by Lee Rowan
“A man after my own heart,” Carlisle approved. “I need to put a saddle on Nightshade and give him some exercise. Matthews generally sees to that, but I would not wish him to forget me.”
It took little time to change into riding gear, and while the assistant groom Jem was saddling Nightshade, Brendan was given the choice of Carlisle’s two hunters, Whiskey, a chestnut mare whose coloring matched her name, and Sailor, a pale grey gelding. He sensibly asked which had been ridden last and, upon learning that Whiskey had been exercised that morning, asked to ride Sailor.
They must have made a pretty picture, Carlisle thought as they started out on a circuit of the estate, mounted on black and white as though representing living chess pieces. But he had little time for poetic metaphors; Nightshade was feeling his oats and seemed determined to remind his master that he was no mere gelding.
Brendan noticed Nightshade’s prancing, and laughed. “He does want to stretch himself! Would I stand a chance if we were to race?”
“Not of winning, perhaps,” Carlisle said, “but Sailor has good bottom. Do you see that coppice of trees yonder?”
Brendan glanced in the direction he indicated, nodded, and his horse suddenly leapt away with a surprising burst of speed. Carlisle blinked, taken by surprise, then gave Nightshade his head, to follow at his own pace. As that was neck-or-nothing, they soon overtook the grey and his rider, though not as quickly as Carlisle had thought they would. He still reached the trees at least two full lengths ahead.
Brendan rode up, laughing once more as Sailor settled into a walk beside the black horse. “Much good my cleverness did me! What a prize you have there, sir! If that foal has his sire’s power and his dam’s beauty, only a fool would care about the papers.”
“That is my hope—though I should have to be hard pressed indeed to part with any of them. I’ve had half-a-dozen offers for this fellow, from gentlemen who’d replace me with a jockey. The next time you visit, I would like to see what you think of him as a mount.”
“You would allow me to ride him?” Brendan asked in surprise.
“I would indeed—and you may be sure that is not an invitation I extend very often.”
The young man’s face fairly glowed with pleasure. “Thank you, sir!”
Carlisle found it difficult to believe that Brendan was actually related to James Townsend. James had been a good soldier, no question of that, and an excellent officer—but Carlisle often suspected he had chosen the Cavalry because he thought it glamorous, not because he wanted to spend his days on horseback.
Brendan, on the other hand, rode like a centaur. He had that natural grace a horseman needed, the sense of balance that enabled him to lean into Sailor’s movements and guide him almost as though he and the horse were a single living creature.
“I never saw you signal Sailor to gallop,” Carlisle said. “You really do have a feeling for them, do you not?”
“That’s in the blood,” Brendan said in an offhand way. “I can take no credit for it.”
“How so? Your brother—forgive me—is a competent horseman, but no more than that.”
“Oh, James is a typical English Townsend. The horse-sense is from my mother’s side of the family; her grandmother was the daughter of an Irish horse-trader. The family tale is that when my great-grandfather was bound for the American colonies to help his younger brother establish a homestead, he found himself on a ship with Brendan McMurdo, his horses, and his daughter Fiona. No one in the family knows precisely what happened, but when he left the colonies to return to England, the horses stayed on the homestead but Fiona went with him, as his wife.”
“That’s very romantic,” Carlisle replied.
“I hope it was, for her sake. The family must have been in a taking at finding the heir not only married to an Irish girl but about to become a father. They must have eventually accepted her; my mother remembers her grandparents being very happy together. And it does seem to hold true that those in the family who have her Black Irish coloring have a feeling for horses, and the blond English types, like my father and brother James, do not.”
Carlisle nodded. “And your sister?”
“Oh, she enjoys riding, but she maintains that the side-saddle is an instrument of torture, even though she accepts that a lady could hardly ride in any other manner. She challenged me to jump with a side-saddle once, when we were young, and I had to own that it’s devilishly uncomfortable.” He nodded at Carlisle’s incredulous expression. “Yes, I felt a damned fool and got off the thing as soon as ever I could—but when a fellow’s sister issues a challenge, what else can one do?”
“Pray that one’s friends are nowhere in the neighborhood!” Carlisle answered immediately. “I know that I have met your sister at your brother’s home, but she gave no impression of having such an independent mind.”
“Oh, Elspeth is a real lady,” Brendan assured him. “Which means that she, like my mother, has more under her bonnet than a pretty head of hair, including the wit not to let a man know it. She’s just beginning her first Season. That is why I must go back very soon, to squire her around to Almack’s and such, but it appears she is already expecting an offer at any moment. I hope he comes up to scratch promptly—if he does, I will be off the hook, and he will take over escort duties.”
“You sound fairly confident of your liberty.”
“If I were offering odds, I would make book that there will be an announcement in the Times by May Day. I have met the gentleman, and he seems a good sort, apart from an inexplicable craving for my sister’s company.”
“I am sure that he will consider himself fortunate if he is accepted,” Carlisle said, still bemused with the absurd mental image of Brendan on a side-saddle. “She sounds like a delightful young lady.”
He had been thinking of Brendan as an adult, but that young man’s response was all boy. “Oh, she’s all right, for a girl. Would you care for another race?”
Major Carlisle kissed divinely. Brendan had known he would, and the reality was even better than the expectation. Those long legs, hard and strong from hours in the saddle, twined with his own as they moved urgently together between the sheets. Brendan ran his fingers through the bronze-gold hair, pulling that lean body against his own. He rolled onto his back, bringing Carlisle atop him, his body humming with pleasure—but someone was calling. Damn them!
“Mr. Townsend?”
Brendan blinked at the glimmer of a candle beside his bed. “Yes, what—?”
“The Major said you wished to be waked when La Reine began foaling, sir. It’s time.”
He was suddenly wide awake, dreams forgotten, and threw back the covers. “I’ll be ready in a moment.”
“There are some rough clothes here, sir… do you require assistance in dressing?”
Brendan laughed, shoving his feet into the homespun trousers. “A valet for these? Thank you, I can manage. How does it go? Is she well?”
“I know almost nothing of the stables, sir, but the Major seems concerned. He told me to say he will see you in the foaling box.”
Brendan tucked his nightshirt into the trousers and pulled on a pair of battered boots that the footman provided, then followed him downstairs. He shivered in the chill spring air, but a bright, nearly-full moon gave light enough for him to reach the stables without difficulty. As he entered, he could see that several lanterns were hung around the sides of Queenie’s foaling box.
He passed the other stalls, noting that the horses in them were all awake and alert, well aware that something important was going on. Brendan came up to the box quietly, hearing not only the murmur of voices, but the anxious note in some of them.
“Get her up, then,” Carlisle was saying. “If we can help the foal slip back inside and then shift him a bit—”
“I tried that already, Major,” Matthews said regretfully, “and it didn’t work. He’s a big ‘un.”
“We’ll have to try again. We must do something.”
In the circle o
f light inside the foaling box, Carlisle and Matthews knelt beside the laboring mare, with the two stable-boys hovering on either side. A hodgepodge of odors filled the stall, mainly crushed straw and sweat, and wisps of steam were rising from the horse’s heaving body.
Queenie was clearly in distress, restlessly blowing great huffs of breath, down on her side with Carlisle at her head. He had hold of her halter, urging her to rise, but it appeared she had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Carlisle glanced over his shoulder and saw Brendan. “Good morning, Mr. Townsend. Would you be interested in giving us a hand, here?”
“Anything,” Brendan said. “What shall I do? What’s happened?”
“The foal’s stuck—a leg bent back, and it’s going to take both of us to shift him. Every time we try, she knocks the boys down—they’re simply not big enough to hold the poor girl. Can you help me get her upright?”
“Of course.” Brendan went round to the mare’s far side, lifting her head as Carlisle wrapped both arms around her neck. Together, they coaxed and wrestled her into a sitting position. Brendan dropped to his knees beside the mare to prevent her lying back down as her master soothed her. He found it a trial to concentrate on the animal; Carlisle wore nothing but a pair of old buckskin riding breeches, and the subtle contour of the muscles in his chest and shoulders made it obvious that his tailor needed to do very little in the way of padding. The appeal was not only physical, either; the concern evident on his striking features made Brendan wish there was some way he could offer comfort.
There wasn’t time for that, of course, nor would such foolishness be welcome; the only thing he could do was what was asked of him. Poor Queenie could use a bit of comforting, though; her eyes were wild, surrounded by white. “Hello, my lady,” he said, one hand on the halter while he stroked her neck. “This must be very strange for you. It certainly is for me.”
She cocked her ears toward him, as if unable to believe this foolish human was babbling at her while her caretakers were doing rude, unexpected things at her nether end.
“It’ll take both of us, sir,” Matthews said. “I can’t get hold of either foot.”
“Terence, over here, if you please!” Carlisle said sharply. The lad scrambled to hold Queenie’s halter; Brendan scratched her forelock and gently twisted her ear. She rolled an eye at him, and he played with the other ear. He didn’t want to put a twitch on her, but she needed distracting.
“I’ve got hold of a jaw,” Matthews said. Glancing down, Brendan could barely see the groom; he was lying on the floor with only part of one shoulder visible over the mare’s haunches.
Carlisle was smearing something on his own arm—some sort of grease, Brendan thought—and a moment later he lay down beside his stableman. Brendan knew that Carlisle must be reaching inside the mare to shift the foal, and was just as glad he could not see what was going on.
“All right,” the Major ordered. “I feel the edge of the hoof, you push his head—damn!”
He shouted just as Queenie groaned and flung her head back; Brendan could see the ripple of a contraction run across her steaming flank. “What’s happened?”
“Trying to squeeze my arm off, the ungrateful beast,” Carlisle said. “Can’t fault her, she doesn’t understand we’re trying to help. Ready for another try, Matthews?”
“Aye, sir.”
“All right—got the little fellow’s nose? On the count of three. One, two—”
Brendan tightened his hold on the halter, and put his own forehead down against the mare’s. “That’s the girl, let them help…
“Three!”
Queenie muttered and twitched again, and once more there were epithets uttered at the other end of the mare.
“Again,” said Carlisle.
It took countless more tries, and all of them were sweating as hard as Queenie by the time Carlisle called out that he had the leg. Queenie was making quite a lot of noise; Brendan was sure she was swearing, and he did not blame her in the least.
He was never able to say, in the years after that night, how many hours he had spent hunkered down beside that roan mare, cosseting her while she pushed out her firstborn. But when they were finally able to free the foal’s foreleg, everything became easier. The rippling contractions along Queenie’s belly seemed to cause her less strain, and after a minute or so Matthews said, “There’s the first leg.”
Carlisle slapped him on the back, and patted Queenie’s rump. “Come on, girl, the worst’s over.”
She grumbled, grunted, and Matthews said, “And the other.”
Brendan couldn’t see anything of the birth, but he could see that something was happening. He rubbed Queenie’s nose, as much to reassure himself as her. “That’s a good girl, you’ll be fine.”
“There’s the nose,” Carlisle said after a long time had passed.
And after another long wait, Matthews said, “Take that other leg, sir, let’s just help her a bit.”
As if sensing the end of her struggle, the mare surged up, scrambling to stand on her feet and pulling Brendan with her, and at that point he saw his first glimpse of the foal—two ridiculously long, thin legs, and a wet little head with its ears slicked back.
He laughed aloud, and Carlisle looked up, a grin on his face that was an exact match for the one Brendan knew must be on his own.
“Ever seen this before, Mr. Townsend?” Carlisle asked.
“No,” Brendan said. “My father never breeds his own horses, he’s always said a stallion is too unpredictable and dangerous to have around.”
“He’s probably right, for the most part. If Nightshade weren’t such a good-natured fellow… Ah, that’s it, sweetheart, push now…”
The foal inched out, and then suddenly there was a last squelching whoosh of movement, and a shape that seemed too big to come from inside this trim little mare was lying on the floor just behind her, still tethered to her mother by the umbilical cord. Matthews was on his knees beside the foal, using a damp rag to clear the birth fluids from her mouth and nostrils.
The ordeal was over. A dark-colored filly with white markings lay on the straw behind her dam, and Brendan’s legs had fallen asleep. He didn’t even realize that, until he tried to take a step and nearly fell over. Philip Carlisle caught him, lending a steady arm until he could stay on his feet.
“They need to rest, now,” Carlisle said. “And I think we do, too.” He went back to the mare’s head, stroking and praising her, but her attention was now on the new arrival.
“How long will it be before she can get up?” Brendan asked.
“Not long. Ten or fifteen minutes, an hour, at most. Matthews knows more about that than I do.”
“We need to keep ‘em both quiet until the cord goes slack,” the stableman said. “Cut that too soon, they could both bleed out. There’ll be—”
The mare shuddered all over and another, smaller object plopped to the ground. “Afterbirth,” Matthews said shortly. “That’s good. When Queenie’s got to know her little ‘un, you can come back and visit. They need some time to get acquainted. Come back when it’s daylight—this little princess will likely take an hour or two before she can spend much time on her own four feet.”
“Princess?” Brendan asked.
“That will do for the moment,” Carlisle said. “Come along, Mr. Townsend. I warned Peters that we’d need a quantity of hot water before the night was over. I don’t grudge Queenie a bit of the effort, but I mean to have a wash right now. Matthews, you come along as soon as you’re able.”
The groom only nodded as he rubbed the foal dry with a bit of sacking, and Brendan envied him the task.
“I had a bath-room put in beside the kitchen,” Carlisle explained as they walked back to the house. “One of my neighbors has a scientific turn of mind, and he had a notion that running a pipe from a cistern on the roof to a storage tank behind the stove could provide warm water for washing, without requiring the servants to carry it upstairs, cooling all the while. I thought
the experiment worth a try.”
The thought of warm water and soap made Brendan very happy. “Does it work?”
“Fairly well, I believe, but you can judge for yourself. There is a bath-room upstairs as well, of course, but if I’ve been getting filthy outdoors I find it more convenient to just wash up before going any further into the house, and of course the servants appreciate running ten steps instead of two flights. The water is much hotter, too. I often use it when I’ve been out in the stables, and I believe Peters soaks his lumbago in the hip-bath from time to time.”
Brendan started to laugh, but it turned into a yawn. “I am sorry. I was just imagining what my father would say at that notion. Scrub up in the same room as the servants?”
“Well, from what you said earlier, your father would not be found lying beside his groom in a foaling box in the wee hours, up to his armpit in—”
“No!” Brendan began to laugh again, and found he couldn’t stop. “God, no,” he gasped, and took a deep breath, forcing himself to be calm. “I think I must never tell him about this adventure. Although he only told me to finish college before I wasted any more time in the stables, and, you know—I did finish college!”
Carlisle shook his head, smiling. “Please do keep it to yourself. My servants already think me somewhat slack-twisted in matters of my own consequence, and I should not wish to scandalize the Viscount. Though if I were to tell him about this evening’s excitement, I should have to praise your conduct. You not only kept your head, you kept Queenie far calmer than the boys were able to, and that made the job easier for Matthews and me. Ah, here we are, and I see Peters has provided not only hot water, but clean towels, slippers, and even dressing-gowns. The end of a perfect evening!” He led the way through a back doorway, into a spartan bath-room with stone floors and two tubs of water.
And then Major Carlisle dropped his filthy breeches and stepped into one of the tubs, and Brendan found himself blushing like a schoolgirl. He turned hastily to the other tub to cover his embarrassment, and busied himself with soap and washcloth.
