Such as the altercation he heard occurring in the lane running between the Bigfield House estate and the manor’s fields.
He steered Storm out of the field across which he’d been cantering and into the lane. As they trotted toward the sounds of escalating argument, Christopher distinguished two male voices, the more mature of which—deep, calm, and controlled—was familiar, although he couldn’t immediately place it. The other voice was more youthful—and more strident and aggressive.
On rounding the next bend, Christopher beheld a sight he’d been expecting to see, if not that day, then soon. A long row of gaily painted covered wagons was drawn up in the lane. The lead wagon, decorated in vivid shades of red and gold, had swung to turn in to the grassy meadow bordering the stream that cut across the Bigfield House and manor fields.
Although the meadow belonged to Bigfield House, in this season, being already harvested of its hay, the field had become the traditional halt for the gypsy caravan that supplied labor to the local farms for the hop and apple harvests.
However, today, the wagons’ advance into the meadow was being blocked by a young gentleman on a leggy roan.
Pleased to see that there were nine wagons lined up behind the first, Christopher walked Storm forward as the young man declared, “I repeat, you can’t set up camp here.”
The Romany seated on the bench of the first wagon, the reins held loosely in his hands, sighed and said, “And I repeat, we always use Sir Humphrey’s field. Clearly, I need to speak with him—”
“You can’t,” the young man retorted. “My uncle isn’t receiving visitors at present.”
The gypsy looked exasperated.
Wholly focused on their exchange, neither man had noticed Christopher’s approach, but the ancient personage seated beside the Romany had. Wrapped in colorful shawls, Gracella, matriarch of the clan, caught Christopher’s eye, nodded imperiously, and tweaked her grandson’s sleeve.
Glancing around, Aaron saw Christopher, and his dark-featured face lit. “Ah—Cynster. Well met!” He held out a hand.
Drawing Storm up beside the wagon, Christopher adopted his most charming smile and half bowed to the stout, elderly woman. “Gracella. You and yours are very welcome here.”
As regal as Victoria, Gracella inclined her head. Her face bore traces of faded beauty, her expression was unruffled yet alert, and her dark eyes saw everything and held a wealth of experience.
Still smiling—he was truly glad to see the gypsy troop—Christopher leaned across and clasped Aaron’s hand. “Aaron. You and your tribe are a welcome sight.”
Aaron snorted and waved toward the young horseman. “Perhaps you can explain that to this gentleman here and that we are permitted to use the meadow.”
Christopher had already transferred his gaze to the younger man. Still smiling affably, he guessed, “Robert Martingale?”
The young man blinked, then carefully nodded. “Yes.”
“I met your sister yesterday, and she mentioned you. I’m Christopher Cynster, currently in charge at the manor.” Christopher nudged Storm forward and extended his hand.
At the news Christopher was a neighbor, Martingale relaxed; a trace of relief showed in his eyes as he gripped Christopher’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. M’sister mentioned you’d called.” Recollection of the reason for Christopher’s visit sent color into Robert’s pale cheeks. “I must apologize for the goats, sir. I had no idea they could be so…well, determined. And destructive with it.”
Christopher chuckled. “As it happened, no real harm was done. Your sister explained that being town bred, you and she are having to learn how things are done in the country.”
He’d said that as much for Aaron and Gracella as Robert; the comment also gave him an opening to address the current impasse.
“Oh.” Robert looked from Christopher to the gypsies. “Is this”—he waved at the waiting caravan—“one of those country things?”
Aaron grinned wolfishly—all teeth.
Christopher shot him a warning look, then said to Robert, “As a matter of fact, it is.” He waved Robert to accompany him and walked Storm farther into the meadow. “Why don’t we let the wagons through? You have my word they have your uncle’s permission, as they claimed. They can start setting up while I explain.”
Christopher glanced over his shoulder and saw Robert turning his horse to follow—and Gracella nodding in approval and Aaron smiling in relief.
After drawing Storm up to one side of the meadow, Christopher waited until Robert halted his horse beside him and the wagons started to rumble past, heading for a natural dip above the stream, then folded his hands on his pommel and said, “All the landowners hereabouts—indeed, most landowners in Kent—have a special relationship with the various gypsy caravans you’ll find in the county during harvesttime. Picking fruits and hops is labor-intensive—we all need extra hands to help bring in our harvests. That’s where the gypsies come in. The men, the older children, and even some of the women help with the picking. Gypsy bands are usually extended families and, like this one, return year after year, traveling the same routes and helping out at the same farms.”
He tipped his head to where Aaron, with the help of some of the other men, was siting his wagon. “In the case of this band, Aaron’s father used to lead it, and according to my father, Aaron’s grandfather led it before that.”
Robert was frowning. “So this band of gypsies helps with the harvest on our estate?”
“Not just at Bigfield House. Although it was Sir Humphrey—and his father before him—who volunteered this field for the gypsies’ camp, this band helps at five estates while they’re here. Then they’ll move to another area where they’ll also have been helping with the harvest for decades. They tend to move east to west, south to north, as the crops and orchards ripen.” Christopher huffed. “Sometimes, I think they know our fields better than we do.”
“So,” Robbie said, “they’ve arrived at the right time to help with our…” He glanced at Christopher. “What’s the next crop to be harvested?”
Christopher hid a smile. “Hops, but it’ll be a week or so before they’re ready. In the meantime, I expect Aaron and his crew will help the Entwhistles at Grove Farm and the Huntlys at Moreton Manor to prune their cherry trees. If that doesn’t get done now, next year’s crop will suffer.”
“Will these gypsies also help with our apples?”
He nodded. “This group usually remains until the harvests around here are done, and that’s usually in early October, depending on the weather.” He paused, then added, “We feel lucky to have them—they’re a reliable and trustworthy crew.”
“I see.” Robert straightened in his saddle. “So having the help of this band of gypsies—being able to hire them as day laborers—is essential to getting our harvests in, and without them, we’d be in trouble.”
“That’s it in a nutshell.” Christopher watched as Robert, jaw now set, nodded, more to himself than anyone else.
“In that case”—Robert swung down from his saddle—“I’d better go over and apologize.”