Hunter appeared through the arched gateway, making Phoebe start and lose her place in her book. He gave a grave bow. ‘I am need of your company today to assist with the tenant visits.’
Mrs Hunter peered at him with irritation. ‘I thought your steward, McEwan, did that.’
‘The visits involve matters that would be better dealt with by a woman—the distribution of linens and such.’
Mrs Hunter frowned. ‘What of Mrs Dawson?’
‘Mrs Dawson left Blackloch shortly after you did.’
‘And you did not replace her? It is little wonder the place is in such disarray without a housekeeper.’
Hunter said nothing, but it seemed to Phoebe, as mother and son stared at one another with expressions that boarded on glacial, the comfortable temperature within the sheltered garden spot seemed to drop a few degrees.
Mrs Hunter gave in first. ‘It seems I have little option,’ she complained with a scowl, which she then turned upon Phoebe. ‘Come along, Phoebe, you may return the books to my room and ready yourself.’
‘Ready myself?’ Phoebe repeated and looked at her employer. ‘But shall you not be attending with Mr Hunter alone?’
‘No, I shall not,’ snapped the lady. ‘It is bad enough that I am being dragged around the countryside visiting one smelly peasant after another, but I am certainly not enduring the day alone.’ And with a final glare at her son Mrs Hunter marched from the garden.
Phoebe met Hunter’s gaze briefly, but a
frisson
of awareness tingled between them and she had a horrible suspicion as to the reason Hunter was suddenly desirous of his mother’s company. She turned away before he could fathom anything of her thoughts and followed in Mrs Hunter’s wake.
Hunter rode on his great black horse. Mrs Hunter and Phoebe sat in Hunter’s fine coach, Mrs Hunter not wishing to ruin hers by trailing it through, as the lady put it, the mud of all the moor. The baskets of linens and food were fastened in the boot.
Within each farmstead Hunter spoke to the man of the house, he who was holding the tenancy to farm theland, and eke some measure of living from it. From what Phoebe could hear their conversations seemed to centre on breeds of sheep, trout in the lochs, deer and the maintenance of the farm buildings. While Hunter dealt with that side of it, Mrs Hunter was in her element bestowing sheets, blankets and great hampers of food on the wives. Between each farm she moaned incessantly about the mud dirtying her shoes and the wind ruining her hair. But once in the farms Phoebe could see that Mrs Hunter was secretly enjoying herself.
One of the farmsteads, the closest to Blackloch and located on a particularly bleak stretch of the moor, housed a family of eight children, all girls, the oldest of which looked to be only ten or eleven years of age. The younger girls, dressed in clothes that looked worn and shabby, were running about the yard when the carriage drew up. The older girls were helping their mother peg wet washing to a drying line. All activity ceased as the coach rolled into the yard.
The woman’s husband, the tenant sheep farmer, was a thin, grey-haired man with a kind but work-worn face. He looked as if life on the moor was not an easy existence. Hunter and the man must have been talking of the barn for the pair of them were looking and pointing in that direction before walking off towards the small wooden building.
The small girls gathered round Mrs Hunter and Phoebe in silence, their little faces in awe of their visitors, their hands and fronts of their smocks revealing that they had been busy playing in the dirt.
‘Oh, Mrs Hunter, ma’am.’ The mother hastened to greet them, pink cheeked and breathless, and Phoebe saw the wash of embarrassment on Mrs Hunter’s face asher gaze dropped to the woman’s heavily swollen belly. Mrs Hunter glanced around almost as if checking that her son was not witnessing the woman’s condition. And now Hunter’s request for his mother’s
Mrs Hunter peered at him with irritation. ‘I thought your steward, McEwan, did that.’
‘The visits involve matters that would be better dealt with by a woman—the distribution of linens and such.’
Mrs Hunter frowned. ‘What of Mrs Dawson?’
‘Mrs Dawson left Blackloch shortly after you did.’
‘And you did not replace her? It is little wonder the place is in such disarray without a housekeeper.’
Hunter said nothing, but it seemed to Phoebe, as mother and son stared at one another with expressions that boarded on glacial, the comfortable temperature within the sheltered garden spot seemed to drop a few degrees.
Mrs Hunter gave in first. ‘It seems I have little option,’ she complained with a scowl, which she then turned upon Phoebe. ‘Come along, Phoebe, you may return the books to my room and ready yourself.’
‘Ready myself?’ Phoebe repeated and looked at her employer. ‘But shall you not be attending with Mr Hunter alone?’
‘No, I shall not,’ snapped the lady. ‘It is bad enough that I am being dragged around the countryside visiting one smelly peasant after another, but I am certainly not enduring the day alone.’ And with a final glare at her son Mrs Hunter marched from the garden.
Phoebe met Hunter’s gaze briefly, but a
frisson
of awareness tingled between them and she had a horrible suspicion as to the reason Hunter was suddenly desirous of his mother’s company. She turned away before he could fathom anything of her thoughts and followed in Mrs Hunter’s wake.
Hunter rode on his great black horse. Mrs Hunter and Phoebe sat in Hunter’s fine coach, Mrs Hunter not wishing to ruin hers by trailing it through, as the lady put it, the mud of all the moor. The baskets of linens and food were fastened in the boot.
Within each farmstead Hunter spoke to the man of the house, he who was holding the tenancy to farm theland, and eke some measure of living from it. From what Phoebe could hear their conversations seemed to centre on breeds of sheep, trout in the lochs, deer and the maintenance of the farm buildings. While Hunter dealt with that side of it, Mrs Hunter was in her element bestowing sheets, blankets and great hampers of food on the wives. Between each farm she moaned incessantly about the mud dirtying her shoes and the wind ruining her hair. But once in the farms Phoebe could see that Mrs Hunter was secretly enjoying herself.
One of the farmsteads, the closest to Blackloch and located on a particularly bleak stretch of the moor, housed a family of eight children, all girls, the oldest of which looked to be only ten or eleven years of age. The younger girls, dressed in clothes that looked worn and shabby, were running about the yard when the carriage drew up. The older girls were helping their mother peg wet washing to a drying line. All activity ceased as the coach rolled into the yard.
The woman’s husband, the tenant sheep farmer, was a thin, grey-haired man with a kind but work-worn face. He looked as if life on the moor was not an easy existence. Hunter and the man must have been talking of the barn for the pair of them were looking and pointing in that direction before walking off towards the small wooden building.
The small girls gathered round Mrs Hunter and Phoebe in silence, their little faces in awe of their visitors, their hands and fronts of their smocks revealing that they had been busy playing in the dirt.
‘Oh, Mrs Hunter, ma’am.’ The mother hastened to greet them, pink cheeked and breathless, and Phoebe saw the wash of embarrassment on Mrs Hunter’s face asher gaze dropped to the woman’s heavily swollen belly. Mrs Hunter glanced around almost as if checking that her son was not witnessing the woman’s condition. And now Hunter’s request for his mother’s
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