Rafe bid the laborers good-bye and started walking toward them. They met in the center of the field, knee deep in clover.
“Are you helping mend a fence?” Phoebe asked.
“Been working on it a few hours.” He looked over his shoulder. “Mostly finished, I think.”
“That’s good of you,” Clio said. “I’m sure Mr. Kimball appreciates the help.”
He gave a modest shrug. “I’m in training. I need the exertion.”
Oh, and did it ever look well on him. His skin was bronzed from the sun, and he wore that aura of exertion like a golden fleece, radiating health and power. She got rather lost in the dazzle for a moment or two.
“We’re going to the village,” Phoebe said. “I’m buying string.”
“I have a letter to post,” Clio added lamely.
“I’ll join you, if I may.”
So they walked into the village. Clio posted her letter. Phoebe purchased her string. Rafe was hungry from his morning’s work, and he suggested they take luncheon at the pub.
It was a simple, unfussy establishment. A dozen or so tables, a small bar. The day’s meal choices—all two of them—were chalked on a slate. The pub was crowded with customers, and as they entered, everyone in the place turned to gawk.
Clio nodded and smiled, noticing a few familiar faces. She’d made her best efforts to visit the homes of her tenants and become acquainted with the local merchants.
But it wasn’t her appearance that had the caught their fascination—it was Rafe’s. His reputation sailed ahead of them, cutting through the room and leaving quite a wake.
As they moved through the pub, she could hear the whispers.
“That’s Rafe Brandon, isn’t it?”
“The Devil’s Own. I’d heard he was here on holiday.”
“I saw him fight once, you know. At Brighton. He did an exhibition for the regiment just before we shipped to the Peninsula.”
If Rafe heard the gossip, he didn’t acknowledge it. He guided Clio and Phoebe to the last free table in the pub, one tucked in a corner behind a group of men playing cards. When the tavern girl came, he ordered shepherd’s pie for the ladies, and a ploughman’s luncheon of cheese, sliced ham, and buttered bread for himself.
While they waited for their meal, Phoebe pulled out a length of string, cut it off with her teeth, knotted the ends, and began to weave string figures.
“I’ve been working on something new, but I can’t get it right.” She shook her head, frustrated. Then she slipped the string loose and began over again. “Perhaps this through that loop . . . There. Lord Rafe, do you see that bit of string in the middle? Third one down. Pinch it tight, please.”
He did as Phoebe asked, and she pulled her hands downward, widening her fingers to reveal a web of string in the shape of a castle. The bit of string Rafe held had become a soaring spire in the middle, and there were turrets on either side.
“Oh, well done.” Clio applauded.
Rafe whistled in appreciation. “That’s the best yet.”
“It’s a useless accomplishment,” Phoebe said, letting the string drop. “I don’t suppose I can stand up and make string figures when I have my debut.”
“Speaking as someone who attended a few debuts,” Rafe said, “I’d far rather watch a girl make string figures than endure another unfortunate performance at the pianoforte.”
Phoebe looked to Clio. “What did you exhibit at your come-out ball?”
“I played the pianoforte.” Clio gave a wry smile. “Most unfortunately. But Rafe was spared the pain of listening since he didn’t attend.”
He took a draught of ale.
Perhaps she shouldn’t poke at him for it, but his absence had hurt. In childhood, Rafe had always teased her, but she’d thought they were friends, of a sort. And then he’d abandoned her, on the one night when she needed a friend the most.
“It’s just a shame that we can’t preserve the figures somehow,” Clio said. “I wish I could hang them on the wall for everyone to see.”