Jacqueline smiled, sipped her scrumpy, and watched the large man, small girl, and tiny kitten play.
Finally, Jacqueline stood and, with thanks, handed her empty mug to the woman. After draining his larger mug, Richard added his thanks to hers, then followed her as she crossed to where they’d left the horses hitched to a post.
She gathered the mare’s reins, intending to lead it over to the bench so she could scramble up to her saddle, but when she turned, she found Richard before her, an easy smile on his face.
“Allow me.”
Without waiting for any answer—apparently assuming she would agree—he reached for her waist, gripped, and lifted her effortlessly up to her saddle.
She bit back an unladylike squeal. About her waist, his palms and fingers seemed to somehow sear her, yet as he eased his grip, and his fingers and palms slid away, a strange feeling of loss speared through her.
Senses careening, wits in sudden and shocking disarray, she managed to summon enough dignity to incline her head and murmur a rather breathless “Thank you.”
He merely smiled back—as if there’d been nothing whatever in the moment to give him the slightest pause—then he turned and walked to where the gelding waited.
Jacqueline raised her head and forced a huge breath deep into her lungs. She wasn’t accustomed to having gentlemen at the Hall, much less to having one perform that simple courtesy. Inwardly frowning, she settled her boots in the stirrups, arranged her velvet skirt, and picked up the reins—and told herself her reaction had simply been occasioned by surprise.
She led the way back to the cart track and continued on.
They reached the next farm and found the farmer in his yard, herding a group of pigs. Leaving his lads to continue corralling the animals, the farmer leaned on his fence and readily answered her questions. As she’d hoped, now the stream was running again, the farmer’s outlook was rosy.
Somewhat to her surprise, Richard—who had been studying the sows from the back of his gelding—asked what breed they were, and a swift exchange about the various benefits accruing to this breed or that ensued. By the time they farewelled the farmer and rode on, she had added several observations to her mental picture of Richard Montague.
At the next farm, after the farmer came to meet them in the yard and confirmed all was well in his world, he asked her for advice on his brother’s behalf. Apparently, his brother was negotiating to purchase a piece of farmland not far away. Jacqueline had to confess the matter lay beyond her ken. She glanced questioningly at Richard Montague—and wasn’t all that surprised when he responded with several points, valid points, that he suggested the farmer’s brother should pursue prior to finalizing the sale.
As, with the farmer’s thanks ringing in their ears, they rode on, she adjusted her mental vision of Richard Montague yet again.
He knew about farming, about crops and yields. He knew something of livestock. He understood the legalities of land and farms—his recent comments had been predicated on a sound knowledge of the mutual obligations involved in tenant farming. And most telling, at least to her mind, he had an easy, confidently assured way about him when dealing with her people—her farmers and their families.
She hadn’t asked about his background—it hadn’t been relevant to the question of whether to grant him shelter—but she would now take an oath he was, in fact, an active landowner himself. When she’d first set eyes on him…his subdued but expensive clothing might have belonged to a wealthy merchant, but his behavior and his knowledge had, from the first, marked him as being of different and distinctly higher station.
She glanced sidelong at him as they rode along. He sat his saddle with the easy grace of a man who had ridden since he could walk. Or possibly before that.
The ring on his finger, the sword at his hip. The quality of his horse. All underscored the accuracy of her deduction.
She looked ahead and told herself it didn’t matter what his background was. He was merely a guest for the next few days, a stranger who had walked out of her wood and who had, thus far, brought nothing but blessings.
Who Richard Montague was in the wider world didn’t matter.
They’d turned in to the narrow lane that led to the mill when, on rounding a bend, they came upon three boys wrestling and attempting to rain blows on each other.
Jacqueline reined in her mare. Richard was out of his saddle before the gelding properly pulled up. She watched as he waded into the fray. He caught two boys by the collar, one in each hand, and by main force, wrenched the trio apart. The third boy staggered back, blinking in astonishment.
Richard released the other two and looked from one to the other. “What’s this about?” The command in his tone cracked like a whip and had the boys straightening.
Jacqueline nudged the mare closer to the gelding and leaned across to seize the gelding’s reins.
After several seconds passed with Richard, his hands now on his hips, frowning at the boys while they exchanged wary glances, the third boy sniffed and, with his gaze on Richard’s boots, mumbled, “We’re off to fish in the millpond. Now the stream’s running again, the fish’ll be biting.” The lad glanced swiftly at the other two, as if saying he’d done his part.
Jacqueline had placed the three as the sons of three of her farmers whose farms lay farther afield; she’d thought the trio were good friends.
When the boy who’d spoken volunteered nothing more, and neither of his peers showed any sign of speaking, Richard said, “That doesn’t tell me why you were fighting.”
His unmoving presence communicated without words that he wasn’t going to let them go until he’d heard the whole tale.
One of the boys he’d manhandled shifted. His eyes on the ground, the boy said, “We all want to fish, but we’ve only two withies.”
“And”—the boy yet to speak ran his sleeve beneath his nose—“we don’t have a knife to cut another. Our das say we’re not old enough to have hunting knives.”
Jacqueline watched as Richard surveyed the fishing baskets and lines, along with the two withies at the center of the dispute, all discarded haphazardly in the grass bordering the lane. He glanced briefly at Jacqueline, then returned his gaze to the boys—who were still studying the beaten earth rather than looking at him. “You’re heading for the millpond. I’m going to the mill with Miss Tregarth. If you behave yourselves and wait patiently at the fishing spot, once Miss Tregarth has finished her business with the miller, I’ll come and find you and cut enough withies to last you for some time.”
All three boys looked up, hope in their faces. Then the expression of the boy facing Richard clouded. “Gentl’man like you—why’d you want to bother with the likes of us?”
Richard glanced over his shoulder at Jacqueline. “Because Miss Tregarth would much rather see you fishing than scrapping, especially over something as senseless as a withy.”
The boys sent Jacqueline careful glances, which she met with a stony stare, then Richard asked, “So what’s it to be?”
The boys exchanged glances again, then the boy facing Richard—Jacqueline thought he was the oldest—nodded. “All right. We’ll wait at the fishing spot—it’s past the mill and along the bank, nearly opposite from here.”
Richard nodded in acceptance, turned, and walked back to his horse.
Jacqueline handed him the reins, and with a swift smile for her, he mounted, then looked at the boys; they were busy collecting their equipment, such as it was. “While you wait, you might look around for trees with suitable withies.”
The boys straightened, nodded, and raised their hands to their foreheads in salute to Jacqueline as, with a regal nod and “Boys,” she led Richard on.
She slowed as he drew alongside, and when he glanced at her, she caught his gaze and arched her brows.
He grinned and looked ahead. “I know what it’s like to be the boy without the withy.”
“Really?” She tried to hide her smile.
He nodded. “Yo
unger son. Trust me, with an older brother and his friends forever about, you learn to stand up for yourself.”
She considered, then added, “And fend for yourself, no doubt.”
He inclined his head. “I certainly learned how to cut withies.”
She grinned, then laughed. His smile deepened, and they rode on.
They found John Miller at the mill, standing beside the millstream where it fed into the mill race; as John was also a farmer, Jacqueline hadn’t been sure she wouldn’t have to send for him. At that moment, the great wheel was locked and raised out of the race; as they clattered into the yard, John was staring down at the roiling water rushing through the stone-walled channel.
A heavyset man, ready to be pleased with life and slow to anger, John looked up with a welcoming smile. “There you be, Miss Tregarth. I thought you’d be around.” He waved at the water. “It does my heart good to see it running again.”
“Mine as well.” Jacqueline slid down from the mare’s back and crossed to stand beside John. The flow looked strong—much stronger than the trickle they’d stared at the previous week.
As Richard joined them, John looked at him, then bobbed his head. “Heard tell you were the one stumbled on our problem.”
Richard smiled easily. “That’s an apt way of putting it—courtesy of the wood, I was lost at the time.”
“Aye, well.” John tugged at his earlobe. “Seems like it was meant to be, then.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “But now we’ve the stream running again, I reckon we’ll be ready right in time for the early grain.”
“Excellent.” Jacqueline felt a weight she hadn’t truly acknowledged lift from her shoulders. Without the mill, the farmers and the estate as a whole would have faced a very hard year. She exhaled as the tension left her. “That’s a big relief.”
“For all of us.” John turned to the mill and caught her eye. “I was just about to take a look at the grinding stones and gears and all—if you’d like to check things over with me?”
She accepted, but Richard stepped back. When she looked his way, he tipped his head toward a path leading around the edge of the millpond. “I’ll go on and speak with those lads.”
She smiled encouragingly. “I’ll come and find you once I’m finished here.”
Richard tipped her a salute and set out along the path. He could see the boys at the edge of the pond, at a spot nearly halfway around, where a wooden platform had been built out over the water, allowing keen fishermen to cast their lures into the deeper waters of the pond.
As he strode along the path, he glanced at the sun. It was nearing midday, not, in general, a propitious time to go fishing. But with the waters of the stream running fresh into the pond, the fish might have been stirred enough to rise. The boys might not be wrong in thinking it worth a try.
They saw him coming. Even at a distance, he saw their faces light; they hadn’t been sure he would keep his word. They scrambled to their feet as he neared, forming up at the edge of the wooden platform.
On reaching them, he halted and asked, “Have you found any useful willows?”
“There’s a good clump this way.” Eagerly, one boy pointed into the surrounding wood.
“And if that won’t do, there’s more over there.” The oldest boy waved along the path.
“Right, then.” Richard drew out the penknife he always carried and opened the blade. “Let’s see what we have.”
The three trotted at his heels as he walked into the wood. Four yards off the path, three willows stood clustered in a group. They’d been coppiced at some time in the not overly distant past, and all three offered numerous withies of the thickness, strength, and bendability that was perfect for fishing rods.
Assisted by the boys, whose opinions he solicited, Richard selected and cut three long, pliable rods. He handed one to each boy, then turned back to the pond. “We may as well take a look at the other clump.”
That, too, was a ready source of rods; Richard cut four and handed them over. “With the two you already have, that makes nine in total—three each. Even if you lose one, you’ll still have enough to put two lines in at any one time.”
The boys beamed at him. “Thank you, mister,” they chorused.
Richard hid a grin and waved them to the fishing platform. “Come—I’ll trim the withies for you, and then we can get you set up.”
He spent a pleasant fifteen minutes remembering how best to string rods and teaching the boys all he could remember of that and how to best set their bait—worms—on the hooks and how to sling their lines well out, into the deepest part of the pond where the larger fish would be lurking.
He’d just settled the third and youngest boy, Rob, and all three were concentrating, apparently willing fish to their hooks, when Richard heard footsteps on the path. He straightened and turned to see Jacqueline making her way toward them.
He smiled.
Jacqueline met his gaze, saw that smile, and thought that inside every man lurked a boy—just under the surface, ready to emerge and join in such pastimes with simple, sincere enjoyment; that was what she saw in Richard Montague’s face.
She returned his smile and looked at the boys. Each glanced briefly her way, dipped his head in polite acknowledgment, but immediately returned to silent contemplation of the pond.
She noted the careful arrangement of their tackle boxes, each set neatly beside each boy, and that the three were sitting sufficiently well spaced so that they wouldn’t interfere with each other’s rods or tangle their lines. She was perfectly certain they hadn’t thought of such things on their own.
Glancing at Richard, she arched a brow and quietly asked, “Ready?”
He nodded and softly called, “Good luck, boys!”
All three turned and, as one, called softly back, “Thank you, sir!”
Then they returned to their fishing.
Grinning, Jacqueline shook her head and turned to walk with Richard back around the pond. Once they were out of hearing of the boys, she murmured, “Their mothers would find that scene hard to believe. Those three are never quiet.”
Richard slid his hands into his breeches pockets and paced easily beside her. “I explained to them how fish don’t like noise.” As they rounded the pond, he glanced at the three. “I also warned them they might have to wait until the sun started setting before they got a bite. For their sake, I hope the fish will prove me wrong.”
They walked on in companionable silence. Jacqueline realized she was still smiling—still amused by his deft handling of the boys and by his ready connection with them. Indeed, now she thought of it, she’d been smiling a lot today, and for most of the time, it hadn’t been due to relief. And the waves of calm contentment that were washing through her—those occasioned by her laughter as well as her relief—could all be laid at Richard Montague’s door.
As they reached the mill yard, she shot him a measuring and appreciative look.
He caught her eyes, read them, then arched his black brows. “What is it?”
She held his gaze for a moment, then boldly replied, “I was just thinking that I owe the pleasures of this day to you. If you hadn’t got lost in our wood and discovered the diversion of the stream, all this”—she spread her arms and twirled, then continued toward her mare—“would have been very different.” She halted by the mare’s side and looked over her shoulder to find him following in her wake. She met his eyes. “Even the boys wouldn’t have come to fish—the pond would have been unstirred.”
He halted behind her and looked into her eyes. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice low. “You’ll give me a swelled head.”
She laughed.
Then he reached for her, closed his hands about her waist, turned her, and hoisted her to her saddle.
Battling a blush, she murmured, “Thank you,” and busied herself settling her boots and skirt and gathering her reins.
The instant he’d mounted, she rode out, clattering back along the lane. She turned to circle on, determined
to focus on her duties and keep her mind from dwelling on the sensations his entirely innocent and unexceptionable touch had sent lancing through her.
When they halted at the next farm—one of the larger ones—it was half an hour past midday, and the farmer and his wife invited them to join the family about the table; for farmers, it was the main meal of the day. Jacqueline glanced at Richard; his expression stated he was happy to join the company. She accepted the invitation, and Richard went to fetch their saddlebags to add their provisions to the family’s fare.
What followed was, to her mind, a pleasant interlude in a day of pleasant moments. While she chatted with the farmwife and the three other women of the large household, she kept an eye on her guest, yet as she’d more than half expected, without the slightest stiffness or any sign of awkwardness, Richard joined a discussion about the latest theories of crop rotation and the benefits of using barley as well as peas and beans to enrich the soil.
From there, the men’s talk spread to wider fields of agriculture, including livestock, with Richard openly sharing his experience of farming on the plains of Essex.
Farmers were always keen to hear of other places with different ways, and Nimway Hall’s farmers were no different. Yet the more Richard interacted with Briggs and his sons, the more certain Jacqueline grew that Richard Montague was accustomed to dealing with tenant farmers in a practiced and practical rather than theoretical way. More, his confidence in himself, in the reality of who and what he was, showed in his directness, in the way he utterly ignored the distinctions of class.
In her admittedly limited experience, only a gentleman assured of his own station was likely to treat that station and its customary social trappings in such a laissez-faire manner.
Richard Montague, she was increasingly sure, hailed from a very elevated stratum of society.
After the meal, she turned to Farmer Briggs and asked what he thought of the likely harvest now the stream had been restored.
THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1750 - JACQUELINE Page 9
