He bristled at being called a boy. “It’s acceptable behavior for an earl. You should know.”
Oliver gritted his teeth. This lad needed a good beating and to be put in his place. The bad thing was that Oliver couldn’t dispute him because it was what he did.
“I am older,” he said. “And my estate is in hand.”
He waited a few heartbeats for those words to sink in. Philip’s brows came together.
“What does that mean?” the boy finally asked.
“It means: Do you know the state of your finances? Are you aware of money being spent? Money coming in? Can you afford the lifestyle you are living? Can you afford to keep your mother in the lifestyle she is accustomed to?”
“Of course I am, and yes I can. We’re Fieldhursts.”
“And what does that mean? You’re Fieldhursts. Does that mean you cannot run out of money? That you can live this lifestyle forever and your estate will go on as it has for the past generations?”
“Yes. I mean… No. I’m assuming that we could run out of money due to some calamity or such.” But his voice was wavering, and he didn’t seem so certain.
“So you think that the only way to lose your estate is through some…calamity? What sort of calamity?”
They rode in silence for a minute or so.
“If you’ve brought me out here to scare me, it’s not going to work,” Philip said with false bravado.
“I didn’t bring you out here to scare you.”
“We have money. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“It’s none of my business.”
That quieted him for a moment.
“Then why are we out here?”
“Because Mr. Potter needs your help.”
“Mr. Potter?” His brows scrunched together.
“The Potters have been pig farmers on your estate for generations. They are highly respected by everyone in the area, including your late father and grandfather. You should know this if you are the earl.”
Philip turned his face away but not before Oliver caught the tinge of pink touching his cheekbones.
“I knew that,” he said.
Oliver kept driving and let the silence continue. His mood was greatly improved at this point. He liked verbally fencing with young Philip, and the boy had definitely been put in his place.
“Why are we seeing Mr. Potter?” he finally asked after a few minutes.
“Potter’s eldest son broke his leg and can’t help his father. The sows are about to give birth, and Potter needs help until his son is healed.”
“Damnation! If you think I’m going to become a…a…pig farmer, then you are mistaken. You can turn this curricle around and head back to London.” Philip had half risen from his seat, and Oliver feared he would jump out.
“He is your tenant. Highly respected, as I’ve said. And he needs help. It is your duty and obligation as the Earl of Fieldhurst to help him.”
“But not do it myself!” The boy was yelling, and Oliver was trying not to grin.
“Are you too good for such manual labor? Is this job too far beneath you?”
“Yes! I am the earl. Surely there is someone else to help Mr. Potter.”
“Who?”
“I… I don’t know. We’ll find someone.”
“And this someone? Where will you find him? Will you take him off his own farm? Pull him from his own job? And who will do that job?”
“This is ridiculous. You are just trying to prove a point, but I will not get dirty with the pigs.”
“I told you to wear old clothes.”
“This has nothing to do with clothes. This… This is…”
Oliver turned his face away to keep the boy from seeing his laughter. He was incensed. Furious. And scared. He did not want to be with the pigs, but that is precisely where he needed to be.
“I am certain that you have never slopped around with pigs,” Philip said between clenched teeth.
“I most certainly have. Watched a few sows give birth, too. Had to help one little piglet into this world because he got stuck.”
Philip groaned and turned white. “Is this my mother’s way of punishing me?”
“No. This is you being obligated to your estate, your land, and the people who rely on you. It’s you being an earl.”
“And what if I refuse?”
Oliver drove in silence, because he didn’t know what he would do if Philip flat-out refused. He had no recourse. He wasn’t the lad’s father and couldn’t punish him.
“Then you will disappoint your mother.”
…
Philip stared at Armbruster’s retreating curricle in disbelief. The bastard had actually left him here. With the pigs!
If he thought for one moment that Philip was getting in that mud with those pigs then he was highly mistaken. Philip would show him who was earl of this estate, and it certainly wasn’t Armbruster.
“There you are.”
An older gentleman hobbled toward him, with bowed legs and bowed back and gnarled, dirty fingers. “We been waiting for ye. This way.”
The man turned around and shuffled away, obviously expecting Philip to follow. Did he not know protocol? Did he not realize that he was to walk behind Philip?
Incensed, Philip hurried after him to give him a piece of his mind and a lesson on etiquette, but the stench of the pigs stopped him cold. He wanted to gag. Only pride kept him from doing so.
The odor did not seem to affect old Potter.
“We’re short a hand,” the man was saying as he hurried between the pens. “My oldest son broke his leg.” Potter stopped and turned to wait for Philip to catch up. “By the way, my wife thanks ye for the food from the main house. Taking care of him has been her full-time duty, so the food helped.”
“Uh. You’re welcome.” Philip wasn’t aware of any food but thought it nice that his housekeeper had thought to send some to the Potters.
“These’ll need mucking. Lord Armbruster said ye wouldn’t mind.” Potter eyed Philip’s pristine, if not a bit wrinkled attire.
“Listen, Mr. Potter, there’s been some sort of miscommunication between you and Armbruster, regarding my services here.” He tried not to wrinkle his nose at the stench but feared he failed.
“His Lordship said ye would help. Yer father and his father afore that helped when needed. No complaint.”
“It’s not that I’m complaining. It’s just that surely there is someone else…more qualified to help.”
Potter laughed. A guffaw that had him slapping his knee. “More qualified. You don’t need no qualifications to muck a pigpen. I’ll show ye where the shovels are.”
And he was gone. Even though it was apparent he had bad hips that pained him, the man moved fast through the mud.
Philip looked down at his ruined shoes, caked in smelly brown muck.
He hurried after Potter, determined to convince the man to find someone else. He had a few shillings in his pocket, surely more than enough to hire an extra hand.
“Mr. Potter, I have some—” A shovel was thrust into his hand and reflexively he took it.
“Just shovel the shite out,” Potter said. “Ain’t nothing to it. You can start with that one. The sows are tame but be careful. Some of ’em can be nasty.”
Potter disappeared so fast that Philip’s mouth was still open to tell him about the shillings.
Philip looked at the pigpen and the huge animals nosing around through the mud.
Disgusting creatures.
“Bet you like bacon, though.”
Philip spun around to face a lad a few years younger than him, but taller and wider, with a nasty smirk.
“And who are you?” Philip asked.
“Tom Potter.”
Philip looked him up and down. “It doesn’t appear that you have a broken leg.” Had he been lied to by Armbruster and Potter?
“I ain’t got a broken leg. That’s my oldest brother, David. I’m Tom. I was sent to watch over ye.” His eyes tw
inkled, and it appeared that he was quite pleased with having been given the task of looking over Philip.
Philip’s nose went up in the air. “I don’t need looking after, but thank you.”
Tom grinned. “I don’t see ye workin’. Standin’ around won’t get those stalls mucked out.”
“I’m not mucking out stalls,” Philip said. “I was just telling your father that I will be glad to pay someone to come do the job.”
Tom’s smile faded, and he looked Philip up and down, taking in the ruined shoes, the trousers with mud splattered on them, and the clean coat and shirt.
“Afraid ye can’t do it?” he asked.
“I can do it. I just don’t need to do it.”
Tom tilted his head to the back and side, looking at Philip through half-lowered lids. “Ye think ye’re better than us, then.”
“I didn’t say that.” Philip was beginning to worry. He’d come across mean boys before. There were times that Eton was more of a survival of the fittest than anything. He’d been in his fair share of fights, but Tom was different. Tom seemed feral.
“Then start mucking, rich boy.”
Philip’s shoulders went back. It was one thing to be called names by your peers in school, but being ridiculed by the son of a pig farmer was unacceptable.
“I don’t take orders from you,” Philip said.
Quick as lightning Tom shoved Philip. It was so unexpected that Philip hadn’t had time to brace himself, and he fell in the mud with a large splat. Muck flew everywhere. On his clothes, in his mouth and eyes, and soaking through the seat of his trousers.
Philip scrambled to his feet, slipping and sliding, making himself look like a fool. That only added to his fury as he had to grab hold of the fence post and hoist himself up.
Tom was laughing and Philip swung at him, but Tom ducked and Philip spun around.
Before he knew it Tom barreled at him, his lowered head plowing into Philip’s stomach and forcing the air out of him. He went down into the mud again, but he wasn’t about to let the son of a pig farmer get the best of him.
They rolled in the mud and the pig shite while the sows squealed and the piglets ran about in terror.
Philip felt himself being raised from the ground, Tom falling away from him.
He looked up into the furious eyes of Mr. Potter, who had a boy in each hand. The man may have appeared frail and in pain, but he was anything but.
He shook both boys. “Enough of this nonsense.” He released the boys and both staggered to the side, breathing hard with bloody lips and noses.
Philip looked down at his ruined clothes. He could barely tell what color they had been.
“Get to mucking.” Mr. Potter thrust the shovel back in Philip’s hand, and he took it. “You.” He pointed to Tom. “Get back to the barn and shovel that feed.”
When Tom sauntered off with another smirk, Potter turned to Philip and eyed him. “I knew yer father well. He came here often, especially as a young lad. Would help wherever anyone needed help. He’d be ashamed of you right now.”
Potter walked off and Philip didn’t know if he tasted pig shit in his mouth or mortification.
Chapter Eleven
For Ellen the day was endless. She had no idea where Oliver had taken her son or what they were doing. She kept reminding herself that she had asked for Oliver’s help and she must trust him.
However, her long-held secret hung between them, and her fear of being discovered was very, very real. Why had she asked for Oliver’s help? Because there really was no one else to ask.
She spent the day floating between rooms with nothing to do. Or at least nothing that would stay her rambling thoughts.
As soon as Oliver had told her that he was picking Philip up at such an ungodly hour, she’d sent a footman to find her son. It was embarrassing, not knowing where he was.
The footman had found Philip with an hour to spare—drunk, with a black eye that had made her wince in mortification. She’d poured as much coffee into him as she could while explaining what he had to do.
He’d been furious, as she’d expected he would be. He’d argued and refused to change his clothes, while she’d fallen into the predicted pattern of wheedling and bribing him.
And sending him off with Oliver had been her greatest fear. How did others not see the resemblance? It was so clear to her that they were father and son. The cut of their brows, the solid jawline, the matching blue eyes. Philip had not fully grown into the man he would someday become, but Ellen could see he would be shaped like his father. Loose-limbed, wide of shoulders, slim of hips, and the same blond-leaning-toward-wheat-colored hair.
Evening turned into night, and the clock was striking nine when she heard a carriage outside.
Throwing off all sense of decorum, she rushed to the front window and spied Oliver’s curricle, but Oliver was alone, dismounting in a graceful leap and taking the steps to her front door two at a time.
She was at the door before the butler had time to open it.
“Where is he?” She was breathless, her heart hammering. What had Oliver done with her son?
His eyes were gleaming in amusement as he entered her foyer.
“He’s coming in through the servants’ entrance in the back. Trust me, you do not want him to come through your front door.”
“Why? What happened? Is he hurt?”
“Just his pride.” Oliver looked at her oddly. “Did you think I would let anything happen to him?”
Her shoulders drooped, and she passed a hand over her eyes. Pull yourself together, Ellen. You’re behaving like a fool.
“No. Of course not. I was just worried.”
She motioned for him to follow her into the parlor. In the better light she could tell that he was weary and there was dirt on his boots.
“Where were you?” she asked as she sat. Oliver chose to remain standing. “I was becoming worried that something had happened to the both of you.”
“We are fine. Philip needs a bath, and you will have to discard his clothes. They are unsalvageable, I’m afraid. I took him to Fieldhurst where he worked with Mr. Potter and the pigs.”
Her brows drew together. “The manor house? But that’s hours away. In the country.” And then the rest of what he said hit her. “Pigs? Philip worked with pigs?”
Oliver finally perched on the edge of the couch and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Yes, to the manor house and yes, he worked with pigs. The boy needs to know his land. Being an earl is so much more than the title, as I’m sure you’re aware. But Philip seems to think it comes only with privileges and no work.”
Her hands clenched in her lap, and she suddenly became defensive of her son. “His father loved him to the ends of the earth. In Arthur’s eyes the sun rose and set on Philip. Arthur tried to teach him how to be an earl, but he passed so suddenly.”
Oliver waved her words away. She remembered that about him. He made no excuses and accepted no excuses. But she wanted him to know that Philip had been loved by his father.
“Nevertheless, the boy has an unrealistic view of what being an earl means. He had an eye-opening experience with the pigs, and I daresay he learned something valuable along the way.”
“Arthur adored Mr. Potter. He used to help him when the sows gave birth.” How had she forgotten that about Arthur? He’d loved to get his hands dirty, to come home with calluses on his palms. He’d said he felt like he’d accomplished something important.
And how like Oliver to realize that this was what Philip needed.
“Has he seen the estate’s books?” Oliver was asking. “Has he met with the land manager?”
“I won’t let him. He needs to finish his schooling before he worries about those things.”
Oliver sat back and studied her. His eyes were hooded, his expression neutral, but she feared that he thought she was an inadequate mother.
“Maybe it’s time to let him do these things. Let him see that running an estate the size of Fieldhurst tak
es work. Hard work. Hard decisions have to be made, and they need to be made quickly.”
Her head shot up, and a thrill of fear raced through her. “Why? Fieldhurst is a fully functioning estate. Rents are coming in as they should be. There are maintenance issues that we have been putting off—”
“Ellen.”
She snapped her mouth closed and raised her chin. Just the one word seemed to put her in her place.
“I’m not making any accusations and I’m not passing judgment. Please stop being so defensive. You asked me to help and that’s what I’m doing. If you would like me to step back, I will. But if you want me to continue to help, then you need to stop fighting me.”
Suddenly she deflated. He was right. Of course he was right. But her fear of discovery was overpowering every thought. She wanted to push him away, but he was the only one willing to help.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Oliver leaned forward again and studied her in such an intimate way that it made her cheeks heat and she had to look away, flooded with memories. There had been a connection the first night she’d met him at the ball, and there was still a connection. A visceral feeling deep inside her, a feeling that Oliver was special, once in a lifetime. Her body began to remember Oliver in ways she had tried to erase—that first kiss underneath the tree in Hyde Park. The shocked feeling that he was actually kissing her, then the acceptance that she liked him. She really, really liked him.
He was the only man who had made her heart and body sing.
Oh, it had been such a horrible mistake inviting him back into her life.
“What is wrong, Ellen? You’re not yourself.”
She lifted her chin again. “It’s been seventeen years, Oliver. I’m not the girl you remember.”
“You never told anyone? About us?”
“Of course not!”
“Arthur never suspected?”
“Oliver. Please. Stop. We can’t talk about this.”
“He’s dead, Ellen. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
But it did matter. It mattered greatly, and his look told her that he thought the same.
“He never suspected,” she whispered. But there were times she’d wondered. Over the years, Arthur would say something about how lucky he was to have Philip. Or how sad he was that they’d never had another child. She would catch him sometimes looking at Philip when he thought no one was watching, a deep crease between his brows, as if looking for something of himself in the boy.
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