Costessey had most times been in shirtsleeves, and one memorably hot summer Philip had seen him stripped to the waist, his tanned back gleaming with sweat. Costessey had exerted a sort of repellent fascination upon Philip’s adolescent mind; he’d been such an earthy, virile man, with a knowing glint in his eye even as he tipped his hat to the young master. A favorite with the maidservants, who’d whispered and giggled about him, for all that he was a married man.
Drayton hadn’t shared their fondness for Costessey. For as long as Philip could remember, the gamekeeper had been after first Philip’s father, and then Philip himself, to have the man sacked and his young family turned off the estate. “Costesseys! Thieves and poachers, the lot of ’em!” he’d muttered sourly to anyone willing to listen. To the young Philip, Drayton’s tales of an inveterate poacher always one step ahead of his would-be nemesis had only increased the man’s allure. Lord, he’d been such an innocent in those days.
Flinging himself out of his chair, Philip began to pace. It’d been a bad business about Costessey’s death. Philip had been away when it had happened, his aunt having pressured him to spend some time with her in the West Country for his health. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea, to be away from the estate during a season that held such painful memories for him, but it had been a disaster. The bleak scenery of Dartmoor had only deepened his melancholy, and he’d felt inexplicably guilty for leaving the estate—more so when he’d returned to hear of Costessey’s death.
From what he’d heard, Costessey had suffered some injury to the leg around harvest-time. The wound had festered, and Costessey had been dead by All Souls Day, leaving his wife with five children aged from fifteen down to one and no source of income. Philip had given instructions that she be let off rent for the quarter, but still, young Daniel must have had to step into the breach. And now, it seemed, the son had taken on the mantle of the father in the poaching business as well. Philip supposed he should feel angry at the man for stealing from him, but damn it, what difference did a few rabbits here or there make to him ? He’d long thought Drayton overzealous in the performance of his duties, but he’d no grounds to give the man notice, so he’d just let things be.
These last few years, he’d let most things be.
Suddenly tired, Philip sank back into his chair. Thank God Drayton hadn’t let his feelings about poachers dissuade him from his Christian duty to help the afflicted. Philip couldn’t have borne it if the young man had died on the estate, which he yet might, for all he knew, Philip recollected. Slamming down his whisky untasted, he strode to the door and flung it open, forestalling Standish who was walking towards it. “Standish? Is the doctor here yet?”
“No, sir, but they’re bringing the young man in now.”
Philip swallowed as he watched the men carry in the limp form of Daniel Costessey. He looked as pale as death, save for the shockingly bright red blood that marred one temple. His clothes were threadbare and torn, and by the looks of them, wet through. How long had he lain in the snow, all alone in the darkness? Philip’s jaw clenched.
“Sir,” Standish murmured in his ear. “I will see to it that the young man is well cared for. You need not trouble yourself further. I’m sure you wish to retire—”
“No!” Philip winced a little at the unwarranted sharpness of his tone. “No, I’ll wait to speak with the doctor, after he’s examined the poor boy.”
Standish glanced at him but merely gave a polite, “As you wish, sir,” and went off, presumably to be useful in some capacity.
Philip found he rather envied the man.
* * *
Dr. Newton was a dour, dapper man in his fifties, entirely too sharp-eyed for Philip’s peace of mind. He gave his report as to the patient’s injuries, which
Drayton hadn’t shared their fondness for Costessey. For as long as Philip could remember, the gamekeeper had been after first Philip’s father, and then Philip himself, to have the man sacked and his young family turned off the estate. “Costesseys! Thieves and poachers, the lot of ’em!” he’d muttered sourly to anyone willing to listen. To the young Philip, Drayton’s tales of an inveterate poacher always one step ahead of his would-be nemesis had only increased the man’s allure. Lord, he’d been such an innocent in those days.
Flinging himself out of his chair, Philip began to pace. It’d been a bad business about Costessey’s death. Philip had been away when it had happened, his aunt having pressured him to spend some time with her in the West Country for his health. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea, to be away from the estate during a season that held such painful memories for him, but it had been a disaster. The bleak scenery of Dartmoor had only deepened his melancholy, and he’d felt inexplicably guilty for leaving the estate—more so when he’d returned to hear of Costessey’s death.
From what he’d heard, Costessey had suffered some injury to the leg around harvest-time. The wound had festered, and Costessey had been dead by All Souls Day, leaving his wife with five children aged from fifteen down to one and no source of income. Philip had given instructions that she be let off rent for the quarter, but still, young Daniel must have had to step into the breach. And now, it seemed, the son had taken on the mantle of the father in the poaching business as well. Philip supposed he should feel angry at the man for stealing from him, but damn it, what difference did a few rabbits here or there make to him ? He’d long thought Drayton overzealous in the performance of his duties, but he’d no grounds to give the man notice, so he’d just let things be.
These last few years, he’d let most things be.
Suddenly tired, Philip sank back into his chair. Thank God Drayton hadn’t let his feelings about poachers dissuade him from his Christian duty to help the afflicted. Philip couldn’t have borne it if the young man had died on the estate, which he yet might, for all he knew, Philip recollected. Slamming down his whisky untasted, he strode to the door and flung it open, forestalling Standish who was walking towards it. “Standish? Is the doctor here yet?”
“No, sir, but they’re bringing the young man in now.”
Philip swallowed as he watched the men carry in the limp form of Daniel Costessey. He looked as pale as death, save for the shockingly bright red blood that marred one temple. His clothes were threadbare and torn, and by the looks of them, wet through. How long had he lain in the snow, all alone in the darkness? Philip’s jaw clenched.
“Sir,” Standish murmured in his ear. “I will see to it that the young man is well cared for. You need not trouble yourself further. I’m sure you wish to retire—”
“No!” Philip winced a little at the unwarranted sharpness of his tone. “No, I’ll wait to speak with the doctor, after he’s examined the poor boy.”
Standish glanced at him but merely gave a polite, “As you wish, sir,” and went off, presumably to be useful in some capacity.
Philip found he rather envied the man.
* * *
Dr. Newton was a dour, dapper man in his fifties, entirely too sharp-eyed for Philip’s peace of mind. He gave his report as to the patient’s injuries, which
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