Surely, most men of his age had recourse for such inconvenient situations. They had money saved, friends to aid them, or an education to use to their advantage. But Neil had none of those things. He had existed as a creature of leisure nearly all his life. The marquess had at last given Neil a punishment he could not shrug off.
He crossed his arms behind his head. Lord Alderton’s punishments for both real and imagined offenses had always been harsh. Most of the time, privileges were removed. Such as the Christmas when Neil had been locked in his room for an entire week, with only gruel for food. But other times, Neil was forced to do labor with a servant as overseer. Cleaning the kennels, chopping wood, and even working with a hammer.
As he had aged, Neil had set himself to the task of attacking the loose nails in the stables when it was that or come to blows with his father.
He hated demeaning himself to the level of a common laborer. Yet when Neil had spent hours at a time, angry at the marquess and the injustice of his punishments, Neil had often grown tired of anger sooner than he grew tired from the chore.
Neil closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to order his thoughts despite the pounding of his head and the rain.
Never had he been as angry at the marquess than he was at that moment.
Words spoken by his mother, years before, came back to him. “He wins when you hate the punishment, Neil.”
She had never lifted a finger to help him, to ask for leniency. His mother was not tender-hearted enough, not brave enough to stand up to the man who had showered her with jewels all their married years. He kept her compliant through wealth, and Neil through threats.
“I suppose he will win this time, too,” Neil muttered. The coins in his coat pocket would not last forever. The necklace and earring he still possessed, when sold, might tide him over several weeks. But what was he to do? Sit in an inn all day, eating stew with more fat than lamb floating in the broth?
The last decent meal he had eaten had been at the widow’s home. Mrs. Clapham had fed him well, and had never once suggested he give up coin to share her table or sleep in her barn. The house had been clean. The barnyard well-tended and clear. The three women, grandmother, mother, daughter, had been genteel and pleasant company.
“What if I did not hate the punishment?” Neil muttered aloud. “Not entirely?” He had thought briefly of returning to Bramble Cottage and offering up work in return for the women’s kindness. But he had cast the idea aside as ridiculous and beneath him. But what if it was neither of those things?
What if he could work for his keep, and enjoy gentle manners and delicious meals in the meantime? Perhaps it would not be a terrible fate.
The work might even be good for him.
* * *
Teresa studied the formerly loose board she had noticed in Abigail’s pen. Despite giving it a shake, the board remained firmly in place. Upon inspecting the place where the board joined the post, she found the nails tightly driven in, though one was somewhat crooked.
After putting away the unnecessary hammer, she went in search of her daughter. Caroline had not completed her schooling for the day. Teresa’s mother said it would do no harm for Caroline to enjoy a summer afternoon beneath trees or in the fields, but Teresa would rather her daughter not shirk her duties.
Knowing that Caroline had snuck off to play with Jill Warner, the daughter of a shepherd with more sheep than sense, also made her uneasy. Little Jill might be an acceptable playmate, but she possessed a gaggle of older brothers who were known to brawl with each other and just about anyone they crossed paths with. Not precisely the sort of company the daughter of a gentleman should keep.
Even if they were living a poor life on a farm, Caroline’s fortunes might one day change, and she needed to be prepared for it.
She walked the acre of the vegetable field to get to the cherry trees. They needed to harvest that fruit quickly. The local farmers had told her she might make enough on one cherry harvest to cover expenses for her family for many months. But timing was difficult and hauling the cherries to the correct market even more so. She would need to hire someone else to take baskets of her cherries with them—someone with a horse and cart—and that would take some of her income.
At least their garden sustained them with food. But there was little to trade or sell for the other things they needed, such as clothing and medicine.
Why had her great-aunt left Teresa a farm too small to generate an income? How had the old woman lived in the cottage for the last two decades all on her own?
Caroline was not in the gardens or the cherry trees. Walking along the brambles and fence lining the road, Teresa occasionally paused to call her daughter’s name. Though she grew increasingly certain Caroline had left the property entirely.
Pausing at the break in the brambles, where she had stood only a few days before to see Mr. Duncan come up the road, Teresa put both elbows on the fence and lifted her hands to cover her face. She took in several deep breaths, more to clear her mind than anything. Though her daughter’s disappearances were frustrating at times, she only wished the child had a better understanding of responsibility. Of safety.
Teresa kept her chin in one hand as she gazed down the road. Mr. Duncan had likely made it to his destination by then. Despite his ill-fortune, whatever may have caused it, as a man he had the ability to work through it in any number of ways. Especially given his easy charm.
“When was the last time a man bowed to me?” she murmured aloud. Not since she had come to the farm, escaping her brother-in-law’s poisonous critiques and indifferent condolences. He had made certain Teresa knew he found her, Teresa’s mother, and his own niece burdensome. When news of the inherited cottage had come, Teresa had known he would be relieved that she would take her family and leave him to the house that had once been hers.
It kept Caroline away from Mr. Clapham’s cruel words about her father, too.
Despite the hardship of living by themselves, off a small patch of land in an old cottage, it was better than living beneath the gloom of Frederick Clapham’s frowns.
Movement from down the road caught her attention. Teresa turned her head to see who might be coming up the lane.
It was a man on a horse. A familiar horse. And the man—it was Mr. Duncan. His clothing had changed, but his hat remained the same, as did his comfortable posture. Why had he returned? And dressed like a common laborer?
Teresa shaded her eyes and stared harder, but the vision before her did not change. He saw her looking, and the man actually smiled, as though amused. Then he dismounted and walked the final steps to the fence.
“Mrs. Clapham. I trust you are well?”
“Yes.” She wished she had put on her bonnet before venturing out of doors. Her dark hair would be a horrid mess after all the work she’d completed. “And you, sir? I confess, I did not think to see you again. I hope nothing is amiss.”
“Not at all, though your concern is most kind.” Though dressed now in a drab coat, wearing a blue kerchief about his throat instead of a wrinkled cravat, and gray trousers rather than the fawn-colored breeches, he spoke as silkily as ever. He even wore boots, she noted.
He caught her stare, and a slow smile appeared upon his handsome face. He held his arms out, inviting further inspection. “Do you like it? I confess, despite the lack of fashion, I am most comfortable.”
“I cannot say I understand the change.” Teresa folded her arms. “Nor can I say it suits you, sir.”
He touched the scruff upon his chin. “It will take time to grow accustomed to it, but I have time aplenty. We could exchange remarks all day and never come to the point, but I think it best we are direct with one another. Mrs. Clapham, I sense that you are a practical woman, and I have returned to your home to offer up a proposal.”
Teresa’s heart clenched. Caution was warranted any time a man used those words. “What sort of proposal?” Hopefully, she sounded indifferent rather than alarmed.
Mr. Duncan’s
lips curved upward, and he stepped closer to the rail. “You may have gathered that my situation is somewhat unique. I am a man used to the finer things in life, currently reduced to a man without a roof overhead. As I have gathered, you have experience with abrupt reversals in fortune, too.”
With a swallow, she nodded once. “That is true. But I fail to see what your misfortunes and mine have in common.”
“They have put us both in need of something the other can provide.” He swept off his hat and made a show of looking over her land. “You are two women and a child, alone, on a farm that requires more work than you can do on your own. I have heard that you hire out work on occasion, but that cannot be a sustainable way to live. Whatever funds you have, they will not last forever.”
Had she misjudged this man, too? Whatever he wished to propose, Teresa prepared herself to give him a thorough set-down. Laying out everything she already knew about her circumstances did not endear him to her in the slightest. He had been so mannerly before, so charming, and kind to Caroline.
“And just what is it, Mr. Duncan, that you think you can provide, as you said before?” She thrust her chin up, her entire body tense and ready for the verbal blow of an inappropriate suggestion.
His eyebrows shot up, and his expression went from calm confidence to confusion. He likely thought she would welcome whatever horrid thing he had planned. Well, she did not and would never be desperate enough to consider—
“I thought I might work for you.”
Teresa’s bravado hiccoughed. “Pardon?”
The man regarded her a moment as though her head was addled. “I would sleep in your barn. Do odd jobs for you.” His eyes narrowed, then just as quickly a look of understanding came upon his face. “Oh. You thought I meant—”
“Never mind what I thought,” she said hastily, feeling her cheeks warm. “You want to work for me, after pointing out that my funds are limited? That makes no sense, Mr. Duncan.”
“I will not require funds. Only food and a roof overhead.” He replaced his hat, a smirk still upon his face. “Until my family situation rights itself.”
“I see.” Of course, a man of his obvious good breeding would not suggest taking her as a mistress in return for protection or funds. If someone like him wanted a mistress, there were doubtless many willing candidates without calloused hands and sunburned cheeks. She cleared her throat. “I am not certain you understand, Mr. Duncan. We truly cannot hire laborers—”
“Mrs. Clapham, we both know that I am not a laborer. But I am capable of muddling along and offering you an extra set of hands.” He opened his hands at that, palm up, revealing a gentleman’s fine-boned fingers. “I will give you the use of my horse and do as you bid me. In return, I will only want the loft for my quarters and to take my meals with your family.”
He had thought the matter through, had even obtained clothing more suitable to the position he had invented for himself. A hired man who collected no wages. It was a far better proposal than the one Teresa had assumed he was about to make.
“Mr. Duncan,” a bright voice called from up the road. Both the gentleman and Teresa turned to see Caroline coming toward them from where the bend concealed the gate. She held a bundle of fur in her arms. “You came back. Look. I have my kitten.”
Without hesitation, Mr. Duncan lifted a hand to wave to the girl. She waved back, then disappeared again. It was obvious that Caroline would welcome the man into their lives. Having an extra set of eyes to keep watch over the little girl would be as much of a relief as another set of hands to lift Teresa’s load.
“I would like to discuss the matter with my mother,” Teresa said, pulling his attention back to her. “But for now, you may stay another night in the barn.”
That expression appeared again. A smirk she had thought it, but with how naturally it appeared perhaps that was always how he smiled. She raised a hand to forestall him from saying another word. “We will see, Mr. Duncan. I make you no promises.”
He bowed, then took up the horse’s lead and started toward the gate.
Watching him go, Teresa’s stomach unclenched at last. She felt the blush coming back into her cheeks. He was a handsome gentleman, there was no doubt of that, even with his unshaven face. As a widow, and living with her widowed mother, having an outdoor male servant would not harm her reputation. Much. The meanest of gossips might raise their eyebrows, but she was no Society miss whose life depended upon being seen as a virtuous innocent. The matter of her reputation did not worry her at all.
What did concern her, the thing that made her hesitate the most to accept an offer of what amounted to almost free labor, was what being near such a man might do to her.
Her husband had been gone for eighteen months. For a year, she had lived on their tiny farm and no man for miles had caught her eye or her imagination. But having a man of Mr. Duncan’s charm and education occupying the same dinner table as she did—
Teresa shook herself and went to the house to find her mother. They would make the decision together. And Teresa would remind herself, as many times as necessary, that a handsome man did not at all make for a trustworthy one. She need not be distracted by him if she chose not to be. In fact, if they kept him on, Teresa would see to it he did all the things she could not do, and as far away from her as possible.
Chapter Seven
Neil put his folded arms upon the short wood divider that acted as stall wall for Abigail the cow. Mrs. Clapham sat on a milking stool on the other side, the oil lamp hanging above her the only light in the barn. She milked with her cheek against the cow, her eyes closed as she hummed.
She made a pretty picture as a milkmaid. Neil watched her with a measure of envy. Somehow, she had found enough peace in her situation to be at ease, doing a task she had likely never performed until she came to this place.
Caroline sat in the stall, too, upon another stool. She had the kitten in her lap. The little girl spoke quietly to her kitten. “You will live in the barn at night, and find all our mice. In the mornings, you will keep me company during my lessons.”
Mrs. Clapham’s eyes opened, meeting his gaze. She lost her rhythm a moment, but Neil said nothing. She frowned at him, but spoke to her daughter. “Cara, darling, your kitten will likely go where he pleases.”
“That’s what Jill said. She said Tom cats never stay where they ought. But mine will behave, won’t you, sweet kitten?” Caroline nuzzled the top of the kitten’s head. The little orange creature answered with a mew.
Though he had dismissed the curiosity over the women’s circumstances before, it was easier to think upon Mrs. Clapham’s life than his own at the moment. Especially since Mrs. Godwin had enthusiastically accepted his proposal, giving him leave to stop worrying over food, shelter, and how long he could make his funds last.
The milking apparently finished, Mrs. Clapham rose from her stool and gave the cow a pat on its hindquarters. “Thank you, Abigail.”
Neil chuckled and opened the stall for the ladies to exit.
The mother looked to her daughter. “Leave the kitten, Cara. He will be safe and warm in the stall.”
Though her bottom lip protruded, Caroline put the cat down on the stool and came out, closing the stall door behind her.
“Good night, Mr. Duncan.” Caroline curtsied, took the pail from her mother, and walked out of the barn tilted sideways to balance the heavy pail. Neil watched her go, smiling despite himself. He had never spent much time around children. His eldest brother had several little brats, as spoiled as lapdogs, but Caroline amused rather than irritated Neil.
Mrs. Clapham cleared her throat, drawing his attention back to her. “I will have a list of chores for you tomorrow, Mr. Duncan.”
Manual labor was a small price to pay for peace of mind, and would serve to distract him from his problems. He had written a letter to his mother, informing her of where he was and how she might contact him. His letters would go to the Lost Mermaid public house and be sent from the same. Not tha
t he anticipated writing with any frequency. He only needed to inform his mother of his good health and where she might send his reprieve, when the time came.
“I look forward to being of assistance, Mrs. Clapham.” He bowed, and she hesitated.
“Mr. Duncan, I think we should discuss one matter right away.” Her chin came up. “You are under my employment, even though it is unusual, and I require that you treat my family with respect.”
The woman had a commanding streak to her, it would seem. Neil knew exactly how to handle her, however. “Madam, have I done anything at all to indicate disrespect?”
She frowned. “No. However, I have noticed a certain air about you. I cannot explain it. I suppose it comes natural to one born to privilege.”
Neil had made her wary, despite his attempts to be nothing but charming and forthright. How interesting. Neil stepped closer; though their distance was still respectable it was on the edge of propriety. “I cannot understand what you mean, Mrs. Clapham. I am behaving as a gentleman, am I not?”
To her credit, she did not back away, but he did see her swallow and her cheeks flush in the lantern light.
As understanding crept into his thoughts, Neil chuckled. She found him attractive. Also interesting.
“What has amused you, Mr. Duncan?” she asked, her little pointed chin raising higher, her dark eyes flashing with irritation.
“Our situation, Mrs. Clapham.”
She scowled at him and thrust the lantern between them. “Here. Do put it out before you fall asleep.”
Neil purposefully brushed her fingers with his as he took the lantern by the handle. She shivered, much to his pleasure, and then tightened the shawl around her shoulders.
“Good night, Mr. Duncan.”
He bowed. “Mrs. Clapham.”
She whirled about on her heel and vanished out of the barn. He walked to the door, closing it only after he watched the door to the kitchen open, a woman’s shape slip inside, and close again.
Reforming Lord Neil: A Regency Romance, Inglewood Book 5 Page 6