three
Three months later
THE LIVELY MUSIC—a quadrille or a gallop, Keith couldn’t tell—echoed off the high-vaulted ceiling of the town’s communal hall. Christmas wreaths, tinsels, and branches of mistletoe hung from every corner. He’d never seen a room more lively and decorated. The bright colours were almost distracting.
He sipped his glass of mulled wine, watching the couples twirling around on the dance floor as those who weren’t dancing clapped their hands in rhythm with the music. He was happy to just watch and enjoy the show.
It was amazing what rest and good meals could do to the body. He’d been with Mr. Sharpe for only three months, but he’d never felt stronger. His broken rib had healed in a couple of weeks, and his muscles had grown. His clothes strained over his bulging muscles. Muscles! A novelty for him.
“I lit the stove in our room before coming here,” Paul, one of the stableboys, said. He was another novelty. Keith’s first friend. “So you won’t complain about the cold.”
“Thank you.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “You know, you must stop thanking me every two seconds. It’s annoying,” he quipped.
Keith elbowed him. “If it annoys you, then I’ll do it more often. Thank you.”
Paul laughed. “We’ll see in tomorrow’s boxing practice if you’ll thank me when I knock you out.”
“You have to hit me first.”
“I’ll hit you, all right.” Paul straightened his jacket, staring at a girl on the other side of the ballroom. “As much as I love chatting with you, I want to dance with a pretty lady.”
“Good luck.” Keith raised his glass as his friend winked at him, heading to the girl.
Keith walked around, careful not to spill his wine. Happy families danced and laughed together, and the sight didn’t bring the usual pang of loneliness into his chest.
He didn’t remember his father, but for the first time since he was born, he didn’t care. Mr. Sharpe showed him what it meant to have a father every day. Speaking of his benefactor.
Keith paused away from the loud music and the laughing crowd next to the set of double doors opening to the porch. Between the people dancing and the roaring log fire, the hall was so hot that a bit of fresh air was needed.
Mr. Sharpe stood right outside of the hall, talking with a man in a dark cloak, and Keith stepped closer to them. A thick scar crossed the stranger’s face, passing over the bridge of his nose. Whatever they discussed, it had to be a serious subject, judging by how tense their faces were. Mr. Sharpe beat a fist on his chest. The scarred man nodded, waving an arm.
Keith didn’t mean to eavesdrop on their conversation, but he remained still when the word ‘explosion’ reached his ears. The Fenians—the anarchists who wanted to affirm their principles with bombs—were the terror of the moment in London. Explosives were their bread and butter, and the police had warned the population to be careful and avoid crowded places and trains.
He chuckled bitterly. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. He heard the word explosion and immediately thought of the Fenians. He blamed his quick dark thoughts on the fact that his mother had been killed by a Fenians’ bomb when he was little. Something he didn’t remember either.
Mr. Sharpe was probably organising another fireworks show for Violante. As if sensing the attention, Mr. Sharpe met Keith’s gaze, and for the first time since moving to Sharpe Manor, a cold chill had set into Keith’s bones. Ridiculous. There was no man more honourable and kind than Mr. Sharpe. He was intense, yes, even dangerous, but not a Fenian.
Keith sucked in a breath when Mr. Sharpe walked to him. “Evening, sir.”
The harsh expression on Mr. Sharpe’s face vanished. “Keith, are you all right?”
He bowed his head. “Perfectly fine.” He caught a glimpse of the other man closing the doors and leaving quietly.
Mr. Sharpe gave Keith an assessing glance. “You have recovered more quickly than I thought. You’re strong, lad.”
“I have to thank you for that, sir, which reminds me…” He cleared his throat. “I’m ready to start doing more serious, heavy work. Anything. I can work in the fields and stables or help rebuild the old barn. Wherever you decide.”
He was eager to earn his keep. After weeks of doing nothing but eat, rest, wander Sharpe Manor as if it were a hotel, and help in the kitchen and with the housework, he wanted to return the favour and make himself useful before Mr. Sharpe decided he wasn’t good enough.
Mr. Sharpe smiled. “I’m not going to kick you out. I’m your physician as well as your employer. I know when my patient is ready to do heavy work.”
“I can do more than light chores or peel potatoes. I wouldn’t mind working in the barley field.”
Laughing, Mr. Sharpe raised his glass. “After Christmas, I’ll find something for you.”
Keith hadn’t realised how desperately he wanted to do some real work until Mr. Sharpe said yes. “Thank you. You won’t be disappointed. I’m a hard worker and?—”
