Page 21 of Reforming Lord Neil

“How is a poem about a spoiled dog a morality verse?” Teresa asked, amused despite herself.

Mr. Duncan chuckled and rose from his chair, list in hand. “I confess, I do not remember how the rest of it went. I only liked the first stanza due to the fact it was about a dog. Now a man grown, I rather wish I remembered it. I find I have a great deal in common with the spaniel.”

Teresa considered that, then waved him away from touching his plate. “We will care for the kitchen things, Mr. Duncan. You had better start on your list.”

“Or else finally get the whip for mischief.” He sighed dramatically, making Caroline giggle again. “I will begin with the barn, if that suits you, Mrs. Clapham.”

“It does. Thank you.” Teresa forced away her own smile. The chore ahead of him was not pleasant and would likely take him the day. “The entire floor must be cleaned, tools organized to your liking since you will be the one using them, and supplies checked. The stalls must be cleared, and your horse may have one for himself.”

There were only three stalls in the barn. Abigail’s was the only one prepared for any sort of animal habitation.

Mr. Duncan took his leave with a bow. “I am off to earn my keep. Good luck with your poems today, Miss Caroline.”

He went out the door, and Teresa heard him start to whistle a familiar tune. The same she had hummed his first night in their barn. One of her favorites. She gathered his dishes and her own.

“Do you think he knows what he is about?” Mother asked, still sipping at her cooling coffee.

Teresa glanced out the open kitchen window in time to see Mr. Duncan step into the barn. “I hope so.”

* * *

The organization of a building set apart for the keeping of animals and tools ought not be difficult. Yet Neil was three hours into the task and felt as though he had made no progress.

After he released Abigail into the paddock with his horse, he started his work in the stalls. He ought to name the gelding. It seemed the two of them would be companions for a while yet.

Mucking stalls was similar enough to cleaning out kennels. Old straw in a wheelbarrow, hauled outside to the corner of one of the fields. As long as he found no rot. Not that he entirely knew what rot looked like, but he had been warned against it by his father’s gardener strongly enough to have an idea of what it looked and smelled like.

Everything else he raked and swept with a broad broom. Then he went about organizing the tools. He drove nails into the wood boards of the barn to hang things that had laid on a shelf without much order. His only company was the horse, on occasion, hanging its head in through the split barn door, and Caroline’s cat.

Flies came and attempted to distract him, earning more than one remark no lady ought to overhear. By noon Neil felt he had done enough to merit a rest.

He exited the barn, the cat on his heels, and stretched. He had his coat over one arm, but as he had seen many a farmer working in fields without that restrictive piece of clothing it could not be too wrong to go without it for a time. Did the working class have rules about when to appear in shirtsleeves and when not to?

The list with chores was in his coat pocket. Neil drew it out and studied the neatly written task that came next. The fine handwriting did little to make the list less loathsome.

Cleaning out the chicken coop. He wrinkled his nose and turned to the side of the barn, where he had seen the feathery pests that morning. The coop was smaller than the barn. It could not be nearly as difficult or time consuming.

An hour into the work, with a full wheelbarrow and sweat making his shirt stick to him in ways he was certain it never had before, Neil went to the fields in search of Mrs. Clapham. He dumped his wheelbarrow load at the corner of the field, then went striding through the green of growing things to the corner of the field nearest the orchard. He could hear Caroline’s voice, chattering away, but did not stop long enough to decipher what she said. As soon as he was within shouting distance, he called out.

“Mrs. Clapham?”

Both figures started, and Mrs. Clapham rose from her place on the ground. She picked up a bucket at her side and walked toward him, until they met with a row of cabbage growing between them.

“Mr. Duncan. How goes your work?”

Neil drew in a deep breath, but the twinkle in the woman’s eye said she could well enough guess the answer to her question. “Splendidly.” He tried not to grit his teeth too much as he answered. “I am ready for the chicken house.”

“Yes.” She glanced over him, likely taking in the grime he knew he would never be free of again, no matter how many times he bathed. “It is rather filthy work. I am afraid I have put it off. It ought to be done at least once a season.” Then she leaned to one side to peer around him. “I am glad you knew to bring everything out for the fields. But how did you know?”

“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.