She gave him the barest of smiles. “I am pleased to find a use for the shirts.” Then she pressed her lips together, as though to hold something back. Her eyes darkened and she looked toward the orchard. “Is Caroline already harvesting cherries?”
“Yes, she is. I am come for the ladder.” Though he did not care, he told himself it would do no harm to satisfy his curiosity and confirm his suspicions. “Am I wearing a shirt that belonged to your late husband?”
The color disappeared from her cheeks. Mrs. Clapham’s gaze fell to the ground between them. “Yes. I had a few of his things, and the size seemed close. I hope you do not mind.”
“Not at all.” He took a step backward, then another. “I will get the ladder and walk out to the trees with you.” He turned on his heel and went into the barn, in search of one of the shorter ladders he had hung against the wall opposite the stalls. He pulled it from its hooks, tipped it parallel to the ground, and tucked it under his arm. When he walked outside again, he suspected Mrs. Clapham would have gone ahead rather than wait.
But she remained standing there, holding her baskets to her side. She fell into step next to him as they crossed the field toward the trees.
“Will the cherries fetch a good price?” Neil asked after a few moments of silence.
She answered without looking at him. “A very good price, sold by the pound. My neighbor has said we might borrow his scales. Market day in Southwold is the day after tomorrow. There are closer villages, but the market is larger and fresh fruit more dear in Southwold. It is only about six miles north of here, by road.”
“It sounds as though we have a journey ahead of us. You will want my horse to pull the wagon?” Neil thought that sounded a great deal better than anything she might ask him to do on her farm. Perhaps he could go another day without mucking out anything.
“Yes. If you do not mind, and if you will accompany me.” She cast him a quick glance from the corner of her eye, but Neil kept his expression purposely pleasant. “I think it makes the most sense for you and me to go alone. Caroline will not like being left behind, but I cannot possibly keep watch over her and tend to any who might offer us custom.”
Neil observed her with interest. “Have you sold your cherries at this market before?”
Mrs. Clapham shook her head, a black lock of hair falling across her forehead as she did. “I am afraid not. This is the first time I have taken my cherries to market. Last year, when we arrived toward the end of summer, there were not many bushels left to sell. I hired Mr. Putnam and his son-in-law to take the cherries to Westfold. They received a portion of the profit for their trouble.”
The woman had ambition. Never having sold the cherries herself, she was willing to not only attempt the task but had chosen a place where she might maximize her profit. That kind of common sense intelligence seemed rare in someone of their birth. Especially a female someone, likely raised to do no more than look after a household and let a husband manage finances.
“It sounds as though you have given our excursion ample thought. Of course, I am at your command, Mrs. Clapham.” That she went to a town north of the farm meant he was unlikely to meet anyone who might know him or his family. That made the decision an easy one.
They had arrived at the trees. She gave him a fleeting smile, then went to join her daughter. “We work on one tree at a time. Leave the unripe and overripe. We will pick them all after the rest have sold and make jams and preserves.”
“As you say, madam.” Neil put the ladder against the trunk, took up a basket with a large loop that would go over his shoulder, and climbed up into the tree.
It did not surprise him in the least when Mrs. Clapham took up singing, and her daughter joined in with her sweet, clear voice. Whether Miss Caroline knew it or not, her mother was likely overseeing her singing lessons at that very moment.
The thought made him smile as he used the small pruning knife to cut the cherry stems from the branches. Caroline had explained to him that plucking the cherries or pulling them from the tree would hurt the overall health of the tree limbs. The child ought to be a horticulturalist.
They sang music he had heard in church, and then a folksong, and all the songs had a joyful sound. Despite the growing heat of the morning, Neil found himself quietly humming along. If the Clapham ladies could enjoy themselves while harvesting cherries in the August sun, he certainly could. They moved from one tree to the next, and time passed without Neil noticing.
Until Mrs. Godwin came out to them, carrying a hamper.
Neil climbed down the tree, hitting the ground at the same moment Caroline let out a delighted squeal. “We are having a picnic,” she said, dropping basket and pruning knife at once. “Thank you, Grandmama.”
“Twas your mother’s idea.” The grandmother accepted her kiss, then put the hamper down. “Look at all those baskets. Have we a good harvest?”
Teresa came up behind him and answered. “We do. The fruits are perfect. We will need the rest of the baskets tomorrow.”
Neil folded his arms and looked over the half dozen baskets already nearly full. “You have more baskets?”
“Lots, in the pantry,” Caroline chirped while the two grown women smiled. They did so without looking at him, though they had to have heard the dismay in his voice. They had spread a small cloth on the ground to put out plates of sandwiches and a jar of cider, then several cups.
There would be another day spent with the pruning tools. He looked down at his left hand, which had done most of the work. He held the fruit in his right, gently so as not to bruise it, and cut with his left. The skin where he gripped the handle of the knife was already turning red. He had thought himself lucky when raking and shoveling the day before had not given him blisters. It seemed the luck would not hold.
Neil tucked away his first irritable thought. If the women could continue on, he would as well.
He took the sandwiches offered him. It surprised him, the moment he took his first bite, how delicious they tasted. Though he had sat at many a fine table, presided over by the most influential men and women of England, he had never tasted anything quite so good. Likely because he had rarely worked up an appetite in his past. But the thick slices of bread, cheese, and boiled chicken disappeared quickly, and the cider—liberally mixed with more of their dandelion tea—refreshed him.
Mrs. Clapham refilled his cup when he drained it, a sparkle in her dark gray eyes. “I do hope this is enough to keep up your strength, Mr. Duncan.”
He nearly replied, a quip upon his tongue, but he took another drink of cider instead. Miss Wedgewood had also told him he had the ability to be kind, if he so chose. Perhaps he ought to put in the effort to prove her right.
He could think of no one more deserving of kindness than his present company.
Chapter Eleven
The second day of cherry picking started off well enough. Teresa only spoke French to Caroline, and though her daughter grumbled at first, when Mr. Duncan joined in, Caroline cheered up a great deal.
The man had a beautiful accent. Teresa had not heard French spoken so well since they had left Society. Mr. Duncan was kind enough to keep his vocabulary simple, allowing Caroline to follow his conversation with ease.
He told them a story about his sister, younger than him, attempting to coax a deer close enough to capture it and turn it into a pet. Caroline’s giggles were highly contagious, and Teresa had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as he described his sister getting a leash around a young doe, only to end up being dragged through the trees.
The story brought back her curiosity about his situation. He had claimed his lack of finances was the fault of his family. Was there not one of his kin willing to take him in? Her thoughts lingered upon Mr. Duncan as she attempted to imagine what he might have looked like as a child. He had likely been a little imp, with his honey-blond hair and dancing green eyes.
Someone shouted Teresa’s name, startling her into nearly slicing her finger with her pruning knife. She jerked
around to face the direction of the house.
A man with a familiar build, and an accompanying frown, strode across her field toward her. Teresa saw her mother coming behind the man as fast as she could without stepping on any of their plants.
The man, Teresa’s former brother-in-law, took no such care for their growing food.
“Teresa.” He said her name in such a way as to make her flinch. He had never been an especially temperate man. His character and mannerisms were in large part the reason for her leaving the family home in favor of her poor, inherited farm.
She glanced up into the tree, where Mr. Duncan had stopped working to stare at the oncoming gentleman. He glanced down at her, his eyebrows furrowed. From the corner of her eye, Teresa glimpsed Caroline putting down her basket and slinking away, to hide behind a tree before her uncle caught sight of her.
Teresa put down her pruning knife on top of her cherries and brushed her hands on her apron. “Frederick. I was not aware you were coming to visit.”
“He only just arrived,” Mother said, hand on her chest as she recovered from the near-run across the field. “I offered him refreshment, but Mr. Clapham said he must speak to you at once.”
He glowered at Mother, taking another step so only a pace separated him from Teresa. “I was traveling down to Ipswich and thought I had better pay my respects. But Mother Godwin informs me that you are harvesting your cherries to take them to market.”
Widening her eyes, Teresa nodded slowly. “Why, yes, Frederick, that is true.” She hated that he called Mother the same term Henry had chosen to use. Likely Mother disliked it, too. Frederick had never shown her much respect or consideration. “Would you like to try some of our cherries?”
“No.” Frederick’s nose wrinkled and he glared at the baskets. “How have you sunk so low, Teresa? Henry would be appalled that you are living like a farmer.”
Her temper flared, but Teresa kept her tone overly sweet. “I am living how I must in order to feed my daughter, Frederick. You know the pittance I was left after Henry died. As you are unable to assist us with funds due to the difficulties with the estate, I thought it best to provide for myself and my family.”
Frederick scoffed and gestured with one hand to the baskets. “By going to market and standing about, hawking cherries, like some sort of peasant?”
“Lady farmer, I should think,” Mother corrected quietly.
“Can you not send someone else?” Frederick suddenly looked up into the tree. “Like whoever that is? Is that a servant? If you can pay a servant to pluck cherries, he can certainly take them to market for you.”
The next sound Teresa heard was Neil’s boots scraping each rung as he climbed down the ladder. She did not turn to look, though she heard him step up behind her. Rather closer than necessary. “This is Mr. Duncan. He has agreed to helping on the farm. He isn’t a servant.”
Frederick stared at Mr. Duncan, eyes narrowed, and face pale. “He doesn’t look like a farmer, either.”
Before Teresa could respond, Mr. Duncan spoke in his usual smooth, soft tones. “That is because he is not a farmer, but a gentleman.” A tiny knot formed in her stomach at his pronouncement. “A gentleman who has agreed to come to a lady’s aid, rather than take her to task for making difficult decisions.”
Oh, Teresa would treasure for some time the way her brother-in-law’s face paled and mouth gaped open. She would have to find a way to thank Mr. Duncan for that satisfying sight later. No one had ever put Frederick in his place like that. By establishing himself as a gentleman, Mr. Duncan had raised himself to a station equal with Frederick. That would make it difficult for Frederick to say much more on the subject.
Frederick finally spoke, his words strangled. “Mr. Duncan, that is most kind of you.” He swallowed and turned a simpering expression upon Teresa. “My dearest sister-in-law knows I would help her if I could.”
“Would you?” Mr. Duncan managed to sound bored when he asked that question. “I notice you are wearing the new cut from London. I had my own man inquire into a tailor capable of reproducing those lines. The drawings appeared in my magazines only three weeks ago.”
With a start, Teresa observed her brother-in-law’s complexion turn splotchy, and she realized the cut of the coat was not one she had seen before. Men’s fashions changed so subtly, she never would have noticed, but the coat did appear new. And of high quality.
“In my position, I could hardly dress like a pauper,” her brother-in-law muttered.
Mr. Duncan made a sound of disinterest. “Of course not. A gentleman’s image is important.” Given that Mr. Duncan wore clothing more suitable to a laborer than a gentleman put a twist to the words which further mocked Frederick. Mr. Duncan was certainly clever with his tongue.
Frederick’s purchase of a new coat did not mark him as heartless. Teresa knew that. But it was interesting that he would deny her the ability to make even simple purchases and tell her the estate could not afford to give her more than fifty pounds per annum.
“Teresa, might we speak in private?” Frederick asked, casting Neil a suspicious look.
Without a reason to deny him that simple request, Teresa nodded. “Come, this way.” She took him toward the open field, devoid of vegetables. She looked once over her shoulder to see Mr. Duncan and her mother in conversation, and Mr. Duncan’s eyes upon her.
“Where did that man come from?” Frederick asked, tone harsh.
Teresa tried not to wince. “Perhaps you ought to ask him, as it is not my business to tell you of him.” That would keep her from having to confess she knew nothing about him, save that he claimed to be a gentleman.
That remark made a vein in Frederick’s forehead appear. “Henry would not wish for you to gain a reputation for having strange men about.”
Her heart squeezed, but not as painfully as it once had when he tossed veiled accusations at her. “Then it is a good thing Henry is gone, where my reputation cannot matter to him anymore.”
Frederick stopped walking and threw his hands in the air. “I am trying to help you, Teresa. You are as a sister to me—”
She held her hand up. “Stop, Mr. Clapham. We both know that is not true. From the moment Henry died, you made certain I knew exactly how you felt about my presence in the house. You did everything you could to drive me away, and it was a relief to both of us that I inherited this farm. You have no authority over me anymore. If you have only come to lecture me about propriety, you ought to leave. I have no time for this today. I must get my cherries harvested.”
He lifted his chin, glaring at her from beneath the brim of his hat. “You are acting like a child, speaking to me in such a way. I took care of you as best I could, given what Henry did to all of us by gambling away everything not entailed to the estate.”
Teresa turned back to look at the trees, seeing her mother had started back to the house. Mr. Duncan continued to watch her exchange with Frederick, his arms folded over his chest. “I have work to do, Frederick. Tell me what you came here to tell me.”
He spluttered. “I only came to check on you, and then I found out you are ruining the family name.”
“Henry did that for us.” She gave her brother-in-law a hard glare. “My concern is not at all for our name, but for my daughter’s upbringing and my family’s health. The money I earn from those cherries will see us through the winter. Please excuse me from seeing you off my property. Next time you wish to visit, send word first. I am far too busy to entertain callers at present.” She strode away from him, her chest tight with worry even though she kept her nose in the air.
She hadn’t played Society’s games in a very long time, and she was not about to start playing them when her family relied upon her. If Frederick truly worried over the family’s reputation, he would have done more to help her. Or at least not have driven her from the family home with his caustic remarks and complaints about everything from Caroline’s piano playing to Mother’s enjoyment of reading by the fire at night.
> He had made certain Teresa knew she burdened him with her existence. There was no inclination, on her part, to bend to his will anymore.
Chapter Twelve
Driving a wagon, Neil discovered, was not so different from a curricle. Though it was not nearly so comfortable, given the lack of spring on the bench where he and Mrs. Clapham sat. She had woken him early, when she came to milk Abigail, and they had hitched his horse to the wagon and been on the road before dawn.
It would take two hours to make it to Southwold, and she wanted a good place to park their wagon and sell her harvest. “Not everyone will have had cherries yet,” she said, in the middle of explaining to him how markets worked. “Though I’m told some varieties are ready in June, others are not until August. I think ours, coming ready right toward the end, will do quite well. People will wish to secure their last taste before the fall, and any they wish to put up.”
They bumped along the road in silence for a time. Neil had turned over in his mind the visit from Mr. Clapham the previous day. At first, he had accepted the man’s dismay over his sister-in-law going to market. What man would wish such a thing on a female relative? Yet all his concern had been for himself. Or so Teresa had said.
It was easier to think of her as Teresa, though it might not be proper. Linking her to the irritating specimen of a man from the day before, even if only through their shared surname, did not sit well with Neil. Teresa was a woman apart, unlike anyone he had met before. She had lost her husband, her station, her fortune, and yet had turned into a woman of strength rather than someone to be pitied.
Not that he wished for such a life. The blister on his left thumb reminded him every time the reins brushed against it that he must purchase gloves while in town. Sturdy working gloves. Something he had never owned in his life.
“Mrs. Clapham,” he said after a stretch of silence passed. “Your brother-in-law. He said he does not have the funds to support your family. Do you believe him?”
Reforming Lord Neil: A Regency Romance (Inglewood Book 5) Page 9
