“Better this way,” Rafe said. “On the wall, it would just be string. Phoebe is what makes it special.”
His praise didn’t seem to have much effect on Phoebe, but it caught Clio by surprise. A tender spot throbbed in her heart. Like a toothache, only somewhat lower down.
He had so many decent qualities. Why did he insist on maintaining such a reputation for devilry? She supposed it must do with his career. “The Dog-Coddling Demon” or “The Fierce Fence-Mender” probably wouldn’t draw many spectators to a fight.
The serving girl brought their food from the kitchen. Phoebe ate quickly, then picked up her string and turned her chair to watch the men playing cards. Clio poked at her serving of pie.
Rafe moved closer to Clio’s corner, where they could speak in relative privacy. “Mr. Kimball was telling me about your land agent and his meeting with the farmers. He shared your ideas for the hopfields and brewery.”
“Oh?”
“He’s not convinced. Neither am I.”
“Why not? Hopfields might require an initial investment, but the farmers will have a ready market for their harvest.”
“Assuming the crop doesn’t fail.” He pushed a wedge of cheese into his mouth.
Clio tried not to stare, but she was quietly fascinated by the unapologetic, masculine manner with which he ate. He didn’t pay any special attention to etiquette. He didn’t make a show of flouting it, either. He just . . . ate.
She found this appealing in a strange, visceral way.
Perhaps she envied him.
“We’ll be keeping coopers, cartwrights, and woodmen furnished with custom,” she said, taking a dainty bite of her own food. “The brewery itself will employ dozens. It’s good for the entire parish. The plans are sound.”
“Be that as it may,” he said, scratching the light growth of whiskers he hadn’t shaved. “Starting a brewery requires a tremendous investment. Hops are a delicate crop. You could lose your entire dowry, and the castle with it. Where will the farmers and coopers be then?”
“I know there’s risk. But it’s not as though I’m chasing some fickle fashion.” She nodded at the crowded pub. “Englishmen aren’t going to cease drinking beer anytime soon.”
“But you’re not an Englishman. You’re an unmarried gentlewoman with no experience in agriculture or trade.”
“Of course I lack experience. Where would I have acquired it? At finishing school?” She poked at a chunk of beef. “It’s so unfair. Women are allowed to do one-tenth of what men may do, and yet we are scrutinized for it ten times as closely. If I’m going to be found wanting, at least this time it will be different. I would rather be judged for my failures at estate management than for my failures at the pianoforte. It might be a rough start, but I have the funds and determination to make it a success. I’ll be the first to admit there’s much I don’t know. But I’m willing and able to learn.”
When she looked up, Rafe wasn’t at the table. She looked on as he walked to the bar and returned with three pewter tankards, brimming with beer.
“Brown ale,” he said, pushing the first tankard toward her. “Bitter. Porter.”
“All three? You’re very thirsty from your work.”
“They’re for you,” he said. “You said you were willing and able to learn. Let’s see you prove it.”
Ah, so he meant to give her a lesson. That was rather sweet. Ridiculous and unnecessary, but sweet.
Conscious of people watching them, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Thank you. But I know. I would not propose to open a brewery without first understanding brown ale, bitter, and porter.”
“Then let’s see if you can tell the difference.” He slid the tankards around on the tabletop, jumbling them like walnut shells with a pea underneath. “Taste, and tell me which is which.”