Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,31
Justin,” he murmured, gently kneading the cat along its spine to the base of its tail.
The child approached with his small hand outstretched.
“Softly,” Sebastian cautioned. “Smooth her fur the same way it grows.”
Justin stroked the cat carefully, his eyes growing round as her purring grew even louder. “How does she make that sound?”
“No one has yet found a satisfactory explanation,” Sebastian replied. “Personally, I hope they never do.”
“Why, Gramps?”
Sebastian smiled into the small face so close to his. “Sometimes the mystery is more delightful than the answer.”
As the group continued to the farm buildings, the cat followed.
The mixed odors of the stockyards hung thick in the air, the sweetness of straw, stored grain and sawdust mingling with the smells of animals, manure, sweat, and lather. There was the acrid bite of carbolic soap, whiffs of fresh paint and turpentine, the dust richness of a granary, the earthy mustiness of a root house. Instead of the usual haphazard scattering of farm structures, the barns and sheds had been laid out in the shape of an E.
As Mr. Ravenel led them past barns, workshops, and sheds, a group of workers and stockmen approached him freely. The men snatched off their caps respectfully as they greeted Mr. Ravenel, but even so, their manner was more familiar than it would have been with the master of the estate. They conferred with him easily, grins appearing as they joked back and forth. Phoebe was close enough to hear a comment about the wedding, followed by an impudent question about whether Mr. Ravenel had found a lady willing to “buckle to” him.
“Do you think I’d find the makings of a good farm wife in that crowd?” Mr. Ravenel retorted, causing a round of chuckles.
“My daughter Agatha’s a big, strong-docked girl,” a huge man wearing a leather apron volunteered.
“She’d be a prize for any man,” Mr. Ravenel replied. “But you’re a blacksmith, Stub. I couldn’t have you as a father-in-law.”
“Too grand for me, are you?” the blacksmith asked good-naturedly.
“No, it’s only that you’re twice my size. The first time she ran home to you, you’d come after me with hammer and tongs.” Hearty laughter rumbled through the group. “Lads,” Mr. Ravenel continued, “we’re in fine company today. This gentleman is His Grace, the Duke of Kingston. He’s accompanied by his daughter, Lady Clare, and his grandson, Master Justin.” Turning to Sebastian, he said, “Your Grace, we go by nicknames here. Allow me to introduce Neddy, Brick-end, Rollaboy, Stub, Slippy, and Chummy.”
Sebastian bowed, the morning light striking glitters of gold and silver in his hair. Although his manner was relaxed and amiable, his presence was formidable nonetheless. Thunderstruck by the presence of a duke in the barnyard, the group mumbled greetings, bobbed a few bows, and gripped their caps more tightly. At a nudge from his grandfather, Justin lifted his cap and bowed to the cluster of men. Taking the boy with him, Sebastian went to speak to each man.
After years of experience running the club on St. James, Sebastian could talk easily with anyone from royalty down to the most hardened street criminal. Soon he had the men smiling and volunteering information about their work at Eversby Priory.
“Your father has a common touch,” came Mr. Ravenel’s quiet voice near her ear. He watched Sebastian with a mix of interest and admiration. “One doesn’t usually see that in a man of his position.”
“He’s always mocked the notion that vice runs more rampant among commoners than nobility,” Phoebe said. “In fact, he says the opposite is usually true.”
Mr. Ravenel looked amused. “He could be right. Although I’ve seen a fair share of vice among both.”
In a moment, Mr. Ravenel drew Phoebe, Sebastian, and Justin with him to the engine barn, which had been divided into a series of machine rooms. It was cool and dank inside, with narrow spills of sun coming from high windows. There were scents of dry stoker coal, wood shavings, and new pine boards, and the sharp notes of machine oil, tallow grease, and metal polish.
Complex machines filled the quiet space, all massive gears and wheels, with innards of tanks and cylinders. She craned her neck to look up at a contraption equipped with extensions that reached two stories in height.
Mr. Ravenel laughed quietly at her apprehensive expression. “This is a steam-powered thresher,” he said. “It would take a dozen men and women an entire day to do what this machine does in one hour. Come closer—it won’t bite.”