“I’m thinking about where to put stuff,” the child answered as he pointed at the rocks and sticks. “Wheat. Sheep. This ’ere is the hill, and that…” He pointed to his shoe. “That’s the peat bog. It’s wet ’ere, which is good in summer, but—”
“Spring would drown the seeds—”
“Yes, an—”
That was as far as the conversation went before the lad’s father started bellowing for a drink. The words didn’t matter. Fury filled the little home while Anne and her two boys fretted in silence.
“You can’t have naught but water,” Anne said as she crossed into the bedroom. “His lordship says—”
The foul curse words that followed should have set Anne to blushing, but she simply whimpered and looked to him. After all, Daniel was the one who had said no, so it was up to him to silence the man’s howling.
He squeezed Jory’s shoulder and straightened up, going to speak to the drunken lout that would have been tossed off the land years ago if Daniel had had a say in it. But this was his late brother’s land—now in his son’s hands—and Daniel hadn’t had control until now.
The room stank and the arse in the bed was the source. “Good God, did you piss yourself?” he asked, already knowing the answer. He closed his ears to the stream of abuse he endured from the man’s mouth. Instead, he stepped back out to grab Anne. “I’m going to take him down to the river and wash him. Do what you can inside here while I’m gone.”
“What? But he ain’t strong enough. He’s had a cough these last days. Says it’s the Witch Woman who cursed him.”
“The Woman in the Woods is no more a witch than I am,” he snapped. The belief in witches ran deep in Cornwall, and he hated the ignorance of it all. “There’s no curse. Just a drunk who blames everyone else for his problems.”
“He don’t mean what he says.”
“He does and a whole lot worse.” He looked down at the boy who would need to grow up much too fast. “Jory, bring the soap and a brush, plus fresh clothes. I can’t carry that and your father by myself.”
The boy nodded and scrambled away. Amazing how quickly the entire family managed to ignore the filth still bellowing from the bedroom. The man was definitely on the mend, as his voice had power, but it sputtered and died when Daniel stepped into the bedroom and spoke in a low, threatening tone.
“I’m going to carry you to the cart, Bob, and then we’re going to wash the piss off you—”
“Go to the devil!” the man bellowed as he swung weakly with his right fist. It was a slow swing with even less force behind it. Daniel caught it and squeezed until the man yelped.
“Swing at me again, Bob, and I’ll leave you in the river to drown with nobody to miss you. I spent the last three days fixing things you ought to have done afore now—”
“Damned nestle bird. Everything were better when yer brother was alive!”
So he’d heard all his life. His brother Peder had been the flashy, titled earl. Daniel was the usurper “nestle bird” who helped work the fields, mend the fences, and plan the crops. Until he’d gotten tired of it and decided to put his love of art to work for him. Prinny himself had lavished praise on Daniel for discovering a treasure trove of Greek urns, one of which had been gifted to the Prince Regent. But that never changed the endless diatribe of abuse he got from those he helped the most. “Too bad Peder isn’t here to help you. He’s as dead as your busted leg right now.”
Peder had died seven months ago leaving behind a wife and two boys, none of whom was equipped to manage the estate. So Daniel had returned home, going back to working the fields, mending the fences, and ordering the crops all on behalf of his nephew Stefan, the new earl. Which meant that he had to deal with the likes of Bob Mellin.
“I take care of what’s my own,” the man sulked.
“The hell you do. Annie was a lively woman once. You’ve beat that out of her. Jory’s bright as a new penny, but he’s going to be trapped here cleaning up after you. You’re a miserable sot, but God gave you a gift in this broken leg. You get sober while you’re mending, and you do the things that a man does.”
More curses in a banal circle of repetition. Daniel lifted him out of bed and didn’t feel sorry when he jostled Bob’s leg hard enough to make him scream. The leg was set between three pieces of wood tied tight with rags. It was safe so long as Daniel didn’t do any of the murderous thoughts that churned through his brain.
He was none too gentle as he dropped Bob into the cart and then rode to the nearby stream. He barely held back his contempt when he scrubbed the idiot raw because the bastard couldn’t manage it himself. Soon the humiliation was too much, and Bob crumpled to his side and sobbed like a child. Daniel was at a loss then. Bob was in pain, obviously, but Daniel had little sympathy for an adult who drank himself into a stupor every day and then blamed witches that his life was a mess.
He stood to the side and left Bob to cry it out. As it was taking a while, he eventually settled on the side of the stream next to Jory.
“This is what drink does to a man,” he said to the boy. “You’ve got a good mind, Jory. One I mean to help if I can. Don’t let yourself turn into this.”
Jory said nothing beyond a sober nod, and suddenly he felt a fierce kinship with the child. No one would likely ever see or appreciate whatever Jory did to help his family, and yet this quiet child would probably keep his entire family from starving. Especially since the boy was whip-smart and willing to work.
“A man does the work that needs to be done,” he said softly. “That’s all. Don’t look to anyone else to see it or love you for it. It won’t happen—”
“I’ll see that the work gets done,” Jory said, and Daniel could hear a man’s strength inside his tiny body.
“And I’ll see that you get help doing it.” A vow between the two of them sealed when they shook hands. And then they turned back to Bob who had begun to shiver.
It was time to dry him and take him home. It was full dark by then and Bob was exhausted, so it was a little like dressing a large rag doll. Jory helped, and Daniel mourned that any child should see his father like this. But better he see it and be warned than become it.
