Page 5 of Reforming Lord Neil

What was a man to do, without more than a small purse of coins to his name and no place to go? Perhaps this had been the marquess’s plan, to force Neil into recognizing how much he depended upon his lordship’s good graces. The marquess had always been manipulative. There must be more to his reason for turning his third son out. A man did not invite that kind of public scrutiny without reason.

Or perhaps the marquess had only tired of throwing money away on a child he had rightly suspected was not his own. Neil cast that thought away. He was the natural child of another man. In the hasty seconds his mother had shared the revelation, he hadn’t asked who the man was. Did it even matter?

Why had his mother even told him? Perhaps she wished to spite the marquess. Instead, she had thrown Neil into confusion. He couldn’t think on that. There would be time to spare on that mystery another day. A day when he had a roof overhead and a bed no one would turn him out of when they discovered he had angered one of the most powerful men outside of the royal family.

Neil glared up at the sky, noting patches of cloud everywhere except before the summer sun. He took his hat off and wiped at his brow with the back of one gloved hand. That was another thing. His attire was ridiculous. He had been dressed for dinner when he’d fled without clothing and was offered none by any he had met. He’d already stuffed his white gloves away in a coat pocket, but his trousers and shoes were not meant for riding and were certainly ruined.

All his clothing came from tailors, most from London. They were expensive, perfectly fitted to him. Finding the appropriate attire in his current circumstances would prove difficult.

Neil glimpsed a flash of movement to his right, behind a low gate, and turned more out of instinct than interest. A woman stood from her work in her garden, a basket tucked against her side, and stared at him with her head cocked to one side.

Replacing his hat, Neil went to the fence. The day was hot. He and his horse needed refreshment. “Pardon me, madam. Might you know where I might find a public house? My horse is thirsty, and I am similarly afflicted.”

She blinked at him, perhaps at his overly formal words. Yet he found impressing commoners with charming smiles and flowery language usually made them more compliant. Perhaps he had overestimated her vocabulary.

“The nearest public house is in Dunwich, behind you about four miles. But you are welcome to water your horse here at our trough. If buttermilk will cool your thirst, or dandelion tea, I can offer that as well.” She spoke with the accent of an upper class gentlewoman, despite the smear of dirt on her cheek. He had to blink, the incongruity forcing him to reconsider his response.

“That would be most welcome. Thank you, Mrs.—?”

“Clapham.” She nodded up the road. “Our gate is around the next bend.”

“Thank you,” he repeated stupidly. He offered a small bow as an afterthought, then remounted his horse.

The woman started walking in the same direction, disappearing behind the hedgerow lining that side of the lane.

The shrubbery and fence broke after he went around the slightest curve in the road, revealing a dirt path that took him to a small house. The ground floor appeared to be made of gray stone, the above floor wood, and the roof thatched. There was glass in the top windows, but the bottom had none, only shutters thrown open to let in the breeze.

The woman arrived near the house, but she gestured to a small barn made entirely of wood, with a similarly thatched roof. He saw the trough outside of it and rode closer before he realized it was empty. The woman had gone to a pump located between the house and barn.

He dismounted and affixed the horse’s lead to a rail apparently meant for that purpose, positioned as it was just above the trough.

Mrs. Clapham, a comely woman he supposed, were it not for the well-worn clothing she wore, positioned a bucket beneath the pump and began to work the contraption, water pouring out to fill the pail.

Neil shifted uneasily. Everything he knew about etiquette would have him preventing a gentlewoman from performing such an action on his behalf.

Obviously, she is not a gentlewoman. No matter how she sounds. He adjusted his stance, looking away from the uncomfortable sight to take in the chickens pecking at the yard. Though the buildings and grounds were humble, there was an air of cleanliness about it. There were flowers planted along the side of the house. No rusted tools or discarded objects about the yard.

The woman came to the trough, holding the bucket at one side, though she used both hands. She dumped it, then went back for another. It would take several trips to fill the trough. Neil shifted again. Should he wait for her to finish? Perhaps he could amble away to avoid the discomfort.

He shifted his attention to a tree near the corner of the house and went toward it. He inspected the slim trunk, looked up into the branches.

A child peered down at him, all wide-eyed and shadow-speckled. She was frozen, her bare toes curved around the slim branch, her arms wrapped around another at her waist, where she bent and stared down at him.

“Good morning.”

The girl’s eyes widened and she turned as though to see the woman through the branches.

Neil leaned a shoulder against the tree and checked the progress of Mrs. Clapham. “She is at the pump. Shall I call to her for you?” He glanced up to see the girl shaking her head back and forth anxiously. “Ah. You are climbing the tree in secret.”

She nodded.

Neil chuckled. “Very well. I will not give you away, miss.” He lowered his eyes, watching the chickens instead. “Do you live here?”

No answer came, so Neil sighed.

“I’m not looking anymore. You will have to answer aloud. A whisper will suffice.”

“I live here,” she whispered. “That’s my mother. I’m Caroline.”