Though prone to trust more readily than most, Teresa had not thought to extend more than a moment of respite to Mr. Duncan. What was Mama thinking? Inviting a stranger to dine with them, unusual as it was, might prove dangerous.
“You need not stay, Mr. Duncan,” Teresa said softly from behind him. He turned around to face her, the surprise still as evident upon his face as it had been in his posture. “It will be humble fare upon our table.” She looked over his clothing again, noting that while it was highly unsuitable for riding, the cloth seemed fine, and it all fit him with a precision that indicated an exceptionally talented tailor had seen to the task.
His expression cleared, though Teresa knew the charming smile he bestowed upon her was not exactly sincere. “When a man is hungry, Mrs. Clapham, he takes his dinner where it is offered. If your husband does not mind the invitation, I will be happy to be a guest at your table.”
Her stomach tightened, though not from grief. Not anymore. A year and all that Henry’s thoughtless actions caused had made the mourning process short-lived, and his memory pained her less if only because she refused to think upon him.
No, it was nerves. Despite the man’s words, she doubted that a thick lamb stew and slices of dark bread would appeal to him.
“There is no husband to mind, Mr. Duncan.” Ought she have said so? Perhaps she should have pretended her husband would be back too late for dinner. Her mother always told her she was far too trusting. Teresa gestured to the door. “If you would like to pass your time in the house, you may, but dinner is yet two hours from ready.”
“I see.” He looked to the door, then to his horse. “I should tend to my animal.”
“There is a paddock behind the barn, where the cow is passing the afternoon. If you like, your horse may join her there.”
“Excellent idea. Thank you, Mrs. Clapham.” This time when he smiled, she caught the edge of another emotion entirely. He almost seemed tired.
Teresa began walking that way. “The easiest way is through the barn, if you wish to follow me.”
Mr. Duncan kept pace behind her, and she paused when he fetched his horse. The large beast had apparently quenched its thirst. She led the way through the barn door, tall enough for the horse but with barely the width needed for man and beast to pass through side by side. At the rear of the barn was a wide door which had been divided to allow the top to swing open without letting the cow back inside. Teresa unlatched and opened the bottom, then stood aside. Once the man and horse went through, the cow barely glancing up from her chewing to see the newcomers, Teresa swung the door shut.
The gentleman, for surely dressed as he was he had to come from at least that station in life, began undoing buckles to release the horse from saddle and bridle. He hummed as he went about the work, his voice pleasantly low though not deep enough to be considered a baritone.
Teresa had chores to do. Gawking at a stranger, as though starved of company, was unbecoming. Never mind that the last man she’d had contact with was a fishmonger who liked to argue with her over the price of his catch with more vigor than she did.
Turning around, Teresa went to her next chore. She had picked what vegetables were ready for the table, as well as several shallots. She went looking for her basket of the garlic and onion bulbs. With the intermittent rain, she would need to dry them beneath cover.
With her mind set to a task, Teresa managed not to think about the stranger for nearly a quarter of an hour. Until he found her outside the kitchen door, snapping the long green beans she had harvested for their stew.
He approached with his hat in hand and with all the confidence of a man born to privilege. He was studying the back of the house with a deep frown, as though it had somehow offended him.
“Are you ready for your refreshment now, Mr. Duncan?” she asked, drawing his attention to where she rested on one of the spindly-backed kitchen chairs. Teresa dropped the last halved bean into the small bowl near her feet before standing and wiping her hands on her apron.
He stopped several feet from her and gave her the same look he had given the house. “I do not wish to interrupt your work, Mrs. Clapham.”
Teresa laughed, despite herself. When was the last time anyone had spoken to her with such deference? “You are a guest, sir.” Despite her merriment, his frown deepened. He looked away, at the barn or over her small vegetable field.
“Not everyone would be so kind to a stranger.”
It was difficult to tell if he was speaking to her or to himself. Teresa decided to answer anyway. “It was not long ago that I was a stranger here. The kindness of others is all that kept us from giving up.” She had no thought to share more of her personal life with him, but that much was enough to explain their humble generosity.
The gentleman’s expression changed from one of confusion to something softer. Almost understanding. “Your circumstances were not always what they are now, I take it.” He had an interesting way of speaking. His words were not clipped, but spoken slowly, almost silkily.
Teresa folded her hands before her, unwilling to share more. “No. They were quite different for most of my life.”
He nodded, almost thoughtfully. “My circumstances have recently changed, too, Mrs. Clapham. Most drastically.”
What did one say to that? Here they were, complete strangers, admitting to reversals in fortune that most would deny or hide. Of course, her fortune was plain to see, given the dirt upon her hem and the apron she wore. But his must be new, and had likely come upon him suddenly, given his manner of dress.
How did a man’s lot change enough that he still wore expensive clothing while admitting to it?
Only one thing came immediately to mind. Gambling. Fortunes were won and lost at tables in England. Hadn’t her own disappeared due to cards in her husband’s hands? Though she did not know how long it took Henry to lose her fortune and everything not part of the entailment, given how well they had lived up until his death, she did not think it had happened gradually.
She shivered, despite the warmth of the August sun streaming through the clouds. Mr. Duncan raised his eyebrows at her.
“Excuse me. I will fetch you refreshment.” She curtsied, out of habit, and hurried into the kitchen.
Mother and Caroline were in the kitchen. Teresa closed the door behind her and cast a glance at Caroline, quietly doing sums on a slate. The girl’s face was wrinkled in concentration, her tongue sticking out at one corner.
“Where is Mr. Duncan?” Mother asked.
Caroline looked up, meeting Teresa’s gaze. Teresa forced a smile. “Oh, he is outside. Have we anything cool to offer him?”
Mother went to the table. “The dandelion tea has cooled. Here.” She poured some tea from the pitcher where they kept it after it cooled. Most preferred tea hot, but the herbal varieties still tasted delicious. Especially when they added fruit and honey to it. Several berries had been crushed and added that morning, while the tea was still hot, giving it a tartness akin to lemonade. But Caroline had stirred honey in, as well. The ladies found it most refreshing.
“Let us hope he does not mind our odd tastes.” Teresa poured some of the tea into a tin cup. Then she hesitated. “Caroline, will you take it out to him? I need to speak to your Grandmama.”
Caroline fairly leaped from the table, clearly happy to leave her mathematics behind. “Yes, Mama.” She took the cup in both hands and grinned. “I will tell him all about how it is made, then he will have to appreciate the taste.”
“Thank you, Cara.” Teresa placed a kiss on her daughter’s forehead—an easy feat, given how little she had to bend to accomplish it. Caroline disappeared out the door.
Mother gave one last stir to the warming stew, tapped the spoon on its side, then turned to face Teresa. “What do you think of him?” Mother asked before Teresa could say a word.
“Why do you ask?” Teresa wiped her hands down the front of her apron, somewhat nervously. “You usually tell me I am too quick to trust people.”
Teresa shook her head and lowered herself to the bench beside the kitchen table. “We know that cannot be true, given what Henry did to us.”
“Henry was a good husband while he lived,” Mother argued, her eyes softening. “We cannot know what led to his mistake at the end. Your brother-in-law did not tell us enough to know for certain what drove Henry to gambling away your portion.”
“Frederick told us what he could.” Though she had never quite trusted her brother-in-law, when he brought paperwork written up by the family solicitor, she could not doubt what he had told her. Teresa approached her mother on the pretense of looking into the dinner pot. “What do you think of Mr. Duncan?”
“I think he will make an interesting dinner guest.” Mother took Teresa by the shoulders and smiled softly. “My darling, we must look for sunshine amid the clouds all our days. Let us be grateful for the entertainment a visitor offers and return to our work tomorrow.”
Teresa sighed and hugged her mother. Together, the two of them had accomplished a great deal. They had moved to a house far from what either of them knew, repaired as much as they could with her mother’s funds, and lived a simple life without servants to wait upon them as they had both once done.
“Very well. I look forward to this evening, then.” Teresa went to the door and opened it to find Caroline chatting amiably with Mr. Duncan as he sipped at his tin cup, nothing in his expression showing disappointment in their special concoction.
Perhaps the gentleman would not mind their dinner so much, either.
Chapter Four
Never in his life had Neil prepared for an evening meal by waiting outside of a house for dinner to be served. But as the ladies of the household had disappeared inside, without inviting him in, he went looking for things to occupy his time. If he sat still, he thought on the marquess’s cruelty as much as he wondered after his own parentage. As he could do nothing about either circumstance, dwelling upon them would do nothing for him.
It was best to stay busy.
He had walked about the paddock where his horse grazed on long grass and dandelions alongside the black cow. He found a few slats of wood that appeared loose, the nails holding the board in place sticking out at odd angles. There had been a variety of tools inside the barn. Perhaps, to secure his animal’s safety, he could correct the problem.
It might silence the thought in his mind that he had watched a gentlewoman fetch water for his horse, while he stood about like an imbecile. Doing a good turn for Mrs. Clapham would restore the balance of decorum he had unknowingly upset.
Upon entering the barn, after his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Neil searched out the tools he had seen. The hammer found, he took himself back outdoors. The first nail he worked upon bent horribly out of shape with his strike. He glared at it, adjusted the angle at which he held the hammer, and swung at the next protruding bit of metal.
That one went in straight.
Neil repeated the action on as many boards as he found that needed it, then tested the work by shaking the boards. Several of them appeared rather old. Likely in need of replacement.
It took very little time, and the work was oddly refreshing. Sweat beaded upon his brow, and the muscles in his shoulder tensed and released with each swing. It was almost a shame when he could find no more nails to fix in place.
With hammer in hand, he returned to the barn. He noticed straw upon the ground, and a broom standing in one corner. Straw didn’t generally belong on walking paths, he knew well from his own father’s barns and kennels.
In his youth, he had once been punished by the kennel master for smuggling treats to the dogs. The master had kept the animals half-starved during fox hunting season, claiming it made them better hunters, and Neil had attempted to feed his favorites scraps of bacon from his own breakfast. When the master caught him, he’d given Neil the singularly disgusting task of cleaning out the straw in the kennels, from where the dogs lived to the main aisle.
The punishment had taught Neil two things. The first, of course, was how to properly go about disposing of filthy straw. The second was how to better sneak past the kennel master. His favorite dogs had not starved before the hunts that year.
Taking off his coat, Neil surveyed the stalls and the barn. It was not in desperate need of work, but the building did need more attention. He could take care of one more small thing to show his gratitude for the women’s kindness. And hammering home a few loose nails was not, perhaps, enough to make up for her waiting upon him.
Neil found a rake suitable to the task and started moving the straw out the door. If he put it into a pile, it was something to do, and Mrs. Clapham might use the straw either in garden beds or burn it. He cared not. He merely needed to occupy his hands and mind.
His horse came to stick its head over the door, staring at him as though surprised Neil had lowered himself to a laborer’s work.
“It is odd,” he said to the animal as he raked the straw into a pile at the center of the barn. “But I cannot allow myself to be indebted to these women.” No one ever hung a debt over Neil’s head. He was the one who claimed favors, not the other way around.
Not that it had done him any good of late. As word of his father’s anger traveled, the people who owed Neil anything would be less and less likely to settle with him. Without the marquess’s backing, Neil was as powerless as a pauper.
The horse nickered at him. Neil glanced over his shoulder, then shrugged. “They are alarmingly trusting, are they not? Three females alone, letting a man into their midst.” Were all people in their poor circumstances so generous? Neil doubted it.
“Foolish women,” he muttered. “What if I wished to rob them?” Though it did not appear they had much of value, given their clothing and lack of servants.
How had gentlewomen fallen so low as to fetch water for a stranger’s horse and snap beans in the kitchen yard? There ought to have at least been a man of all work about to look after them. Such a servant could not require much in payment.
They sent the little girl out to tell him dinner was ready. She came with a bounce in her step, and shoes on her feet. She had changed into a different dress, her hair was down, and she smiled brightly at him.
“Mama said you ought to wash with the bucket, by the pump. We haven’t anywhere else prepared for guests to clean up before a meal.” She looked at his pile of straw with interest. “Did you do that?”
“Merely to pass the time.” Neil fetched his coat from where he had thrown it over a stall door. “I will wash and be in directly, Miss Caroline.”
She stared at the straw a moment longer, then looked up at him with a smile upon her face. “Thank you for doing one of my chores.” Then she skipped away, directly for the kitchen door.
Neil had never washed up for dinner in a bucket before. He had never prepared for any sort of dinner without a servant to adjust his cravat and help him into his coat. What had become of Benton, his valet? Had the household found another use for the young man, or had he been dismissed entirely?
It was dashed difficult to find a valet capable of caring for Neil’s things in the way he preferred. They better not have dismissed him. The man could put a shine on boots that was unequaled in even the royal court.
Neil took his gloves from his coat pocket and examined them. They were dirty. No longer white, really, and completely out of place among present company. He sighed and tucked them back into his pocket. Then he went to the kitchen door and knocked.
He had never entered a house by a kitchen door in his life. His mother would have a fit if she could see him at that moment. That thought put a smile upon his face just as Mrs. Clapham opened the door to him, her own expression one of welcome. She wore a different dress, less faded and worn than the first, though its drab gray color made it appear more like an old mourning
gown than something one would consider wearing to dinner.
“Mr. Duncan, do come inside.” She gestured to a table on the far side of the kitchen. A simple cloth was upon it, the color some indeterminate shade that was neither cream nor yellow, with only a handful of dishes upon it.
Mrs. Godwin stood at one end of the small rectangular table, Caroline on the side opposite where he stood, and then Mrs. Clapham went to the other end of the table. That left Neil sitting across from Caroline. When all were near their chairs, the women sat as one, and Neil followed suit.
The matron of the family spoke first. “We are having lamb stew, rolls, and some fresh cherries that Caroline gathered for us this morning. Would you like cider or dandelion tea with your meal, Mr. Duncan?”
Though the tea had not revolted him, Neil could not say he looked forward to ever having such a beverage again. When the child gleefully told him how the sweet, grassy-sort of drink had been prepared, he drank out of politeness and a real thirst, trying to ignore the taste.
“Cider, if you please, madam.”
The woman poured from a pitcher at the table, then handed the cup to him. At least it wasn’t tin this time. In short order, Mrs. Clapham had a bowl of stew and a plate with cherries and a roll before him. He had never had such an odd dinner. But his last meal had been no more than a meat pie procured at a roadside inn that morning, so his hunger prevented him from turning up his nose at the food entirely.
In truth, it all smelled adequate, and then surprised him by tasting a great deal better than the food at the inn.
Mrs. Clapham stirred her stew, her gaze still upon it when she spoke. “Mr. Duncan, Caroline said you have raked the straw in the barn. I thank you for that. It was not necessary.”
Neil kept his back rigid, his manners exact, more out of habit than anything. But he noticed the women at the table sat more like fine ladies than commoners. However long they had been poor, it had not been long enough to remove the more genteel habits from their behavior.
Reforming Lord Neil: A Regency Romance, Inglewood Book 5 Page 3
