The day was warming fast, the air weighted with the sweetness of clover and grass and pasture scents. A dunnock fluted notes from its perch in an ancient hedge, while robins called from the treetops.
Her father and Justin had already gone far ahead, veering off the path to investigate the row of four glasshouses beyond the formal gardens. In the distance, a set of farm buildings loomed over rows of stockyards and sheds.
Phoebe tried to think of what a businesswoman might ask. “Your approach to land management . . . the modern methods, the machinery . . . Edward Larson told me it was called ‘high farming.’ He says it stands for high expenses and high risk, and some of the landowners who’ve tried it have been ruined.”
“Many have been,” Mr. Ravenel surprised her by admitting. “Mostly because they took foolish risks or made improvements that didn’t need to be made. But that’s not what high farming is about. It’s about scientific methods and common sense.”
“Mr. Larson says the tried-and-true traditions are all a gentleman farmer needs to know. He says science should be kept apart from nature.”
Mr. Ravenel stopped in his tracks, obliging Phoebe to turn and face him. His lips parted as if he were about to say something blistering, then closed, and opened again. Eventually he asked, “May I speak plainly, or do I have to be polite?”
“I prefer politeness.”
“All right. Your estate is being managed by a damned idiot.”
“That’s the polite version?” Phoebe asked, mildly startled.
“To begin with, science isn’t something separate from nature. Science is how nature works. Second, a ‘gentleman farmer’ isn’t a farmer. If you have to preface your occupation with ‘gentleman,’ it’s a hobby. Third—”
“You know nothing about Edward,” Phoebe protested.
“I know his kind. He’d rather choose extinction than keep pace with progress. He’ll drag your estate into ruin, just so he doesn’t have to learn new ways of doing things.”
“Newer isn’t always better.”
“Neither is older. If doing things the primitive way is so bloody marvelous, why allow the tenants to use a horse-drawn plow? Let’s have them scatter the seeds across the field by hand.”
“Edward Larson isn’t against progress. He only questions whether a mechanical reaper polluting the fields is better than the wholesome work done by good, strong men with scythes.”
“Do you know who would ask that question?—a man who’s never gone out to a cornfield with a scythe.”
“No doubt you have,” Phoebe said tartly.
“As a matter of fact, I have. It’s brutal work. A scythe is weighted to create extra momentum as it cuts through the thicker stalks. You have to twist your torso in a constant motion that makes your sides burn. Every thirty yards, you have to stop to hammer nicks out of the blade and hone it sharp again. I went out with the men one morning, and I lasted less than a day. By noon, every muscle was on fire, and my hands were too blistered and bloody to grip the handle.” Mr. Ravenel paused, looking irate. “The best scythe-man can cut one acre of corn in a day. A mechanical reaper will cut twelve acres in the same amount of time. Did Larson happen to mention that while rhapsodizing about field labor?”
“He did not,” Phoebe admitted, feeling simultaneously annoyed with herself, Edward, and the man in front of her.
From a distance, she heard her father’s lazy voice: “Arguing already? We haven’t even reached the barn.”
“No, Father,” Phoebe called back. “It’s only that Mr. Ravenel is rather passionate on the subject of scything.”
“Mama,” Justin exclaimed, “come see what we found!”
“One moment, darling.” Phoebe stared up at Mr. Ravenel with narrowed eyes. He was standing too close to her, his head and shoulders blocking the sunlight. “You should know that looming over me like that doesn’t intimidate me,” she said curtly. “I grew up with two very large brothers.”
He relaxed his posture instantly, hooking his thumbs in his trouser pockets. “I’m not trying to intimidate you. I’m taller. I can’t help that.”
Hogwash, Phoebe thought. He knew quite well he’d been standing over her. But she was secretly amused by the sight of him trying so hard not to appear overbearing. “Don’t think I couldn’t cut you down to size,” she warned.
He gave her an innocent glance. “Just as long as you do it by hand.”
The smart-aleck remark surprised a laugh from her. Insolent rascal.
West Ravenel smiled slightly, his gaze holding hers, and for a moment her throat tingled sweetly at the back, as if she’d just swallowed a spoonful of cool honey.
By tacit agreement, they resumed walking. They caught up to Sebastian and Justin, who had stopped to watch a young cat wandering along the side of the path.
Justin’s small form was very still with excitement, his attention riveted on the black feline. “Look, Mama!”
Phoebe glanced at Mr. Ravenel. “Is she feral?”
“No, but she’s undomesticated. We keep a few barn cats to reduce the rodent and insect population.”
“Can I pet her?” Justin asked.
“You could try,” Mr. Ravenel said, “but she won’t come close enough. Barn cats prefer to keep their distance from people.” His brows lifted as the small black cat made her way to Sebastian and curled around his leg, arching and purring. “With the apparent exception of dukes. My God, she’s a snob.”
Sebastian lowered to his haunches. “Come here, Justin,” he murmured, gently kneading the cat along its spine to the base of its tail.
The child approached with his small hand outstretched.
“Softly,” Sebastian cautioned. “Smooth her fur the same way it grows.”
Justin stroked the cat carefully, his eyes growing round as her purring grew even louder. “How does she make that sound?”
“No one has yet found a satisfactory explanation,” Sebastian replied. “Personally, I hope they never do.”
“Why, Gramps?”
Sebastian smiled into the small face so close to his. “Sometimes the mystery is more delightful than the answer.”