“I guessed.” A trickle of sweat made its way down his temple. If his sleeves were in better condition, he would use one of those to wipe it away. “Is there more required for that chore than ridding the coop of their leavings?”
“Oh, yes. You must clean out their boxes with vinegar. And be careful with the brooding hen. It’s probably best you move her eggs into a basket with straw. She won’t like it, but she likes being off them even less.”
“Vinegar.” It wasn’t enough he smelled like the lowest of stable hands, but now he had to smell of pickled herrings? “Where might I find it?” he asked, not bothering to hide the distaste in his voice this time.
“In the kitchen. My mother will have some. Mix it with equal parts water and give everything a good scrub with a brush.” She held the pail out to him. “You can take these and dump them in the yard for the birds.”
He looked down into the bucket. Slugs of various sizes, and some kind of horrifying looking beetles, squirmed about in the bottom of the wooden container. His stomach turned. He better understood Caroline’s reluctance to perform the chore. He took the rope handle of the bucket most reluctantly. “Yes, madam.” He started to turn away.
“Mr. Duncan?” Her voice, low and soft, halted him. He turned, waiting for a reprieve, for some word that might allow him to put off the chore. Instead, she looked at him with that same twinkle in her eye, as though she enjoyed his discomfort. “Thank you.”
Neil nodded curtly and went on his way, biting his tongue.
This day of chores alone had more than earned him a place in her barn.
Chapter Nine
It was nearing the dinner hour when Teresa went in search of Mr. Duncan. The hen house had been cleaned, she saw with relief, and he had done a fine job of it from what she could tell. She stepped into the barn, leaving the door open behind her. It was clean, too, but she saw no sign of her hired hand.
“Mr. Duncan?” she called, her eyes going up to the loft. He could not have retired already. She had not seen him for hours, and there was yet much to do. She came further into the barn. “Are you here?”
A quiet mew made her look up. The orange kitten sat at the edge of the loft, peering at her. “There you are. Caroline will want to see you.” She tried to coax the kitten down with a snap of her fingers, then by patting her knee. But the kitten merely tilted its head to one side and flicked his tail.
“Cats.” Teresa shook her head. If only dogs were mousers. She had always preferred dogs. One knew whether or not a dog liked them, whereas a cat’s temperament seemed to change by the hour.
Since the barn appeared empty, and Caroline would certainly ask after her favorite new animal, Teresa started climbing the ladder up to the loft. As soon as her head came above the boards making up the floor, her eyes caught a sight that made her go still.
Mr. Duncan, stretched out upon his pallet, had one arm thrown over his eyes as he breathed deeply enough for her to realize he was sleeping. On the verge of snoring.
The man had not even put in a full day’s work, and he was abed again?
She glared at his prone form and came up the rest of the way. There was plenty upon his list he might yet accomplish. And she needed the work done soon. She had spent the entirety of her day in the fields, tending plants, touching insects, distributing the manure he had delivered. Her mother had spent the day working in the house. Cleaning, baking bread, preparing their food, putting up eggs, preparing to make cherry preserves.
And the man slept.
She took two steps toward him, then stopped.
He slept without a shirt on.
She glanced around, trying to determine what had happened to the covering, but only found his coat. She picked it up, then clomped as loudly as she could to stand by his side. Mr. Duncan did not even stir in his sleep.
Teresa’s temper flared. Cheap though his labor may be, they still had an agreement. They would feed him and provide him shelter. He would help them in return. She did not raise her voice above a normal speaking level at first. “Mr. Duncan?” He did not flicker so much as an eyelash. “Mr. Duncan, wake up.”
He shifted, lowering his arm, but his eyes remained closed. Teresa frowned and bent down closer to him, staring at his face, willing him to wake.
His cheeks were sunburnt. There was dirt along his jaw and neck. The neckerchief was missing. His hair was mussed and the man really needed a shave. That made him no less attractive. Before she could go down the path where that thought led, she acted.
Teresa threw his coat on his chest, and his eyes finally opened. But he also flew up, nearly crashing his head into hers. Teresa stumbled back a step, and his hand came up and caught her arm somewhat roughly. He glared at her, his coat on the floor between them. She stared, too alarmed by his quick reaction to demand an explanation or pull her arm away from him.
Taking in a deep breath, Mr. Duncan’s sudden hostility seemed to evaporate. “Mrs. Clapham.” He relaxed his hold on her, then slowly lowered his hand. “What are you doing up here?”
Although she had been prepared to take him to task, Teresa’s mind stuttered and whirled. Her eyes flicked from the intensity in his green-brown gaze to his bare chest. Her cheeks warmed and she hastily stepped back. “Where is your shirt, sir?”
Mr. Duncan looked down at himself, then slowly folded his arms over his chest. “Soaking in a bucket of vinegar and water.” His nose wrinkled. “I thought to attempt cleaning it rather than burn it, as I was first inclined to do.”
Her shoulders dropped. “Burn it? If we went about burning clothing every time it became soiled we would all walk around naked.” Heat flared in her cheeks again, all the hotter when he raised both eyebrows at her. What was the matter with her? She was a widow. His appearance ought not to fluster her. It had not been too long ago that she had seen a bare chested man—her husband. She turned away from him, going to the ladder.
“I will bring your dinner to you, Mr. Duncan. You are not fit to join us this evening.”
He sounded much less than amused as he answered. “I completely agree with you.” When she looked up, he stood at the edge of the loft, coat in hand. “I will make certain to come to breakfast appropriately clothed.”
“And smelling of vinegar,” she muttered.
“Mew.” The cat stood innocently in the doorway of the barn, as though the whole awkward exchange had not been his fault. She spared the traitorous feline a glare.
Teresa marched back to the house. When she entered, she noted that Caroline was not yet in the kitchen. She must be putting on her best gown for their meal. Good. That would make her conversation with Mother easier.
“Did you find Mr. Duncan?” Mother asked, a wooden spoon near her lips as though she had just tasted the gravy made for dinner.
“I did. In a rather abominable state of undress.” Teresa made certain she sounded horrified. “Mother, the man only owns one shirt and he apparently made it filthy enough—”
“He is soaking it in vinegar. I know. I suggested it.” Mother smiled innocently. “Though I had rather hoped it would be dry by now.”
Teresa gaped at her mother for a moment before asking, somewhat accusingly, “And did you know he did not work the rest of the afternoon?”
“I am not surprised. He is not accustomed to hard labor, after all. I imagine he will become used to it, or he will leave.” Mother picked up a tin plate and filled it with cooked beans, mash, and then the gravy on top. She added a roll. “Will you take him dinner?”
Although Teresa had planned on that course, she quickly changed her mind. “I think you had better take it to him.” Thinking on his lack of proper dress had addled her. She knew nothing of the man. That he was handsome and charming had flustered her, that was all. Obviously, she needed to set her mind to rights.
There was one thing she could do. She still had some of Henry’s things, hidden away in a trunk. Though, the very thought of going through the things from her old life made her stomach twist.
“Teresa. You are distressed.” Mother put down the food and came to sit at the table with her, putting her hand to Teresa’s cheek as she had done since Teresa’s childhood. “Did Mr. Duncan say something? Did he behave inappropriately?”
She shook her head. “No. But I do see the potential for future difficulties.” Teresa rubbed at her forehead. “I am sorry, Mother. You need not worry.”
“I am a mother. That is what all of us do.” She brushed Teresa’s dark hair back from her face, her maternal care softening the edges of Teresa’s worries. “We are doing a kindness for him, and he for us. But if it is too difficult, we can send the man on his way.”
A kindness. Looking at things from that perspective would help. Teresa closed her eyes. “I am going to look in one of our trunks. I think I have a few of Henry’s old things. The man needs at least another shirt. We cannot have him doing half a day’s work merely because he is particular about the cleanliness of his clothes.”
Mother stilled, then she leaned forward. “Henry’s things? I did not know you’d kept any.”
Teresa opened her eyes and forced a smile. “Nothing special. Not really. I kept a few things for Caroline to have, someday, and when we were packing to come here, I did not know what to expect. I brought along some of his shirts and cravats. I think—even though I was angry—I missed him.” The admission made her heart heavy. All her years with her husband, nearly a decade of loving him, could not be erased by the betrayal of his gambling.
“Do you need my help?” Mother asked. When Teresa only shook her head, her mother gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Wait until Caroline is asleep, if you want privacy. I will take Mr. Duncan his dinner.”
“Thank you.”
Hours later, after the kitchen had been put to rights and Caroline slept peacefully in her corner room, Teresa took a lamp up the narrow flight of stairs to the attic.
It was a very spare attic. Caroline could not even stand perfectly straight beneath the roof. It did not cover the entirety of the house, either. Only Teresa’s room was below it. With the light placed on the floor, Teresa went to the corner above her room, looking at the wood and where the thatch needed to be replaced. It was too dark for her to see the damage that would soon cause greater issues. If the wood became too wet, would it rot?
Tucking that worry aside, she went back to one of the small trunks she had brought to the farm. It did not contain much of use, nor much of value, and she had ignored it for nearly a year.
Teresa undid the latches and pushed the lid open, staring inside at the things she had saved for Caroline. Except Caroline would not care about the shirts that used to smell like her father’s soap. When Teresa took out the cravats, she laid them aside. There was no use for those cloths at present. But the two shirts she had kept, those would be useful.
She took the first out, hesitated, then held it up to her nose and took in a deep breath.
Henry’s scent was gone.
With the cloth covering her face, Teresa took in a slow breath. Of course it would not smell like him. It smelled like the lavender sachet she had put in with the trunk, and that was all. There was no reason to cry. She tucked away her feelings, focusing instead upon the moment.
She put the shirt aside, took out the other, and stared at what was beneath it. A small locket, in which she had drawn nothing more than a picture of Henry’s bright blue eye and a piece of paper on which he had signed the ‘H’ for his Christian name. Teresa nearly laughed at the silly lover’s token. When he had begun courting, he had slipped her a note and asked her for a ribbon, then tied it to his pocket watch so whenever he checked the time he would think of when he might next see her.
Their courtship had been sweet, romantic even.
How had it all gone wrong?
Teresa covered the locket with the cravats. She took out a small box. Henry’s shaving things. Then she closed the trunk, leaving the past to the past.
Chapter Ten
The rooster did not do its job in waking Neil up, and the cat seemed to take it as his duty when Neil failed to rise. The kitten pounced on his bare chest and began to knead Neil’s chest with the tips of his tiny claws. Neil woke with a yelp and reflexively grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck.
He immediately remembered the previous afternoon, when he’d woken up already springing at Mrs. Clapham. The woman had not come back that evening. Not even to milk the cow. Mrs. Godwin had brought his food and milked Abigail.
Perhaps Neil had frightened Mrs. Clapham, or offended her. She certainly had not liked seeing him without a shirt on. He had misjudged her before, when he’d thought she found him attractive. Likely, she merely thought him a curiosity. As he thought her a curiosity. Nothing more.
Even if she had that lovely black hair and cool gray eyes that spoke of both tragedy and triumph.
Never had Neil met a woman like her. He had to admire her strength of character and her resolve to create a new life for her family.
Neil brought the cat back down to his chest, where the animal started purring at once, butting its head up against Neil’s chin. He scratched the cat’s head and released a deep sigh.
“Admiration is all well and good. From afar.” He stared at the rafters of the barn, his thoughts whirling about like children dancing ’round a maypole. “But I am only biding my time, and offending the sensibilities of my hostess—my employer, I should say—will only see me wandering about England again. At least here, I retain some dignity.”
The cat meowed directly into Neil’s ear, making him cringe. “Or at least as much dignity as one can have while conversing with a feline.”
He sat up, the kitten jumping from his shoulder to the floor. His shirt hung on the top rail of the ladder where he had placed it after pulling it out of the vinegar bucket. The cloth had reeked terribly. Burning it certainly held an increased appeal. But he had nothing else to wear.
He stopped before he made it to the ladder. White cloth in folded rectangles waited for him on the floorboards. He picked one up and shook out a shirt. Not exactly his size, were he to go to a tailor, but close enough to be comfortable.
Neil pulled the shirt over his head, then tucked it into his trousers. He adjusted the sleeves, looked down at the open neck, and smiled to himself as the faint smell of lavender reached his nose.
A practical gift, but still a gift. Perhaps he had not offended Mrs. Clapham too terribly after all.
Neil pulled on his boots, contemplating the change in his station. Would anyone from his former life even recognize him, dressed as he was? Certainly, none of his acquaintances would expect him to go about a farm doing chores. Most would scoff at the very idea of Lord Neil Duncan stepping foot inside a chicken pen.
Except, perhaps, for Lady Fox. Before she had wed, as Miss Wedgewood, she had admitted to understanding people who did what they must to achieve their desires. And she had made a point of looking him in the eye and telling him he could be more than what people thought him.
Though Neil highly doubted even she would have thought him capable of lowering himself to farm labor.
After tying the blue cloth in place about his neck, to protect from sun, sweat, and immodesty, Neil made his way down the ladder. Abigail was already out of her stall, which meant she had been milked. Neil released his horse into the paddock as well, then went on his way to find breakfast.
Caroline was at the table with a slate, chewing on toast while she did sums with chalk. She looked up when he entered and smiled brightly at him. “Good morning, Mr. Duncan. We get to pick cherries today.”
“That sounds like delightful work.” Neil did not have to force himself to sound cheerful, given the alternative chores waiting for him. He took the chair he had used before, across from the little girl. “Much more fun than mucking out stables.”
She wrinkled her freckled nose at him. “It smells a lot better out there,
too.”
Neil chuckled and then leaned back as Mrs. Godwin put a plate before him, along with a cup of coffee. “There you are, Mr. Duncan.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Godwin.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Is Mrs. Clapham not having breakfast?”
“Mama ate early,” Caroline answered, bending her head to her sums again. “She went to ask Mr. Finley about the price of cherries at market.”
Mrs. Godwin saw the confused expression on his face, given the explanation Caroline had provided. “We need to determine what we will sell fresh and what we should preserve in jars.”
“Ah, I see.” Then she hadn’t been avoiding him. Neil gave his attention to his toast, which had been spread liberally with preserves. He took a large bite, then hummed in satisfaction. “This is delicious, Mrs. Godwin.”
When Neil finished eating, Caroline put on her apron and a bonnet. Under her direction, Neil fetched baskets from the barn and carried them out to the orchard. It was not a large grove; his father had a pear orchard easily four times the size of the cherry tree lot. But the fruit certainly appeared ripe enough to go to market.
Caroline started on the lower branches, while Neil returned to the barn for a ladder to get into the trees. When he arrived at the barn, he saw Mrs. Clapham leaving the house, more baskets in her arms. She immediately smiled at him.
“Mr. Duncan, good morning. Are the shirts to your liking?”
Neil looked down at the cream-colored cloth. “They are. I thank you for not forcing me back into the pickled clothing.” He ran a hand over the front of the shirt. “Though your mother assures me that a few hours in the sun will do wonders for the shirt’s smell.”
Reforming Lord Neil: A Regency Romance (Inglewood Book 5) Page 8