by Sophia Nash
“Is loikes I tolds you. She be awaiting him, she is,” an older stableman said quietly to a younger from the edge of the stall.
Elizabeth peered past the jumble of men, all of whom smiled warmly upon her approach, and saw Mr. Manning in the stall, apparently oblivious to all of them as he intently watched every movement of the small gray mare.
“Shhh, Jimmy,” the older man warned. “Watch now.”
Mr. Manning eased forward, talking to the mare in some sort of incomprehensible language. The mare stretched out her supple, arched neck and blew softly into his empty outstretched hand. Slowly he traced the muscles of her neck with his hands. Starting at the poll, his wide palms stroked past her strong neck to the valley of her chest. Sweeping past her strong, sloping shoulders, he slowed. His work-scarred, beautiful hands carefully noted the movements of her flanks, and the mare tossed her head once and turned sharply to rest her muzzle on the crook of his arm. “Yes, Lady,” he whispered with encouragement. He suddenly turned toward the gawking stable hands as if he had forgotten they were all there. “Clear ’em out of here,” he said, his hard eyes telling Lefroy what his voice did not.
Mr. Lefroy gathered the man, “Come on, lads, you know the master’s rules. The mares need their privacy.” While the men and boys grumbled as they dispersed, the stable master turned to Elizabeth and winked. “You can stay if you’re quiet-like.”
She edged away to sit on a nearby stool. She could see everything through the cracks of the wooden stall beams.
Caught in the beauty of the moment, Elizabeth watched man and animal lost in the timeless moment of creation. Rowland Manning stroked the protruding flanks of the mare and alternated between calming her and encouraging her. Each appeared to rely on the other, the man’s quiet, strong patience rewarded by the mare’s trust and desire to please. It would be obvious to anyone who watched them in this pas de deux of stalwart guardian, willing to bear the weight of danger, and the creature who depended on him. She would not have guessed him capable of such gentleness.
And then suddenly, with the instinct of an animal used to outrunning prey in the wild, the mare quickly dropped her foal; Mr. Manning taking care to ease the newborn onto the straw bed. What she was witnessing was about as far from the norm as possible. Most horses foaled in the dead of night, in the farthest corner from every other living thing, using the instincts with which they were gifted to avoid predators.
At the basest level, horses fretted with man. And yet, everything in front of her now spoke the opposite.
Sitting motionless so as not to startle either of them, Elizabeth watched as Mr. Manning efficiently tended the mare and foal. He rubbed down the animals and peered at the water bucket, and all the while he calmed in soothing, nearly rhythmic tones.
A ray of late afternoon sun poured onto the edge of Elizabeth’s gown, and she looked away for a moment. When she trained her eyes back to the crack between the wooden beams, he was staring at her. Oh no, not another lecture…just when she was starting to find him—
“Get fresh water,” he ordered quietly without a false “please” or “thank you.”
Elizabeth merely nodded and obeyed.
Jimmy, the stable boy, watched her in awe as she filled a bucket from the large water trough outside the stable. “The master never let anyone but hisself and Mr. Lefroy get Gray Lady’s food or water.”
Well…progress, finally. It was just too bad she would not stay long enough to find out when he might take food or water from her hand too.
Little did Elizabeth Ashburton know that the next day would bring progress on that front. With an equal measure of disaster.
Chapter 4
The next afternoon, the broad, red visage of Lieutenant Tremont examined Rowland lazily from across the fat man’s neat desk. “It will take a lot longer than a fortnight to reconfigure the cavalry’s needs, Mr. Manning. Why are you bothering us about this again?”
He wanted to slam his fist down the lazy man’s gullet. “Uh, perhaps because until last month, I was to deliver eight hundred twenty battle-ready mounts, according to this contract.” Rowland waived the document out of the other man’s reach. You couldn’t trust the bloody army with a gawdamned thing.
“Yes, well, until last month, we had a war now, didn’t we? You can read, man, can’t you?” The hint of a sneer slid across the other man’s thin lips. “Oh, perhaps not.”
Funny how much more polite the lieutenant had been when he was desperate for horses four months ago, at the precise moment Wellington was in danger of getting his arse kicked back to Portugal.
The man must have sensed Rowland’s murderous rage, and he straightened in his chair. “Now see here, Manning, it’s as I told you. We’ll probably take the horses. As soon as Wellington and Pymm finish their work here, they’re for Vienna.”
“I know where the bloody peace talks are.” Rowland withheld adding, “you idiot,” by the whisker of patience he still possessed.
“Look, we’re still waiting for accurate numbers of troops and stock after that last drive to Bayonne. Then we’ll know how many replacements we’ll request. General Pymm has indicated he wants at least two divisions as a show of strength in Paris and Vienna.”
“Yes, well while Pymm and Wellington kick up their heels and accept their bloody titles and laurels for packing off that short, balding frog to Elba, I’m feeding and housing in the country an extra eight hundred and twenty heavy horses suited to face cannon at dawn, not Hyde Park at the fashionable hour.” Rowland shot up from his chair and leaned over the stupid lieutenant’s desk to press the point. “You can add another two hundred fifty pounds a day for their upkeep until you take them off my hands. And may I remind you that I was promised full payment four bloody weeks ago.”
The man cleared his throat nervously and smoothed his thin moustache, a slight tremble in his hand betraying his fright. “Yes, well, we’ll have to see about that, Manning. Now then, you will have to excuse me. I have to—”
Rowland waved his hand. “Yes, let me guess. Being fitted for ballroom frocks? Got an invitation to Prinny’s little tea party for Pymm at Carlton House, did you?”
The portly lieutenant called out to his two assistants in the hall, who immediately came to his aid.
“At least I won’t have to worry that we’ll be rubbing shoulders with the likes of you, Manning. Money and power such as yours can’t buy everything. Only Quality have been invited to witness Pymm’s elevation to duke.” The man’s wattle shook in righteous, if not ill-advised anger. “Can’t imagine what the Earl of Wallace was thinking when he acknowledged you as his half brother. But you can never erase being born on the wrong side of the blanket now, can you?” He turned to his aides. “Who do you think his mother was, men? Do you wager she was a whore or a dairy maid?”
It took precisely thirty seconds for the lieutenant to regret his folly. In that time Rowland rendered inert both weak-kneed assistants with several well-placed blows. But he had not gained his footing in the world to be thrown in the garrison for murdering a brainless lieutenant. Instead, Rowland leaned over the man’s quivering mass of glistening porcine skin and bones still sitting in his chair unharmed. “I’ll thank you to remember my gift when I see you next,” he whispered.
“Gift?” the man sputtered, spittle flying in nervousness.
“The gift of not drawing and quartering you with eight hundred and twenty unpaid for horses. I shall return in three days, and if you do not have the blunt owed to me at that time? Well, I shall tell Pymm or Wellington the name of the incompetent lieutenant of Quality who is refusing to settle the accounts of the person who supplied a bloody cavalcade of horses to them in Spain. Comprende, amigo?”
He was doing it on purpose, she was sure of it. Elizabeth looked down at the untouched breakfast tray—the one she had carted to his small office in the stable this morning—despite his instructions to the contrary. She sighed. If she had had fewer morals she might have enjoyed returning the same boiled egg
s and bread to Mr. Manning’s desk until they turned green with mold.
Tray in hand, she grumbled in irritation and headed across the immaculate yards toward the main buildings. Something itched the side of her wrist and she looked down to see the edge of the letter she had found this morning in the deep pocket of one of the two gowns Sarah had packed in the valise. Her friend had taken care to hide it well, stitching the pocket closed. It had evaded Mr. Manning’s prying eyes and fingers.
Oh, she was avoiding it. Looking for every excuse to put off what she should have done the minute she’d found it.
Throughout the day, the letter had burned a hole in her pocket. But like a child unwilling to face unpleasantness, she had used a mountain of tasks to avoid scanning the words, which were sure to scald her mind, and allow even more ill-ease to dog her every waking thought.
But her departure was imminent. She had so little to fear, really. She would interview three cooks tomorrow, and Sarah was sure to come or to send word about a plan to leave London by then. And even if no elaborate plan was hatched, as soon as Sarah arrived, they could simply walk past Mr. Manning’s pastures and keep walking until…well, until they found a remote village where Elizabeth could find work as a cook or a maid. And the way things had unfolded, she could even take on the job of watering and feeding horses, for goodness sakes.
Alas, she could no longer ignore Pymm’s letter. It wasn’t like her to be so hen-hearted. In a rush she darted behind an oak, put down the tray, and crushed the blood-red seal.
Her breath caught at the first words.
My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,
I realize when last we met, you were overcome with grief, a very becoming sensibility on the occasion of your father’s death. I grieved for you. I was only sorry that while suffering such obvious shock, you took the foolish decision to leave. My Elizabeth, you cannot guess how I feared for you in the midst of the orgy of violence following the siege. Many women were viciously ravished, some mortally wounded.
Yet I refused to give you up for dead. I knew I should find you. And I knew you would not want to disobey your father’s final wishes.
I have in my possession his affairs and Mrs. Winters’s husband’s as well. There is the matter of uncollected pay and a few precious objects you might treasure, including a miniature of your mother, I presume, and for Mrs. Winters, there is Colonel Winters’s wedding ring. You know not how it has pained me to be unable to return these items, for I know how much you both must long for them.
My dear, I do hope you have not mistaken my intentions. You do understand the great honor I have proposed, despite your father’s unfortunate past predicament? Any hint of which might well fall very heavily at your door. Do I need to point out that your running off would only fuel speculation? I have held off writing a report—for I cannot bear to imagine society’s reactions. You must see I want nothing more than to protect you.
I have not forgotten that it was always your way to tease with your bold attentions and then to retreat. I have no doubt that remembrances of our moments together excite your heart as they do mine. I shall never forget your admiration and the desire shining from your eyes each time I returned victorious from battle and we danced and took such joy as could be found at those small, hastily arranged entertainments.
Indeed, when the Prince Regent asked what drove me to such heroic measures throughout our final push into France, I told him it was for love of my fellow Englishmen and for the love of one particular lady.
I shall entrust this missive to the Dowager Duchess of Helston who I spied clutching your arm in church. I expect an audience soonest to discuss our future. And now that I’m assured of your survival, I’ve every reason to continue to protect what I’ve always considered my own. But Elizabeth…you will not toy with my affections any longer. ’Tis but a childish, foolish impulse. I grow tired of the sport and I am determined to have you by my side as the duchy is conferred at Carlton House by my most ardent supporter, the Prince Regent. You shall make a fine duchess.
Until we meet, my love,
I remain yours, as always,
P.
Bile rose in the back of Elizabeth’s throat, and the old panic that had led to her ill-planned escape through Spain two years ago nearly overwhelmed her. And then she could not stop it. She rushed around the rough bark of the old oak tree and allowed the wave of nausea to convulse through her.
It was worse than she remembered. She fought against the crippling effect of despair, and forced herself to stand straight. She tried to remember the advice of her father. This would pass. Everything always did with time. A decade from now she would look back on these years and find black humor in the horror of it. But her father’s worldly wise counsel failed to soothe her.
She wanted to scream at the unfairness of it. All her father’s acts of valor would be forgotten, and her reputation would crumble with just one false, salacious word from Pymm, a man all of England now revered.
But she was not without power. Pymm would not dare utter a syllable against a lady he hoped to make his duchess while she remained in hiding. It was not his way. Her tormenter would only expose her to censure if he found her, and was unsuccessful in his efforts to overcome her resistance to his proposal. In darker moments she wondered if he would have the audacity to bind her bones and haul her to Scotland if she protested. And if she dared defy him before the eyes of the rest of the world? He would not stop at a simple assassination of character. His was the word of a man second to the Duke of Wellington, versus the word of the daughter of an army captain. She had no proof against him.
Oh, it was all so hopeless. Her empty stomach roiled again. She had prayed time and absence would put an end to Pymm’s unnatural obsession. But her refusal and disappearance only appeared to have augmented it. She would never master the ever-changing rules of his ridiculous fixation.
She loathed the idea of buckling under the pressure and marrying him. She didn’t think she could do it. And she was older now, and trying desperately to overcome her great defect of character—that of action before a thorough reflection on the matter at hand. But oh, how her feet itched to run again. Far, far away.
Her situation was entirely ironic, for she had no natural talent for clandestine affairs. Her father had always said she was just like her mother, far too open, and incapable of carrying off deceit with any degree of success. She was certain Rowland Manning would heartily agree with him.
Truly, if she were to follow her first inclination, even before running away again, she’d inform Pymm that she would rather marry his lily-livered bulldog than him.
Yes, she’d very much enjoy telling him that he could jolly well go ahead and brand her father and her traitors to the crown and imprison her in the Tower if he liked. But, well…she didn’t fancy dying quite yet.
“What’s got that fair face lookin’ like the end o’ the world is at hand?” Mr. Lefroy’s kindly face peered around the tree.
She jumped. “Oh, Mr. Lefroy. I’m sorry. It’s nothing, really.”
The older man studied her for a moment. “You looks like you’ve gots cobwebs growin’ ’tween yer ears, lovey. You wants to join old Lefroy? Does you loikes a little gallop now and again?”
She swallowed against the remembrance of the moments she’d spent in Cornwall racing the downs and vales with the widows in the club who enjoyed a little danger. “More than anything,” she avowed.
“Leave the tray. You can retrieve it later.” He steered her toward the stables. “Nofin’ loikes a good gallop to clear away the dismals. Vespers loikes to run wiv a partner. Let’s see if’n you can keep up.” He smiled wide, showing the small gap between his teeth.
“Vespers?”
“Eventide Vespers,” he clarified with obvious pride. “The master’s prize racer. She’s to have a go at Ascot.”
He mounted her in a sidesaddle despite her grumbling. At least he’d trusted her and let her pick a powerful chestnut gelding with an intelligent eye
if not the deep chest of the warhorses she had known.
“She’s a beauty,” Elizabeth murmured as she looked longingly toward the tall, dark bay mare with the star in the center of her fine head.
“Aye, Vespers is that,” Mr. Lefroy said as he adjusted his stirrups. “Unless she sees the whip, o’ course.”
She looked at him expectantly.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, but she don’t care for the notion of a spankin’.”
“She’s smart then, too,” Elizabeth said, a smile finally curling her lips.
Mr. Lefroy’s eyes popped out.
“What?” she asked.
He blushed furiously. “You sure are a pretty thing when’s you smile, ma’am. You’s got dinkles.”
She grinned. “Dinkles?”
“Dents in yer cheeks wots drive menfolk mad. Lucky for you I’m too old for yer.”
They rode out past the paddocks and rings, past the stand of trees near the northeastern corner, until they came to a small lake. An irregular racecourse was laid out around the perimeter. She studied the layout for a few moments, noting the graduated rises and falls while the two horses jigged in anticipation.
She turned the full force of a smile on Mr. Lefroy. “Loser peels the dinner potatoes?”
He sputtered, and she was off. Oh, the feel of the wind rushing against her face. How she had missed this. The gelding was a real goer. A few moments later, she dared to glance behind her, only to see Mr. Lefroy holding back the mare. What on earth was he thinking?
Over the course of the next three miles, she understood. Eventide Vespers was the fastest horse Elizabeth had ever seen. Despite the great advantage Mr. Lefroy had allowed, Vespers leapt ahead at the midpoint of the course and never let up the pace. What Elizabeth would not have given for the chance to ride that beautiful, sleek creature.
It was just too bad that no matter how many miles she galloped with Mr. Lefroy, she could not lose the sense of dread and disaster looming ahead. Or the sense that she would never be able to free herself from Pymm’s obsession.
