“It’s only been a few hours.” Almost nine, truth to tell. Brooke scratched her temple. “Perhaps the ladies need a little more time to recover.” If they recovered. “The calves are strong, aren’t they?” Please, God, they must be. She held her breath, anticipating Mabry’s response.
His countenance lightened and the merry sparkle returned to his eyes. “Aye, the mites are fine. Feedin’ like they’re hollow to their wee hooves.”
Tension lessoned its ruthless grip, and hope peeked from beneath her vast mound of worries.
Six calves had been guaranteed in trade to her neighbor and fellow dairy farmer, Silas Huffington, for the grain and medicines he’d provided to see Esherton Green’s herd through last winter. Brooke didn’t have the means to pay him if the calves didn’t survive—though the old reprobate had hinted he’d make her a deal of a much less respectable nature if she ran short of cattle with which to barter. Each pence she’d stashed away—groat by miserable groat, these past four years—lay in the hidden drawer of Papa’s desk and must go to purchase a bull.
Wisdom had decreed replacing Old Buford two years ago but, short on funds, she’d waited until it was too late. His heart had stopped while he performed the duties expected of a breeding bull. Not the worst way to cock up one’s toes...er, hooves, but she’d counted on him siring at least two-score calves this season and wagered everything on the calving this year and next. The poor brute had expired before he’d completed the job.
Her thoughts careened around inside her skull. Without a bull, she would lose everything.
My home, care of my sister and cousins, my reasons for existing.
She squared her shoulders, resolution strengthening her. She still retained the Culpepper sapphire parure set. If all else failed, she would pawn the jewelry. She’d planned on using the money from the gems’ sale to bestow small marriage settlements on the girls. Still, pawning the set was a price worth paying to keep her family at Esherton Green, even if it meant that any chance of her sister and three cousins securing a decent match would evaporate faster than a dab of milk on a hot cookstove. Good standing and breeding meant little if one’s fortune proved meaner than a churchyard beggar’s.
“How’s the big bull calf that came breech on Sunday?” Brooke tossed the question over her shoulder as she poked the fire and encouraged the blaze to burn hotter. After setting the tool aside, she faced the overseer.
“Greediest of the lot.” Mabry laughed and slapped his thigh. “Quite the appetite he has, and friendly as our Freddy there. Likes his ears scratched too.”
Brooke chuckled and ran her hand across Freddy’s spine. The dog wiggled in excitement and stuck his rear legs straight out behind him, gazing at her in adoration. In his youth, he’d been an excellent cattle herder. Now he’d gone fat and arthritic, his sweet face gray to his eyebrows. On occasion, he still dashed after the cattle, the instinctive drive to herd deep in the marrow of his bones.
Another shudder shook her. Why was she so blasted cold today? She relented and placed a good-sized log atop the others. The feeble flames hissed and spat before greedily engulfing the new addition. Lord, she prayed she wasn’t ailing. She simply couldn’t afford to become ill.
A scratching at the door barely preceded the entrance of Duffen bearing a tea service. “Gotten to where a man cannot find a quiet corner to shut his eyes for a blink or two anymore.”
Shuffling into the room, he yawned and revealed how few teeth remained in his mouth. One sock sagged around his ankle, his grizzled hair poked every which way, and his shirttail hung askew. Typical Duffen.
“Devil’s day, it is.” He scowled in the window’s direction, his mouth pressed into a grim line. “Mark my words, trouble’s afoot.”
Not quite a butler, but certainly more than a simple retainer, the man, now hunched from age, had been a fixture at Esherton Green Brooke’s entire life. He loved the place as much as, if not more than, she, and she couldn’t afford to hire a servant to replace him. A light purse had forced Brooke to let the household staff go when Papa died. The cook, Mrs. Jennings, Duffen, and Flora, a maid-of-all-work, had stayed on. However, they received no salaries—only room and board.
The income from the dairy scarcely permitted Brooke to retain a few milkmaids and stable hands, yet not once had she heard a whispered complaint from anyone.
Everybody, including Brooke, her sister, Brette, and their cousins—Blythe, and the twins, Blaike and Blaire—did their part to keep the farm operating at a profit. A meager profit, particularly as, for the past five years, Esherton Green’s legal heir, Sheridan Gainsborough, had received half the proceeds. In return, he permitted Brooke and the girls to reside there. He’d also been appointed their guardian. But, from his silence and failure to visit the farm, he seemed perfectly content to let her carry on as provider and caretaker.
“Ridiculous law. Only the next male in line can inherit,” she muttered.
Especially when he proved a disinterested bore. Papa had thought so too, but the choice hadn’t been his to make. If only she could keep the funds she sent to Sheridan each quarter, Brooke could make something of Esherton and secure her sister and cousins’ futures too.
If wishes were gold pieces, I’d be rich indeed.
Brooke sneezed then sneezed again. Dash it all. A cold?
The fresh log snapped loudly, and Brooke started. The blaze’s heat had failed to warm her opinion of her second cousin. She hadn’t met him and lacked a personal notion of his character, but Papa had hinted that Sheridan was a scallywag and possessed unsavory habits.
A greedy sot, too.
The one time her quarterly remittance had been late, because Brooke had taken a tumble and broken her arm, he’d written a disagreeable letter demanding his money.
His money, indeed.
Sheridan had threatened to sell Esherton Green’s acreage and turn her and the foursome onto the street if she ever delayed payment again.
A ruckus beyond the entrance announced the girls’ arrival. Laughing and chatting, the blond quartet billowed into the room. Their gowns, several seasons out of fashion, in no way detracted from their charm, and pride swelled in Brooke’s heart. Lovely, both in countenance and disposition, and the dears worked hard too.
“Duffen says we’re to have tea in here today.” Attired in a Pomona green gown too short for her tall frame, Blaike plopped on to the sofa. Her twin, Blaire, wearing a similar dress in dark rose and equally inadequate in length, flopped beside her.
Each girl scooped a drowsy cat into her lap. The cats’ wiry whiskers twitched, and they blinked their sleepy amber eyes a few times before closing them once more as the low rumble of contented purrs filled the room.
“Yes, I didn’t think we needed to light a fire in the drawing room when this one will suffice.” As things stood, too little coal and seasoned firewood remained to see them comfortably until summer.