Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(28)

“Do you think I’d find the makings of a good farm wife in that crowd?” Mr. Ravenel retorted, causing a round of chuckles.

“My daughter Agatha’s a big, strong-docked girl,” a huge man wearing a leather apron volunteered.

“She’d be a prize for any man,” Mr. Ravenel replied. “But you’re a blacksmith, Stub. I couldn’t have you as a father-in-law.”

“Too grand for me, are you?” the blacksmith asked good-naturedly.

“No, it’s only that you’re twice my size. The first time she ran home to you, you’d come after me with hammer and tongs.” Hearty laughter rumbled through the group. “Lads,” Mr. Ravenel continued, “we’re in fine company today. This gentleman is His Grace, the Duke of Kingston. He’s accompanied by his daughter, Lady Clare, and his grandson, Master Justin.” Turning to Sebastian, he said, “Your Grace, we go by nicknames here. Allow me to introduce Neddy, Brick-end, Rollaboy, Stub, Slippy, and Chummy.”

Sebastian bowed, the morning light striking glitters of gold and silver in his hair. Although his manner was relaxed and amiable, his presence was formidable nonetheless. Thunderstruck by the presence of a duke in the barnyard, the group mumbled greetings, bobbed a few bows, and gripped their caps more tightly. At a nudge from his grandfather, Justin lifted his cap and bowed to the cluster of men. Taking the boy with him, Sebastian went to speak to each man.

After years of experience running the club on St. James, Sebastian could talk easily with anyone from royalty down to the most hardened street criminal. Soon he had the men smiling and volunteering information about their work at Eversby Priory.

“Your father has a common touch,” came Mr. Ravenel’s quiet voice near her ear. He watched Sebastian with a mix of interest and admiration. “One doesn’t usually see that in a man of his position.”

“He’s always mocked the notion that vice runs more rampant among commoners than nobility,” Phoebe said. “In fact, he says the opposite is usually true.”

Mr. Ravenel looked amused. “He could be right. Although I’ve seen a fair share of vice among both.”

In a moment, Mr. Ravenel drew Phoebe, Sebastian, and Justin with him to the engine barn, which had been divided into a series of machine rooms. It was cool and dank inside, with narrow spills of sun coming from high windows. There were scents of dry stoker coal, wood shavings, and new pine boards, and the sharp notes of machine oil, tallow grease, and metal polish.

Complex machines filled the quiet space, all massive gears and wheels, with innards of tanks and cylinders. She craned her neck to look up at a contraption equipped with extensions that reached two stories in height.

Mr. Ravenel laughed quietly at her apprehensive expression. “This is a steam-powered thresher,” he said. “It would take a dozen men and women an entire day to do what this machine does in one hour. Come closer—it won’t bite.”

Phoebe obeyed cautiously, coming to stand next to him. She felt a brief pressure on her lower back, the reassuring touch of his hand, and her heartbeat quickened in response,

Justin had crept closer as well, staring at the enormous thresher with awe. Mr. Ravenel smiled, reached down, and hoisted Justin high enough to see. To Phoebe’s surprise, her son instantly curved a small arm around the man’s neck. “They load the sheaves in there,” Mr. Ravenel explained, walking to the rear of the machine and pointing to a huge horizontal cylinder. “Inside, a set of beaters separates grain from straw. Then the straw is carried up that conveyor and delivered onto a cart or stack. The corn falls through a series of screens and blowers and pours out from there”—he pointed to a spout—“all ready for market.”

Still holding Justin, Mr. Ravenel walked to a machine next to the thresher, a large engine with a boiler, smokebox and cylinders, all affixed to a carriage foundation on wheels. “This traction engine tows the thresher and gives it power.”

Sebastian came to examine the traction engine more closely, running a thumb lightly over the riveted seams of the metal shell around the boiler. “Consolidated Locomotive,” he murmured, reading the manufacturer’s mark. “I happen to be acquainted with the owner.”

“It’s a well-made engine,” Mr. Ravenel said, “but you might tell him that his siphon lubricators are rubbish. We keep having to replace them.”

“You could tell him yourself. He’s one of your wedding guests.”

Mr. Ravenel grinned at him. “I know. But I’m damned if I’ll insult one of Simon Hunt’s traction engines to his face. It would ruin any chance of getting a discount in the future.”

Sebastian laughed—one of the full, unguarded laughs he permitted himself when in the company of family or the closest of friends. There was no doubt about it—he liked the audacious young man, who clearly didn’t fear him in the least.

Phoebe frowned at the use of a curse word in front of Justin, but she held her tongue.

“How does the engine know where to go?” Justin was asking Mr. Ravenel.

“A man sits up there on that seat board and pushes the steering post.”

“The long stick with the handle?”

“Yes, that one.”

They squatted to look at the gearing leading to the wheels, their two dark heads close together. Justin seemed fascinated by the machine, but even more so by the man who was explaining it to him.