He spoke with careless indifference. “I merely wished to express my gratitude, Mrs. Clapham, and that seemed a better way to do so than penning a letter.”
“We never get letters,” Caroline said from her side of the table, then sighed. “And I never get to write any, so I do not see why I must practice penmanship so much.”
Neither woman showed signs of sympathy, though mother and grandmother both smiled over their stew.
Neil took it upon himself to address the child, out of curiosity rather than interest. “But suppose the time comes, Miss Caroline, when you do receive a letter and must pen one in response? An elegant hand will serve you well on that day.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “That is what Mama says. But I cannot think of anyone who would write to me.” Then she cast an exasperated look at her mother. “Or speak French, Prussian, or Spanish to me, either.”
Did the child have an education which included modern languages? Neil rested his spoon against the edge of the bowl. “Je vais vous parler en français. Si tu veux.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Parlez-vous français, monsieur?”
Her mother laughed. “I should think it obvious that he does, my dear.” She turned to Neil and explained, in French. “My daughter has never spoken the language to anyone other than my mother and myself.”
Neil sighed dramatically and met young Caroline’s eager gaze. He spoke in French, slower than normal for her sake. “My mother forced me to learn French. We were not allowed to speak any other language before noon.”
She answered hastily, her accent certainly English though not too harsh upon his ears. “Please, do not give my mother that idea. I only have to speak French on Sunday.”
He nearly forgot himself and laughed at the girl’s pained expression. He remembered well the years of learning, of speaking a language he never thought to use outside his home. The war with Napoleon had made the idea of speaking French almost traitorous to many. “It is a beautiful language, Miss Caroline, and you speak it quite well for one your age. Your mother must be a marvelous teacher.”
Caroline colored, but from the corner of his eye he saw an identical blush in her mother’s cheeks. A woman of her age, blushing? It was almost indecent. The woman must be near thirty, to have a child of Caroline’s age. While he had known handsome women upwards of three decades, they usually had long-since lost the innocence and sweetness required to blush. Rouge became the only way they brought color into their cheeks.
Were Mrs. Clapham not so browned by the sun, she would likely appear quite pretty. His tastes did not run toward women with such dark hair and eyes, of course, or one whose stature made her appear rather sickly. The woman was thin and shorter than his sister, Olivia, by half a head at least.
Yet she had hauled a bucket full of water across her barnyard with relative ease, proving her delicate structure had no bearing on her abilities.
What a shame one as daintily built as she had been reduced to farming.
His eyes went to her hand, holding a spoon to her lips. The skin there was tan, and her hands did not appear fine and smooth, despite the well-tapered fingers. They were on full display, too. None of the women wore gloves, nor any other ornament.
“Mama,” Caroline said. “The cherries are nearly ready to be picked. Are we going to hire someone from the village to help this year?”
Mrs. Clapham shook her head, not lifting her eyes from her bowl. “Not this year, darling. I am afraid we must do most of the harvest work ourselves.”
The little girl’s head tipped to the side. “But last fall we paid people—”
“And we have since learned how to manage ourselves. Besides, one cannot pay hired men in biscuits the way I can my daughter.” The woman’s swift interruption, and the somewhat playful remark on payment, was enough to make the girl giggle.
Likely the matter was less about the ladies being capable alone and more about paying hired hands.
“Mr. Duncan.” The grandmother addressed him, her tone almost business-like. “My daughter tells me you have experienced a recent change in fortune. While I have no wish to pry, I would like to ensure you are on your way to experience greater hospitality elsewhere. Do you travel to visit friends or family?”
A lesser man might have evaded the question, or stammered an answer. Neil pasted on a confident smile instead. “I have recently discovered I have no friends, at least in this part of the country, and it is family that has left me in my unfortunate circumstances. But I assure you, madam, that I am certain my situation is temporary.”
“Temporary?” Mrs. Clapham asked, and he gave his attention to her, seeing her frown. “Have you better fortune to look forward to, Mr. Duncan?”
“Eventually.” He shrugged. “Though I cannot say when.”
Mrs. Clapham looked from him to her mother, then back again. “Where will you go when you leave here?”
“I had thought to try my luck in Saxmundham.” His fingers tightened upon his spoon, but he made certain his tone stayed light. “Though that might prove as futile as the rest of my inquiries.”
“But you were riding north, Mr. Duncan,” Mrs. Clapham said. “Saxmundham is southwest of here. I think it would be just above ten miles from our home.”
“Ah.” Neil forced his tight-lipped smile larger. “Then I shall make it by midnight, perhaps.”
The women exchanged another glance. “There is no moon tonight, sir,” Mrs. Godwin said softly. “And it is not a safe journey to make at night, without a lantern.”
They were correct, of course. Neil put down his spoon and thought on the matter a moment. What was the name of the little village nearby? “Dunwich, then. I will find the inn.”
Mrs. Clapham was shaking her pretty head before he had finished speaking. “There is no inn. The public house is rather small, and the family lives above it. I cannot think of anyone who lets rooms in Dunwich.” She shifted in her chair, drawing a hand to her neck as she thought. “Walberswick is a mile north of here from the beach; if you take the road it is two miles. But it is difficult to get down to the shoreline with a horse.”
Neil gritted his teeth. Though a small thing, something he would have laughed at in days past, finding himself ill-prepared for a simple journey served to further strain his nerves. “Have you ladies any suggestions? I find myself in need of guidance in these strange lands.” He heard the strain in his voice, despite his efforts to remain amiable.
“He could sleep in the barn,” Caroline said brightly, her eyes glowing. “I did that once.”
Both mother and grandmother turned to the child, the mother with her lips parted in a gasp and grandmother with narrowed eyes.
“Young lady,” her mother said, tone firm. “When did you sleep in our barn?”
The child ducked her head. “Last week. Jill Martin wagered me a kitten that I would not do it.”
“Jill Martin?” The grandmother raised her eyebrows. “I doubt her mother knows about this.”
Mrs. Clapham’s voice was softer, almost sad, when she spoke. “A wager. You slept outside, without my knowledge or permission, for a wager? Caroline Clapham, you are excused from the table and will go to bed.”
Caroline’s brows lowered mutinously. “But I have not had my cherries—”
“And you will not have them tonight. I will speak to you before I turn in this evening. Go to bed. Now.”
The girl stood, frown nearly comical in its intensity. She dipped a curtsy without meeting anyone’s eyes, then fled the room. Neil heard her footsteps on the floor, then a pounding up steps somewhere beyond the kitchen, before the steps hammered above them.
“I apologize for my daughter’s conduct,” Mrs. Clapham said quietly, drawing his attention away from the ceiling boards and back to her. She appeared rather tired as her shoulders slumped, two dark circles beneath her eyes. “We are not usually so dramatic at the dinner table.”
Neil had no wish to distress the woman. She obviously had enough in her life to ca
use her difficulty. His own issues would solve themselves in time, he was certain. As long as his father relented before Neil’s money ran out. Hopefully, the necklace and the other earring he still possessed would keep him from too much discomfort. For a time.
“The apology is not at all necessary, Mrs. Clapham. I am afraid I did far worse than sleep in a barn at her age.” He tried for a confident, teasing smile, but when she only sighed and rubbed at her forehead, he wondered if he had lost his ability to charm as well as his fortune.
The grandmother cleared her throat. “Mr. Duncan, thank you for your understanding. Though I would not usually countenance such a thing, Caroline’s suggestion might be the only one we can offer you this evening. The barn has a loft, sir, that is clean. Sleeping there this evening may be your best option.”
Had he really descended so far beneath his station as to consider sleeping in a barn? His smile slipped away at last. Where else would he go? There were no nearby inns. Without a moon, travel at night would be dangerous for Neil and for his horse. Sleeping out in the open did not sound pleasant, either.
Neil put a hand around his cup, wishing it contained something much stronger than cider. “If it will not be an imposition, the barn loft will prove adequate. If Miss Caroline can sleep there with no more inducement than a kitten, I am certain I will manage.”
Mrs. Clapham looked to her daughter’s plate of cherries and grimaced. “I will show you the loft after dinner.”
When Teresa was but a child, her father had said, “It is rare that kindness is repaid, but rarer still that it exacts a price.” He had meant to teach her to do kind things without expecting a reward. That night, as she escorted Mr. Duncan to the barn, a pillow and quilt in her arms, she hoped he had been right about the lack of price.
The man did not act in a way that caused her suspicion or discomfort, though she knew little enough of his story. He had acted as a gentleman throughout the afternoon and evening. She would bolt the doors and shutters of her home and trust God to do the rest.
Mr. Duncan carried the lantern to the foot of the ladder inside the barn. He raised the light upward. “How often do you climb up this rickety thing?” he asked, his free hand giving the ladder a shake. It held firm, thankfully.
“Not often, this time of year. We will hire someone to put the hay up for us at harvest, then I will be up there more often to feed the animals.” She handed him the quilt and thin pillow, taking the lantern from him in turn. “There is a large door up there you may wish to open, to let air in. I am sorry our accommodations are not better.”
“They will do for tonight.” His gaze moved from the shadows of the loft down to meet hers. “Do you often shelter strangers?”
Teresa considered the question a moment. “No. But I would hope someone would do the same for me, or for my child, were either of us in need of a roof above our heads.” She gestured to the door leading to the pasture. “I will milk the cow and then leave you to your rest, Mr. Duncan.”
He surprised her by executing a very proper bow. Her knees bent out of habit, her curtsy as fine as it ever had been.
“Good evening, Mrs. Clapham.” He tossed pillow and quilt upward, where they land upon the loft floor with a thump, then he climbed up without a backward glance. She watched until his shoes disappeared over the edge, then turned her attention to bringing the cow in for the night.
The animal was quick to come in, eager to be milked. “That’s my good Abigail,” Teresa crooned as she brought the cow into her stall. In a moment, she had the stool in place and worked to fill a clean pail with milk.
She did not hear a sound from above, though she doubted Mr. Duncan had gone to sleep so quickly.
Whatever had caused him to wander about the countryside in dinner clothes, she hoped it would not leave him in poor straits for long.
Teresa hummed as she milked, as was her habit. The tune was one that had been popular the year she came out. The Season she had met Henry Clapham.
When she closed her eyes, leaning her cheek against the warmth of Abigail, she could still remember dancing with Henry to the music. He had charmed her completely, despite his relatively humble standing in Society. He had been so genuine, open, and kind. Perhaps not a great flirt, and that recollection made her smile, but his sincerity had been endearing.
He had not been a gambler or a liar when she married him. At least, she thought he hadn’t.
Once the pail was full and Abigail comfortable, Teresa took the milk and lantern with her back inside the house.
Mother sat in the kitchen, a book open before her and a candle on the table. She looked up when Teresa entered. “I think it is time to teach Caroline more about her role as a hostess.” Her lips turned upward. “And appropriate dinner conversation.”
That earned a chuckle from Teresa. “Valuable skills, for an eleven-year-old girl.”
“There is no time like the present.” Mother closed her book and regarded Teresa with a more serious expression. “She does not know why a wager is inappropriate, Teresa.” It went unsaid that the gambling aspect had hurt Teresa more than the child’s secrecy. She could not allow her daughter to make the same mistakes as her father had.
“I know.” Teresa lowered herself to the chair. “And we need a kitten, since our last barn cat disappeared for better hunting grounds.” She forced herself to smile, though she clasped her hands together tightly in her lap. “Mother, what do I do? I have no wish to tell her about Henry. She still thinks of him as a hero, slaying dragons for her in the fens.”
Mother stood and came around the corner of the table to wrap her arm about Teresa’s shoulders. “There is no reason to speak ill of the dead, dear one. Even if what they have done leaves us hurting. Let her keep her image of him unspotted, but warn her against poor habits.”
“Thank you, Mother.” As a woman grown, Teresa rarely referred to her mother by anything except the more formal title. Not out of a lack of love. It was quite the opposite. She adored her mother, respected her, and after taking on the role herself with Caroline’s birth, held her mother in the highest esteem. “I will do my best with her, as you did with me.”
“Good night, Teresa.” Mother kissed Teresa’s temple, then lifted her candle and went to the stairs.
Before following, Teresa bolted the doors and shutters. By the time she made it to her daughter’s room, Caroline had fallen asleep. The little girl, growing faster than Teresa had ever thought she would, lay curled on her side with one hand beneath her cheek, her hair unbound.
Teresa brushed the dark locks away from her daughter’s face, seeing freckles across the child’s cheek.
She took herself to her own room, grateful for the tiny amount of privacy it afforded her. She looked out the window, barely able to discern the shape of the barn in the darkness.
Hopefully, Mr. Duncan would sleep well, and go on his way in the morning.
Chapter Five
The night was going about as well as Neil had expected it would. Despite his fatigue, Neil hardly slept. Yet no gentleman ever complained of guest quarters. At least, not directly to the hostess.
Much of the night, he avoided shifting to silence the sound of the crackling straw beneath him. It was clean, and smelled better than the stalls below, but with nothing between him and the straw other than an old quilt, he’d been poked every time he dared move.
His inability to sleep had made it far too easy to think upon his predicament. No friends or family willing to take him in, not enough money to rent rooms for any length of time, and certainly not enough money to live in the state to which he was accustomed. Even if he sold his mother’s necklace, it would hardly buy him a new wardrobe, let alone a comfortable room at a fine establishment.
Would the marquess relent in a day or in a year? The uncertainty made it difficult to plan what to do with his funds, even if he attempted modest living.
Wandering about the countryside would not do. The idea of seeking out anyone who would help him, despite h
is circumstances, had been a foolish endeavor.
Perhaps he might find work?
The very word made him shudder. He, Lord Neil Duncan, third son of the Marquess of Alderton, find work? Though third sons were expected to make their own way in law or religion, Neil had been disinclined to do either.
His allowance was enough for a bachelor to live comfortably, after all. He had no intention of marrying. Not after a rather disappointing episode in his youth, when he had been foolish enough to believe in love and fidelity.
Casting that thought aside before it could trail into memory, Neil glared at the darkness and tried to form a plan. He had come no closer to a decision when he finally nodded off, despite the way some absurd night bird started warbling from the barn’s roof.
A rooster woke him entirely too soon, however, and before the sun had lightened enough to even be considered morning. He groaned and pulled his coat, which he had removed to use as a blanket, above his head.
The barn door opened with a groan. Neil sat up.
“There we are, Abigail.” He heard Mrs. Clapham’s soft voice with ease in the quiet, and the cow immediately responded with a noise more moan-like than anything. “I hope you passed a pleasant night. You did not bother our guest, did you?”
The woman’s tone was sweet and soothing as she spoke to the animal. In another moment, he heard the sound he had realized the night before meant she was milking her cow. Then she started humming again.
Neil slowly lowered himself back into the hay, staring up at the beams of the barn. Enough light filtered in through the walls and door for him to make out the straight slats of the roof.
The previous evening, Mrs. Clapham had hummed a song he had not heard in many years. He had been a young man, less jaded by the world, when it was a popular tune at private balls. That morning, her song was something simpler—a nursery song—yet he found he still enjoyed the sound.
Reforming Lord Neil: A Regency Romance (Inglewood Book 5) Page 4