“I am afraid I’m far tooheadstrongto allow you to turn us back now.”
“I feared as much.” He chewed his lip. “I see that I can’t win this, but I hope you will at least remember that I did try.” He clicked his tongue, and the horses sprang forward.
Chapter Nineteen
An odor permeated the airas we neared a small stone cottage. It did not have as potent an aroma as London, but itwasdistinct—like sheep and earth and rain.
“We can still turn back,” Damon said.
I squinted at the cottage in the distance, and though it was partially blocked by a hill, I saw nothing that warranted us turning back. The road was rough with rocks, but it was not in disrepair, and the stone cottage, although small, appeared sturdy enough.
“Let’s continue,” I said.
We passed a field, and sheep looked up from their grazing—though I wasn’t sure what they were eating as the field was mostly void of vegetation.
The road became increasingly rutted, and the horses slowed their pace. Damon clicked his tongue to urge them on, but they were reluctant as we came around a curve.
Slowly, the cottage came more clearly into view. Up close, with a crooked frame and a roof that boasted more holes than cover, the house did not even look fit to house livestock. Stagnant water pooled at the bottom of the stone structure, and there was evidence of rodents too.
The tenants emerged from the cottage: a bedraggled woman with a baby on her hip, followed by a limping man. His form was familiar, but I could not place where I’d seen him before.
Damon pulled back on the reins, halting the horse.
“M’lord,” the man said and bowed as best he could. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“Mr. Turner,” Damon greeted in return. “My father has sent me to check on the harvest. But areyouwell? Why aren’t you at work in the field?”
“I am well enough,” the man said. “But the crop . . .” He glanced at the barren, soggy field behind him, then swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple rolling the length of his too-thin neck. “There was an early frost and . . . the crop has failed, sir.”
Damon surveyed the land with a bleak expression.
“And the rain is soon to fall,” Mr. Turner continued. “Roof won’t hold without shorin’.”
Damon lifted his gaze to the roof. “You received the supply of thatch?” he asked, and the man nodded. “But I see you have not made use of it.”
“I’ve spent day and night trying to save the crops, sir.”
Damon nodded. “You are a hard worker, Mr. Turner. And a smart one too. But I was told to remind you that Michaelmas is only a few weeks away and your payment is due.”
The man lowered his head, out of deference or defeat I couldn’t be sure. “Yes, m’lord.”
“I will not take any more of your time then,” Damon said.
“Thank you, m’lord.” Mr. Turner nodded for his wife to go back into the cottage, which she promptly did, and then he hobbled to the side of the house where there was a large pile of thatch. After securing a bundle onto his back, he moved toward a ladder leaning against the front of the house.
“Surely, he doesn’t intend to climb that ladder,” I said. “Is there no one to assist him in repairing the roof?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. He wouldn’t be risking his life to climb that ladder if he had any other option.
Damon shook his head.
I held my breath as the man climbed the wobbling ladder one rung at a time. At the top, he shakily transferred onto the roof. But by the grace of God, he made it safely.
“We have to help him,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“If I could, you must believe I would.”
“Youcanhelp them. Send word to your father immediately. His steward has obviously not informed him of his tenants’ living conditions.”
“He knows,” Damon said, and he stared down at the reins in his hands, and his vibrant blue eyes were now stormy and gray.
