Page 66 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
“It was meant to be a surprise,” Kate said. “Hartley kept you out of the way.”
“Three bob, Mrs. Fox,” Nick said.
She fished around in her pocket and slapped some coins onto the table. “That’s two and six. I’ll make up the balance in trade.” Then Kate laughed at her own joke while Nick stammered and Sam pretended not to understand, but as he walked back to the Fox he caught himself whistling.
Empty of furnishings, the house on Brook Street seemed to have lost some of its power. The kitchen was stark and lacking without the big iron range, which Hartley had hired a man to cart off to the Fox. The shiny copper pots and pans were in crates by the door, along with the few belongings Hartley had packed up. He had been surprised by how little he wanted to take with him: a few changes of clothes, some fine linen sheets, a looking glass, a few odds and ends. Everything else had already been sent to the auctioneer.
He had been prepared to spend the rest of his life in this house, among objects that had belonged to a life he hadn’t chosen. Now, a few weeks before his twenty-fourth birthday, he had a chance to start fresh, a chance to live a life that meant something, a chance to let go of everything this house had once meant to him. Stripped to the floorboards, though, it was just a house. Nothing but bricks and wood and plaster. Memories didn’t live in a place, but in a person, and Hartley, now that he had a future, was at peace with his own past. Alf had said that the house was haunted, but it had been his own mind that was beset by dark spirits.
As if to prove him wrong, there came a thumping sound from the attic. Hartley supposed some enterprising squirrels had decided to winter in one of the old box rooms. He decided to inspect the situation for himself, partly to prove to himself that he was above any base superstition.
He rarely had cause to go to the attics, especially in the dead of winter. Dark and dusty places were in general not Hartley’s idea of fun, even less so when they were almost certainly crawling with vermin. So he was feeling rather put upon when he pushed open the door. Chasing squirrels out of his property was not what he had planned to do this afternoon.
Later, he’d wonder if he had known all along what he’d find in the attic, if he had known from the moment he had found the paintings behind the loose piece of paneling. But at that instant, when he saw the man standing in the center of the space, his first thought was that Alf had been correct in supposing the attic haunted. For here was a spirit of a man with shaggy hair and a great unkempt beard. Then his eyes adjusted and he saw that it was Martin Easterbrook.
His first thought was to wish that he had Sam with him. His second thought was that he ought to flee. Martin didn’t look like he was in fighting form, and surely Hartley could reach the street before him. He could pretend he had never seen Martin. He could leave the new occupants to deal with Martin as they might.
But then he took in the full extent of Martin’s haggard appearance, his sallow complexion, the bloodstained handkerchief in his hand, his thinness. He again wished he had Sam with him; not to keep him safe, because it was plain Martin posed no threat to anyone, but because Sam would know the right thing to do.
Hartley didn’t know whether Martin had been behind the gossip that had gotten him cast out of society. Perhaps it had been Philpott. Or perhaps somebody from his godfather’s old set had spoken up. At the moment it didn’t matter.
“You’re not going to ask what I’m doing here?” Martin asked. He looked terrible. Hartley supposed living in unheated attics was not generally beneficial to one’s health, but Martin looked positively sickly. Hartley found that he was very nearly concerned.
“It’s quite clear what you’re doing here,” Hartley said, gesturing at their surroundings. There was a pallet bed, a few candle stubs, and a pile of apple cores. “I daresay you have nowhere else to go, or at least that’s what you’ve told yourself. You will need to seek other accommodations, but we’ll discuss that in a moment. First, I’m going to need you to come with me.”
Martin didn’t respond. He only coughed into a dirty handkerchief.
Hartley sighed. “For God’s sake, take this.” He handed Martin his own handkerchief.
They went out the front door and Hartley hailed a hackney. When he gave the driver the address, Martin startled, as if he wanted to jump out of the carriage. “Don’t do it,” Hartley said coolly. “I don’t think you’d survive the fall.” Hartley paid the driver and they set off down a series of insalubrious lanes and climbed a rickety staircase. At first there was no answer to Hartley’s knock, but then he heard footsteps. Will answered the door and turned so pale that Hartley regretted not breaking the news to his brother more gently.
“I thought you were dead,” Will said, and proceeded to punch Martin solidly in the jaw.
All three of them stood in shocked silence for a moment, Martin rubbing his jaw, Will looking between his fist and Martin as if unsure how they had connected, and Hartley edging between them to prevent any further fisticuffs, as if he even knew how. Then Hartley cleared his throat. “Well. Didn’t anticipate that. Martin, I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but here’s five quid if you want to find someplace to stay that doesn’t put you into proximity with a man who means you harm.” He dug into his coin purse and picked out five pound coins. When he held his hand out to Martin, the other man waved him away, so he slid the coins into the outer pocket of Martin’s exceedingly dirty coat.
When Hartley went downstairs, the hackney had already left, and there was no chance of finding another in this quarter. He thought he ought to feel more than he did after seeing Martin, but as he walked back to the Fox he felt only pity for Martin and compassion for Will. The events of the past felt remote, not quite irrelevant but not important either. The snow was falling again, and soon he would be in his new home, starting his new life, with the man he loved.
Epilogue
It was snowing, so the flagstone floors of the Fox were growing slippery despite everyone’s best efforts to stomp their boots at the door. But somebody was playing a fiddle and the smell of roasting meat filled the taproom, making the pub feel like an island of warmth and merriment in the middle of a winter storm.
Hartley was at his customary table, a stack of papers and an inkwell before him. He absently rocked Charlotte’s cradle with one foot.
“When do you think he’ll be done?” Alf asked.
“He’s only been working on it for a month,” Sam pointed out.
“Yeah, but how long can it take to write a play? It only takes two hours to act it out.”
“I wouldn’t mention that to Hartley, if I were you,” Sam said, and handed Alf a tray of drinks to bring around. Then he poured a cup of coffee and brought it to Hartley’s table along with a roll.
“Thank you,” Hartley said, slipping a morsel of the roll under the table to Daisy.
“How’s our evil count?”
“Insufferable.” Hartley glanced up with a light in his eye. He was looking slightly scruffy these days, having disposed of his finest garments and adopted a style that he probably thought more suited to a working man. Sam didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. “He’s being very dastardly indeed. I think it’ll be entirely amusing.”
When Hartley had said that he meant to stand on his own two feet, Sam hadn’t thought he had anything particular in mind, but it turned out that Hartley had meant to write a play. It was a rare treat, watching Hartley work, watching him find his footing. He had thought Hartley set such store by being a gentleman, but he seemed to enjoy his scribbling. Perhaps idleness, like pricey clothes, was another aspect of gentlemanliness he was glad to be shot of.
