Page 9 of Reforming Lord Neil

Neil had never washed up for dinner in a bucket before. He had never prepared for any sort of dinner without a servant to adjust his cravat and help him into his coat. What had become of Benton, his valet? Had the household found another use for the young man, or had he been dismissed entirely?

It was dashed difficult to find a valet capable of caring for Neil’s things in the way he preferred. They better not have dismissed him. The man could put a shine on boots that was unequaled in even the royal court.

Neil took his gloves from his coat pocket and examined them. They were dirty. No longer white, really, and completely out of place among present company. He sighed and tucked them back into his pocket. Then he went to the kitchen door and knocked.

He had never entered a house by a kitchen door in his life. His mother would have a fit if she could see him at that moment. That thought put a smile upon his face just as Mrs. Clapham opened the door to him, her own expression one of welcome. She wore a different dress, less faded and worn than the first, though its drab gray color made it appear more like an old mourning gown than something one would consider wearing to dinner.

“Mr. Duncan, do come inside.” She gestured to a table on the far side of the kitchen. A simple cloth was upon it, the color some indeterminate shade that was neither cream nor yellow, with only a handful of dishes upon it.

Mrs. Godwin stood at one end of the small rectangular table, Caroline on the side opposite where he stood, and then Mrs. Clapham went to the other end of the table. That left Neil sitting across from Caroline. When all were near their chairs, the women sat as one, and Neil followed suit.

The matron of the family spoke first. “We are having lamb stew, rolls, and some fresh cherries that Caroline gathered for us this morning. Would you like cider or dandelion tea with your meal, Mr. Duncan?”

Though the tea had not revolted him, Neil could not say he looked forward to ever having such a beverage again. When the child gleefully told him how the sweet, grassy-sort of drink had been prepared, he drank out of politeness and a real thirst, trying to ignore the taste.

“Cider, if you please, madam.”

The woman poured from a pitcher at the table, then handed the cup to him. At least it wasn’t tin this time. In short order, Mrs. Clapham had a bowl of stew and a plate with cherries and a roll before him. He had never had such an odd dinner. But his last meal had been no more than a meat pie procured at a roadside inn that morning, so his hunger prevented him from turning up his nose at the food entirely.

In truth, it all smelled adequate, and then surprised him by tasting a great deal better than the food at the inn.

Mrs. Clapham stirred her stew, her gaze still upon it when she spoke. “Mr. Duncan, Caroline said you have raked the straw in the barn. I thank you for that. It was not necessary.”

Neil kept his back rigid, his manners exact, more out of habit than anything. But he noticed the women at the table sat more like fine ladies than commoners. However long they had been poor, it had not been long enough to remove the more genteel habits from their behavior.

He spoke with careless indifference. “I merely wished to express my gratitude, Mrs. Clapham, and that seemed a better way to do so than penning a letter.”

“We never get letters,” Caroline said from her side of the table, then sighed. “And I never get to write any, so I do not see why I must practice penmanship so much.”

Neither woman showed signs of sympathy, though mother and grandmother both smiled over their stew.

Neil took it upon himself to address the child, out of curiosity rather than interest. “But suppose the time comes, Miss Caroline, when you do receive a letter and must pen one in response? An elegant hand will serve you well on that day.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “That is what Mama says. But I cannot think of anyone who would write to me.” Then she cast an exasperated look at her mother. “Or speak French, Prussian, or Spanish to me, either.”

Did the child have an education which included modern languages? Neil rested his spoon against the edge of the bowl. “Je vais vous parler en français. Si tu veux.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Parlez-vous français, monsieur?”

Her mother laughed. “I should think it obvious that he does, my dear.” She turned to Neil and explained, in French. “My daughter has never spoken the language to anyone other than my mother and myself.”

Neil sighed dramatically and met young Caroline’s eager gaze. He spoke in French, slower than normal for her sake. “My mother forced me to learn French. We were not allowed to speak any other language before noon.”

She answered hastily, her accent certainly English though not too harsh upon his ears. “Please, do not give my mother that idea. I only have to speak French on Sunday.”

He nearly forgot himself and laughed at the girl’s pained expression. He remembered well the years of learning, of speaking a language he never thought to use outside his home. The war with Napoleon had made the idea of speaking French almost traitorous to many. “It is a beautiful language, Miss Caroline, and you speak it quite well for one your age. Your mother must be a marvelous teacher.”

Caroline colored, but from the corner of his eye he saw an identical blush in her mother’s cheeks. A woman of her age, blushing? It was almost indecent. The woman must be near thirty, to have a child of Caroline’s age. While he had known handsome women upwards of three decades, they usually had long-since lost the innocence and sweetness required to blush. Rouge became the only way they brought color into their cheeks.

Were Mrs. Clapham not so browned by the sun, she would likely appear quite pretty. His tastes did not run toward women with such dark hair and eyes, of course, or one whose stature made her appear rather sickly. The woman was thin and shorter than his sister, Olivia, by half a head at least.

Yet she had hauled a bucket full of water across her barnyard with relative ease, proving her delicate structure had no bearing on her abilities.

What a shame one as daintily built as she had been reduced to farming.

His eyes went to her hand, holding a spoon to her lips. The skin there was tan, and her hands did not appear fine and smooth, despite the well-tapered fingers. They were on full display, too. None of the women wore gloves, nor any other ornament.

“Mama,” Caroline said. “The cherries are nearly ready to be picked. Are we going to hire someone from the village to help this year?”