Page 15 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter eleven

The Barn

N igel picked his way through the muddy yard to the barn a furlong away. He had ordered Archie to press his coat and had taken time with his cravat, but now fate had conspired to send him somewhere wholly unsafe for a gentleman in buff pantaloons and a coat of pale blue superfine.

When he had called on the Morrisons this afternoon, Aunt Lucy had informed him that Miss Bel was out in the barn.

“I could invite you inside to have tea with me,” she said knowingly, “or you could bring her some biscuits out there in case she’s hungry.

” Nigel had opted for the latter, despite the prescient notion that there would be no chairs and tea table inside the stone building where the hay and other provender were stored.

The door to the stone barn was open and Nigel went inside without announcing his presence. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the grey sunlight outside to the musty darkness inside .

The barn was empty of animals. Whatever horses and cows took shelter there at night must all be out to pasture right now.

The open space smelled of leather, straw, hay, and manure, and the rivulets of water coming out of some of the stalls indicated that they had been freshly cleaned.

Nigel wrinkled his nose. Where was Miss Morrison?

“What are you doing in my barn?”

As he heard the voice from above, Nigel looked up. A second storey had been constructed beneath the thatched roof, creating storage for additional bales of hay above the stalls. In the darkness, he saw a pair of work boots dangling from the hayloft, attached to a pair of buckskin trousers.

“I brought you some biscuits.”

“A barn’s hardly the place for those.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I expect mucking out these stalls would give one quite the appetite.” Nigel eyed the ladder on the left side of the barn that reached up to the loft above. “May I come up?”

Hearing no answer, he took the silence as an invitation.

He cradled the jar of biscuits against his chest and used his other arm to pull himself up the ladder.

When was the last time he had climbed into a hayloft?

Back in his Oxford days? Certainly not anytime in the last two years after succeeding to his brother’s title.

There was a round window at the far end of the loft that let in some light.

Through the dusty rays, Nigel could see the traces of tears on Miss Morrison’s face.

Something had driven her out to the barn besides a desire to do menial chores.

Something had upset her usual equanimity. He must tread carefully .

“I’m afraid that I could not carry tea without sloshing it all over me. But if they’re not too dry to swallow down on their own, we have biscuits aplenty to share.”

He stooped low as he came closer to her in the narrow loft, handing her the jar of biscuits so that he could carefully lower himself down to a sitting position on the edge of the overhang.

His Hessians dangled beside her work boots.

He felt a few pieces of straw poke through his pantaloons into his thighs.

Ah, well. What was a pair of ruined pantaloons when there was a lady to console?

Reaching into his coat, he removed a handkerchief and handed it to Miss Morrison.

“Am I to scrub my dirty hands with this?”

Nigel shrugged nonchalantly. “Or your face. Don’t worry. The handkerchief’s clean.”

Miss Morrison rolled her eyes and returned the jar of biscuits in exchange for the handkerchief. “I was very worried.”

Nigel looked away, allowing her the privacy to pretend she was not wiping her tear-stained cheeks. When he looked back, the traces of her afternoon despondency had disappeared.

He wished the handkerchief could wipe away some other things. Her wonderfully variegated brown hair was covered, as usual, this time by a labourer’s hat and her figure was shrouded in a shapeless coat, ideal for keeping out the winter chill.

“Do you want it back?” she asked, holding the begrimed handkerchief between thumb and forefinger.

“Normally, I would say no, but I’m running short on all sorts of wardrobe items since I’ve been gone from London so long. I daresay Mrs. Garrick can scrub it clean.” Nigel reached for the waistcoat and stuck it inside his coat of pale blue superfine .

“Surely, you could send up to London for some more clothes?” said Miss Morrison, distracted from her own distress by his clothing conundrum.

“I can’t, actually,” said Nigel. “It would give away my location.”

“Give away your location?”

Nigel gave a deep sigh. If he wanted her to tell him why she was crying in the hayloft, he ought to share something about himself as well. And somehow, he found himself wanting to tell her. Needing her to know.

“I’ve made London too warm to hold me at present. It will be very unpleasant for me if I return before certain things have…blown over.”

“Hmm. A jealous husband?”

Nigel winced at the judgement in her tone. Why did he care so much if a country spinster with a dirty face wearing trousers and a farmer’s cap looked down on him from her heights of moral virtue?

“No, but you can think that if you like.”

They sat there in silence for a moment, legs dangling from their lofty perch. Nigel felt younger than he had in years.

“Mr. Brownlee came by the house this morning,” said Miss Morrison abruptly.

“Oh, did he?” said Nigel lightly.

“He’s the executor of my parents’ will.”

“Mmm.” Nigel wondered if this conversation was related to the one he’d overheard between Harold Brownlee and the vicar.

“The will leaves everything to my brother Charlie, unless he should predecease my parents. In which case, everything was supposed to go to me.” She took a deep breath. “Charlie left home two years before my parents died. ”

“A goodly amount of time.”

“Indeed. It will be seven years in January since our last news of him, and Mr. Brownlee is determined to appeal to the courts to have Charlie declared…dead.”

Nigel had no platitudes to offer. He paused, hoping that period of silence would indicate his compassion. “When was your last news of him?”

“The ship he took for India—the Belladore —it disappeared on the western side of Africa. Or at least, that’s what the newspapers said. It never made it to India at all.”

“Were there any survivors?”

“Father went down to London to find out. The ship’s owner had claimed it as a total loss—no cargo recovered.

But the wreck was not far off the coast. Survivors could have made it ashore.

Charlie was strong and fit. And from what I’ve read, not all the tribes in that part of Africa are hostile to Europeans.

He would have found a way to survive until another ship came into the area.

He could have made his way to India on a different merchantman. ”

Nigel’s tone was gentle. “And yet, there has been no word from him in the past seven years?”

“No.”

He opened the jar and handed her a biscuit. Then, he took one for himself.

They nibbled the gingery treats in silence. Nigel decided that the biscuit was much too dry to enjoy without tea.

“I suppose I’m being ridiculous to be angry with Mr. Brownlee,” said Miss Morrison with a sudden rush of emotion, “but it feels like he’s ringing the knell of finality on the matter.

To have the courts come out and make a pronouncement—that finishes everything.

Without that, there’s still hope. There’s still the comfort that Charlie was always a terrible correspondent.

He could have made it to India and simply forgotten to write.

” Her grey eyes were bright as stars beneath the oversized cap that hid her hair.

Nigel’s dark eyes met hers sympathetically as he turned the matter over in his mind. “What motive could Brownlee possibly have in wanting to send it to the courts? Does he gain anything if your brother is declared dead and the property devolves on you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Miss Morrison slowly. “I think he’s merely trying to keep me from being trapped in the past and bound to the estate.” She took a deep breath. “I may not always like his interference with my farm management, but he has been a kind neighbour.”

“Still,” said Nigel, tossing his dry ginger biscuit onto the straw far below, “it’s just another kind of unwanted interference. I can see why you are upset.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Morrison firmly. She put the rest of her biscuit in her mouth and rubbed the crumbs off her fingers by wiping them on her trousers. “Of course, I don’t know why I’m telling all of this to a London rake.”

“Clearly, I’ve reformed,” said Nigel sanguinely. “For here we are alone in a hayloft for half an hour, and I haven’t even tried to kiss you.”

It was a gibe meant to be humorous, but as soon as it left his mouth, Nigel realised that abstention from such an activity was a true sacrifice on his part.

Miss Morrison’s mouth was not the plump rosebud of a London flirt, but those wide, supple lips still seemed eminently kissable. He’d been a saint not to attempt it .

“I’m not in the habit of kissing strangers who steal my cat,” retorted Miss Morrison with more force than was necessary.

“Come now, Miss Morrison, we’re hardly strangers anymore.”

“Aren’t we?” She raised her eyebrow. The left one. The slightly crooked one that gave her a perpetual look of cynical amusement. The one that Nigel desperately wanted to rub a thumb over if he ever was allowed to put his hand near her face.

Nigel perked up his ears. “Hush! Is that a mouse skittering behind us?”

“If it is, it’s because Magpie’s been delinquent. And I think we both know why.”

“Too much ham at Audeley House?”

“Indeed,” she said, assuming a tone of high dudgeon while trying to contain her own smile.

“Well, since I enjoy feeding the animals,” he said, reaching into the jar that sat beside him, “I shall leave our mouse friend a cookie.” He removed a ginger cookie from the jar, crumbled it into pieces, and tossed the pieces into the hay behind them.

Miss Morrison groaned. “You are incorrigible.” She swung her feet up to the ledge on which they sat and pulled herself up into a crouching position. “Come now, Mr. Lymington. Up you get. You cannot stay here all day and encourage the vermin to congregate.”

Nigel picked himself up without hitting his head on the low roof, aware that the legs of his buff pantaloons were somewhat worse for wear. Crouching, he shuffled his way over to the ladder and climbed down.

“Shall I plan on the barn or the parlour tomorrow?” he asked as he reached the bottom of the ladder .

Miss Morrison, at the top of the ladder, was clearly waiting for him to vacate the barn before she made her own descent. A pity. Even without skirts, a lady on a ladder was a tempting view from below.

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“Where shall I call on you for tea?” Nigel gestured at his fine garb, much too fine for the barnyard setting. “I’d like to wear the right clothes next time.”

She shook her head at his persistence. “Neither the barn, nor the parlour, but the cottages by the road, Mr. Lymington. I’ll be examining tenant roofs tomorrow to see if Jer and Tam have made sufficient repairs.”

“Ah,” said Nigel. He supposed his own tenants in Lincolnshire had roofs as well, but it had never occurred to him that he ought to make sure they were well-thatched. “Rain or shine?”

“Rain or shine,” repeated Miss Morrison.

Nigel tipped his hat to her and went out the open barn door still carrying Aunt Lucy’s jar of dry ginger cookies.

Perhaps nothing dire would happen if he sent a discreet missive to town asking Simpson to forward more of his wardrobe.

He could already tell that if he spent more time with Miss Morrison, he would destroy the rest of the clothing that had come with him to Derbyshire.