Page 24 of Reforming Lord Neil

Even if she had that lovely black hair and cool gray eyes that spoke of both tragedy and triumph.

Never had Neil met a woman like her. He had to admire her strength of character and her resolve to create a new life for her family.

Neil brought the cat back down to his chest, where the animal started purring at once, butting its head up against Neil’s chin. He scratched the cat’s head and released a deep sigh.

“Admiration is all well and good. From afar.” He stared at the rafters of the barn, his thoughts whirling about like children dancing ’round a maypole. “But I am only biding my time, and offending the sensibilities of my hostess—my employer, I should say—will only see me wandering about England again. At least here, I retain some dignity.”

The cat meowed directly into Neil’s ear, making him cringe. “Or at least as much dignity as one can have while conversing with a feline.”

He sat up, the kitten jumping from his shoulder to the floor. His shirt hung on the top rail of the ladder where he had placed it after pulling it out of the vinegar bucket. The cloth had reeked terribly. Burning it certainly held an increased appeal. But he had nothing else to wear.

He stopped before he made it to the ladder. White cloth in folded rectangles waited for him on the floorboards. He picked one up and shook out a shirt. Not exactly his size, were he to go to a tailor, but close enough to be comfortable.

Neil pulled the shirt over his head, then tucked it into his trousers. He adjusted the sleeves, looked down at the open neck, and smiled to himself as the faint smell of lavender reached his nose.

A practical gift, but still a gift. Perhaps he had not offended Mrs. Clapham too terribly after all.

Neil pulled on his boots, contemplating the change in his station. Would anyone from his former life even recognize him, dressed as he was? Certainly, none of his acquaintances would expect him to go about a farm doing chores. Most would scoff at the very idea of Lord Neil Duncan stepping foot inside a chicken pen.

Except, perhaps, for Lady Fox. Before she had wed, as Miss Wedgewood, she had admitted to understanding people who did what they must to achieve their desires. And she had made a point of looking him in the eye and telling him he could be more than what people thought him.

Though Neil highly doubted even she would have thought him capable of lowering himself to farm labor.

After tying the blue cloth in place about his neck, to protect from sun, sweat, and immodesty, Neil made his way down the ladder. Abigail was already out of her stall, which meant she had been milked. Neil released his horse into the paddock as well, then went on his way to find breakfast.

Caroline was at the table with a slate, chewing on toast while she did sums with chalk. She looked up when he entered and smiled brightly at him. “Good morning, Mr. Duncan. We get to pick cherries today.”

“That sounds like delightful work.” Neil did not have to force himself to sound cheerful, given the alternative chores waiting for him. He took the chair he had used before, across from the little girl. “Much more fun than mucking out stables.”

She wrinkled her freckled nose at him. “It smells a lot better out there, too.”

Neil chuckled and then leaned back as Mrs. Godwin put a plate before him, along with a cup of coffee. “There you are, Mr. Duncan.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Godwin.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Is Mrs. Clapham not having breakfast?”

“Mama ate early,” Caroline answered, bending her head to her sums again. “She went to ask Mr. Finley about the price of cherries at market.”

Mrs. Godwin saw the confused expression on his face, given the explanation Caroline had provided. “We need to determine what we will sell fresh and what we should preserve in jars.”

“Ah, I see.” Then she hadn’t been avoiding him. Neil gave his attention to his toast, which had been spread liberally with preserves. He took a large bite, then hummed in satisfaction. “This is delicious, Mrs. Godwin.”

When Neil finished eating, Caroline put on her apron and a bonnet. Under her direction, Neil fetched baskets from the barn and carried them out to the orchard. It was not a large grove; his father had a pear orchard easily four times the size of the cherry tree lot. But the fruit certainly appeared ripe enough to go to market.

Caroline started on the lower branches, while Neil returned to the barn for a ladder to get into the trees. When he arrived at the barn, he saw Mrs. Clapham leaving the house, more baskets in her arms. She immediately smiled at him.

“Mr. Duncan, good morning. Are the shirts to your liking?”

Neil looked down at the cream-colored cloth. “They are. I thank you for not forcing me back into the pickled clothing.” He ran a hand over the front of the shirt. “Though your mother assures me that a few hours in the sun will do wonders for the shirt’s smell.”

She gave him the barest of smiles. “I am pleased to find a use for the shirts.” Then she pressed her lips together, as though to hold something back. Her eyes darkened and she looked toward the orchard. “Is Caroline already harvesting cherries?”

“Yes, she is. I am come for the ladder.” Though he did not care, he told himself it would do no harm to satisfy his curiosity and confirm his suspicions. “Am I wearing a shirt that belonged to your late husband?”

The color disappeared from her cheeks. Mrs. Clapham’s gaze fell to the ground between them. “Yes. I had a few of his things, and the size seemed close. I hope you do not mind.”

“Not at all.” He took a step backward, then another. “I will get the ladder and walk out to the trees with you.” He turned on his heel and went into the barn, in search of one of the shorter ladders he had hung against the wall opposite the stalls. He pulled it from its hooks, tipped it parallel to the ground, and tucked it under his arm. When he walked outside again, he suspected Mrs. Clapham would have gone ahead rather than wait.

But she remained standing there, holding her baskets to her side. She fell into step next to him as they crossed the field toward the trees.