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“Of course.” Phoebe guessed that her mother’s eagerness to attend another social gathering was also waning, but a refusal was out of the question. Her mother was nothing if not a stickler for maintaining propriety, and it would not do to risk insulting anyone so soon after arriving in the neighborhood.
“I had better go and inform your father,” her mother said, rising to her feet. “You know how he is about such things. If he does not have a full three days to prepare himself for the event, he is quite upended.”
“Well, you are offering him four and a quarter days this time. He should have no reason to fuss.”
“You would think so, would you not?”
Phoebe bit back a smile as her mother sailed across the drawing room, the invitation in hand. Even if her father grumbled about attending the Palmers’ dinner party at first, she had little doubt that he would bend to his wife’s demands in the end. He always did.
As the echo of her mother’s footsteps disappeared across the hall, Phoebe set aside her stitchery and walked to the window. The sun was valiantly attempting to dry the last of the puddles on the gravel walkway. The rain that had fallen earlier that day had moved on, leaving a dampness in the air and a hint of the cooler weather that was to come. Phoebe glanced at the nearby oak. At the top of the tree, the leaves showed a touch of color—similar in shade to the golden chrysanthemum petals in the flowerbed beneath the window. Autumn would be here before they knew it.
Her gaze shifted to the end of the garden, where the chimneys of Bloxley Hall could barely be seen in the distance above the hedge. Phoebe’s sister, Jane, had married the Earl of Bloxley not more than three weeks before. It had been a joyous celebration, and the happy couple had left on their wedding tour almost immediately afterward. Phoebe did not begrudge Jane her happiness for one moment, but she missed her fiercely. She and Jane had vastly different interests, but they’d always been loyal friends. Only now that her sister was gone did she realize how much the girlish chatter and laughter they’d always shared after an evening out had meant to her. Perhaps that was another reason why social engagements had lost some of their luster.
A robin flew over the hedge and landed on a lower branch of the oak tree. Phoebe watched as it cocked its head and puffed out its red chest feathers. Its distinctive and cheery song served as a timely reminder that Phoebe’s rare bout of melancholy would not do. She and her family were fortunate to have been welcomed to the neighborhood so warmly. They would attend the Palmers’ dinner, and she would enjoy time spent with their other guests. If the evening proved to be exceptionally entertaining, she would write to tell Jane about it afterward.
Chapter 2
Adam walked through the orchard with Henry at his side. Early-morning mist floated in wispy tendrils above the ground, leaving his boots damp and the leaves above him glistening.
“It’s lookin’ to be a grand crop, m’ lord.” His gardener did nothing to hide the pride in his voice. “We’re finally seein’ the rewards of all our hard work.”
Adam nodded, pausing to study the nearest apple tree. Henry was right. He’d never seen the trees so fruit laden. And not only were there more apples than usual, but they were also uncommonly large. He reached up to wrap his hand around a King of the Pippins apple. The thin stem held firm. A couple more weeks and they’d be falling off the tree. A flicker of excitement coursed through him at the thought of what a bountiful harvest would mean to Dunsbourne Manor.
“You’ve done well, Henry,” Adam said.
“Beggin’ your pardon, m’ lord, but none of this would ’ave been possible without yer vision fer the place.”
Adam smiled. The Dunsbourne orchard had been neglected for decades. As a child, he’d often played amongst the overgrown trees, picturing himself as a great explorer adventuring through the tangled undergrowth or a soldier making forts within the trees’ wide limbs. Never in his wildest imaginings had he considered the orchard as a future source of revenue.
“Tell me how the rest of our plans are coming along,” he said, moving from the shade of the trees toward the nearby stone structure.
“The mill’s all but ready, m’ lord. The wheel come yesterday. Between me and the two fellows who delivered it, we got it situated.”
Adam pushed open the wide doors of the old cart shed, anxious to see the new equipment for himself. The building was large enough to house four or five vehicles, but now that he owned only one carriage and the cart he used during the apple harvest, the remaining space had been cleared to make room for an apple mill.
It was unfortunate that the grinding stone had been delivered during his brief time in London. Had he retained his father’s steward, the man would have seen to such details, but letting the steward go had been one of the many economies Adam had been forced to make upon his father’s passing. Adam had taken over all the bookkeeping and the management of the estate, and Henry had agreed to oversee not only the maintenance of the gardens but also the cultivation of the apple orchard. It was a big job for a man entering his sixtieth year, and installing a cider press was well outside the old gardener’s area of expertise. But given Henry’s insistence that hedgerows be straight and flowerbeds be tidy, Adam was quite sure he’d insisted that the stone be situated correctly.
The wooden trough they’d formerly used to break down the apples stood against one wall, alongside the press and a tidily bundled pile of horsehair cloths. On the opposite wall, a row of empty barrels waited like a line of rotund soldiers. A large, round stone stood in the center of the shed, about eight feet in diameter and three feet tall. A band of iron encircled its upper rim. A circular furrow had been carved into its surface, and at the stone’s center, a sturdy wooden pole reached up to connect with the scaffolding that supported the axle of the wheel-like millstone.
Adam stepped closer and ran his hand over the new stone’s smooth surface. “Have you tried it?” he asked.
“Aye.” Henry pointed at the furrow that marked the millstone’s path. “I reckon that wheel’s twice as heavy as it looks. It takes a bit to get it started, but once it’s movin’, it glides like it’s on ice.”
“It may not be quite so smooth when the trough is filled with fruit,” Adam said. “I’ll talk to Oliver about bringing Molly in once a day to get used to the harness and the pull. The sooner the plow horse is comfortable with the process, the better.”
Henry nodded. “I daresay we’ve got another three or four weeks afore we’ll be workin’ her hard, but it’s best to get her prepared while we can.”
“Do we have the help we need when the time comes?”
“Yes, m’ lord. I ’ave three lads coming in from the village. Two of ’em have worked fer one of them big apple farmers down Hereford way fer the last couple o’ years. So they’ll know just what to do. Where Berkshire’s more in the center of the country, they reckon our harvest will be a week or two afore theirs, so they’ll ’elp out here till they’re needed in Hereford.”
Adam tensed. Herefordshire was the hub of cider production in England. If his vision for the Dunsbourne orchards were to be realized, he would be viewed as a direct competitor to those West Country farmers. “Is that wise?”
Henry frowned. “To my way of thinkin’, the more experience we can bring on, the faster the ’arvest will go.”
He was right. Knowledgeable hired hands would be invaluable. Especially this year, when the equipment was new and the volume of production would be so much greater than it had ever been before. Still, Adam hesitated.
“Our particular blend of apples must not be shared, Henry,” Adam said.
