Page 22 of It Takes Two to Tumble
The dooryard contained none of the usual bustle Phillip was accustomed to seeing at even the smallest farmsteads. A few chickens wandered by an overgrown vegetable garden. The gate had rot off a small pen, perhaps explaining why there was no longer any pig in residence.
After delivering a civil greeting, Phillip said, “I came to speak with Mr. Farleigh about drawing up papers for the lease of your land.”
She didn’t move out of the doorway, and Phillip thought he saw her forehead wrinkle beneath her large white cap. “He’s in bed, and there’s no chance of his getting out of it, not in this state. But I’ll tell him you called.” She took a step backward into the house.
This, Phillip understood, was a dismissal. “What I have to say is very much to his advantage,” he called. He saw the paint peeling from the door, the torn seam of the woman’s sleeve, and knew they could use any extra money that could be scraped together. And if what the steward had said was correct and Mr. Farleigh wasn’t likely to live much longer, it was imperative that they get matters settled as soon as possible. “If I could talk to him for just a few moments. I promise not to overtax him.”
“Tax, indeed. Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” With these cryptic words, she stepped aside with obvious reluctance and gestured inside the house as if to say that Phillip could have his way if he insisted.
“I assure you,” he repeated, “this agreement would be very much to your benefit.”
Her rheumy eyes looked skeptically at him. “I don’t suppose I have any reason to believe you mean to bleed us dry,” she said, “but that’s what seems to be happening lately.”
Ah, so that’s what this was about. “I have no intention of treating my tenants as Easterbrook does his,” Phillip said. “You have the leasehold of this property for another ten years, according to the land steward. So even if I were inclined to raise your rent, which I am not, I couldn’t.”
The old woman’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “My brother had another five years left on his leasehold, and that’s what he told Sir Martin’s land agent when he came to demand a rent increase. Sent the land agent away with a flea in his ear. Next he knows, his grandson is brought before the magistrate for poaching.”
Phillip’s eyebrows shot up at this mention of poaching. “Surely that’s a coincidence,” he protested.
“Oh, come now. You know better than that.” She shook her head. “Sit here by the fire until the vicar comes out, then you can go in.”
“The vicar?” Phillip asked stupidly.
“Aye, Mr. Sedgwick is here to do whatever he does with invalids. Pray, I suppose. Mr. Farleigh is always in a cheerful state when the vicar leaves. So sit by the fire and make yourself comfortable, I suppose.”
She went into the kitchen and shut the door loudly behind her. Phillip had no interest in sitting by the fire. It was a warm day and the parlor was stuffy and close. But he sat anyway, because he’d be damned if he’d disobey a woman as old as Mrs. Farleigh. As he sat back against a chair that smelled of must and long-dead lavender, he heard Sedgwick’s voice. He knew he shouldn’t lean closer to hear, but he did so anyway.
Sedgwick’s voice was low, and Phillip couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. But the rhythm of the man’s speech suggested a prayer. Or, was he singing? A hymn, then, perhaps. It was an unwelcome reminder that the man he had touched and kissed was part of an institution that disapproved of everything they had done and everything Phillip most wanted to do.
Then Phillip heard a phrase that didn’t make sense in either a prayer or a hymn. Something about a blacksmith and his forge? What the devil was Sedgwick up to in there? He leaned even closer, so his ear was all but pressed against the rough wood of the door. Now he could make out individual words.
“Six times did his iron by vigorous heating grow soft in her forge in a minute or so...”
It was a bawdy drinking song. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the shocked laughter that threatened to burble out.
“And as often was hardened, still beating and beating, but each time it softened it hardened more slow.”
Phillip managed to get outside before he was overcome by laughter. Then, leaning against the crumbling stone of the woodshed, he laughed until his sides hurt and he thought he might be sick. The dog pulled at his rope and whimpered, plainly thinking something was deeply wrong with this human. He bent forward, bracing his hands on his thighs, and tried to catch his breath. He hadn’t laughed in so long, he felt out of practice.
“Dare I even ask what’s gotten into you out here?” It was Sedgwick, of course, hands in his pockets and an amused expression on his face.
“Well you might. Did my ears deceive me or were you truly serenading that poor old man with a song in highly questionable taste?”
“Oh dear.” He looked decidedly sheepish. “Nobody was meant to hear that.”
“I should damned well think not.” Phillip straightened up. “‘A Lusty Young Smith,’ good God.” He started a fresh peal of laughter and had to wipe tears from his eyes. “‘He’s always in such a cheerful state when the vicar leaves,’” he managed, quoting the old man’s wife. “I can see why.”
Sedgwick frowned. “Poor old Mr. Farleigh hasn’t much time left, I’m afraid, and if bawdy songs amuse him, then who am I to be disobliging?”
“I thought you were praying,” Phillip sputtered.
Sedgwick was silent for a beat. “Mr. Farleigh doesn’t go in much for that sort of thing. He says he prays in his own way and doesn’t need my assistance. But he likes being reminded of his youth. The last of his friends died years ago, and he hasn’t anyone to reminisce with. I don’t feel the songs do anyone harm. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few other people to visit this morning.” He turned away.
Realizing that Sedgwick was serious, and that he had interpreted Phillip’s laughter as scorn, Phillip tried to compose himself. “I didn’t mean to mock you.” He took a step nearer and put a restraining hand on Sedgwick’s sleeve. “You were kind, Sedgwick. I’m sure you did the old man good.”
“I try to do what’s right.” Sedgwick looked pained. It was such an uncharacteristic expression for the man that Phillip was momentarily taken aback. He instinctively brought his hand up to touch the vicar’s face. Sedgwick’s eyes went wide, but he didn’t pull away. His lips parted a little and Phillip felt his own heart speed up. They were alone in a corner of the neglected farmyard, invisible to any passersby, but Phillip glanced hastily over his shoulder anyway.
“You’re so good,” Phillip murmured. “So good.” He pushed a lock of hair off Sedgwick’s forehead, wanting to see his entire face, needing to watch for any signs of hesitation or distaste. Nothing. Sedgwick’s face was open, willing. Wanting. Phillip threaded his fingers through Sedgwick’s hair, bringing his hand to cup the back of his head. They were only a few inches apart, and almost the same height, and all it would have taken was a single fraction of a step forward and they would be kissing. Not even a step, just a sway, a mere leaning in the right direction. Phillip felt like it was taking more effort tonotbend towards Sedgwick than it would take to simply give in.
