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“Keep movin’, miss,” Henry said. “It’ll get easier.”

“So I’ve been told.” Phoebe set her cloak on the ground beneath the nearest tree and pressed her hand to her back. “I pray you are right.”

The work continued much as it had the day before: Weston shook down the apples from the highest branches, Henry reached for the lower ones with a hook attached to a long pole, and Miss Glover and Phoebe gathered them all from the ground, emptying their baskets into the barrow when they were full. Henry and Weston bantered back and forth as they moved around the tree, but Miss Glover said nothing at all.

Phoebe did not mind the older lady’s silence. It was better than harsh or critical conversation. But it caused her to wonder more about Miss Glover. She was a conundrum. On the one hand, she was obviously loyal to Emily and the baron. She had stayed on at Dunsbourne Manor for almost as long as Emily had been alive. And if picking apples at her age without complaint did not prove devotion, Phoebe was not sure what did. On the other hand, the older lady made no effort to hide her dislike and distrust of Phoebe. Although Phoebe had done nothing more than befriend Emily, Miss Glover wished her gone. Why? There had to be a reason.

Phoebe filtered through her memories of their brief and stilted conversations. All she really knew of the woman was that she had grown up in Exeter. Perhaps if she learned more, she could uncover the problem between them.

“Tell me about your family, Miss Glover. Are they living in Exeter?”

The lady stilled. Phoebe waited. The rattle of apples falling through the branches sounded to their right. Miss Glover stood and looked over at the carpet of red and green fruit.

“My parents are long gone,” she said. “I had one sister who settled within a few miles of the village where we grew up. She died ten years ago of the influenza. I have not heard from her husband or son since then.”

What Miss Glover had said—without actually saying it—was that she had no one. They stepped over to the newly fallen apples together.

“When did you come to Dunsbourne Manor?”

“I was working as a governess for two young ladies in Gloucestershire. Their mother died soon after the oldest was married, so I stayed on as a companion to the second. She was betrothed before the end of her first season, so my services were no longer needed.” She bent down and started dropping apples into her basket. “I was hired by Lord Dunsbourne’s father soon afterward.”

Phoebe contemplated this information as she, too, began loading her basket. She could hear the squeak of the barrow’s wheels, which meant Henry was returning from the tump. Her chance to talk to Miss Glover alone would soon be gone.

“It is obvious that the current Lord Dunsbourne and Emily appreciate your service very much.”

Miss Glover continued to pick up apples, her eyes averted. “I have done my duty. I hope they consider it enough.”

Understanding finally came with painful clarity. Dunsbourne Manor was Miss Glover’s only home, its occupants her only family. She had been cast off once when the young lady she had companioned had become betrothed. Lord Dunsbourne’s new determination to have Emily enter Society was the beginning of the end for Miss Glover. Phoebe’s appearance had further exacerbated her fears of becoming expendable.

“Miss Glover,” Phoebe said, desperately hoping that somehow the woman could see her as an ally rather than a threat. “You have done considerably more than your duty at Dunsbourne Manor. If that were your only motivation, you would not be in the apple orchard now.”

She sniffed, but Phoebe guessed that this time the reflex was triggered more by sadness than disparagement. Miss Glover’s advancing years made the probability that she would be hired elsewhere slim. Her current, grim disposition was in actuality a reflection of her future prospects.

Henry arrived back and set the barrow at the base of the next tree.

“Barrow’s ready fer another load,” he said, reaching for the pole.

Phoebe glanced at Miss Glover. Her head hung low, but she was pushing on, filling her basket one apple at a time.

“Thank you, Henry. We shall not be much longer,” Phoebe said.

The sun moved steadily across the sky. Phoebe had discarded her cloak and gloves long before Emily arrived from the shed. Weston’s feet barely touched the ground all day. He scampered from one limb to another and one tree to the next. Henry hauled away the barrow full of fruit too many times to count, and yet, the ladies kept picking and gathering and picking some more.

Although her friend’s presence lightened Phoebe’s mood, it was not enough to prevent her from fretting over Miss Glover’s difficult situation. Phoebe had no way of knowing the specifics of Miss Glover’s arrangement at Dunsbourne Manor, but she was fully aware of the lack of servants. The baron had let everyone go who was not absolutely vital to the running of the house. That fact alone was something that had surely plagued Miss Glover of late.

Thompson brought them something to eat at midday, and after having missed breakfast, Phoebe was especially grateful. But he was their only visitor. She watched for Lord Dunsbourne to come, hoping he would switch places with Henry as he had the day before, but when the afternoon was wearing on and there was still no sign of him and Phoebe’s back felt like it may give out, she emptied her basket into the barrow and set it down.

“I must take a walk, or I may never walk again,” she said, pressing her hands against the stays at her back as she stretched.

“That’s it, miss. Walkin’ will work out the discomfort,” Henry said.

Phoebe nodded. “I shall not be gone long.”

Chapter 19

Adam removed the latest batch of pulp from the mill trough and set it on the horsehair cloth. As soon as he added this cheese to the press, he could leave the shed to see how things were progressing in the orchard. A vision of Miss Hadford’s laughing blue eyes when she dumped the barrow full of apples onto the tump flashed into his mind. He pushed it away.

Fresh air, walking through the trees, and conversing with Henry over the progress he had made today—that was what he was after. Nothing more.