Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(34)

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.

West’s face cleared instantly as he understood. “No,” he said to the farmer, “you’ll have the improvements as promised. In fact, Lord Trenear has no choice in the matter: It’s his legal obligation.”

Strickland looked skeptical. “Beg pardon, sir, but after so many broken promises, it’s hard to put faith in another one.”

West was silent for a moment, contemplating the man’s troubled expression. “You have my word,” he said in a way that left no room for doubt. And he extended his hand.

Kathleen stared at him in surprise. A handshake was only exchanged between close friends, or on an occasion of great significance, and then only between gentlemen of similar rank. After a hesitation, however, Strickland reached out and took West’s hand, and they exchanged a hearty shake.

“That was well done of you,” Kathleen told West as they rode along the unpaved farm road. She was impressed by the way he had handled himself and addressed Strickland’s concerns. “It was clever of you to put him at ease by trying your hand at field work.”

“I wasn’t trying to be clever.” West seemed preoccupied. “I wanted to gain information.”

“And so you did.”

“I expected that this drainage issue would be easily solved,” West said. “Dig some trenches, line them with clay pipes, and cover it all up.”

“It doesn’t sound all that complicated.”

“It is. It’s complicated in ways I hadn’t considered.” West shook his head. “Drainage is such a minor part of the problem that it would be a waste of money to fix it without addressing the rest.”

“What is the rest?”

“I’m not even sure yet. But if we don’t figure it all out, there’s no hope of ever making Eversby Priory profitable again. Or even sustaining itself.” He gave Kathleen a dark glance as she opened her mouth. “Don’t accuse me of scheming to have the estate sold.”

“I wasn’t,” she said indignantly. “I was going to say that as far as I can tell, the Strickland farm is more or less in the same condition as the other tenants.”

“‘Down horn, up corn,’” West muttered. “My arse. In a few short years, it’s going to be ‘Up horn, down corn,’ and it’s going to stay that way. Strickland has no idea that his world has changed for good. Even I know it, and I could hardly be more ignorant about farming.”

“You think he should turn to dairying and livestock,” Kathleen said.

“It would be easier and more profitable than trying to farm lowland clay.”

“You may be right,” she told him ruefully. “But in this part of England, breeding livestock is not considered as respectable as working the land.”

“What the devil is the difference? Either way, one ends up shoveling manure.” West’s attention was diverted as his horse stumbled on a patch of rough road.

“Ease up on the reins,” Kathleen said. “Just give the horse more slack and let him pick his way through.”

West complied immediately.

“Would a bit more advice be unwelcome?” she dared to ask.

“Fire away.”

“You tend to slouch in the saddle. That makes it difficult for you to follow the horse’s motion, and it will make your back sore later. If you sit tall and relaxed… yes, like that… now you’re centered.”

“Thank you.”

Kathleen smiled, pleased by his willingness to take direction from a woman. “You don’t ride badly. With regular practice, you would be quite proficient.” She paused. “I take it you don’t ride often in town?”

“No, I travel by foot or hackney.”

“But your brother…” Kathleen began, thinking of Devon’s assured horsemanship.

“He rides every morning. A big dapple gray that’s as mean as the devil if it goes one day without hard exercise.” A pause. “They have that in common.”

“So that’s why Trenear is so fit,” Kathleen murmured.

“It doesn’t stop at riding. He belongs to a pugilism club where they batter each other senseless, in the savate style.”