turned.
Christopher Dearing stepped forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was exploring the grounds and ducked in out of the rain. I can leave if I’m keeping you from your work.”
“No, Mr. Dearing. Please, do join us.” Andrew motioned him toward the table. “We are reviewing the final plans for a new hothouse. You might find it interesting as an admirer of Mr. Paxton’s work, as it’s inspired by his designs of the conservatories at Chatsworth and his design of the Crystal Palace.”
The younger man’s eyes sparkled with interest, and his long legs made fast work of the space between them. He bent his tall frame over the high table to examine the plans and maps.
“Why so many greenhouses? Does Wakesdown raise produce to sell?” Christopher frowned over the plans.
“No. These”—Andrew indicated the four structures closest to the house—“produce food for the family, their guests, and the house staff during the cold months when it cannot be raised in the outdoor kitchen gardens. These two, and the orangery attached to the manor house, contain exotic flora that would not survive in our cold climate—citrus trees, pineapples, peaches, and ornamental plants and flowers for the young ladies to decorate with. All need much warmer temperatures than what we have in England naturally. So we grow them indoors.”
“But what about these acres here?”
“Sir Anthony does have orchards and grain fields—wheat and rye. There is a mill here.” Andrew pointed at the rendering of the building at the far corner of the property. “The rest is pastureland. Wakesdown uses what they need of the flours and livestock; the remainder is sold at market in Oxford.”
Christopher nodded and studied the chart in silence for a moment. Andrew’s mind bubbled with questions—about America and the opportunities there for someone like him; about how the use of railways could drastically improve the ability of small farms to sell their produce and livestock outside of their local market towns. Conversations started but not explored with any depth on the train several days ago. And the one subject not broached, which Andrew would never allow himself to indulge in—finding out more about Dearing’s sister. Pretty despite her exhaustion when he first met her; stunning when passionately defending a scraggly bush, her gloves and coat caked with mud.
“What you need is a spur line here”—Dearing traced a line on the map of the entire estate—“to connect Wakesdown to the main rail line in Oxford, and you could become one of the leaders in exporting your produce to the rest of England.”
“Could you just imagine?” Foreman Harry leaned closer and traced the line between pastures and fields. “Not loading up the wagons time and time again and taking our goods to market, but just sending it all off in a train car . . . like Granny going to London to see the queen.”
Andrew had to laugh with the others. “It would not be quite so simple, would it, Mr. Dearing?”
Dearing launched into an explanation of spurs and gauges and hand-powered carts, while the three foremen hung on his words—Tom listening with crossed arms and a speculative expression.
Andrew examined the overview map of the estate’s several thousand acres, more than half of which were given to cultivation and livestock. Sir Anthony had complained to Andrew more than once about how much more the estate could be producing in foodstuffs and animals if only they had an easier, more economical way of getting it all to market.
Mindful of the passing minutes, Andrew pulled out his watch. He gathered the plans and maps, effectively ending Christopher’s lecture on railway technology.
“Mr. Dearing, I have an appointment at eleven o’clock with Sir Anthony. If you are not occupied, I would invite you to attend him with me and explain your idea of a spur line to the estate.”
The American straightened from the edge of Tom’s desk where
Christopher Dearing stepped forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was exploring the grounds and ducked in out of the rain. I can leave if I’m keeping you from your work.”
“No, Mr. Dearing. Please, do join us.” Andrew motioned him toward the table. “We are reviewing the final plans for a new hothouse. You might find it interesting as an admirer of Mr. Paxton’s work, as it’s inspired by his designs of the conservatories at Chatsworth and his design of the Crystal Palace.”
The younger man’s eyes sparkled with interest, and his long legs made fast work of the space between them. He bent his tall frame over the high table to examine the plans and maps.
“Why so many greenhouses? Does Wakesdown raise produce to sell?” Christopher frowned over the plans.
“No. These”—Andrew indicated the four structures closest to the house—“produce food for the family, their guests, and the house staff during the cold months when it cannot be raised in the outdoor kitchen gardens. These two, and the orangery attached to the manor house, contain exotic flora that would not survive in our cold climate—citrus trees, pineapples, peaches, and ornamental plants and flowers for the young ladies to decorate with. All need much warmer temperatures than what we have in England naturally. So we grow them indoors.”
“But what about these acres here?”
“Sir Anthony does have orchards and grain fields—wheat and rye. There is a mill here.” Andrew pointed at the rendering of the building at the far corner of the property. “The rest is pastureland. Wakesdown uses what they need of the flours and livestock; the remainder is sold at market in Oxford.”
Christopher nodded and studied the chart in silence for a moment. Andrew’s mind bubbled with questions—about America and the opportunities there for someone like him; about how the use of railways could drastically improve the ability of small farms to sell their produce and livestock outside of their local market towns. Conversations started but not explored with any depth on the train several days ago. And the one subject not broached, which Andrew would never allow himself to indulge in—finding out more about Dearing’s sister. Pretty despite her exhaustion when he first met her; stunning when passionately defending a scraggly bush, her gloves and coat caked with mud.
“What you need is a spur line here”—Dearing traced a line on the map of the entire estate—“to connect Wakesdown to the main rail line in Oxford, and you could become one of the leaders in exporting your produce to the rest of England.”
“Could you just imagine?” Foreman Harry leaned closer and traced the line between pastures and fields. “Not loading up the wagons time and time again and taking our goods to market, but just sending it all off in a train car . . . like Granny going to London to see the queen.”
Andrew had to laugh with the others. “It would not be quite so simple, would it, Mr. Dearing?”
Dearing launched into an explanation of spurs and gauges and hand-powered carts, while the three foremen hung on his words—Tom listening with crossed arms and a speculative expression.
Andrew examined the overview map of the estate’s several thousand acres, more than half of which were given to cultivation and livestock. Sir Anthony had complained to Andrew more than once about how much more the estate could be producing in foodstuffs and animals if only they had an easier, more economical way of getting it all to market.
Mindful of the passing minutes, Andrew pulled out his watch. He gathered the plans and maps, effectively ending Christopher’s lecture on railway technology.
“Mr. Dearing, I have an appointment at eleven o’clock with Sir Anthony. If you are not occupied, I would invite you to attend him with me and explain your idea of a spur line to the estate.”
The American straightened from the edge of Tom’s desk where
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