried once, Mam said, and then he died. That was Robert.”

Danny stared at Luccombe’s suddenly stricken look.

 “I- I must be going,” Luccombe mumbled, and he left the room without another word.

Danny watched after him, bemused. Why had Luccombe looked so shocked? Babies died; everyone knew that. Or was it the mention of the name
Robert
? It was a common enough name. Danny chewed his lip in thought. It meant something to Luccombe, that was for sure.

Remembering this time not to shrug, Danny gave up his wondering and opened up the topmost book.

*  *  *

Unsettled
by his visit to Costessey and berating himself for ending it in such a bizarre fashion, Philip found himself unable to settle to his correspondence. Coming to an uncharacteristically quick decision, he flung open the door of his study and strode to the hall closet, where he stared in dismay at an unfamiliar array of dusty gabardines.

“Sir?” It was Standish. Philip fought the urge to snap at the man for creeping up on him like that.

“Damn it, man, where is my greatcoat?”

Standish stared at him mutely. “Your greatcoat, sir?”

“Yes, Standish, my greatcoat. I wish to go out. For a walk. And a muffler,” Philip added after a pause. “It’ll be cold out there, won’t it?”

Standish looked for a moment as if he were about to say something else, but he caught himself before anything untoward could be uttered. “Very good, sir,” he said respectfully, and then he was gone.

Philip paced impatiently until the man returned a few minutes later, laden with woollen garments that smelled strongly of mothballs. Philip swallowed. Damn it, had it really been so long since he’d gone out for a walk? He’d always loved taking the air when Robert had been here, showing him the places he’d played as a child and enjoying the beauty of the estate together, Robert as like or not quoting some verse or other to him. A memory of one day in particular came to him, and Robert’s teasing voice:

“
Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,
Casting the body’s vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide”

He’d laid his own emphasis on certain of Marvell’s words and had them both in fits. Philip’s hand shook just a little as he seized the errant greatcoat. It hung a little loose on his frame but was otherwise just as he remembered it. The bright blue muffler, he remembered that too. It had been a present from his aunt the year his mother died. Robert had mocked him fondly, saying it made him look like an overdressed snowman.

They’d been so happy. With a shock, Philip realized there was the ghost of a smile upon his face. Perhaps… perhaps it was time he stopped trying to forget, after all. With a determined air, he wound the muffler around his neck and stepped outside.

Everything seemed much brighter than he remembered it. Brighter, and crisper too, as if the day had been freshly laundered and starched just for him. The crunching of the snow underfoot seemed absurdly loud, and Philip was acutely conscious of the sighing of the wind through the trees and the song of those birds brave enough to stay at home for the winter.