“My lord,” he said, face drawn. “You had best come.”
Gabriel rose at once.
“What has happened?” he asked, alarmed.
The estate manager wrung his hands, looking anxious.
“It is the lower fields,” he said. “Someone has cut the irrigation channels deliberately. The water is running straight past the south boundary. Not a drop reaching the tenant rows.”
Gabriel did not speak. He crossed the room in two strides, took up his coat from the back of the chair, and was out the door before the steward could say more.
The ground beneath his boots gave with every step, sodden from diverted flow. Gabriel crouched at the bank of one channel, examining the neat slice in the earthen wall. The damage bore no resemblance to natural erosion. This was not the result of a storm or neglect. The line had been cut with care, placed just so to drain the critical fluid from the soil. Another few paces along revealed a second incision, hidden beneath the fallen bramble. The sabotage had been thorough and intentional.
“Twice here,” he said aloud, straightening. “And you are certain there are no others?”
Mr. Winters shook his head.
“I sent two men ahead to inspect the other banks,” he said. “They will report back directly.”
Gabriel looked across the field. Rows of young barley, still pale and delicate, curled at the tips from thirst. Further on, turnip leaves browned at the edges, while the bean crop nearest the hedgerow had already begun to wither. Familiesdepended on these rows. The seed had been bought on credit. A failed harvest meant hunger, perhaps worse.
He turned to the gathered workers.
“Fetch tools at once,” he said. “And barrows of packed soil. I want these channels mended before the sun reaches its height.”
The men dispersed without question, some already stripping off coats as they moved. Gabriel stepped into the ditch himself, kneeling to pack earth against the breach, boots sinking into the mire. Beside him, Mr. Winters fetched timber to reinforce the bend, working in silence. One of the tenant boys, no more than thirteen, appeared with a spade nearly too large for his frame. Gabriel took it, offered a nod, and then passed it to another man.
By the time Genevieve approached, the first break had been sealed. He did not speak, only motioned for more soil. She did not flinch at the sight of his hands, stained to the wrist. Her presence hovered at the periphery, watchful, quiet.
“Will it hold?” she asked at last.
He glanced at her, brushing sweat from his brow with the back of one wrist.
“It must,” he said.
When the labor paused and the men gathered for instruction, Gabriel stood before them, his sleeves sodden, boots caked heavily in mud, his bearing no less commanding for the state of him.
“Those responsible will be found,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Until then, none shall go without. If your field suffers loss, the estate will see you through the season. No family shall hunger on my land.”
A murmur of assent spread through the workers, not loud, but clear. Their deference bore no trace of fear. Respect, earned not by inheritance but by years of measured justice, met him in every pair of eyes. Genevieve watched him, her expression no longer unreadable. It was softened, almost astonished. She had seen his interest in his tenant’s welfare and their reciprocated respect, which was something no one in society ever bothered to witness.
She had never looked at him with disgust, but now, a deep admiration was discernible in her manner. He did not look at her again, though he felt the weight of her presence still at his side. And not for the first time, he admitted to himself how good it felt.
***
Genevieve stepped more carefully now, each placement of her boots deliberates as she made her way around a sunken stretch of earth near the lower barley plots. Mud clung in thick patches to her hem despite her efforts, and she had long since ceased bothering with the handkerchief she had initially held to her nose. The field bore the scent of broken soil and stagnant water, of desperation clinging beneath the surface.
She paused just beyond the last workers where Gabriel stood bent beside a furrow, speaking low to Mr. Winters, who held a small map creased from long use. Gabriel’s coat was flung over a nearby post, his sleeves rolled high, linen darkened to the elbows. He did not notice her approach at first.
“The channel curves too sharply there,” she said at last. “If you allow it to sweep more gradually to the left and deepen the bed by no more than a hand’s breadth, it will draw the water with greater force and discourage pooling along the roots.”
Gabriel looked over his shoulder. There was no impatience in his expression, only interest. She stepped nearer, pointing to where the natural slope gave way just beyond the row of stones.
“My father and I faced something quite similar on our land during the spring rains,” she said. “I believe the land here may answer just as favorably if allowed to assist rather than be forced.”
Mr. Winters opened his mouth, likely prepared to object on some technicality, but Gabriel raised a hand to silence him. He studied the furrow, then the incline, and turned back to her.
“That is an excellent point,” he said, looking directly at the estate manager. “You heard her. Cut the line back three yards, widen and deepen the channel as Her Ladyship has described. I want it completed before dusk.”
