Page 45 of An Alleged Rogue

The three varieties of apple were essential to the unique cider blend Adam and Henry had perfected. Each type of apple benefited from time on the ground in tumps, where the warmth of the sun above the layer of straw caused the fruit to lose some of its moisture and created a more sugary, concentrated juice. The trick was determining which apples to harvest first so they had the correct balance of fruit when the time came to start milling.

“Very good, m’ lord.”

Henry pitched another forkful of straw over the apples, and Adam glanced at his pocket watch. On Saturday when he’d been in Mr. Hadford’s study, the gentleman had suggested visiting Dunsbourne Manor today. Adam had yet to see him, and it was three o’clock already. It was possible the gentleman had changed his mind. If Miss Hadford had told her father that Adam had abandoned her at the edge of the ballroom, it was likely he would want nothing more to do with him. Of course, that was nothing when compared to the other crimes Adam was accused of committing. Adam’s stomach clenched. Mr. Hadford’s relatively new arrival in the neighborhood must have prevented him from hearing the rumors before now, but seeing as his daughter was obviously aware of them, it was only a matter of time.

Had the tears he thought he’d seen in Miss Hadford’s eyes been contrived, or did she pity him that much? Either of those possibilities left him feeling ill. He wanted to believe she had more personal integrity than to feign distress, but he had no desire for her pity either. He would push forward alone, as he had before, because the only way to fully clear his name was to sully his father’s—and that was not something he was willing to do.

Leaving the ball early had probably not been the most politic course of action, but if Society held him in such low esteem, few would care. Some might even be relieved. If he were honest with himself, he could admit that part of him—a tiny portion that resided deep within his heart—hoped Miss Hadford was sorry that he left when he did. But his practical side knew better. If she was sorry, it was merely because he had taken Emily with him.

“Begging you pardon, my lord.”

Startled out of his musing, Adam swung around. His butler stood a few yards away, his grave face and dark uniform mottled by the sunlight filtering through the leaves of the apple trees. The sight was so wholly abnormal, Adam’s first thought was that something was terribly wrong at the house.

“What is it, Thompson?”

“Mr. Hadford is here to see you, my lord.”

He had come. And Adam was fully unprepared. “Where is he now?”

Someone else stepped out from the shadows of the trees. “I hope you don’t mind, Dunsbourne,” Mr. Hadford said. “It did not seem worth having you walk all the way back to the house to greet me since the orchard was my ultimate destination.”

“Not at all. I am most glad that you are come.” Relief that the gentleman still sought his association vied with embarrassment that he would be forced to entertain yet another member of the Hadford family in his work attire. “I apologize that I was not at the house when you arrived.”

“My fault entirely,” Mr. Hadford said. “I neglected to set a time with you.” He raised an eyebrow. “We did agree to Wednesday, did we not?”

“We did indeed. And you have come at the perfect hour. Henry and I have just finished building our third tump.”

“Well now.” Mr. Hadford stepped closer to view the mound of straw-covered apples more clearly. “I see that you shall have to educate me on the particulars of harvesting apples. I am unfamiliar with this practice.”

“It has been astonishing to discover how much skill is involved in cider making,” Adam said. “Henry, here, is my gardener, but underneath that weather-worn exterior, he is actually a first-class scientist.”

Henry gave a throaty chuckle. He set the pitchfork on top of the barrow and scratched his grizzled head. “Can’t say I’ve ever been called that afore.”

“Tell Mr. Hadford what we are about here, Henry,” Adam said. “I am quite sure he will agree with me by the time you are finished.”

Henry shifted uncomfortably. “Where would you have me start, m’ lord?”

“At the very beginning,” Mr. Hadford said, answering for Adam. “I confess, science was never my strong suit. You will have to explain it all—from the variety of apples you grow to what you do with them.”

“Very well, sir.” Henry pointed to the nearest tree. “This ’ere is a King of the Pippins. We have Blenheim Oranges over there.” He pointed to his right. “An’ closest to the river, there’s the Genet Moyles.”

With a knowing smile, Adam watched Henry’s reticence evaporate as the gardener shared the distinctive qualities of each type of apple with Mr. Hadford. He outlined their plans to harvest, tump, and mill a blend of the three, explaining each procedure carefully.

Thompson disappeared as quietly as he had come, and when Henry had finished explaining the need to regularly prune the Blenheim Orange trees to produce the best fruit, all three walked to the cart shed.

Oliver was guiding Molly back across the yard to the stables.

“That is our plow horse,” Adam said. “Over the last couple of weeks, we have been training her to run the mill.”

They entered the shed, and Adam showed Mr. Hadford the mill and the cider press, explaining how the horsehair cloth would separate the layers of apple pulp in the press and allow multiple cheeses to be pressed simultaneously. Mr. Hadford eyed the equipment critically and then turned his gaze to the long row of empty barrels lining the wall.

“And you expect to fill all these?” he asked.

“That is certainly our hope.” Adam walked to the far corner of the shed and returned with a much smaller barrel and two mugs. “If you are willing to forgo crystal glasses, you may have your first taste of Dunsbourne cider.”

“By all means,” Mr. Hadford said.

Adam popped the cork and tipped the barrel, allowing the sweet-smelling liquid to slosh into the mugs. He handed a mug to his guest.