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“I will come more often. If only to close my eyes and smell the apples.”
Lord Dunsbourne grinned. “It is marvelous, isn’t it? And the scent will only become stronger as we begin to harvest and crush the fruit.”
They entered the orchard. Row upon tidy row of trees, as far as the eye could see, were laden with apples.
“Good heavens.” Phoebe removed her hand from Lord Dunsbourne’s arm and approached the nearest tree. Tipping her head back until her bonnet touched her shoulders, she gazed at the innumerable red and green orbs hidden amongst the thick foliage.
“Those are King of the Pippins,” Lord Dunsbourne said. He reached out and plucked one from the lowest branch and gave it to her. “They are sweet to the taste already, but the flavor will improve further in the next couple of weeks.”
Phoebe rolled the apple in her gloved hands, marveling at its unusually large size. If this specimen were any indication, the baron’s crop would be substantial. “How ever will you harvest so many?”
“I intend to bring on extra workers when the time comes,” he said. “And they will have to work long, hard days.”
“Longer and harder than yours was yesterday?” Phoebe asked.
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I daresay.”
She bit back a smile. “What happens to the apples after they are picked?”
“Come,” he said. “I will show you.”
Phoebe and Emily followed Lord Dunsbourne through the trees until they reached a large building that resembled a stable. The wide doors were open, and the rumble of men’s voices echoed from within.
“This is the old cart shed,” Lord Dunsbourne said. “Given that we don’t have as many vehicles as we used to, I have converted half the building into an apple mill. When the apples are first picked, they’re gathered in tumps at the edge of the orchard. The mounds of fruit are covered with straw and left to sit for between one and three weeks. That allows the sugars in the apples to become more concentrated and makes for a sweeter juice. Afterward, we load the apples into the mill, where they are crushed to extract the liquid.”
“Adam just purchased a new mill,” Emily said.
“It had to be done. If the Dunsbourne orchards are to be successful, we must have the capability to crush all the fruit before it rots.”
“And you most certainly have a great deal of fruit,” Phoebe said.
“This year’s harvest looks to be our biggest yet.”
He led her through the open doorway, and Phoebe stared in amazement. Two entire walls were lined with barrels stacked three deep. An assortment of boxes and unfamiliar equipment had been gathered in the far corner, and in the center of the shed, there was an enormous stone circle with a second stone shaped like a wide wheel atop it. Sturdy wooden posts connected the various parts of what must be the mill, and attached to a harness suspended from one of the posts was a black-and-white plow horse. The enormous animal snorted and sniffed the air before turning her doleful eyes upon the newcomers.
“Excuse me, ladies.” Lord Dunsbourne left Phoebe and Emily at the shed’s entrance and approached the two men standing beside the horse. “Is Molly giving you trouble again, Oliver?”
“Aye, m’ lord.” The sandy-haired man scratched his head, a worried expression on his face. “I don’ know what gets into ’er. She’ll be movin’ along at a good pace, then all of a sudden, she comes to a full stop. After that, there’s no shiftin’ ’er unless she decides it’s a good idea—which don’t ’appen all that often.” He looked grim. “I’ve not used the whip yet. But somehow, I’ve got t’ make her understand that operatin’ this mill is ‘er sole reason fer bein’ ’ere.”
As though she knew she had misbehaved, the plow horse hung her head.
Phoebe watched her for a moment before entering the shed and approaching her slowly. “How old is she?”
“We were told she was ten years old.” Lord Dunsbourne ran his hand across the horse’s strong shoulders, his frown reminiscent of the temperament she had witnessed the day before.
The sandy-haired man appeared equally unhappy. “By ’er teeth, I’d say that was about right. But I’m startin’ to think we’ve been fooled. She’s actin’ like she’s older.”
“Miss Hadford, this is my groom, Oliver,” Lord Dunsbourne said. “And beside him is Henry, my gardener. The stubborn plow horse is Molly. She is in training for operating the apple mill.”
“Pleased to meet you, miss.” Oliver inclined his head, and the weatherworn older man echoed the greeting.
“Molly looks weary.” Phoebe extended her hand, and the horse lifted her head, her nostrils twitching. Within seconds, the mare’s attention diverted to Phoebe’s other hand—the one holding the apple Lord Dunsbourne had given her. The horse snorted, pulling against her harness. “Oh, so you want me to share, do you?” Phoebe chuckled softly. After her sister, Jane’s, debilitating fall from a horse, her father had filled their stables with older mounts in an attempt to prevent any more accidents involving a spirited animal. Phoebe was well used to coaxing fatigued horses. “I fear you will have to do something for an apple such as this, old girl.”
Holding the apple within plain sight, Phoebe slowly started walking the plow horse’s path around the mill. Molly tossed her head, and the harness jingled.
“Come on, Molly. The first part is the hardest. Once you get started, the apple is yours.”
The horse took one step and then another. She strained against the weight of the millstone, and the leather harness creaked. With a growl, the stone began to roll.
