Page 5 of The Colonist’s Petition (Heirs & Heroes #2)

Four

“ A re you going out dressed like that?” asked Alex.

A pair of trousers peeked out from under her old grey dress.

George tied a knot in the skirt, raising it to below her knees, the same length as her apron.

“It is the same as I wore for harvest the past two years. We are harvesting grain. You know how messy that is. Father is unlikely to come this many days before the fair, and Grandfather and his guest are not due until tomorrow. No one will see me who has not before.”

“Last year you were younger. Trousers are hardly acceptable for a young lady out in society.” The pleading in Alex’s voice was not enough to convince George to give up her practical clothing.

“I cannot work without my dress riding up. At least this way my legs are not bare. The field workers wear thick stockings, I could borrow a pair. I think we used to wear them when we went out with Mother.”

Alex sighed, whether from exasperation or memory George could not tell. “It was fun helping with harvest times, even if we only delivered cooled tea.”

“You could come again. I have not seen you use a cane for days.”

Alex patted her wooden leg. “Peggy, the IV is ever so much more comfortable and better balanced, but I would never wear it in the field. It will take forever to clean properly. Perhaps I will bring the cart and come out later. It is easier to carry the jugs with.”

“Do you think Jane will come?” George's twin spent most of the day in the library or wandering the garden, followed by her faithful dog, Sir Galahad.

If Rose were here, she would join George all too quickly and cause mayhem in the fields.

As much as she missed her youngest sister, having her at school was best for all.

“I will drag Jane out if I must, which should not be hard, as she enjoys a walk in the orchard. And I can tempt her with an apple off the tree.”

“I hope it freezes this week. I want the sweetest apples for the cider we enter into the competition.” George waved to her sister and hurried off.

The tenants would have started in the fields already.

She had not missed helping with a harvest in six years and she would not let them down this harvest either.

This year, the wheat field in the southwest corner of the estate had produced more than ever.

A miracle George partially credited to the new crop rotation plan she convinced Grandfather to approve two years ago after her father ignored her.

A couple dozen people, including tenant farmers and their families, already were hard at work.

Kellmore Manor participated in a friendly competition with Leadon Hill, owned by the Godderidges, and the other estates for biggest harvest per acre, first completed harvest, and other events. Prizes were awarded at the fair.

George tied a kerchief around her head to keep the chaff out of her braided hair. She joined in the gathering of the sheaves of grain, and the gossip and laughter. The sun played a game of hiding behind puffy white clouds, keeping the day cool without the threat of rain.

Just before noon, the sound of squealing pigs pierced the air. George turned as four pigs darted away from the pen on the far side of the field.

George dropped the sheaves she carried and, with the others, took off after the pigs. If the pigs got into the unharvested field, it would be a disaster that no one wanted. Her boots squelched in a muddy patch. Ignoring the splatter she ran on.

As if knowing how to create the most damage, the brutes zigzagged through the tall stalks of wheat, avoiding their pursuers.

Glad her trousers made running easier, George chased after the smallest, who veered away from the other swine.

The little squealer raced toward the stream dividing the wheat field from the orchard.

Three of the older boys joined her as they raced to corner the pig.

The pig splashed through the stream and into the orchard.

Screams of her sisters echoed through the trees. The pig was not the only creature seeking an apple. Jane would be terrified if the pig ran at her, as the beast likely weighed as many stones as much as her smaller twin.

Like the others giving chase, George sloshed into the stream.

Her muddy boots slipped on a moss-covered rock, dropping her into the water with a splash that drenched her from face to foot.

Sputtering and laughing, she pushed herself up.

There was nothing to be done for her mud-covered clothes.

This pig would make an excellent Christmas ham.

She dove into the orchard, dodging low-hanging branches laden with apples. The pig darted between trees, its pursuers always just out of reach. George's wet clothes clung to her, slowing her steps as she ran.

Rounding a tree, George's foot caught on a root, sending her face-first into the tall orchard grass, where the thick blades concealed fallen apples dissolving to mush.

Slime sprayed onto her face. George used the back of her sleeve to wipe away the muck from her cheek.

How many rashers of bacon would this pig provide as part of a breakfast come January?

“Got him!” shouted one of the older boys. Others joined in the triumph. The pig squealed his displeasure as they carried him off.

Laughing, George pushed herself up to sit on her knees. Three smashed apples tumbled down her front. Her laughter died as she saw her sisters' faces.

Alex and Jane were not alone.

Grandfather and Mr. Whittaker stood with them. All stared at George in various states of shock and amusement. Her cheeks burned as she realized what a sight she must be—sopping wet, covered head to toe in mud, grass, grain, and decomposing fruit.

Mr. Whittaker's eyes were wide as he took in her disheveled state. To be seen like this by the handsome American, who appeared more attractive in the fortnight since his arrival at her sister's wedding. Mortification upon mortification. If only the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

“I… I was jus…” she stammered, unable to meet anyone's eyes.

Grandfather cleared his throat. His eyes twinkled with laughter. “I see you have been practicing your pig-wrangling skills, Georgiana. Is there to be an event at the harvest fair?”

Mr. Whittaker stepped forward, a smile tugging at his lips, and thrust out a hand. “Allow me to assist you, Miss Georgiana.”

George hesitated, acutely aware of the mud caking her palms. But Mr. Whittaker's warm smile left her no choice. Allow him to play the part of the gentleman or snub him in front of the family? She placed her grimy hand in his, marveling at how easily he pulled her up.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

To her surprise, his eyes held not disgust, but a hint of amusement. “Is this the latest in London fashion? I am still unfamiliar with things here.”

Even Jane laughed at his comment.

"Only on harvest days when chasing pigs.

" George did her best to return his smile, hoping any red in her cheeks would be attributed to her exertion, not the humiliation she felt. This was not the first time she’d made a fool of herself.

However, doing so in front of this man was many times worse for a reason she could not completely put to words.

This was the kind of man she wished to have seen her at her polished best.

According to Alex, Grandfather did not want Mr. Whittaker to marry any of them out of duty. But if he had any interest in her at all, she crushed that thought like rotting apples at her feet.

“Excuse me, I need to—” George stammered, her cheeks warming further.

“Of course,” Mr. Whittaker replied, stepping aside but keeping his gaze fixed on her with an expression filled with a friendly warmth, not the disgust she expected. In his clean hands he held a wadded handkerchief. When had he cleaned them? At least he hadn’t made a show of it.

With as much dignity as she could muster, George trudged back to Kellmore Manor.

Alex warned her not to wear trousers. Oh, what Grandfather and Mr. Whittaker must think, and poor Jane.

In her way, her twin would feel even more humiliation than George could.

If not for the pants, likely she would not have chased after the pig, and this would not have happened.

There was no shame in helping with harvest, landowners participated from time to time.

Male landowners. Father never would, so she must. No matter how she reasoned, each step of the soggy boots dragged her back into the depths of her humiliation.

If only grandfather came alone. Why did having Mr. Whittaker see her so disheveled bring her to shame?

A dozen men witnessed her in trousers—that morning alone—and it never bothered her before.

Johnathan chuckled to himself as he watched Miss Georgiana scamper away, a muddy whirlwind in a country full of genteel decorum.

This was not the image of a well-bred young lady he had been led to expect over the past weeks.

Instead, Miss Georgiana appeared every bit the spirited country girl, one much like he would find at home, or not.

Most women of her age would not be chasing pigs.

How did she survive in this country where everything was proper and poised?

Both of her sisters presented all that was prim and prudent.

“Your sister is rather… unconventional.”

“Unconventional is one way to describe it.” Miss Jane's comment was barely above a whisper. The delivery made it quite impossible to tell if the comment was in jest or in awe.

The earl laughed. “It is never dull around my granddaughters. They have run Kellmore Manor for years with the help of an excellent steward.”