Chapter Text
“Laurence?”
It took some time for Laurence to look up from the portable writing desk he’d set up in between Temeraire’s forelegs. “Yes, my dear?”
Temeraire considered carefully how to word his question, not wanting to offend Laurence’s patriotism. “I fully admit that it’s been many years since I’ve properly experienced an English springtime, but… they’re not normally like this, are they?” He rolled his dark blue eyes up to examine the red oilcloth roof of his half-finished pavilion with trepidation; for the past three days it had thrummed with incessant rainfall, and he worried that it would begin to leak. Unfortunately, the rain that so harried the canvas roof also prevented any progress in constructing a permanent, more waterproof replacement.
Laurence sighed. “No, I should certainly say not. This spring has been exceptionally cold and wet, even by English standards.” He looked back at the papers on his desk, the fingers of his left hand tapping an agitated rhythm on the wood.
“May I ask what you’re working on?”
“Tenzing has set a maths problem upon me.”
“Oh!” Temeraire’s ruff briefly flared with interest. “Do read it aloud – perhaps I can help.”
Laurance snorted, though there was no humor in it. “I daresay even you can’t solve this one, my dear.”
“Well not if you insist on being jesuitical about the matter – please share it!”
“If one hundred percent of the tenants expect to lose at least fifty percent of this year’s crop,” Laurence said, gesturing at the papers – several brief letters, plus some of his own notes – arrayed before him, “how can we expect to collect the rents?”
His ruff flattening back against his neck, Temeraire lowered his head, tilting it in an attempt to read the tiny writing. “Fifty percent? However did they arrive at such a figure?”
“It’s been too cold and too wet to plant most anything,” Laurence said. “Of course, the tenants may be exaggerating their predictions of hardship in the hopes of concealing some of their yield from us – as they’re wont to do – but even so…” He nodded at the steady gray rain that fell beyond the pale limestone columns of the pavilion. “At least the sheep will be tolerably productive, as long as they don’t drown.”
Temeraire thumped his tail against the pavilion floor; the large brass braziers set to either side rattled. Fifty percent! That was simply intolerable. Even though Tharkay had warned that it might be several years until the new tenants got themselves properly established, if they already expected over half their fields to fail then perhaps Tharkay had chosen poorly from the pool of applicants. “Surely the tenants simply haven’t considered all their options. We should go and survey the holdings ourselves – Sipho read to me a bit from A Complete Treatise on Agriculture , so no doubt I could share some Chinese techniques that would be useful.” He thumped his tail again, this time with satisfaction. Yes, a survey of the estate was just the thing. Though he appreciated the warmth of the pavilion against the unseasonable cold – enhanced by low walls along three sides, about ten feet high, that helped retain heat while still allowing him a view of the countryside – he was very much beginning to feel like a hatchling in its egg, cramped and bored and eager to break out.
Laurence made a gesture, as if to protest, but paused. “I suppose we don’t know when this rain will let up, do we?” he said instead. “Very well; if you would please wait for me to gather up my effects, we’ll head out presently.”
After Laurence had packed away his writing desk and fetched his leather riding coat, harness, and an oiled greatcoat from a chest kept in the corner of the pavilion, Temeraire fetched him up, hearing the familiar and welcome clink of the carabiners fastening to his neck-chain. He surged out from the pavilion and was aloft with just a few massive wingbeats.
The rain wasn’t heavy – not much more than a persistent drizzle – but at flying speeds it pricked unpleasantly at Temeraire’s eyes and nose. “Are you all right, Laurence?” he asked, cocking his head to check on his passenger.
“Quite all right, thank you,” came the reply. Laurence had tucked his gloved hands inside the sleeves of his greatcoat, relying on his harness straps and his finely-honed sense of balance to stay in place. He also wore aviator’s goggles and a leather cap that completely covered his blond hair, giving him the appearance of a large beetle that had latched onto Temeraire’s scales. Satisfied, Temeraire veered to the southeast, where the tenant’s plots were concentrated.
Tharkay’s family estate was not overly large, so Temeraire was able to go at a leisurely pace, the better to inspect the lands below him. The creeks, already swollen from snowmelt, had completely burst their banks from the additional rain. The trees were still black and skeletal, with virtually no sign of new-budding leaves. As they reached the cultivated areas, he noted with some dismay the shiny pools of water that studded the fields. Some of the fields had been plowed and planted during previous brief respites from the rain, and sickly green sprouts peeked up from the silver puddles; others, too muddy to work the plow, had been abandoned partway through.
Geese and chickens squawked as he flew over each farmhouse, but there was no sign of people outside – understandably so, given the weather – until he finally noticed a familiar figure exiting one of the modest stone residences. It was Tharkay, bundled in a wide-brimmed hat and overcoat, shaking hands with one of his tenants: James Kayode, a short and slim man from the West Indies, one of many former slaves who’d managed to escape the islands and, thanks to the Slave Trade Act, could not legally be compelled to return. Temeraire called out a greeting and landed a respectful distance away, though Kayode’s mule still gave a peevish whinny from inside its barn.
“I should think I wasn’t gone so long as to require a search party,” Tharkay said as he approached; Kayode, having snatched a coat and scarf from beside the door of his house, followed some distance behind, his hands tucked into his armpits for warmth.
“Temeraire got a notion to survey the area,” Laurence explained as he and Tharkay clasped hands and patted each other’s shoulder affectionately. “Mr. Kayode,” he said, nodding and taking the man’s hand in turn. He gestured to the dry hollow that Temeraire had created with the bend of his wing, and the three men took shelter next to his flank; Temeraire rested his head on his foreleg, canted to the side so he could participate in the discussion.
“Wanted to see the damage for yourself, eh?” Kayode said, half to Lawrence and half to Temeraire. Though he still had a slightly cautious air around dragons, he had so far never evidenced any fear or hesitation, and he did not need to be reminded to address Temeraire directly in conversation, instead of solely speaking to Lawrence – which was more than could be said about many Englishmen, unfortunately, even with Temeraire’s status as a war hero.
“I was thinking perhaps you could try planting rice instead of wheat,” Temeraire said. The idea had come to him on the flight over; the flooded fields had reminded him of the paddies that dominated much of China.
Kayode had a thoughtful, faraway look for a moment, then shook his head. “We grew a bit of rice on the plantation in Barbados, for us to eat,” he said. “It needs more than water – it needs heat. And even during a normal spring I doubt England has enough of it.”
Temeraire gave a disgruntled huff, but the large cloud formed by his breath only strengthened Kayode’s argument. He offered a few more suggestions based on what he’d read in the Complete Treatise – although, admittedly, he had not read the whole thing because it was so very long, but farming did not seem all that difficult to him, since it was mostly just variations on putting seeds in the ground and giving them a bit of water – but Kayode shot each one of them down in the most respectful and reasonable of tones, explaining that either he was already implementing that method or it simply wasn’t appropriate to the climate. Finally, Temeraire asked, “If this is truly the best we can expect, then how will you get enough to eat?”
A pall fell over the group. After a moment’s silence, Tharkay said, “Surely you don’t consider me so heartless a landlord that I’d let my tenants starve for reasons beyond their control.”
“What! No, of course not,” Temeraire cried, appalled.
Laurance patted Temeraire’s flank. “Never fear, Temeraire. We may not be in the clover this year, but we knew going into this endeavor that it wouldn’t be easy, and we’re well-equipped to overcome any short-term difficulties.” Temeraire was reminded of both his and Laurence’s captial and was comforted. Of course – if they couldn’t grow their own food, they could simply use their funds to buy it from elsewhere. How silly of him to forget such an obvious solution!
Kayode touched his hat, saying, “If you’ll excuse me, sirs, I should return to the house before Mrs. Kayode accuses me of attempting to shirk my share of today’s duties.”
“Of course. Thank you for indulging us with your time,” Laurence said, and they shook hands again before Kayode hurried through the rain to his front door.
“Would you like me to carry you home?” Temeraire asked Tharkay.
“As much as I enjoy slogging through the cold, rain, and mud, a quick flight home would be much appreciated, thank you.”
“Could you carry me in your talons as well, Temeraire?” Laurence said. “There are a few matters I’d like to discuss with Tenzing.”
Dutifully, Temeraire gathered them up and, holding them close to his chest, sprang into the air. He couldn’t quite make out everything they said over the rush and hiss of the wind and rain, but from what he could discern they were still concerned over the unseasonable weather. Their fears seemed somewhat overblown, in his opinion; the constant chill and frequent rain was unpleasant, no doubt, and it was very annoying that it had stalled the construction of his pavilion, but as long as they had their investments in the Funds they would be able to care for themselves and their tenants, whom Temeraire had already begun to think of as his people . They had survived winter in Russia; surely they could survive a chilly spring in England.