Page 77 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Kale nodded, scratching behind Lemon’s ears.

Tristan hesitated for a moment, then spoke up again. “Would you mind walking me round the back of the village? A small tour, nothing more.”

Kale’s brow lifted. “Of course. Let me just put these ledgers back in the drawers, and I will be with you shortly.”

Tristan swallowed. “Who will mind the desk?”

Mr. Kale laughed. “Whoever is in need of a room will wait. A roof and a bed do not vanish in an hour.”

Tristan gave the faintest smile. “Very well then.”

They stepped out into the cool morning, the air soft and fresh against their faces. A few yards beyond the inn, the land seemed to open into softer fields littered with trimmed hedges and oak trees.

The village seemed quieter around these parts, just like it had been back in the hunting lodge. The thought made him miss his serenity just briefly.

As they walked, he watched Mr. Kale stretch out his hand and call out to a farmer leaning over a fence.

“Robert! Morning to you.”

The man straightened, wiping soil from his hands onto his breeches. He bowed low when he saw Tristan.

“My lord.”

“Robert,” Tristan acknowledged. “How goes the work?”

Robert climbed over the fence to join them, falling into step. “Better than last Season, thank God. The festival has given men spirit again.”

“Has it now?” Tristan asked, his voice clear.

“Yes. A man plows straighter when he knows the grain will feed his children.”

“That is encouraging,” Tristan said. “And the harvest itself?”

Robert gestured toward the land rolling ahead of them. “See there? The wheat is nearly ripe. The soil still fights us in patches, but it gives enough to live. A few more weeks, and we shall fill the barns.”

Tristan nodded, listening carefully as Robert continued to talk.

“There—” the farmer pointed to an oak tree with gnarled branches stretching wide “—that tree has stood more than fifty years. My father’s father tied horses to it when he first took up the land.”

“That is quite interesting,” Tristan responded.

Robert’s voice softened. “Families have worked these fields since long before I even drew breath. Over there—” he pointed to a row of cottages “—that is where the Collinses live. Generations of them. They keep cattle. Not much, but enough. Their boy, Thomas, served in the military. He came back with a limp but took up the plow again, all the same.”

Tristan’s gaze followed the gesture. The cottages were plain but sturdy, smoke drifting from chimneys. These were lives stitched quietly into the land.

“And there … orchards tended by the Lane family. They grew apples, pears, oranges, you name it. When my wife was still alive, she used to trade preserves with them. Sweetest you could taste.”

Mr. Kale grunted softly. “And this is what the others want to take away from us.”

Tristan said nothing at first, but his jaw tightened. The speeches of the lords yesterday paled in comparison to Robert’s heartfelt speech about hard work.

Robert seemed to read his silence. “If this project of theirs takes root, my lord, we may as well say farewell to it all. The cottages, the fields, even that oak. Once men in velvet coats take measure of a place, they leave little behind for the rest of us.”

Tristan exhaled slowly. “You may be right.”

The weight of those words pressed hard on him. His title might have been inherited, but his loyalty to these people had to be chosen.

He could not pretend otherwise.