Page 40 of The Untamed Heart

Eustacia had warned him that the boy was shy and withdrawn. His father’s infamy and violent death by hanging had left a profound effect on the lad, who now seemed afraid of his own shadow.

Marcus smiled at him. “Don’t look so horrified. You can’t know the right way if you’ve never been taught, but don’t tug at them so. If they don’t come off, they’re not quite ready. They need to be firm for storage, not soft, for they won’t keep. If they’re too ripe, we’ll take them straight to your ma for cooking or eating right away. Look, you give them a gentle twist and then lay them carefully in the basket. You must treat them like eggs, for we want to store these, and any bruise will start rot, and one bad pear will soon spoil the rest.”

Hesitantly, Neil reached for a pear and twisted it deftly from the branch.

“That’s the way,” Marcus said approvingly, and the two of them worked side-by-side until the basket was full. An ominous rumble of thunder overhead suggested their time was up.

“Time to retreat to the potting shed,” Marcus said, lifting the heavy basket. “Come along.”

Neil followed close behind, silent and attentive, and they just made it inside as the heavens opened.

Marcus set the basket down on the newly renovated workbench and turned to stand in the door. The scent of damp earth, of rain, and the sweet autumnal rot of leaves and the end of summer filled his lungs.

“Ah, that smell,” he said with a sigh of content. “It takes me back to being your age. Younger, even. I used to love rainy days, working in the potting shed with my grandfather.”

“Was your grandpa a soldier like you?”

Marcus regarded the lad with surprise, for it was the first time Neil had spoken directly to him.

“No, thank the lord. My father was, though, and a hard, unfeeling brute he was too. I’d keep clear of him and stay with my grandfather whenever I could,” Marcus said, aware of the lad’s solemn dark eyes upon him.

“Your pa weren’t a nice fellow?”

Marcus began sorting the pears, checking each one carefully for bruises or splits.

“No. He was not, but I was lucky, for I had my grandfather, who was a splendid man. Kind and gentle, but strong enough to stand up to my father. He was my mother’s father, you see, and he and my pa did not get along.”

“My pa was not a nice fellow,” Neil said, watching Marcus as he gently laid each pear that passed sorting into a wooden slatted tray lined with straw. “He… He was hanged.”

Marcus nodded, aware this was a grave confidence and his answer was important.

“Well, his life led him to that place, Neil, but yours is within your own hands. My father seemed to take pleasure in belittling me, in beating me for putting a foot wrong, for talking back to him. When I was your age, I wished to make him proud—a forlorn hope, I assure you. Yet I never wished to be like him, to be the man he was, and I’ve made sure I’m not following his path. I’ve never raised a hand to a fellow who didn’t raise his first, and if someone has something to say, I’ll listen. I’ll even admit I’m wrong if I think that’s the case. But those are the choices I made. You must decide what kind of man you wish to be and make your own choices.”

Marcus wondered if he ought to say more, but the lad seemed to consider his words in earnest, and he didn’t want to risk lecturing him.

“Here, set these down—carefully now—and give me another tray.”

Neil did as he asked and they stood together, arranging the pears as the rain hammered on the roof above them. Once all the pears had been sorted, the rain had subsided to a sullen drizzle.

“Right, do you want to learn a bit of magic?” he asked Neil, who looked at him suspiciously.

“There ain’t no such thing,” the lad replied, with all the certainty of a fifteen-year-old boy.

“That shows what you know,” Marcus retorted. “Come along.”

They went back out into the garden, where Marcus used his razor-sharp penknife to take cuttings from the rosemary and sage bushes. He showed Neil how to choose the best shoots with no flowers on and cut a section about four inches long. He hurried back to the potting shed and explained how to fill the pots with gritty soil, to strip the lower leaves, and use a dibber at the edges of the pot to make a hole into which to place the cutting.

“Now what?” Neil asked regarding the tiny plants in their neat little terracotta pots.

“Now we water them and put them in the cold frames, and we wait. You need to make sure the soil stays damp but never wet or they’ll rot. They hate having soggy bottoms.”

Neil sniggered predictably, and Marcus grinned, remembering how the old joke had always amused him too.

“Then in six, maybe eight weeks, you’ll discover you’ve created new plants from those tiny little green sticks, all for free.”

Neil grinned up at him. “Magic,” he said with a snort.

“Well, I think so,” Marcus agreed.