by Bliss Bennet
“Ah yes, the sheep.” He nodded, doing his best impression of a man who knew all there was to know about the care of ovines. “And as Mr. Atherton is with Mr. Baldwin, and the Dawbers are who knows where, there is no one to take charge of them.”
“Except, it would seem, Mr. Benedict,” Haviland said with a grin.
“Yes, Benedict. Who told me only yesterday he had given over painting portraits.” He turned to the footman. “Cannot we give them some frumity or ale, Parsons, to the pass the time until Mr. Atherton can take them in hand? He’s certainly eager enough to get back to work.”
“Yes, Miss Atherton made those arrangements, my lord, when the men first arrived. At dawn.”
At dawn. When he had been tossing and turning in bed, taking no heed of the sound of milling men outside his window except to damn it all to hell for keeping him awake, Harry had been up, seeing what needed to be done and doing it. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course she had.
“But it’s nigh on ten o’clock now, and the flock’s still not gathered and ready,” Parsons added, wringing his hands. “So the captain’s threatening to take all his men and leave. I’d not bother your lordship about such a matter, only Miss Atherton insisted you be told. ‘Lord Saybrook will know how to stall them,’ she said.”
Harry’s unexpected confidence sent warmth rushing through his chest. He rose, brushing a hand down his rumpled cravat. “Well, Haviland, it would seem this is one fly who is doomed to buzz about the sheep, rather than about your far more handsome figure. Do send for me, though, if you discover anything pertinent.”
“Certainly, Saybrook. And please pass my greetings along to your brother.”
He scowled over his shoulder. “Best watch yourself, Haviland, if you don’t wish Benedict to how much you’d love to sit for your portrait.”
Haviland’s laugh chased him down the passageway. Well, at least one person was gaining amusement from this damnable situation.
The chaos that greeted Theo at the home farm was even worse than what Parsons had described. A passel of unfamiliar men lolled against half-filled sheep pens, some smoking, some whistling, some polishing their wickedly pointed shears. The fellow who appeared to be their leader stood by the barn door, his expression impassive despite the pleas being thrown at him by an agitated Mr. Dawber the elder. And beside the pair crouched not only his head shepherd’s loyal dog, but his own brother, whipping a piece of charcoal over a sheet of paper perched on his knee.
“Why did you not tell me the clip was to be today?” Benedict asked as he caught sight of Theo across the yard. “I would have laid in more supplies.”
“Not meant to be today,” Dawber snapped before Theo could answer. “Allust the second week in June, not the first.”
“Allust but for this year, Dawber,” the captain of the gang answered, his voice even. “Sent word to yourn steward, nigh on two months back. No fault o’ mine if he forgot.”
“So says you.”
“So says I. And I ain’t going to argle the matter with you.”
“Yes, yes, just like that,” Benedict said, kneeling to pick up a fresh stick of charcoal. “Hold still for one more moment . . .”
Damnation. Atherton knew about the change in the shearing time, but had not informed Dawber, or any of the other shepherds? Granted, it might have slipped his mind after his accident, but why had he not told the men before that?
He stepped between his brother and the two men, then laid a hand on the shoulder of the red-faced shepherd. “Dawber, would you be so kind as to introduce me to this worthy gentleman?”
“Your lordship!” Dawber bent his head before turning back to the older man. “Mr. Twigg, the captain of the shearing gang.”
“Twigg. A pleasure to see you back again at Saybrook. They say none shear as fast, nor as cleanly, as Twigg’s men.” A little flattery never came amiss.
But Mr. Twigg only crossed his arms. “Slows us down some when the sheep’s not here.”
Benedict laughed at the old shearer’s wit. Theo would have much preferred to join his brother, but that would be letting Harry down, wouldn’t it, before he even tried. Instead, he shot a quelling glance in Ben’s direction before turning back to Twigg. “I imagine so. But some are here, and the rest are on the way, are they not, Dawber?”
“Aye. Sent Laban and the others to fetch them down as soon as Twigg and his men arrived.”
“Won’t be washed, though, will they?” Twigg persisted. “You’ll not have a buyer next year if you go and sell dirt for wool this one.”
“Indeed. But cannot the wool be washed after shearing?” Theo asked.
“Shear dry? No. Not proper,” Twigg said with a slow shake of the head. “Not for the long-wooled sheep, it ain’t.”
Theo stifled his groan of annoyance. “How long to wash the herd, Dawber?”
The Saybrook shepherd scratched his chin. “With everyone to hand, not more than a half-day’s work. But Mr. Atherton’s still abed. And I sent Tim and Toby off to Market Rasen this morning, not knowing the clip was to be today.” He glared at the gang captain, but Twigg remained silent. “Might be a full day, and then another day for ‘em to dry. More if it rains. Can’t shear wet, can you?”
“No.” Twigg shook his head again. “Labour lost and no gain at all, as the old woman said when she tried her hand at drying snow in the oven.”
Theo pressed his steepled hands against his chin. “If you can’t shear wet, and can’t shear dry, just when do you clip the poor creatures?”
Not only Benedict, but the entire shearing gang broke into guffaws at that sally. Well, if laughing at him kept them from leaving, he could joke and blunder until the sun came down. Or at least until the physician had finished examining Mr. Atherton.
“And what’s the old woman and her oven to do with it, I wonder?” he added for good measure.
“No, no, no old woman at all, my lord,” said Twigg, his arm wrapped about his middle to hold in his laughter. “To shear dry means to clip without washing, that’s all. But whether you wash or no, the fleece must be dry when you clip it.”
“Well, it looks to be a hot, sunny day,” he said, gazing up at the cloudless sky. “What say you and your men join mine for a splash in the river? And if a few sheep accompany us, all’s the better.”
“Are we to wade about with yon beasts for the mere pleasure of it? Or are ye asking us to wash them for ye?”
“Well, if a bit of washing was to happen, to man or to sheep, I don’t believe anyone would look askance.”
The gang members laughed again, but Twigg’s eyes only narrowed. “And are we to be paid for this bit of splashing about?”
“Yes, you’ll be paid. The same rate as for the shearing,” he added in a rush, cutting off the gang captain before he could raise another objection. Pray heaven Atherton had funds enough on hand for the extra expense.
“Not a bad day for a dip in the river, Twigg,” called one of the shearers.
“Aye, and the good lord knows Simeon here could do with a scrubbing,” yelled a second, giving his neighbor a rough but playful shove.
Mr. Twigg flicked his eye over each member of his gang, then gave a decisive nod. “We’ll do it.”
Theo watched in bemusement as the confusion of the yard rapidly yielded to order, the penned sheep driven down the road towards the river and its sheep wash by Dawber and his dog, Twigg and his gang following in their wake. Had it really been that easy to right this sinking ship?
Something—someone—nudged his shoulder. Benedict, his hands overflowing with pencils and charcoal and half-finished sketches, his eyes fixed on the men trailing across the fields. “Will they take their shirts off when they wash the sheep?” he asked.
Theo snorted. “Nice trick, that, getting me to pay for your models. But what happened to trying your hand at landscape?”
“Well, a landscape can always do with a few figures in it, can it not?” Benedict answered. “Help me carry all this down to the river and
I promise I won’t throw you in.”
Ben may agree not to toss him into the river, but he would make no such promise himself. A friendly wrestle followed by a tumble in the water sounded like just the thing to make him forget all his damned problems, at least for the space of a morning.
If only the wrestling could involve a particularly lovely young lady, instead of his brother . . .
“Ah, Miss Atherton, aren’t you kind. But you know there’s no need to be hauling hot food about, not when we’ve a strong young lad like Laban here to bear the load.”
Harry smiled as gray-headed Mrs. Dawber slapped at her son’s hand, warning him against stealing a tasty morsel off the platter he carried. Hoped the waning daylight might hide his theft, no doubt. Too bad for Laban, his mother’s eyesight had faded far less quickly than her hair.
“But many hands make light work, do they not?” Harry took a firmer grip on her own platter as they stepped from the gravel walk to a dirt path that led to the home farm’s shearing shed. “And if I help, there will be no need for another trip.”
“Indeed, miss. You always was a quick, heppen child. How pleased your dad must be, to have you home again. Ah, Laban, don’t you be feeding my good cooking to the dogs!” Mrs. Dawber squawked, setting down her armful of dishes on the table to give her son a yank on the ear.
Happily for Harry, Laban’s distraction meant there was no need to respond to his mother’s kind but mistaken assumption. Since rising from his sickbed three days ago, Harry’s father had been anything but happy with her. Leaving home before she awoke, spending dawn to dusk supervising the shearing gang, then falling into his bed each night with a frown, he’d not granted her even a moment to inquire about his well-being, let alone to inform him of her request to Mr. Thrapson from the bank to come and discuss the Saybrook accounts.
But Mr. Thrapson had not come. And Haviland had sent no word about the progress of the audit, either. One could only be stretched on tenterhooks of impatient uncertainty for so long.
So this evening, she’d used the pretext of delivering newly made preserves to Mrs. Dawber to walk out to the home farm. And then joined in preparing and bringing the food out for the shearing gang, too, all in the hopes of seeing and judging for herself what her father was too stubborn to share. And, if she could convince him to walk home with her, to warn him of Thrapson’s impending visit.
Rough voices raised in song joined the chorus of Mrs. Dawber’s scolding as Harry set her platter down on the table. One by one, men began to trickle out of the shearing shed, wiping greasy hands on shirts, batting away stray bits of wool that still swirled in the surrounding air.
Searching the group for her father, her eyes instead lit upon the surprising sight of Theo Pennington. Yes, she’d purposely not told her father when the sheep shearing gang arrived unexpectedly on Monday, had even kept him busy with the doctor for far longer than was necessary, all to ensure Theo would be forced to take some small charge of the running of his own estate. But she’d not expected such involvement to encompass his overseeing the actual shear.
But here he stood, side by side with two of the shearers, singing as lustily as any of them.
How delightful to see,
In those evenings in spring,
The sheep going home to the fold!
Coatless again, and without a cravat, too, just as he’d been in the garden a week ago. But his sleeves hadn’t been rolled up past his elbows, then, nor the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, baring the long column of his throat to her suddenly curious eyes. She’d never learned to paint, or even to sketch, a lack in her education she’d never thought to mourn until now.
The master doth sing,
As he views every thing
And his dog goes before him where told
And his dog goes before him where told
A sheepdog beside Theo gave a short, sharp bark as the song came to a close. He laughed, then crouched down to pat the animal on the head. “Ah Moss, you know enough not to listen to anything this sorry excuse for a master tells you, don’t you? Go, now, back to Laban.”
He looked up, then, his eyes fixing on hers from across the yard. Awareness raced through her body, memories of the softness of his curls against her fingertips, the warmth of his lips against hers sweeping over the breakwater of her worries. Could he be remembering, too?
“Excuse me, Missis, is it ale in the pitcher beside you?”
Harry jerked her gaze back to the table before her, its surrounding benches half-filled with hungry men. How long had she been staring? With a shake of her head, she passed the pitcher in question down to the wizened shearer.
“I thank you kindly. Your Missis, my lord?”
Harry started as a large, warm hand settled low at the curve of her back.
“I’d be a far better man, Twigg, if only I had the honor,” Theo’s voice declared from behind her. “But, alas, this lovely young lady belongs to our steward. Miss Atherton, may I make you known to Mr. Twigg, the captain of our shearing gang?”
“Miss Atherton.” The man’s deferential nod could not hide the sudden souring of his expression. What had she done to earn his displeasure?
Harry nodded in her turn. “Mr. Twigg. The clip has gone well, I hope?”
“Aye, well enough, for all we began in queer street. Send my letter to you next time, young Laban says, not to your dad.”
“Letter? What letter?”
Theo reached out for a tankard and raised it in a toast before Mr. Twigg could answer. “To another successful shearing, thanks to the honest work of Twigg and his gang. May the sheep never kick you, the flies never bother you, and the ale always flow freely once the shearing is done. And may we see you back again next summer!”
“Aye!”
After the cheering died down, the hand on her shoulders moved to her waist, urging her away from the table. “Come, Miss Atherton, let’s leave the men to their supper. Lord knows they’ve earned it, after all the hard work they’ve put in.”
But before they could take more than three steps from from the table, Mrs. Dawber bustled over, a dish full near to bursting in hand. “May I fix a plate for you, my lord? And for you, Miss Atherton? Mr. Benedict is making a picnic of it, you see, but I can send Laban and his brothers to bring out more chairs if you’d rather not sit on a blanket.”
“A picnic would be a treat, Mrs. Dawber,” Theo answered. “Shall we, Miss Atherton?”
Harry stepped free of his hand, her eyes searching up and down the table. “Will my father join us?”
Theo frowned. “He was looking rather drawn by mid afternoon, Harry, so Mr. Dawber and I insisted he go home and rest. Did he not arrive?”
Of course, Father would leave early on the day she chose to chase him down. “I haven’t been at home myself all afternoon. And now he’ll be expecting his supper, and me not there to make it for him.”
Mrs. Dawber patted her arm. “If he was that harrowed, moppet, you’d only go to find him asleep. Stay and eat yourself, then bring some home for him.”
And so Harry found herself on a blanket beneath an old ash tree, two Pennington brothers beside her, all three with plates perched in their laps. While they ate, Theo amused them with a steady stream of stories, not only about the shearing but also accounts of what she assumed were some of his tamer exploits in town.
“And poor Sayre’s face, when he bit into the groom’s cake! I thought he would suffer an apoplexy, trying to get it all down so as not to insult Aunt Allyne’s cooking.”
“And will your sister and her new husband be visiting you here this summer?” Harry asked as she set her empty plate aside.
“He’d best bring himself down here if he expects to garner support for his candidacy,” Benedict interjected as he stood and traded his plate for the sketch pad and crayon-box he had laid to the side. “But it’s no concern of mine. And I must find a higher spot if I have any hope of capturing this sunset. Offer my thanks to Mrs. Dawber, will you?”
And he left, without even waiting for a response. What a rude, boorish fellow. And to think she’d once favored him over his far more charming brother.
“The shearers are about to offer their own thanks.” Theo gestured toward the trestle tables. The men all stood, each with a raised tankard in hand. At a signal from Mr. Twigg, they broke once again into song:
Our sheep-shear is over and supper is past,
Here’s a health to our Mistress all in a full glass.
For she is a good woman and provides us good cheer
Here’s a health to our Mistress, so drink up your beer.
Harry smiled as Mrs. Dawber’s saucy curtsy provoked another cheer from the boisterous men. How satisfied she must feel, to be recognized for her hard work and be valued for it.
If her father had not sent her to Brighton all those years ago, and she had married a man like Mr. Dawber, might those men have been singing to her?
Harry shook her head. No, no sense in dwelling on impossible might-have-beens. Better to follow Mrs. Dawber’s example and make herself useful. She reached for the plate and tankard she’d put aside, then gathered the ones abandoned by Theo and his brother.
But when she approached the trestle table, the older woman snatched the dishes from her hands. “Ah, Miss Atherton, you’ve done more than enough for today. Now, off with you. And no fassiling on the way, mind, else you’ll find yourself wandering in the dark.”
“No worries on the head, Mrs. D. I’ll make sure Miss Atherton arrives home safe and sound.”
Once again she felt Theo Pennington’s hand in the curve of her back, warm, comforting. But the way it drove her heart to beat against her stays, and sent the blood rushing to her full breasts, no, that was not reassuring in the least.
Harry pulled away to say her good-byes, then stepped briskly down the lane, pretending not to see the arm Theo winged in her direction.