But the old man shook his head. “Nay, lad. The branch may be blighted. Cherry trees, they are forgiving if the bad branches are removed right away. But if it’s left, the whole tree could be sick by next spring. You need to go through the orchard and cut off every limb not bearing leaves.”
Neil looked from the tree above him to the others, his heart sinking. There were a lot of trees. He had been sick of them, fully, when they harvested the last of the cherries the week before. Teresa had stopped working near him and only addressed him when she needed to give him the next chore upon the growing list.
He had mucked out the stables every other day, chopped wood, fetched and carried grain from the nearest town, fixed the fence on the property, and tilled up more dirt for an expansion of Teresa’s herb garden. He had been gathering deadfall from around the property and bringing it to the house to break into kindling, when Mr. Putnam had appeared and informed him of Teresa’s new chore.
Lopping off tree branches.
Neil looked back over his shoulder at the house, glaring at the back door. Though their relationship had started unusually, he had thought a friendship had begun to grow between Teresa and himself. Until he opened his mouth to talk about her husband’s gambling. Or had it been his use of her Christian name that drove a wedge between them?
It seemed he would forever attempt friendly relationships with the wrong people.
He sighed and turned to the tree again.
“Mr. Duncan?” The old man studied him, his bushy gray eyebrows drawn together. “Is there something on your mind, lad?”
With a forced smile, Neil shook his head. “Not at all. Thank you for showing me what must be done. I will begin at once.” Even if the ache in his left arm was enough to make him wince. It hurt nearly precisely where he had broken it the year before.
“Best get a move on, then. Rain is coming. I feel it.” The old man patted his wrist.
“In your bones, hm?” Neil asked, amused.
“Aye. Where I broke this one, thirty years ago. I was about your age. Fell off the back of a wagon and snapped my wrist.” Mr. Putnam tucked his hand into his coat pocket. “It never fails to warn me of a change in the weather. The rest of me just aches about all the time.” He chuckled and started on his way.
A break in the bone. Interesting. Neil’s arm, broken in a carriage accident, might serve him the same way. How unfortunate.
He went along to the barn to fetch a ladder and a saw he had seen with a long handle. Once inside, Neil shed his coat, too. The work would go faster, and likely be safer, with more freedom of movement.
He returned to the orchard, grateful when he saw clouds moving in to block the sun.
His skin had turned darker with each day spent outside. His hat and neckcloth could only protect so much of him. The gloves helped a great deal. The blisters had stopped appearing, but his hands were rougher than they had ever been.
Yet he did not utter a single word of complaint. Not to Mrs. Godwin, Caroline, Teresa, or even in private to any of the animals. The women worked as hard as he did, and had been at it longer, though even less prepared for such a way of life than he. If Teresa could sing and hum as she performed the labor of a peasant, he could bite his tongue.
Though he said several choice words over the lack of any word from his mother and sister. Every other day, he rode to Dunwich to check for any post. Nothing had come, though it had been nearly a fortnight since his arrival at Bramble Cottage.
His mother might have at least written to him and revealed who his true father had been. He could think of no one in their lives that he resembled and doubted the affair had continued for too many years. Though he and Olivia looked a great deal alike, and seven years separated them in age.
Going down that path with his thoughts would lead nowhere. But all his thoughts seemed to take him that direction of late. Trying to determine why his father had leaped upon the opportunity to banish Neil had no explanation he could turn up. He could write to his brothers, but neither of them were ever interested in anyone outside of themselves. They would likely take his father’s part. Whatever it was. Maybe he ought to write some of his acquaintances in London, though they might spurn him as those in the country had done. Leaving him, again, nowhere.
The saw seemed to laugh at him as he pushed it through each branch. The push made a shush sound, the pull a harsher growl, and when the movement was fast enough he heard the word in the work: nowherenowherenowhere.
The branch fell, and Neil climbed down the ladder and went to the next tree. He looked up and found a branch devoid of leaves, far above the reach of the ladder. That meant he would need to climb into the branches as he had when picking cherries. But the work would be more difficult, moving the saw.
With a shrug, Neil reconciled himself to the climb. Up he went, thoughts still circling.
His birth, the marquess, his heartless family, were all better forgotten.
That left him to think on Teresa and her situation. Despite what she believed, he doubted her husband had been a true gambler. And one or two nights of bad luck would not have left the family in such financial straits. There was more to that story than Teresa knew, and the appearance of her brother-in-law the previous week only made Neil’s suspicions grow.
But he doubted Teresa would speak to him of any of it.
Stubborn woman.
And since his last conversation with her on the subject had led to her cool temperament, he had no wish to revisit the matter.
It was all a mess.
He pushed the saw into the branch, pulled back on it roughly, and at the same moment—
“Mr. Duncan?”
He slipped. The saw stayed in the branch, but Neil slid downward. He whacked his knee into a branch below and grabbed at another, but slid once more so that his elbow smacked into the trunk of the tree. He caught a branch at last, wrapping his arm about it, and looked down.
The accident should not have happened. Yet there he was, hanging several feet in the air.
“Mrs. Clapham,” he growled, then released the branch. His feet hit the ground, and he bent his knees to take some impact out of the fall. But she rushed forward, reaching for him, and Neil stumbled back, his tailbone hitting the earth with an unsophisticated thump.
He groaned.
“Oh, I am terribly sorry.” Teresa appeared before him and kneeled, heedless of her dress in the dirt. “Are you hurt?” Her hand went to his cheek.
Neil’s irritation with the entire situation made him act rashly. At least, that was what he told himself when he took the hand from his cheek and pulled her forward into his arms.
* * *
Though Teresa’s heart had already stuttered and then sped up watching Mr. Duncan fall through the tree—Heavens, what if he were killed?—it positively galloped when he pulled her down beside him, his arms going around her.
She ought to protest immediately. But when she attempted to reprimand him, her words came out breathy rather than stern. “Mr. Duncan. Stop this.” She cleared her throat and leaned away from him. “Has the fall addled your head?”
He groaned, kept one arm about her shoulder while rubbing at the back of his head with the opposite hand. “It may have.”
She peered more closely at him, then wriggled out from under his arm. “I am not some green girl barely out in Society, Mr. Duncan. I know a trick when I see one, and if you think for one moment I would encourage such attentions—”
“I would never dare to presume such a thing, Mrs. Clapham.” His sigh came out with exasperation. “Though I will admit freely that you are quite lovely, even when you are flustered.”
Teresa narrowed her eyes at him. She refused to be taken in by pretty words and compliments. She drew a folded paper out of her apron. “I came out here to give you this.” She thrust it toward him, trying not to study the beautiful penmanship directing the letter to Mister Neil Duncan, Lost Mermaid Public House, Dunwich, Suffolk.
Mr. Duncan took the paper from
her almost hesitantly, his eyes running over the handwriting. “Olivia,” he muttered before breaking the seal. Teresa averted her eyes, even though it would be a simple matter to read along with him.
“I will leave you to it.” She made as if to stand, but his hand closed around her wrist. Teresa stiffened and prepared to give him another dressing down.
The soft look in his eyes made her hesitate. “Please, do not rush off so quickly. It is a short letter. My sister writes only to tell me that the situation has not yet changed, and to stay where I am.” He dropped the letter into the grass beside him, then lowered himself all the way back to the ground, staring up at the branches of the tree.
Teresa had no business staying. She knew she ought to leave him to his thoughts, however complicated they might be. And she certainly had no reason to silently rejoice that Olivia was a relation and not a paramour. Mr. Duncan’s sister.
“I did not know you had gone to town,” Mr. Duncan said, before she made up her mind whether to stay or go.
“I have not been. Mr. Jones came to ask if we had more cherries to sell, and he brought the letter with him.” Teresa shifted next to Mr. Duncan, then allowed herself to look down at his handsome face. His whiskers were grown out again. Not to the point that they made him any less enjoyable to look at, of course. His hat had come off in his fall, leaving his blond hair to curl just above his forehead.
Mr. Duncan’s eyes flicked to hers, catching her staring. She forced a smile.
“I am sorry you did not receive better news, Mr. Duncan.”
“As am I. It means I must trespass upon your hospitality longer yet.”
“You mean that you must work to earn your keep a while yet,” she countered, trying to tease a smile back upon his face. He looked far too dignified when he frowned.
It worked, at least a little. One corner of his mouth turned upward. “I suppose that is good news to you, Mrs. Clapham.”
“Of course it is. I appreciate having a pair of hands to fetch and carry for me.” She poked his arm with one finger, and he chuckled. Why had she been avoiding him of late? It felt good, to sit beside him. “I would far rather see you climbing about on ladders and mucking out stables than perform the tasks myself.”
To Teresa’s surprise, his expression softened at those words. His smile gentled, the light in his eyes brightening as he spoke. “Even though you have done an admirable job for months, without my help? You are a marvel, Mrs. Clapham. Every time I think on what you have done all this time, just you, Caroline, and Mrs. Godwin…” His voice trailed away, though his gaze remained persistent.
Why could she not look away?
“We have managed, but it has been a near thing at times.” He need not know how she struggled, especially in the beginning. And yet. Telling someone might relieve the burden upon her weary shoulders. “When we first came, we had a little money my mother had put by from her own marriage settlement. It was enough to repair a few things, and hire men to plow a field and get the barn ready for a cow. We bought Abigail, and the chickens, and saw to the most pressing household needs. But the money will not last forever, so we save it now.” The repairs needed for the house and barn to be livable had been extensive and needed with immediacy. Animals had cost a pretty sum as well.
“You bear up well.” Mr. Duncan sounded almost admiring.
Teresa scoffed and folded her hands in her lap, looking away from him at last, staring through the orchard trees to the field, and beyond that to the barn and house. “No. I hide my difficulties well. The truth is, before you came, I was quite terrified of what winter would mean for us. So thank you, Mr. Duncan, for doing so much for us.”
He sat up again, shifting to face her. “I have never worked so hard in my life.” He drew off first one leather glove and then the other, dropping them on the ground. “And if you knew me better, you would not be so quick to praise me. You have taken on the welfare of your family. I am not even worthy of your time.”
Had Teresa not been staring directly at him, had she not glimpsed the pain in his eyes, she could have shrugged off his words as mere flirting. “You cannot believe that, Mr. Duncan.” She leaned closer, her words earnest. “I may not know much of your past. You have left me only guesses at your history. But I can see who you are in all that you do. You are kind to my daughter and take the time to answer all her ridiculous questions. You are respectful to my mother, never forgetting to ask if she has need of your help. And you have never once looked down upon us or our circumstances.”
He leaned closer, his eyebrows drawn together. “I would be a fool to do so, my dear.” The endearment made her heart leap, but he did not leave her time to think on it. “I am not nearly so noble as you believe me to be. Because if I was, I would not dare do this.”
The remaining distance between them vanished in an instant, and his lips were upon hers. It was not a passionate lover’s embrace, but it was not the gentle press of lips from an innocent, either. His lips slanted over hers perfectly, giving rather than taking. He did not touch her otherwise. No hand to her cheek or waist. Only his mouth, inviting her to partake if she wished.
Teresa leaned into the kiss, returning the token with hesitancy. It was heavenly, to breathe him in, to know that a man she admired found her attractive and even desirable. The temptation to give in further, to deepen the kiss, nearly overtook her. But—
Teresa pulled away, and he remained still, not chasing after her. Not demanding more than she would give.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Neil looked away, gathering up his gloves and the letter. “Forgive me, Mrs. Clapham. I do not know what came over me.” He stepped away, turning to scoop up his hat.
Mortification filled her. Had she done something wrong? Other than kiss him back, of course. Oh, she had behaved foolishly. Teresa struggled up to her feet and glared at his back. “Mr. Duncan.”
He put his hat on, then his gloves, and turned slowly to look at her. “Yes, madam?”
His bearing was noble as ever. Shoulders straight, chin up, and as tall and athletic in appearance as any Adonis from her days in Society. But the confidence was gone from his eyes. The smugness had disappeared from the twist of his smile.
It was impossible to understand him. And she should not have returned his kiss. She had a responsibility to her mother and daughter, and to herself, to avoid dalliances and distractions. That was what she had been thinking in the instant she pulled away.
“Tomorrow, I need you to speak to Mr. Putnam about thatching roofs. Ours is in terrible need of repair.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Teresa wrapped her arms about herself. More rain meant more damage to her roof, attic, and house. It also meant she could not go for her walk to the cliffs that day. Which she sorely needed, to clear her mind.
“Yes, madam.” He gathered his ladder. “I will see to it first thing.”
Teresa nodded. “And do not speak of what happened a moment ago to anyone.”
He paused and quirked an eyebrow at her. “Do you think I would?”
She blushed. No. He seemed too kind to humiliate her that way. But there was no use admitting as much. “Just see to it you do not.” Then she strode by him, making her way to the house as quickly as possible. Trying not to think of the way her lips tingled and her whole body went warm and soft beneath his attentive kiss.
Chapter Fourteen
Muttering to himself as he tromped through the wet, drippy trees, Neil roundly cursed every aspect of his homeland’s weather. The mud sucked at his boots, too, and there would be no valet to clean them. If Neil wanted them restored, he’d be the one to work out how to scrape off the dirt clods without damaging the leather.
The worst thing was, of course, that he had brought the entire situation upon himself by leaving the long-handled saw out in the weather rather than bringing it in with him.
Why had he even attempted the chore? What did he know about pruning trees? The only associations he had ever had with that parti
cular bit of flora had been when he climbed them as a boy or lounged beneath them as an indolent youth.
The mistake certainly had not been made due to distraction. Not at all. Kissing the enchanting Teresa Clapham had not addled his wits. He was too sophisticated. Too worldly—
And obviously too starved of companionship, to go about kissing a woman who did not want to be kissed.
It was like what had happened with Lady Inglewood all over again. Except Teresa’s loyalty was to her home and family, not an absent husband.
Or maybe it was. Lack of mourning attire after a year did not mean anything.
Neil found the spot where he’d fallen from the cursed cherry tree, easily recognizable by the man-sized dent in the soft earth. But he didn’t see the saw upon the ground. He muttered to himself and looked upward. There the instrument waited for him, still halfway through the branch, and now perilously out of reach given the damp branches.
Would one night in the rain ruin the tool?
Neil debated whether the tool or his safety might be of more importance to Mrs. Clapham.
Most certainly, it would be the saw.
He would need to go all the way back to the barn to get the ladder if he hoped to reach the saw without breaking his head open. Defeat pulled him downward. He dropped his head and relaxed his shoulders, feeling the raindrops hit him upon the back of his neck. Without a fine collar and cravat, without a stylish hat or warm greatcoat, the elements could further testify as to how low he had fallen.
A soft whine reached his ears. A pathetic, hopeless sound. The very sound his soul would make, were he to lose the last shred of pride. But the noise had not come from him. Not yet.
Then where—?
Neil turned toward the hedgerow. On the other side of it was a lane, commonly used by the farmers in the area. He went that way, eyes searching through the brush for whatever creature might be concealed inside.
Another whine, softer and longer, made him hasten his steps.
A dog. It had to be a dog.
Reforming Lord Neil: A Regency Romance, Inglewood Book 5 Page 11