With the woman gone, he allowed his shoulders to fall along with his pleasant expression. He faced the barn, scowling at his new quarters. Though he had made the choice to return to Bramble Cottage, it did not sit easy with him.
Neil had already put his belongings in the loft above, including a straw-stuffed mattress Mrs. Godwin had provided from some unknown corner of the house. How would a mattress stuffed with the dry hay prove any more comfortable than a pile of the stuff? Neil had the pillow from before, the mattress, two quilts, and his satchel.
He climbed up, somewhat awkwardly with the oil lamp in one hand. He put the lamp on the floor and stripped off his boots, trousers, and the cloth about his neck. The night was warm enough, he laid down on top of the blankets with one arm behind his head.
He put out the lantern, and moments later heard the soft footfalls of a small animal.
“Mew.” The cat had found its way up into the loft. It crept over to Neil, and he stretched out a hand where he heard the little one purring.
“Not in the mood to hunt mice yet, Puss?” Neil asked as the creature first sniffed at his fingers, then rubbed against his knuckles. “We both will have to work to earn our keep. I suppose that makes us partners, for now.”
The cat came closer and curled against Neil’s side, purring all the while. At least the creature did not seem to have fleas. Neil released a sigh and stared above, into the blackness.
Work the next day might well expel the more troubling concerns in his head. If he worked himself into exhaustion, sleep would come more easily than it did at present.
The only pleasant thought he could pick from all that flew through his mind was that Mrs. Clapham found him handsome. While she was not the first, it was certainly gratifying to know he still held some allure, even in his disheveled state. More amusing still, she was upset by whatever attraction he held for her. Why?
It was a pity, really. He had nothing to leverage from the widow. Her interest in him, whether or not she fought it, meant nothing. She had nothing he wanted, other than the shelter she had already given, and he had nothing to offer her. There were no games to play, no politics, nothing to win or lose. She was beneath him, socially, and he had no interest in romantic entanglements.
But watching her blush had been gratifying. Amusing.
Perhaps he might distract himself from his problems through more than the work of a farmhand.
Chapter Eight
Teresa paced the length of the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil for coffee. In her hand, she held a precious scrap of paper to write out, in pencil, all that she hoped Mr. Duncan to accomplish. Even if he was unfamiliar with farm work.
Mr. Duncan was tall enough, and appeared healthy enough, to perform physically demanding tasks that would be nearly impossible for her to accomplish on her own.
Her mother’s voice startled her. “You are up early.”
Teresa turned, hoping she did not appear as tired as she felt. “I suppose it was difficult to sleep, given our change in fortune.” Though no money had appeared in their purses overnight, every task Mr. Duncan accomplished was one less for her to worry about, and something she did not have to pay another to do for her.
Mother raised her dark eyebrows, then shrugged and went to retrieve cups for the coffee. She put three upon the table. “Where will you direct Mr. Duncan first?”
Teresa put the paper on the table, smoothing it flat. “Cleaning out the entirety of the barn, the chicken coop, and chopping wood.”
“Ambitious. But they are simple enough, I suppose, even for a man unused to the work.” Mother lifted the list. “You wish for him to prune the cherry trees?”
“When I spoke to Mr. Putnam about the trees last month, he said to remove dead limbs as quickly as possible, or we could lose a whole tree. Now that the cherries are all growing, it is easier for me to tell which branches need to be pruned.”
Mother nodded and continued reading the list. “Do you think the sheer number of tasks will drive him away, Teresa?”
Teresa adjusted her shawl. “I hope not. Our money is nearly all spent. With Mr. Duncan taking on this much, perhaps we can finally produce an income from the orchard. The cherries Caroline picked two days ago were nearly perfect. We can harvest them and drive them to market ourselves, with Mr. Duncan’s horse.”
Lifting the pencil, Mother added “drive the cherries to market” to the list. “You will have more time to dry herbs, too. With the nearest apothecary four miles away, we will need to supply ourselves with as much of our own powders as possible.”
A creak of the floorboards heralded Caroline’s presence. She came into the kitchen blinking and yawning. “Good morning, Grandmama. Mama.” She went directly to the door and unlatched it.
“Where are you going?” Mother asked, a knowing smile upon her face.
“To check on my kitten.” Caroline smiled, a hint of sleep still in the expression.
Teresa shook her head. “You had better not until you know Mr. Duncan is awake. Here.” She lifted a basket from a hook hanging near the window. “Go find eggs for breakfast, but leave the sour, old black hen alone. She’s brooding, and any extra chickens will make our Sunday dinners this winter better.”
Caroline wrinkled her nose, but accepted the basket and went on her way out the door.
When they had first come to the farm, Caroline had attempted to name the chickens, as though they were pets. Killing one for a meal had left the child dismayed and saddened for some time. But after cleaning up after the irritable animals, and realizing her favorite dinners were those with poultry, Caroline had accepted that chickens on a farm were for eating.
Mother went to the peg where her apron hung, taking down Teresa’s to hand it to her. “Do you intend to wait until the gentleman wakes up to see to your chores?”
Teresa looked to the milk pail upon its shelf, where it waited clean and empty. “I suppose I had better not. Abigail should not be made to wait.”
She tied her apron on and collected the pail. “Did we do the right thing, Mother? The man is a complete stranger.”
“Yet we both feel no threat from him.” Mother touched Teresa lightly under her chin, looking her daughter directly in the eye. “We need the help. He may well be an answer to our prayers, or we, an answer to his.”
With a chuckle, Teresa stepped to the door. “He does not strike me as the praying sort.” Then she left the house, bucket swinging at her side.
When she arrived at the barn door, she hesitated. Ought she to knock, as though the whole of the barn was the man’s residence? That would be rather absurd, considering the barn and everything in it belonged to her. He was in her employment, too.
Instead of knocking, Teresa pushed the door open enough to slip inside and called out as she entered. “I am coming in to milk the cow. Are you awake, Mr. Duncan?”
There was a shuffling in the loft, then a muttered word that sounded something like a curse. Teresa had woken him. Guilt made her wince, but a moment later she tipped her chin up. Their day started early, and he would have to accustom himself to their hours. She came in, humming to herself as was her custom.
In her early days caring for Abigail, it had taken the two of them time to become used to one another. Abigail had been standoffish, and Teresa had been afraid. Humming had soothed them both. As had talking to the cow as though she were a person. Not that Teresa intended to do that in front of someone like Mr. Duncan.
Except for her usual greeting to the cow. “Good morning, Abigail. My sweet cow.” She gave the gentle beast a rub of the ear, rather like one would to a favorite hound. The cow always seemed to enjoy it. Teresa settled her milking stool and went to work, humming.
The loft above creaked, then she heard boots on the ladder rungs. With a thump, Mr. Duncan landed upon the barn floor. He came to the stall and leaned over it as he had the night before. He had surprised her then, watching as she milked. This time she was ready for him, eyes open and expression neutral.
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br /> “Good morning, Mrs. Clapham. I apologize for oversleeping. I am afraid I ignored your rooster this morning.” He spoke with his usual charm and a barely concealed smile. He wore his clothing from the day before, including the blue neckerchief. If it were green instead of blue, it would have made his eyes stand out even in the dim light of the barn.
This time she spoke to him while keeping her milking rhythm. “No apology necessary, Mr. Duncan. Coffee will be ready in the kitchen soon, if you wish, and breakfast too. Toast and eggs this morning.”
“Thank you.” He gave her a rather cheerful sort of smile, placed his hat on his head, and walked away.
Would he remain cheerful when he saw the list she had prepared for him? Teresa doubted he had ever performed a single task she had written or anything similar in his life. Yet she had never milked a cow before moving to Bramble Cottage. She had been as dainty a gentlewoman as any, with soft white hands, a maid to do up her stays, and the ability to take breakfast in bed.
If Teresa could change her lifestyle so drastically, Mr. Duncan could adapt as well.
When she entered the kitchen a short time later, pail in hand, her mother was laughing and Mr. Duncan sat at the table, smiling over the rim of his coffee cup. Caroline was in her chair, drinking warm milk.
Caroline saw her mother come in and stood to help with the milk. “Mama, Mr. Duncan said my kitten slept with him last night and seemed to be chasing mice in his sleep.”
Mother filled a cup and handed it to Teresa. “Mr. Duncan also did an impression of a yowling kitten, and no man ought to attempt such a thing.”
“I am sorry I missed the performance. Will there be a matinee later?” Teresa asked, inhaling the soothing and bitter scent of her coffee before attempting the smallest sip.
Mr. Duncan shrugged, tilting his head to one side as though considering. “I suppose it could be arranged. It depends, of course, upon my employer. I understand I have a full day of work ahead of me.” He did not speak with distaste. Not at all. He sounded as though he looked forward to his day.
Teresa saw the paper still upon the table, where she usually sat. She lifted it by one edge and slid it across to Mr. Duncan. “Here is what I have thought of thus far. Let me know if you have any questions. Tomorrow, we will all work in the orchard.”
He picked up the paper and held it up, sipping coffee as he read. He winced, but whether from the bitterness of the drink or the work ahead of him, she did not know. Mother put a pitcher of milk on the table, then plates of eggs and toast. Caroline served herself, as was her custom. Mother joined the table and did the same.
Mr. Duncan looked over their simple fare with raised eyebrows, but said nothing. Merely waited until the ladies had their food before serving himself. Yet another mark of a well-bred gentleman, Teresa supposed.
He salted his eggs rather liberally before eating. He glanced up as he did, catching Teresa’s stare. She hastily averted her gaze to look at Caroline. “Cara, I need your help in the field today. There are caterpillars in the lettuce. If we move them off now, it would be best.”
“Why not release the chickens into your fields?” Mr. Duncan asked abruptly. “They would surely eat all your pests.”
“And then become pests themselves.” Teresa lowered her toast as she spoke, meeting his eyes again. “Chickens love tender greens. They would do harm to the plants, too.”
He went back to looking at his list.
“I detest picking bugs off leaves,” Caroline muttered over her plate.
Teresa tried to hide her smile. She did not enjoy the chore, either. But what she was about to add would certainly make the prospect even less appealing to her daughter. “We will have your geography lesson while we work.”
Caroline groaned, and she looked to her grandmother. “But today is not geography day. Today is poetry, and literature.”
Mother raised both hands. “If I am not your tutor today, child, I do not choose the subject. If you wish, you might stay in the house with me and scrub the floors. I also intend to wash the upstairs windows.”
“I suppose I can help with the insects.” Caroline grimaced, and her lower lip protruded slightly. “I wanted to play with my kitten.”
“After your chores are finished.” Teresa put her hand out to tuck a strand of hair behind Caroline’s ear. The little girl worked as hard as any of them, truth be told. And she would not be little much longer. Teresa might as well have some mercy on her. “If you prefer literature today, you may recite your memorized poems to me instead of geography lessons.”
A smile twitched at Caroline’s lips, then she sighed. “All our poems are tiring. Isn’t there anything we can recite other than Shakespeare and moral verses?”
Her grandmother tutted. “There is nothing wrong with good, moral recitations.”
It was then Mr. Duncan spoke again, bringing all eyes to him. “I learned my share of morality poems as a child. Do you know this one, Miss Caroline?” He cleared his throat, then recited with great pomp and ceremony:
“‘A spaniel mightily well bred,
Ne'er taught to labor for his bread,
But to play tricks and bear him smart,
To please his lady's eyes and heart,
Who never had the whip for mischief,
But praises from the damsel - his chief.’”
He winked at the girl when she clapped for him. “That was The Spaniel and the Chameleon, by a Mr. John Gay, I believe.”
“How is a poem about a spoiled dog a morality verse?” Teresa asked, amused despite herself.
Mr. Duncan chuckled and rose from his chair, list in hand. “I confess, I do not remember how the rest of it went. I only liked the first stanza due to the fact it was about a dog. Now a man grown, I rather wish I remembered it. I find I have a great deal in common with the spaniel.”
Teresa considered that, then waved him away from touching his plate. “We will care for the kitchen things, Mr. Duncan. You had better start on your list.”
“Or else finally get the whip for mischief.” He sighed dramatically, making Caroline giggle again. “I will begin with the barn, if that suits you, Mrs. Clapham.”
“It does. Thank you.” Teresa forced away her own smile. The chore ahead of him was not pleasant and would likely take him the day. “The entire floor must be cleaned, tools organized to your liking since you will be the one using them, and supplies checked. The stalls must be cleared, and your horse may have one for himself.”
There were only three stalls in the barn. Abigail’s was the only one prepared for any sort of animal habitation.
Mr. Duncan took his leave with a bow. “I am off to earn my keep. Good luck with your poems today, Miss Caroline.”
He went out the door, and Teresa heard him start to whistle a familiar tune. The same she had hummed his first night in their barn. One of her favorites. She gathered his dishes and her own.
“Do you think he knows what he is about?” Mother asked, still sipping at her cooling coffee.
Teresa glanced out the open kitchen window in time to see Mr. Duncan step into the barn. “I hope so.”
The organization of a building set apart for the keeping of animals and tools ought not be difficult. Yet Neil was three hours into the task and felt as though he had made no progress.
After he released Abigail into the paddock with his horse, he started his work in the stalls. He ought to name the gelding. It seemed the two of them would be companions for a while yet.
Mucking stalls was similar enough to cleaning out kennels. Old straw in a wheelbarrow, hauled outside to the corner of one of the fields. As long as he found no rot. Not that he entirely knew what rot looked like, but he had been warned against it by his father’s gardener strongly enough to have an idea of what it looked and smelled like.
Everything else he raked and swept with a broad broom. Then he went about organizing the tools. He drove nails into the wood boards of the barn to hang things that had laid on a shelf without much order. His
only company was the horse, on occasion, hanging its head in through the split barn door, and Caroline’s cat.
Flies came and attempted to distract him, earning more than one remark no lady ought to overhear. By noon Neil felt he had done enough to merit a rest.
He exited the barn, the cat on his heels, and stretched. He had his coat over one arm, but as he had seen many a farmer working in fields without that restrictive piece of clothing it could not be too wrong to go without it for a time. Did the working class have rules about when to appear in shirtsleeves and when not to?
The list with chores was in his coat pocket. Neil drew it out and studied the neatly written task that came next. The fine handwriting did little to make the list less loathsome.
Cleaning out the chicken coop. He wrinkled his nose and turned to the side of the barn, where he had seen the feathery pests that morning. The coop was smaller than the barn. It could not be nearly as difficult or time consuming.
An hour into the work, with a full wheelbarrow and sweat making his shirt stick to him in ways he was certain it never had before, Neil went to the fields in search of Mrs. Clapham. He dumped his wheelbarrow load at the corner of the field, then went striding through the green of growing things to the corner of the field nearest the orchard. He could hear Caroline’s voice, chattering away, but did not stop long enough to decipher what she said. As soon as he was within shouting distance, he called out.
“Mrs. Clapham?”
Both figures started, and Mrs. Clapham rose from her place on the ground. She picked up a bucket at her side and walked toward him, until they met with a row of cabbage growing between them.
“Mr. Duncan. How goes your work?”
Neil drew in a deep breath, but the twinkle in the woman’s eye said she could well enough guess the answer to her question. “Splendidly.” He tried not to grit his teeth too much as he answered. “I am ready for the chicken house.”
“Yes.” She glanced over him, likely taking in the grime he knew he would never be free of again, no matter how many times he bathed. “It is rather filthy work. I am afraid I have put it off. It ought to be done at least once a season.” Then she leaned to one side to peer around him. “I am glad you knew to bring everything out for the fields. But how did you know?”
Reforming Lord Neil: A Regency Romance (Inglewood Book 5) Page 7
