Page 17 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle

‘I’ll sit with you, my lady,’ Dory said. She looked at Uncle Sebastian. ‘Mrs Webster did ought to be told, though, just in case.’

‘I’ll do that,’ he said, ‘And we’ll have the doctor. Better safe than sorry.’ With one more concerned look at Kitty, he went out.

Dory smiled at Kitty. ‘There, he’s gone. Men always get in a fuss when it’s anything to do with babies. Now, you’re sure you’ve no pain? Good, then a little rest, and I expect you’ll be fine again. What was it tripped you, my lady? Oh, yes, I see it. That’s a bad place to have a hole, right by the door. I’ll get that mended right away.’

‘I don’t know if Lady Stainton would want it mended,’ Kitty said dolefully. ‘She doesn’t like anything to be changed.’

Dory gave her a sympathetic look. ‘She won’t even notice, I promise you. New things perhaps, but not old things that are just a bit less worn and torn.’

That made Kitty think, which was a good thing as it stopped her worrying about the baby. And as she rested and watched Dory working on her mending, she started to devise a plan.

The fresh and breezy day was perfect for riding. Giles was on Vipsania, his new road horse; Richard was riding one-handed on steady old Trooper, his other hand tucked in between his buttons to rest his damaged shoulder. The London sawbones had said it would probably never be quite right after he broke it in a motor-car smash. Adeane, the bailiff, was in the pony trap, pulled by dun Biscuit, and Tiger and Isaac ranged about to either side of the track.

They passed Gale’s Cottage, the garden trim with growing shoots of vegetables, and Richard waved to Mrs Gale, taking advantage of the breeze to hang out washing. Beyond Gale’s the verge and ditch that should have bordered the road gradually disappeared under a tangle of blackberry and hemlock, and some thrusting, upright pale green plants Richard did not recognise. Beyond, the gentle slope of the field was covered with bracken, into which the lurchers plunged excitedly and disappeared.

Richard thought the bracken looked rather handsome, bending like a green sea in the breeze, and it was fun to see the movement the dogs made through it – it made him think of sinister sea creatures waiting to break the surface.

But Adeane turned his head back to say, ‘This is Bunce’s Six Acre. Ought by rights to be cleared, my lord. Bracken is poisonous to cattle, as you know.’

‘Does Bunce put his cattle in here?’ Richard said. ‘Surely not.’

‘No, sir, but his hedges are in such poor heart, they could break out and find their way here easy enough. And he’s let the rest of his fields tumble down into rough pasture.’

‘The more I learn about farming, the more I wonder why anybody tries it,’ Richard said. ‘I always thought you just pushed an animal into a nice green space and waited for it to make milk or bacon or mutton cutlets. Now I learn all this lovely greenery is useless.’

‘Not just useless, but dangerous,’ Giles said. ‘And thistle and ragwort and yew—’

‘And buttercups, for goodness’ sake!’ Richard interrupted. ‘Pretty little buttercups that I used to tease the girls with. Who could suspect them of villainy?’

‘What we need,’ Adeane said stolidly, ‘is a programme of draining, harrowing and reseeding to get the pastures up to scratch.’ He looked at Giles. ‘Improve the grazing and you improve the stock.’

The dogs rejoined them, bursting out of a low gap in the hedge.

‘We are what we eat,’ Giles said.

‘Was Hippocrates a farmer?’ Richard asked.

‘Virgil was,’ Giles replied.

Adeane looked puzzled. ‘Is that Virgil Smithson you’re referring to, my lord? He’s got a smallholding over Asham Bois way, but I wouldn’t call him a farmer. Two pigs, four cows and a dozen chickens, last time I heard.’

‘Different Virgil,’ Richard said, suppressing laughter. ‘Don’t worry about it. Ah, is this the man himself, by any chance? I’ve never met the chap, but if anyone ever looked like a Bunce, this is he.’

A bone-thin man, trousers held up by baling-string, threadbare jacket, cap pulled down hard over his head, and an unshaven, weatherbeaten face, was standing hunched, hands in pockets, staring moodily over a gate at the cows in the field beyond. He turned his head at their approach. A long-legged brown dog appeared from somewhere near his feet and ran towards Tiger and Isaac, and there was a tense, erect-tailed meeting in the middle of the track.

‘Gerroff, dog!’ the man growled, and the brown cur ran back to circle him, followed by the lurchers, who inspected the farmer’s boots and trousers with unembarrassed interest.

‘Now then, Bunce,’ said Adeane, checking the pony. ‘Here’s his lordship come to see how you’re getting on.’

Bunce removed his hands from his pockets and, after a moment’s thought, his cap from his head, but he looked at Giles without welcome. ‘Badly, how else d’ye think?’ he muttered. The lurchers were inviting the brown dog to a lovely game, but Bunce growled at it again, and it slunk back to his side.

The men gathered at the gate and surveyed the cattle. They were ordinary, undistinguished brown cows, but on the bony side, a couple so elderly their udders were pendulous and brushing the grass. ‘Don’t you have twelve head?’ Adeane asked, having counted.

‘Clover’s in the cowshed, with garget,’ Bunce said resentfully.

‘I know that one,’ said Richard. ‘Inflammation of the udder, isn’t it? Lord, the names you country people have for ailments!’ he added aside.

‘Thass right,’ Bunce grunted. ‘She’s allus been susceptible to it.’