Falling in Love Again (17 page)

She ignored that, knowing he was teasing her. Instead, she answered his previous question. “I'd hire a harvest crew for fields this size. Otherwise, it will take you weeks to cut the wheat, and depending on the weather, you won't have that much time.”

He drove the pony cart up into a pear orchard by the side of the road. “Will this do for a picnic spot?”

“It will be fine,” she answered.

It was more than fine; it was ideal. A stream ran along the far edge of the orchard and the sound of its rushing water carried through the quiet peace of the place.

John jumped from the cart and held his hand out to her. His action was no more than common
courtesy dictated, but as Mallory placed her hand in his larger one, she felt a very feminine response to his very alluring masculinity.

He smiled up at her, and Mallory forgot to breathe.

He seemed to be equally affected. For a long minute, they stood looking at each other as if frozen in time.

John moved first, bringing his hand up to brush back a tendril of her hair that had escaped her braid. His fingers lingered on her cheek.

This wasn't the touch of a rake or a man intent on seduction.

It was a lover's touch.

He dropped his hand, the moment's magic gone. “I'll see to the pony while you spread out this blanket.” He took it from the cart and handed it to her.

Mallory did as he asked, but her mind was on what had happened between them. It was as if John had awakened this morning a different person.

He joined her on the blanket and took the bread and cheese she offered. “Tell me about these harvest crews.”

Mallory poured a glass of cider for him. “They are men and women who travel through the countryside and hire out for the harvest. At Craige Castle, we worked with the tenants to cut all our fields at once, using the same crew for all the land,” she said, relieved to have a safe topic of conversation. “Then afterward, we sponsored the harvest home. We had grand ones at Craige
Castle. Everyone always had a good time, and we always had our pick of the best crews.”

“What's the harvest home?” John asked.

“It's a feast to celebrate the end of a good harvest and lots of hard work. We'd have musicians and food, and there was dancing. Everyone was invited, including the children. Even in the leanest times, we've thrown a good harvest home at Craige Castle.” A new, sad thought struck her. “I wonder what will happen this year….”

John gently took the cup of cider from her hand. “Mallory, don't worry. I'll see us through this.”

She turned to him. She wanted to believe him. Still—

“Tell me, did you enjoy the harvest home?” he asked, wisely changing the subject. “Did you dance all night?”

Mallory self-consciously touched her braid. “No, I didn't dance. Mother and I would make an appearance and welcome everyone. Then we'd quickly leave so the tenants and all could have a good time.”

“You didn't dance?” He sounded disappointed.

“I don't dance,” she admitted. “Papa was sick for so many years, dancing wasn't a priority. Then after his death, I was a married woman with my husband off at war. It wouldn't have been seemly for everyone to see me kicking up my heels like a grass widow.”

As John studied her, she knew he understood far more than she'd given him credit for.

Feeling uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny, Mallory pulled the ledger book out of the
woven hamper. She opened it. “The closest tenant is Wadham. He lives off this road perhaps a half mile or so further on.”

John popped the last piece of bread in his mouth and hopped to his feet. “Then shall we?” He helped her to her feet and together they cleaned up the remnants of the picnic and went on their way.

Wadham's farm was a collection of stone buildings almost two centuries old, but the grounds appeared neat and tidy. “Well, here I go,” John said. He jumped out of the cart and went in search of Mr. Wadham. After a few moments of waiting, Mallory decided to join him. They found Mr. Wadham by the cattle stalls, sitting at a lathe, shaving a new ax handle.

“Hello,” John called in greeting.

Without rising, the man glared at John as if daring him to come closer. “I know who you are and what you want. You can tell Lord Woodruff I'll not pay my rent until he drains the field. You tell him that. He'll know what you mean.” The man turned his attention back to his task.

John started forward but Mallory placed a cautionary hand on his shoulder. “Tell him you will talk to Lord Woodruff, but you expect a portion of the rent by next Monday,” she instructed in a quiet voice. “Then turn on your heel and leave.”

To her surprise, John did as she'd suggested. In the pony cart, he gave vent to his anger at the tenant's high-handed treatment.

Mallory shook her head. “Something must be wrong for the tenant to be so dead set against
Lord Woodruff. You said he hasn't been taking care of Cardiff Hall. He may not be honoring his obligations to his tenants, either.”

“And how do I find out whether he is or not?” Mallory shrugged. “Ask him?”

John snorted. However, they met Wadham's rudeness at the next tenant farm and the next.

“I realize no one likes the rent collector,” John said, “but these people seem to be carrying it too far.” They were driving into Tunleah Mews, a small village with a stone church at one end, an ale house at the other, and a few shops and cottages in between. The cottages were neat and tidy, with flowers blooming in every yard. A small group of women, wearing aprons and mob caps, gossiped in one of the yards. They watched the pony cart drive by with curious and suspicious eyes.

“We're doing something wrong,” John said thoughtfully.

“Us? We're not the ones behind in our rent.”

“Yes, but we're the ones who have to collect it.” He focused over the pony's head, as if turning something over in his mind. “Everyone can be gotten around, Mallory, but first you have to think of how to do it.”

“Gotten around?”

“Won over.”

She considered his philosophy for a moment and then opened the ledger book on her lap. “Whenever I wanted to take up an unpopular matter with my tenants at Craige Castle, I always went to Savoy Tarleton, who was my largest tenant.”

“Who is Lord Woodruff's largest tenant?”

“That's what I'm looking for right now.” She ran her finger down the ledger page. One name caught her eye. “Freddie Hanson.” She consulted the map in the rent book. “He lives back the other way about two miles behind Cardiff Hall.”

“Freddie Hanson,” John repeated. “We're going to call on Freddie next. But first, I need to make a stop.” He pulled the cart to a halt in front of the cobbler's shop.

“Why are we stopping here?” Mallory asked.

“I promised you shoes, wife,” he said with mock authority. He opened the cart's back door and jumped to the ground. “Your shoes were made for ballroom dancing, not trekking through fields,” he said, helping her to alight.

“But can we afford it?” Mallory asked.

“I've two gold ones to my name, enough to spend on your feet.”

A half hour later, Mallory had been fitted for a new pair of sturdy leather shoes to be ready in three days' time, which was fortunate. Her kid slippers were about worn through.

John then drove the cart to the public house. He went inside, and in a few minutes emerged with a bottle of whiskey.

“What's that for?” she asked.

“Freddie Hanson's favorite brew. He's very well known to the tap man.”

“What are you going to do? Bribe him with it to pay his rent?”

“Yes,” John said candidly. “Now come, Mallory, we're off to make friends with Freddie Hanson.”

Hanson farmed one hundred and ten acres for Lord Woodruff. His house, like so many of the others, was made of yellow stone. Several yards from the house were a few outbuildings beside a deeply rutted road that, according to the map in the rent book, led from Hanson's farm back to Cardiff Hall. Apparently this house had at one time been the steward's home.

A cow lowed a greeting from the small mud-and-stone barn. On either side of the house's front door, butterflies fluttered among purple cone flowers and daisies.

As they pulled up in the cart, Hanson, a big, hearty man, stepped out on his front step, a pipe held in his teeth, his hands fisted at his hips. “I've heard who you are, John Dawson, and you can stop right there. You are not welcome in this house.”

John reined in the pony. “Even if I come with a gift from Lord Woodruff?”

The man's eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Lord Woodruff doesn't give gifts. He doesn't even know half of us are alive except to fill his church pews.”

John lifted the bottle of whiskey for Hanson to see. Sunlight turned the dark amber liquid to red gold.

Hanson took out his pipe. He wet his lips. “And what business could Lord Woodruff have that he would be offering me a gift? Because I'll not be paying my rent, not until he makes the improvements he promised me.”

“Aye, I came to talk to you about the rent,” John said, easily falling into the speech habits of a
Sussex man. He opened the door and jumped down from the cart. “I also want to plan the cutting crews for the harvest—”

Hanson made a rude noise. “We do it alone here. We don't need help.”

“We help each other now,” John said. “And you and I need to talk about the harvest home.”

“Harvest home?” Hanson repeated. He came down off his front step. “We haven't had a harvest home since the year before the Duke of Tyndale inherited Cardiff Hall, nigh over ten years ago.”

“We're having one now,” John said. “Provided the wheat is cut and everyone works hard.”

Hanson put his pipe back in his mouth. For a second, he appeared to debate John's words, and then ever so lightly his gaze rested on the bottle in John's hand.

John smiled. “It's a hot day. A man could use a drink.”

“Aye, he could.” Hanson abruptly made up his mind. “Come in then.” He marched back into his house, leaving the white door open.

John shot Mallory a triumphant glance before tying up the pony and helping her down from the cart. His fingers laced in hers, they walked into the house together.

Inside, Hanson waited for them with his wife, Sylvie, and three of their six children. After introductions, Hanson unshered them into the family's sitting room.

The man was prosperous indeed, Mallory noted. His family was well dressed and they had the help of a serving girl. Polished wood floors shone in the rambling rooms and the well-built
furniture didn't show signs of wear. Above the stone mantel hung a violin.

John walked over to it. “Do you play?” he asked Hanson.

“My father is the best player in the shire,” said Libby, the Hansons' fourteen-year-old daughter.

“Is he now?” John ran a finger over the wood. “I play a bit myself,” he said, surprising Mallory—and then she remembered he'd mentioned during their wedding that he played the violin.

Mallory doubted Hanson played the same sort of music John would have learned from music masters as a boy. However, Hanson's whole manner toward them changed, his face becoming a wreath of smiles. He set his pipe aside. “Do you?” he said to John. “Well, take it down. Try her.”

John tucked the instrument under his chin, picked up the bow and pulled a chord experimentally from the instrument. “She's sweet,” he said to his host.

Hanson nodded. “Belonged to my father and his father before him.” He turned to his children. “When I was a lad, when we had the harvest home at that great old barn at Cardiff Hall, the very rafters rang with music.”

“What's a harvest home, da?” Libby asked.

Her father launched into the telling of vivid memories while a serving girl appeared with a tray, a pitcher, and glasses.

“Would you care for a drink of cider?” Sylvie asked Mallory.

“I'd enjoy one very much,” she said.

Hanson pulled the cork out of the bottle John had set on the table and poured two healthy glassfuls. He took a sip and smacked his lips with satisfaction. “Now, what is this about Woodruff offering the harvest home?”

John didn't answer. Instead he put the bow to the strings and started playing the merry jig Mallory often heard him whistling. Hanson's two youngest children, twin girls, gathered around him. Hanson clicked his fingers in time to the music. Sylvie tapped her toe. A moment later, Mallory watched wide-eyed as the big farmer rose to his feet and proceeded to dance a jig. She'd never seen a man throw aside decorum so freely.

When John finished, Hanson clapped his hands. “Very good, Dawson, very good. Do you know any other tunes?”

“One or two, although I prefer to play the guitar. I learned to play in Portugal.”

“What of the mandolin?” Hanson asked.

“Of course I can play it,” John answered.

Hanson turned to his wife, his eyes bright with excitement. “Sylvie, doesn't Will Wadham have a mandolin?”

“He has, but he never learned to play it,” Sylvie answered.

Hanson slapped the table with his hand. “Libby, fetch your brother out in the barn. Tell him to ride over to Wadham's place and borrow his mandolin. No, better yet, have him bring Wadham and his wife. We have enough for supper, don't we, dearie?” he asked his wife.

“Well, yes,” Sylvie answered with mild surprise.

“Fine, then. Tell Wadham to come here, and bring that drum he has, too. And on the way home, have Christopher stop at Bowling's and invite them to join us. Tell Christopher to spread the word. Everyone's invited!”

“Yes, father,” Libby said, and ran out of the room, her cheeks turning pink with excitement.

Hanson poured another glass of whiskey and took a gulp before holding his hand out to John for the fiddle. “Do you know ‘Leg o' the Lamb'?”