Probably nothing, Bear concluded as he hastened his steps, leaping the puddles on his way to the door. When he burst in the door, not bothering to knock, he heard the sound of a slap, and Miss Pelman’s voice hissing, “Keep your mouth shut, you filthy old man, or you’ll get another one.”
Bear slowed so he could ghost up the stairs, setting each foot down gently but with all haste until he stood in the shadows of the hall, peering into the room where Miss Pelman bent threateningly over the bed where Neatham cowered. The stink of bodily wastes filled the room, and Bear’s heart turned over with pity.
In the corner, Mrs Able snored, an empty gin bottle lying on its side by her feet. The fire he’d lit the night before was nothing but embers, but the room was warm enough.
“I won’t be cleaning you up, and don’t you think it,” Miss Pelman told him. “Even that fool Gavenor wouldn’t expect it of me. Now eat this breakfast so I can tell him I’ve looked after you.”
“I want my Rosie,” Neatham whimpered.
“Your Rosie is dead, and a good thing too,” Miss Pelman told him. “She was a whore like her sister, and so is her daughter. Hah! Try to hit me, would you? Take that!”
Before she could return Neatham’s ineffectual swing with a blow of her own, Bear moved swiftly into the room and grabbed her raised hand.
“No, Miss Pelman,” he said.
She turned, twisting under his restraining hand, perhaps more quickly than she intended because her face was still contorted in rage before she consciously smoothed it into a polite smile. “Why, Mr Gavenor. I did not expect you. Have you walked all the way here again? How conscientious you are. I do admire a responsible man.” The simper she tried looked utterly out of place on her face.
“Miss Pelman, I suggest you leave.” He managed to hold on to his temper, but only just.
“Leave, Mr Gavenor? But I was giving Mr Neatham his breakfast. I am sorry to say that Mrs Able is indisposed, and I was sure you would wish me to help out.” She assayed a smile.
Bear took a deep breath. “I have been listening to you abuse this poor, sick man, and I want you out of here.”
“Out,” Mr Neatham agreed. “Not you, lad. Pelman’s little girl, if that’s who she really is. You can stay, whatever-your-name-is. You’re the boy who was here yesterday. Lord Hurley’s valet. You helped me get dressed.”
Miss Pelman opened her mouth to object, but Bear took a step away from her and roared, “Out!” She jumped and scurried toward the door, saying over her shoulder, “You are making a bad mistake, Mr Gavenor.”
Left alone with Mr Neatham and the sleeping Mrs Able, Bear regarded Mr Neatham carefully. Now what?
“Lad,” Mr Neatham said, his voice dropping into a confidential whisper, “Lad, I have a bit of a problem. Hurley and I—we must have dipped a bit deep last night, and I’m afraid I’ve… Things are a bit of a mess, and my legs don’t seem to want to work.”
It would not be the first time he’d served a friend so. “That’s all right, Mr Neatham. We’ll have you cleaned up and comfortable in no time.”
He’d left a bucket of water in the fireplace, and when he checked, it remained half full of warm water. Good enough. Now for some rags to wash the old man, and clean clothes to change him into.
Mr Neatham, happy with his own explanation for Bear’s presence, chatted cheerfully while Bear washed him. “You’re a big fellow. Haven’t been a valet for long, have you? Army, I’m guessing?”
“You would be right, sir. I’ve been army since I was a boy.”
“You’re doing very well, mind,” Neatham reassured him. “And Hurley’s a good man to serve. Pays well, and reasonable in what he asks. What’s your name, lad? I didn’t quite catch it.”
Perhaps the poor soul would retain a simpler name. “Most people call me Bear, sir.” Even his own family, back in the dim past, when he’d been a child. In fact, the nickname had been bestowed by his sister, two years his elder and shorter than him, before he was out of skirts. His mother had told him so, many times. “She called you Bear, because you were big and slow and clumsy. You still are, Bear.”
Mr Neatham accepted the nickname with a grin that took years off his age. “Bear, is it? Well, I can see why, a big fellow like you.”
The rain had set in again before Bear arrived back at Rose Cottage. He’d told the innkeeper’s son, Georgie, whom he’d hired with the gig, the same vague story about Miss Neatham staying in the place where she’d been injured, adding that he’d offered to make sure Neatham was cared for, and was taking the man back to Rose Cottage where Bear’s servants would see to him.
The fabrication was not quite a cloak of respectability, but it was the best he could do, and spoilt as soon as they drew up at the cottage and Miss Neatham looked out the window of the parlour.
With one eye on Georgie, who was attending to the horses, he made shooing motions, and she withdrew into the shadows.
He carried Neatham into the house, taking him into the study and settling him on a couch.
“You make yourself comfortable, Mr Neatham. I’ll just finish bringing in the luggage.”
The journey had tired the old man, and his eyelids drooped even as Bear left the room. Good. Now, if Miss Neatham could contain her impatience for a short while longer, they might brush through.
Georgie stood in the entrance hall, gaping around, holding the first of the bags and pillowcases that Bear had stuffed with as many of the Neathams’ possessions as he could find. They would not be going back to that hovel, if he had anything to say about it, and he expected the neighbours, starting with Mrs Able, to lift anything not nailed down as soon as he left the shack.
“Just put them in the corner, Georgie. My man will sort them later.”
The illusion of a house full of servants was probably a lost cause, now that Georgie had set foot inside. He could only hope the youth was both stupid and suggestible.
They trudged in and out of the rain, until the gig was offloaded, and the pathetic heap of belongings sat dripping in its own puddle in the corner.
“Thank you.” Bear handed over the agreed florin, and Georgie took it, bit it, and put it away somewhere about his person. He then put out his hand again.
“Bit more to it, Mr Gavenor, weren’t there? Reckon another of those would be fair.”
“You have what we agreed, Georgie. I’ve paid your father for the horse and gig, and a florin to you to drive it.”
Bear’s scowl didn’t bother the boy. “Thing is, Mr Gavenor, I reckon you don’t want me telling folks what I saw as I drove up. Who I saw, I should say. I reckon that’s worth another florin.”
In a moment, the lad was up against the wall, dangling by the throat from Bear’s large hand. “I don’t pay blackmail, young man. You will keep your tongue between your teeth, or I shall find you and rip it out. Do we understand one another?”
He dropped the lad, who choked an agreement and scurried out the door.
Bear sighed. There was not a snowball’s chance in hell that young Georgie would keep the titillating piece of gossip to himself. Bear shrugged. He could do nothing about it.