Page 42 of Indecently Daring

Harry tried to remember what he’d come into the kitchen for. An anxious, panicky sensation thrummed beneath his skin and he needed to calm it. He wanted a drink. No. No, he definitely didn’t. He must get a grip. “What, Jeb?”

“Your coat, you taking it off? And do you want tea? You all right, Harry? I mean, Reverend.”

“Harry,” he corrected, for it was important. “Call me Harry.”

“Right you are, Harry. You want tea, then?”

His chest suddenly tight, Harry shook his head. “No, Jeb I’m… I’m going out.”

“Now? Do you have to? You don’t look good, and it’ll be dark afore long. Where you off to, anyhow?”

“To see an old friend. Help yourself to supper. There’s soup and some good bread. Cheese, too. You eat, and don’t wait up. All right, Jeb?”

“If you say so, Harry, but are you sure you’re all right? Perhaps you’re sick. You look a bit sweaty and pasty.”

Harry forced a smile and nodded. “I’m fine, Jeb, or at least, I will be. I’ll see you later.”

Chapter 13

Yes.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Emmeline Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight) to The Most Hon’ble Leander Steyning, The Marquess of Wrexham.

Still the evening of the 22nd of January 1845, Lewes, Sussex.

By the time Harry arrived at his destination, it was well after six. It was an inconvenient time to be calling, but he was too desperate for niceties, and he hoped he’d be forgiven for the lateness of the hour.

He could hear irritated muttering behind the door as the housekeeper bustled towards it, and then the clink of keys and slide of the bolt.

“Yes?” she demanded, peering out into the dark at him.

“Mrs Potter, I beg you will forgive me—”

“Harry? That you, lad? Well, I’m blowed. Come in, come in. Hurry now, don’t let all the good warm air out.”

She ushered him inside and the door closed, a curtain drawn swiftly across to keep out the draughts.

“Well, this is a nice surprise. The reverend will be that pleased to see you. We were only talking about you yesterday, too, wondering how you were going on.”

“Speak of the devil,” Harry said wryly, following her up the gloomy corridor and towards something that he dared to hope smelled gloriously like Mrs Potter’s famous steak-and-kidney pie.

“Pffft. Devil, my eye,” she muttered, opening the kitchen door. “Look who it is, Mr Bidewell, the good Lord heard your prayers for our favourite young fellow, and here he be.”

“Harry! Harry, my boy!”

Harry smiled, feeling a sense of relief and homecoming in the warmth of his greeting, the like of which he’d never known elsewhere. Here was belonging, a place where he was valued for himself alone, not his association with a grand family, for his name, for his connections or his money… not that he’d had any of those since his fall from grace.

“Good evening, Mr Bidewell,” Harry said, hurrying to greet the old man before he could cross the room, for his rheumatism pained him of an evening. He embraced the old man, who thumped him on the back with enthusiasm.

“Michael, you stubborn fellow. How many times? We’re as good as family, so none of this Mr Bidewell nonsense.”

“Ah, well, then it is good to see you, Michael. You look well. Sprightly, in fact,” Harry said, which was true enough.

He was a sparse fellow, with sparkling eyes and a way of tipping his head sideways when he was thinking that always put Harry in mind of blackbirds listening for worms. His hair was white and fluffy as thistledown, giving him a rather startled aspect which led some people to think he was forgetful and vague. He wasn’t. The old man was sharp as a tack and the wisest person Harry had ever known. Harry owed him his life, and that was the plain truth.

“Sit down, sit down, my boy, and let me look at you.”

Those intelligent dark eyes gave Harry a considering look, his expression becoming one of concern. “Harry will dine with me, Mrs Potter,” he said, without consulting Harry.