“Mr. Ravenel —”
“I have to,” he said doggedly. “My brother never asks anything of me. Which is why I’ll do this even if it kills me.”
Kathleen glanced at him in surprise. “Very well,” she said after a moment. “Shall we send for Mr. Carlow to accompany you?”
“I rather hoped that you would go with me.” Seeing her expression, West added warily, “Only for today.”
“Mr. Carlow is far more familiar with the tenants and their situations —”
“His presence may prove to be inhibiting. I want them to speak to me frankly.” He glared at his plate. “Not that I expect more than a half-dozen words from any of them. I know what that sort thinks of me: a city toff. A great useless peacock who knows nothing about the superior virtues of farm life.”
“I don’t think they’ll judge you severely, so long as they believe that you’re not judging them. Just try to be sincere, and you should have no difficulty.”
“I have no talent for sincerity,” West muttered.
“It’s not a talent,” Kathleen said. “It’s a willingness to speak from your heart, rather than trying to be amusing or evasive.”
“Please,” West said tersely. “I’m already nauseous.” Scowling, he took another bite of the bacon sandwich.
Kathleen was pleased to see that despite West’s expectation of being treated with insolence, if not outright contempt, by the tenants, the first one he encountered was quite cordial.
George Strickland was a middle-aged man, stocky and muscular, with kind eyes set in a large square face. His land, which he farmed with the help of three sons, was a smallholding of approximately sixty acres. Kathleen and West met him at his cottage, a ramshackle structure propped next to a large barn, where corn was threshed and stored. Livestock were kept in a tumbledown collection of sheds that had been built without plan, placed with apparent randomness around a yard where manure was liquefied by water running from unspouted roofs.
“I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” the tenant farmer said, gripping his hat in his hands. “I’m wondering if you and the good lady would mind just walking a piece with me into the field. We could talk while I work. The oats have to be cut and brought in before the rain comes back.”
“What if they’re not harvested in time?” West asked.
“Too much grain will shed on the ground,” Strickland replied. “Once the grain is good and plump, even a gust of high wind could shake it loose from the chaff. We’d lose as much as a third.”
As West glanced at Kathleen, she nodded slightly to convey her willingness. They walked out into the field, where the feathery tops of the gold-green oats grew as tall as West’s shoulder. Kathleen enjoyed the dusty-sweet smell of the air as a pair of men mowed through the crop with wickedly sharp scythes. A pair of gatherers followed to bind cut stalks into sheaves. After that, bandsters tied the sheaves into stooks, and a young boy cleared loose straw with stubble rakes.
“How much can a man cut in a day?” West asked, while Strickland squatted to deftly bind a sheaf.
“The best scytheman I’ve seen can cut two acres in a day. But that’s oats, which is faster than other grain.”
West glanced at the laborers speculatively. “What if you had a reaping machine?”
“The kind with a binder attachment?” Strickland removed his hat and scratched his head. “A dozen acres or more, I’d reckon.”
“In one day? And how many laborers would you need to operate it?”
“Two men and a horse.”
“Two men producing at least six times the result?” West looked incredulous. “Why don’t you buy a mechanical reaper?”
Strickland snorted. “Because it would cost twenty-five pounds or more.”
“But it would pay for itself before long.”
“I can’t afford horses and a machine, and I couldn’t do without a horse.”
Frowning, West watched as Strickland finished tying a sheaf. “I’ll help you catch up with the mowers if you’ll show me how to do that.”
The farmer glanced at West’s tailored clothes. “You’re not dressed for field work, sir.”
“I insist,” West said, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it to Kathleen. “With any luck, I’ll develop a callus to show people afterward.” He squatted beside Strickland, who showed him how to cinch a band around the top of the straw. Just under the grain and not too tight, the farmer cautioned, so that when sheaves were stood on end and bound together, there was enough room between stalks to allow air to circulate and dry the grain faster.
Although Kathleen had expected West to tire quickly of the novelty, he was persistent and diligent, gradually gaining competence. As they worked, West asked questions about drainage and planting, and Strickland answered in detail.
It was unexpected, the way West’s politeness seemed to have transformed into genuine interest in the process taking place before him. Kathleen watched him thoughtfully, finding it difficult to reconcile the drunken lout of yesterday with this attentive, engaging stranger. One would almost think he gave a damn about the estate and its tenants.
At the end of the row, West stood, dusted his hands, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his face.
Strickland blotted his own brow with his sleeve. “Next I could show you how to mow,” he offered cheerfully.
“Thank you, no,” West replied with a rueful grin, looking so much like Devon that Kathleen felt a quick pang of recognition. “I’m sure I shouldn’t be trusted with a sharp blade.” Surveying the field speculatively, he asked, “Have you ever considered dairying, Mr. Strickland?”
“No, sir,” the tenant said firmly. “Even with lower yields, there’s still more profit in grain than milk or meat. There’s a saying about the market: ‘Down horn, up corn.’”
“Perhaps that’s true for now,” West said, thinking out loud. “But with all the people moving to factory towns, the demand for milk and meat will rise, and then —”
“No dairying.” Strickland’s tentative friendliness faded. “Not for me.”
Kathleen went to West, giving him his jacket. She touched his arm lightly to gain his attention. “I believe Mr. Strickland fears you may be trying to avoid paying for the drainage work,” she murmured.