Chapter Ten
“I once found Clara having a conversation with my dog, Cerberus. She was filling in his side of the dialogue with her own. Apparently, Cerberus was hungry, in love with the poodle next door and hated the butler – same here, I thought.”
Mr Daniel Lockwood – classical scholar, philosopher and bachelor.
“Sooo, how d’you know you love ‘er?” slurred Rook at the miller’s son.
“Weeeelll,” slurred back the equally foxed miller’s son. “My Molly is bootiful, kind, and knows ‘ow to make the best stew. If I don’t snap her up, some other bugger will. She’s also got the best pair of apple dumpl –”
“Yes yes, but,” Rook interrupted, “you’re only nineteen.”
“Don’t matter what age yer are. Yer know when yer know.” Rook nodded at the wise words.
“I shouted at the woman I love today.” Slurping more beer, as he realised what he’d just said.
“Dus she love you?”
“Dunno,” garbled Rook incoherently. “Probably not now.”
“S’not like a tap – can’t just turn it off. Yers says things to each other: sad, ‘appy, angry. Don’t change wots in ‘ere.” With that pronouncement the miller’s son thumped his chest and fell off the stool backwards.
Rook stared down at him, as the boy was placed back on his chair and another tankard of ale placed in his hands. He had arrived at the village inn hoping for a quiet seat in the corner. However, the miller’s son was getting married on the morrow and full celebrations were taking place. Rook’s presence in the inn, although not a common occurrence, was a welcome one. He treated his tenants well, and at this happy occasion and after drinking three jugs of beer, any reticence between landlord and tenant had eased. His expensive coat and satin waistcoat were draped on the floor in the corner, and he’d already seen the pot boy go through the pockets.
So here he was, philosophising on love with the miller’s son, but it seemed the lad had a thing or two to teach him. Rook had not allowed himself to think on the way to the inn; he’d merely seethed. Sitting down, he realised what an unmitigated, total bastard he’d been.
The problem was, hehatedbeing pressured. Always had. It was why he did estate work early; why he always had a plan for events; why he controlled all his entertainments – including lovers.
If everything was done and thought of in advance, there was no pressure – it was all under control.
But Clara? She was outside of his realm of experience and to be surrounded by his smirking sister, that bloody Lady Minkworth and Clara’s dotty aunt – he couldn’t bear it. So, he had lashed out at them, but Clara was the one person who hadn’t pressured him. She had merely stood by him – an innocent to his unrestrained attack.
He knew, damn it, he knew that she never would have schemed to marry him. It wasn’t her way, and quite frankly, any man should be gloriously happy to be caught in a compromising position with Clara Lockwood.
All day he’d been so angry over Hardwicke, and he’d sought out Clara tonight because of her ability to soothe his anger. If all those nosy old cats, and he included his sister in that trio, hadn’t have come by, he expected he would now have been audaciously dancing a decadent waltz with Clara. Instead he was sitting here – trying to think of the best way to apologise.
A slap on the back made his face hit the table. “Don’t you worry m’lord, get ’er a nice posy or somefink. There’s some nice flowers by the church that you can filch, ’n the vicar don’t mind.”
Rook was about to say that sounded a splendid idea when, suddenly, he felt his arse leave the chair, and his back hit the opposite wall; the world churned, and he thought he may cast up his accounts.
“I have been looking for you everywhere. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you, chop you up into little pieces and then scatter them all over the estate – as I promised Clara.”
Rook looked at Jack – there were three of him. What was in that ale?
“He loves ’er,” interjected the miller’s son, stumbling over and spilling beer on Jack’s fine burgundy wool.
“It’s like wot ‘e said. I mean –” Rook shook his head, and then wished he hadn’t. “I love Clara Lockwood – happy? I will go and prostate myself at her feet tomorrow, begging for her forgiveness, her clemency and her hand. I would go tonight, but I’m likely to be sick on her feet.”
Jack wrinkled his nose at the thought and let Rook go. “Why in the hell did you call Clara scheming? It’s like calling you…mild-mannered, easy-going –”
“It would have been fine, if no-one had turned up. I’ve had a horrendous day, and then what with Hardwicke’s letter –”
“You know Clara is not like that,” Jack intervened, “And you can’t shout at someone, every time you have an unbearable day.”
“I know goddamn it. I just…I just wanted to hold Clara, but suddenly they were all there. Minkworth smirking, and you know how I hate not being in control of a situation.”
Jack sighed and removed his jacket, throwing it on top of Rook’s. “Well, I think I’d better join you. You will be pleased to know that Clara looked rather… calm when I left her. So you may still have a chance.”
“Told yer.” The miller’s son was swaying. “Not like a tap.” He went to knock his forehead and missed completely. He would have fallen, if not for the sudden throng of men that hoisted him onto their shoulders.
