Lord Iverbrook's Heir Read Online Free PDF Page A

bailiff who can supervise the men. But I prefer to manage my own farm, and I could never be satisfied with a life of novels and gossip and embroidery, like Clive’s mama.”
    “There is nothing wrong with novels,” said Delia defensively.
    “Well, before you begin the one I saw Jane passing to you in church yesterday, give these bills to Mrs. Tooting, if you please, since Mama has forgotten them. And you had best warn her of Lord Iverbrook’s visit. I suppose it is but common courtesy to invite him to dine, though if he has but common courtesy he will decline.”
    Leaving her sister gazing out of the window, apparently engaged in a daydream about the coming noble guest, Selena set out for the Forty-Acre Field.
    It was still early when she and her groom rode down the lane. The breeze was cool on her face, but the threatening clouds had blown over and the bright sun made dewdrops twinkle on spiderwebs in the hedgerow.
    “It’s going to be hot later,” she said.
    “Yes’m. Good harvest weather.” Young Jem, the groom, had but recently advanced to that exalted position. He now took care of the ladies’ riding and carriage horses, leaving to mere stableboys the great, patient Shire horses that did the farm work. "Take care, Miss Selena, Orion’s a bit resty this morning.”
    Selena curbed her black gelding as he danced skittishly sideways, and stroked his neck soothingly. As they drew level with a five-barred gate, she brought him to a halt and looked across a field towards the river. The Thames glinted through a tangle of willows; the pasture was overgrown with meadowsweet, its scent hanging heavy in the air. Selena sneezed.
    "One day!” she muttered in frustration, and urged Orion onward.
    A couple of hours earlier, at first light, she had sent a message to John Peabody, and he had gathered some two score harvesters who now awaited her at the Forty-Acre Field. Most were local villagers, glad of a chance to supplement their meagre incomes. A dozen or so were gypsies, swarthy folk whose encampment south of the village had been making the inhabitants of Kings Milford uneasy for days. Jem grunted disapprovingly and urged his cob protectively closer to his mistress’s side.
    After a brief consultation, the harvesters were stationed along one side of the field. Selena took a scythe, tested it against her thumb, and with a graceful swing cut the first swathe of corn. It fell neatly, ready to be sheafed. A cheer went up and she flushed with pride. There was a trick to it, and she had been practising for a week on the long grass in the paddock.
    The reapers started across the field. Pale golden barley, scarlet poppies, sky-blue cornflowers, all fell before them, and behind them stooped the binders, boys and women, tying the sheaves with wisps of straw.
    Gradually the line of figures spread out. Old John and Selena marked where slow scythers kept their followers waiting, and where stragglers laboured far behind. At the noon break the teams must be rearranged, and fast workers given the longer or more awkward rows. John knew what must be done, but without Selena's authority behind him there would be argument, bad feelings, and time wasted.
    Selena sneezed again, as the breeze brought a swirl of dust and pollen. It was going to be a long day.
    * * * *
    Under the blazing midday sun, a curricle drove slowly down the deserted village street. Lord Iverbrook reined his sweating team to a halt before the inn. Though a faded sign over the door proclaimed the Cross and Gaiters, it was scarcely more than a hedge-tavern. No eager ostler ran out to enquire as to how he might serve the travellers; even mine host seemed uninterested in his aristocratic guest.
    Iverbrook removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a damp and crumpled handkerchief.
    “Go ask the way to Milford Manor, Tom,” he ordered, “and bring some ale back with you, if this godforsaken place can produce such a thing.”
    While his servant trudged into the silent inn,