He gave an expansive shrug. “Good, nourishing stuff, beer. But you forget, I do sell my beef cattle. They are the pride and focus of my farm, and as fine company as anyone could wish for.”
Mr. Cavendish had also alighted from the cart. “I doubt Beatrice would view it quite like that,” he said. Seeing the frown on his son’s face he went on. “I suspect she would prefer you to occupy yourself with something less … pungent.”
At this Phileas let out one of his famous bursts of laughter. It was a sudden roar of a sound, sincere and joyful. It reminded Hecate that it was not, in fact, his cattle herd or his beautiful farm that had lured them from their home. Being in his company was a tonic, though she considered it unwise to let him know just how much she valued his friendship. She was aware that his interest in her had outgrown that of family friend but she did not wish to give him false hope. The fact that he was five years her senior was not an issue for her. Nor did she consider, unlike her mother, that farming, however genteel and lucrative, was not a desirable occupation. The plain truth was, she had no desire to marry anyone. She could not imagine marrying and giving up her post at the library that she had only just obtained, and taking up the duties of a wife.
Phileas led them up the sweeping driveway that circled around the pretty gardens at the front of the house. Kynaston Farm was a medieval black-and-white timbered building of particular charm and character. It was not so big as to be uncomfortable to live in, yet large enough to provoke envy in anyone with a discerning eye for property. Its ancient timbers supported a roof of fine Welsh slate and complemented the handsome mullioned windows.
Hecate had always loved the house. Her affection for the place was also built upon the many happy hours she and her family had spent there. Phileas was renowned for being a superb if unorthodox host. His parties invariably involved games and an abundance of food and a degree of latitude when it came to etiquette that she had always found refreshing.
Today, it was not the house that was their destination but the pasture to the rear of it. They tied Peggy to a post and walked across the cobbled yard, past the towering redbrick oasthouses which stood waiting for the hop harvest, and on to the first of a series of meadows. These lush, flat fields had been carefully fenced with iron railings at no small expense. The four of them stood with the low sun at their backs, their long shadows falling before them upon the verdant turf, taller versions of themselves. With the others, Hecate scanned the field, searching for the cows, wondering how such substantial creatures could hide themselves so well.
“There!” shouted Charlie at last, pointing excitedly. “In the shade of the far oak.”
“You’ve a keen eye, Master Cavendish!” Phileas told him.
Hecate could see them, too, a cluster of dark shapes in the cool shadow of the spreading tree, some standing, swishing their tufted tails, others lying down. “They look so peaceful. It seems a shame to disturb them,” she murmured.
He looked at her. “Shall we walk to them?” he asked.
“No!” Charlie was adamant. “Whistle for them, Phileas. Please?”
“Come along, Sterling,” her father teased, “let’s have your party trick.”
“What say you, Hecate?” their host asked. It was a simple question, but the softening in his voice and the way he looked at her as he asked it spoke of other things unsaid.
She smiled brightly. “Go on. This is Charlie’s outing.”
He nodded. Taking a breath, he put his fingers in his mouth and let out a rich, two-noted whistle that carried easily over the distance before them. The cattle heard it. Some turned their heads. Others fidgeted a little. Phileas waited, showing a knack for dramatic timing. When all the cattle had risen, and most had turned to face him, he whistled once more. It was all the encouragement his stock needed. As one, the herd began to move, walking at first, their broad feet sinking a little into the soft turf with each stride. In a matter of moments, they were all traveling at speed, their combined weight shaking the ground as close to thirty full grown Hereford cows and an almost equal number of the previous year’s calves came thundering across the meadow. The herd drew closer and then suddenly, as if they were a troop of well-drilled soldiers, they wheeled right, showing unexpected agility, slowing their pace now, completing the circle to return to stand in front of their beloved owner.
He sprang over the fence and moved among them, scratching an ear here, patting a rump there. “Good afternoon to you, too, my dear ladies,” he told them, far too proud of his stock to be coy about showing his affection for them. And they did look splendid with the April sunshine setting their curly red coats ablaze, and their white faces prettily setting off their large, dark eyes. At rest again they returned to their more docile selves. “Come along, young Cavendish, step lively,” said Phileas, holding out a hand. Charlie took it and scaled the fence, puffing only a little. Hecate and her father watched as he, too, made a fuss of the cows naming each one as he did so. They took comfort in the boy’s obvious enjoyment, for how could anyone so full of life be in danger of losing it?
“Some fine beasts you’ve got there, Sterling,” Edward announced. “Not that I know much about these things. Though I have an opinion on a good piece of roast beef.”
“Father!” Charlie was horrified.
“That is the reality of rearing cattle for market, no avoiding it, I’m afraid.”
Charlie looked at Phileas. “But these aren’t going for meat, are they? Not Iris. Not Flora!”
“No, sir!” he assured him. “These ladies are my foundation stock. And their calves will go out into the world to provide the next generation of Herefords. Have I mentioned that these youngsters are all bound for America?”
Hecate nodded. “Once or twice.”
“Herefords are causing a stir over there. Imagine, my fine young cattle roaming the Great Plains…” His expression became wistful.
Edward laughed. “I swear, Sterling, you will never find a wife while your heart belongs to these blasted cows!”
Charlie piped up, “You should marry Hecate, then I can visit more often.”
“Charlie!” Hecate was infuriated to feel herself blushing. From the corner of her eye she noticed her father watching her closely. “Not everybody wants to get married,” she said, leaving them to decide if she was talking about herself or their host.
Phileas did his best to laugh off the insensitive remark. “Oh I don’t think many women would consider me a suitable husband.”
Charlie thought about it. “They may not be as keen on cows as you are,” he conceded.
“No?”
He shook his head. “They like flowers more.” A thought occurred to him. “You could show Hecate your orchard. She’d like that.”
“You think so?”
He shrugged. “She’s a girl.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Hecate did not dare speak for fear of either hurting Phileas’s feelings or encouraging her brother’s line of thought. She had the horrible sense that her father was letting the awkward pause in the conversation stretch to a breaking point in the hope Phileas would jump in and say something that might make clear his intentions toward her. In the end the moment was saved by one of the younger cows setting up an unprovoked and startling lowing, filling the air with its booming voice, causing everyone to laugh.
Phileas recovered himself enough to suggest that maybe a stroll through the orchard was a good idea anyway. He helped Charlie back over the railings and they made the short walk to the wooden gate to the left of the house. Charlie and his father went in first heading off briskly at a pace Hecate was convinced was designed to leave herself and Phileas alone together. She let him fall into step beside her, though pointedly did not take his arm.
“These apple trees blossom late, to guard against frosts,” he told her, gesturing at the rows and rows of little trees that filled the field. “So, not many flowers to see here yet, I’m afraid. But by the end of the month, well, they will put on quite a show.”
“I look forward to that,” she said.
“And cider is the coming thing, don’t you know?”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Hops will become my secondary crop. Apples will take over. I’ll have my own cider this year.” He looked as if he might have more to say on the subject but then faltered and changed his mind.
“How wonderful,” Hecate said, plucking at a tall piece of grass.
