Page 41 of Reforming Lord Neil

Teresa suspected that Mr. Putnam had come by to point out what must be done, and how to do it. While she had thought to ask the old farmer to advise Mr. Duncan, she had hesitated. Would a man used to prestige and position listen to a poor, old farmer?

It seemed Mr. Duncan was not too proud to do so, a thing which intrigued her.

Teresa went down the line of fence where the brambles grew, spotting the gentleman, girl, and dog. Rather than call out, she approached slowly and listened to their voices drifting up to her.

“Avez-vous déjà rencontré un Français?” Caroline asked, stopping Teresa where she stood.

Mr. Duncan removed a large clump of weeds with his shovel, then went to the wheelbarrow to lift a flat stone. He answered her daughter in French. “I have met any number of French people. During their revolution, hundreds of Frenchmen and their families came to England to escape Madame Guillotine. Their families still speak French.”

Caroline picked up a smaller stone and followed him. He appeared to be lining the place where the invasive plants had grown with rocks.

As a headache had begun to build behind Teresa’s eyes, she had no wish to shout to draw their attention. Coming all the way toward them, Teresa spoke in French, too. “I see you are having a French lesson today, ma petite chérie.”

When Mr. Duncan looked up at her from where he crouched, wrist-deep in muddy water, he dared to wink at her. “I told her she could only follow me about today if she agreed to speak French.”

“Mr. Duncan says my accent is charming,” Caroline added with a grin.

Though amused, Teresa tempered her reaction to a tight-lipped smile. Then she pointed up the hill. “Let us hope your geography lesson will be just as charming. Your grandmama is ready to bake, so you ought to join her. I believe you are discussing Spain today.”

“Yes, Mama.” Caroline curtsied to Mr. Duncan. She went up the hill, plucking a wildflower as she went. Teresa watched her daughter, and contentment settled in her heart. Caroline grew more kind and loving every day, and she had a gentle soul. If Teresa accomplished nothing else, as long as her daughter grew into a happy and generous woman, any trouble would be worth it.

“Your daughter does you credit, Mrs. Clapham.”

Teresa turned to see Mr. Duncan, out of the mud with dripping wet hands, watching her.

“I think her sweet nature came with her, Mr. Duncan. It has been my privilege to watch her grow.” She felt a cough tickle her throat and hastily turned to cover her mouth with her handkerchief. “Pardon me.”

He gave her a momentarily concerned expression but continued the conversation. “I have often wondered about the nature of children.” Mr. Duncan stepped over the rivulet of water, now rapidly disappearing through the irrigation canal. “If we are all a product of our family, why does one see so much divergence in childhood temperaments?”

With a raised eyebrow, Teresa tucked her handkerchief away. “Any woman will tell you, Mr. Duncan, that their children come into this life with personalities. We only mold the medium we are given, as parents. I know a woman with six children, each of them different in temperament and talent, though all raised by the same good lady.”

He made a thoughtful hum of sound, then placed his shovel over the double handles of the wheelbarrow, pushing it further down the hill. Teresa followed, somewhat curiously.

They had come to another place with standing water, overflowing from the narrow ditch. Mr. Duncan stopped there, lifted his shovel, and went to work on a patch of long, wild grass. He dug around the plant, ignoring the water and mud that flecked his boots.

“Thank you for doing this,” Teresa said. “It was not even on your list.”

“No, it was not.” He sounded pleasant, despite the labor he undertook. The shovel came up, filled with mud. He tossed it aside, stuck the shovel in the ground, and leaned upon it as he regarded her. His hat was tipped at a rakish angle. “Mr. Putnam must make his own repairs and replace some thatch upon his roof this afternoon, weather permitting, and he has said he will show me the way of things if I will assist him.”

“That is kind of him.” Teresa tucked a loose strand of black hair back behind her ear. “Mr. Duncan.” She swallowed, wondering why her voice sounded rather tight. “I am terribly sorry that you have not yet received word about—about whatever it is that keeps you here.” She had not exactly meant to say such a thing.

Mr. Duncan ducked his head, and she saw a muscle in his jaw tighten. “Do not trouble yourself, Mrs. Clapham. Things will resolve themselves, sooner or later. I have written to other acquaintances. Perhaps they will help me sort matters out.” He stepped around the shovel and went to the wheelbarrow, taking up another large, flat stone.

“What are you doing, precisely?” Teresa asked, watching with fascination and perhaps a bit of admiration, too, as his forearms flexed beneath the stone’s weight. He knelt in the large puddle that had begun to recede and put the rock into the middle of the ditch. They were at a place where the flow of water seemed to turn in order to make it through the middle of the field before running downhill, and eventually to sea.

“Whoever dug the irrigation ditches originally did a fair job, according to our Mr. Putnam, but it has been two years or more since any work to maintain the integrity of the ditches was performed.” He stayed crouched there, resting wrists on knees and looking up at her. “If the larger growths of greenery are cleared, and stones put in place to keep them from coming back, it will all flow downhill as it ought.”

The pounding in Teresa’s head increased abruptly, enough to make her forget herself and put her hand above her brow where it most hurt.

The gentleman stood, green eyes wide, and approached. “Mrs. Clapham, are you unwell? You have turned terribly pale. Except…” He wiped his dirty hand on his trousers. “Forgive me, madam.” He put the back of his cool hand against her forehead, and she leaned into it with some relief. The touch felt quite wonderful, not only due to the difference in temperature.

“You are burning with fever,” he said, his eyes darkening.

“It is nothing. I am merely overtired.” Yet even as she spoke the excuse, Teresa could not think of a thing she had done to wear her body out. Her chores that day had been light.

Mr. Duncan’s frown deepened. “Come, let me walk you back to the house.”

Teresa took a step back. “I am perfectly capable of walking back up this little hill, Mr. Duncan. Though I do thank you for your concern.” She cleared her throat again. It hurt to swallow. Botheration. Teresa did not have the time to fall ill.