Edna could rifle the desk when Nunn went off on his morning hack. The strongbox had yet to yield to her hatpins, but with any luck, Nunn would shove the letter into a drawer and forget about it. He was absent-minded, despite his lamentable vigor.
“Did Johnny mention how Emeril is getting on?” Em had been the merrier of the two boys, though Johnny was no high stickler.
“He says Emeril enjoys good health and has bought a property in Toronto. Johnny opined that Emeril might visit next summer. Now, shoo.”
A visit next summer was a platitude all sons sent home from the distant corners of the empire. For now, Johnny’s visit was disruption enough, or opportunity enough.
Edna fired off a final salvo. “Charles says Mrs. Roberts hasn’t exactly been a saint. He knows of what he speaks, my lord.”
“Because he hasn’t been a saint either, but Mrs. Roberts can at least plead the temporary derangement of grief. Go away, Edna.”
Edna curtseyed and withdrew, while Uncle Nunn dabbed jam on his toast.
Portia and Flavia, who had doubtless been up playing whist nearly until cockcrow, would remain abed for some time. She loaded a tray from the sideboard in the breakfast parlor and took her repast to the family parlor, where she was guaranteed the privacy necessary for serious thinking.
Every marquess’s heir required the guidance and companionship of a well-born spouse, and Lord Phillip wouldn’t be too choosy about settlements, given his own modest circumstances.
Mr. Gavin DeWitt, who was a mere two generations removed from the shop and possessed of a respectable fortune, also needed a well-born helpmeet. Matchmaking was a delicate art, and for all Hecate’s unseemly skill with investing, that art was lost upon her.
Considerable planning and thought were necessary if Portia and Flavia were each to snabble the best bachelor for their temperaments and interests. Edna took out a sheet of foolscap and wrote two names across the top: Vincent and DeWitt.
Down the side, she began labeling rows: wealth, connections, appearance, property, health, accomplishments… all the characteristics that truly mattered. And if either bachelor proved unreceptive to his good fortune, then the unappreciated daughter might perhaps console herself with a suit from Cousin Johnny.
Though Johnny had always been sweet on Hecate.
Ah well, young men were prone to foolish fancies, and Hecate had chosen years ago to take up a dim and dusty corner of the spinster’s shelf.
Chapter Six
Phillip had done quick justice to the offerings in the breakfast parlor shortly after dawn and taken himself for a ramble in the sprawling wood and out across the pastures. Herne deserved a day of rest, while Phillip needed to move.
The birdsong soothed his soul, as did the scent of greenery, the blooming columbine and foxglove, and the particular shimmer of morning sunlight on a stand of white birches.
Nunnsuch was a lovely property, but neglect was evident on every hand. The bridle paths were overgrown, the hedgerows sprawling, the drainage ditches clogged with bracken, the pastures either too lush or overgrazed.
Phillip emerged from a bridle path into an overgrown hayfield and spotted a farm wagon unloading a crew with scythes and forks thirty yards off. Damned late in the season for haying, but then, rain, windstorms, ailing draft teams… Any number of factors interfered with a farmer’s best-laid plans.
“Greetings,” Phillip called, approaching the wagon. “Fine morning to see to the scything.”
A stocky older fellow doffed a battered cap. “’Tis that, sir. Lads and lasses, get cracking.”
A dozen young people—men and women, a few gangly adolescents, and one lady far gone with child—descended from the wagon and took up the long-handled, curved scythes used to cut tall grasses for haying.
“I know what you’re thinking, good sir,” the older fellow said. “We’ve left it nigh too late, and I agree, but himself wanted the teams for repairing his ha-has, and what himself wants is what happens. Henry Wortham, give me your whetstone.”
A strapping, tow-headed lad with the shoulders of a stevedore shuffled over and produced a stone from his pocket. “I sharpened the first batch,” he said.
“Then I’ll work on the second batch while ye cut yonder field. Sooner begun is sooner done.”
“Aye, Mr. Travers.” Henry rolled his eyes, nodded to Phillip, and strolled off, his scythe casually resting across his shoulders. The other workers were ranging themselves along one side of the field at intervals of about twelve feet.
“Who is the young mother?” Phillip asked.
“Mavis Riley. Lost her fella to the influenza over the winter. Himself hasn’t turned her out, but she hasn’t a farthing to her name.”
Phillip unbuttoned his jacket and then his waistcoat. “I can swing a scythe. Put her to sharpening the next batch of blades. Before too long, that sun will be fierce, and her time isn’t far off.”
“But, sir, I cannot allow a gentleman, a guest of the manor—”
Phillip took off his top hat and shoved it at the foreman, along with his jacket and waistcoat. “Try to stop me.” He added his cravat to the pile—gracious angels, did it feel good to get rid of that thing—and strode off in Mrs. Riley’s direction.
The crew proceeded by halves, with every other worker stepping forth to swing a blade in a slow, sweeping rhythm. When the first cohort had gained a few yards of progress, the second half of the crew would start on the spaces between them. The pattern minimized the likelihood that a tuft of grass would be missed, or that a trouser, skirt, or ankle would be inadvertently sliced.
Phillip approached Mrs. Riley, who waited with the second half of the crew. “Good morning, ma’am. Mr. Travers has asked that you take on the blade sharpening.”
Blue eyes looked Phillip up and down. She was pretty, blond, and clearly determined to earn her day’s pay.
“I can keep up,” she said. “Been scything since I was a girl. My granny and dam scythed, and I know what I’m about.”
Most haying crews included women wielding blades. The heavier work—forking the hay into wagons and ricks once dried—usually fell to the men.
“You are doubtless an expert, while I am a dabbler,” Phillip said. “Humor me. Please.”
She took off her straw hat, plopped it on Phillip’s head, and muttered something about daft gents out from Town. Her gait had acquired the seafaring roll of a woman burdened by approaching motherhood, and yet, she managed to stomp away.
“Let’s have a song!” Phillip called, taking up the scythe. “Henry, give us a tune!”
Young Henry was blessed with a fine baritone, and he chose well. Scything was best done at a relaxed pace, letting the natural swing of the blade do the work. Not a skill learned quickly, and one acquired at the cost of many blisters and aching muscles.
And yet, Phillip had known two brothers in their eighties who could wield a scythe all day next to their great-grandsons and great-granddaughters.
The work felt good, as did the heat, the sense of accomplishment, the pause at the end of the row for a pull from a flask. Mrs. Riley brought him a canteen, and Phillip half drained it at one go.
“Don’t fall behind,” she said, snatching her canteen back. “Ye’ll rush to catch up and make a hash of your patch.”