An absurd statement from a supposed rake, but she could observe the truth of it with his easy gait and exuberant smile.
“What on earth is that?” Hebe gawped.
For ahead, with thick straw mattresses surrounding it, stood the debarked trunk of an ash tree, some twenty foot in height. And dangling from the top by a short rope was…
A leg of mutton?
Ernest chuckled. “The pole is greased with pig fat and the first to retrieve that mutton gets to keep it…along with the rest of the animal. It will feed a family for quite a while.”
“Hebe!” She spun to encounter Aunt Beatrice dressed in a gown of rose pink, arm in arm with Redmond O’Conner in a fine deep green – a country swain and his shepherdess. “Have you ever seen such a fiendish task?” Aunt queried as the men shook hands. “They’ve tried throwing sawdust onto the pole and scoring their boots.”
“Ach.” Redmond tutted. “They all slid down faster than a lump of wet turf.”
A slender youth in short leather apron took his turn in the arena, urged on by half a dozen more with sloshing tankards in hand. Ear-piercing whistles and raucous cheers accompanied his strutting entrance.
“That lot are from Upper Slayer. Sir Henry’s village.”
After an awful lot of stretching up and huffing deep, he grappled the pole and dug his hob-nailed boots in. Higher and higher the youth climbed, rawhide-clad thighs hugging the wood tight, rough leather-gloved hands finding grip and–
He slid to the straw in a greasy heap, much to the delight of the Wychmere residents who cheered with glee, and even Hebe bit her lip in order to prevent an unladylike guffaw.
“The mutton often remains unclaimed,” Ernest confided. “So we raffle it this afternoon.”
“I’ve a plan, I do, Mr O’Conner.” Thos appeared at Redmond’s shoulder with a length of rope. “I’ll fetch that mutton for Wychmere, and then maybe Beth will climb my greasy pol– Ow!”
A clip around the ear from Redmond was accompanied by a scowl from Daniel.
“The comely Beth would rather roll in a nettle patch,” Daniel elaborated. “Which I can tell thee is mighty painful for… Well, thine lordship, some of us might be late for work on the morrow as, er… Us stable hands lost the Nettle Thrashing to Mr Garvey.” He scratched his red nape. “And I thought that butler be such a gentleman.”
“No matter. Everyone has the morning off.” Ernest’s announcement was greeted by whoops and caps flung high. “Although someone will have to water the horses. Maybe draw lots tonigh–”
But Thos and Daniel had jubilantly sprinted to the Greasy Pole.
“Ya too lenient, my lord, so ya are,” proclaimed Redmond. “It’ll be the two of us seeing to the horses, more like.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Ernest removed his gold spectacles for a polish. “But it’s Saint Roch’s Day and the Rothwells have much to make up for after our father’s time.”
Redmond shrugged and nodded, twisting back to the arena, but Hebe gazed to Ernest, thoughts pensive.
“I used to think you a shallow profligate rake.”
“Perhaps Iwasa shallow profligate rake,” he agreed, adjusting his glasses, no rancour twisting his gaze. “I castigated Casper for working too hard when…” He removed his beaver hat and thrust a hand through his golden mane. “Now, when I see all this, I realise why. It needs someone who cares to turn an estate around, not just stewards and managers but someone who feels the land and the responsibility. Unlike Father, who never gave a damn.”
Hebe fiddled with her bonnet ribbons. “Do you remember your father’s reign? You must have been young when he died.”
“I had eleven years. But I recall the borders shrinking as unentailed pastures and paddocks were sold to pay debts. I remember paintings disappearing from the Gallery, then swans from the moat. I was stricken as I’d raised one of them since finding it as an orphan cygnet. But then I was sent to Eton and Oxford and it all became a memory.” He frowned. “In town, I forgot all this, but I will never do so again. I wish to be a part of the estate’s life.”
“And so you are with your breeding stables, but surely you will visit Lond–”
“Ouch.” Ernest popped his hat back on at a jaunty angle. “Beth is not going to be impressed by that.”
Aunt Beatrice and Redmond tutted in unison, and Hebe glanced up to witness poor Thos sprawled on the straw, rope dangling from his fingers, his protective smock smothered in curls of creamy fat. On the far side of the arena, the group of girls who’d been dancing earlier sniggered and whispered into each other’s ears, eyes darting, their garlands now lying low upon their foreheads.
“No, I don’t believe she is,” Hebe acknowledged ruefully. “Is Beth the girl with ebony hair?”
“That’s the one. I’ll be crowning her Queen of the Feast this afternoon.” His gaze slanted to Hebe. “I’m obliged to select a Wychmere maiden,” he whispered. “Or I would have been crowning you, oh beauteous Hebe, as my fair queen.”
Rolling her eyes, Hebe tapped his arm. “She’s a worthy winner.”
