The stable smelled damp, and Callum lifted his lantern. A horse neighed. It was Firelight, he guessed. He stepped into the aisle, scraping the snow off his boots as he did so.
“Easy, boy,” he called out to Firelight indulgently as the horse snorted again. Firelight was always talkative, especially when he heard Callum. He walked on down the aisle and frowned as his foot splashed into water. The circle of light from his lantern showed a puddle on the floor, water flowing from the corner. Firelight neighed more urgently. Callum swore under his breath, marching down the aisle and pausing in the doorway. The oil lamp hung on the wall there and he lit it, then gazed around in the brighter light.
He could see nothing untoward. The light fell on a clean-swept aisle. The stable-hands had mucked out, laying fresh straw. The only odd thing he saw was a puddle of water. A big one.
Firelight neighed again, and then Snowstorm and Rainstorm together whickered and stamped. The two stallions—Firelight and Snowstorm—sometimes neighed at one another, but that Rainstorm joined in was odd. Callum walked down the aisle and gasped aloud.
“What in Perdition?” he swore.
Part of the roof had collapsed.
A great, gaping hole stretched above him, perhaps a yard across and two yards long. Through it, he could see the night sky, snow clinging to the edges. A rotten board swung freely, and another one sagged, two or three bending inwards where the supporting beam broke. By such improbable luck that he could only deem it a miracle, the roof that had collapsed was at the very end of the aisle, where the feed-room joined the stable proper. Snow drifted in and melted in the warmer environs,making a big puddle that stretched more or less the length of the aisle. Callum swore again.
“I knew that would happen!” he said aloud. He gazed up at the roof, the weight of what he was seeing slowly filtering through his mind.
The stable was cold. Snow was drifting in and, while the body heat of the horses was enough to make the area closer to the floor warm enough to melt the snow, if a wind came up during the night, the horses would freeze in their stalls.
It was the thing he had feared more than anything. He had always feared that he would fail with the horses. The stable was the one thing he had inherited from his father that he had succeeded in developing.
“Please, help me,” he whispered. He looked around. There were twenty horses—his usual fifteen, and five belonging to guests. The horses for the guests’ coaches were stabled at the coach-house, along with his three teams of coach-horses. He could move some of the horses to the coach-house stalls—but they were also in scant supply, since the guests’ coach horses used up the spare stalls.
Callum went to Firelight’s stall. His horse neighed, rolling his eyes, and then came forward to lip at Callum’s hand. All the horses were agitated, and no wonder, Callum thought angrily. They must have been confused, cold and afraid for hours. Heaven only knew when the roof beams had broken under the snow. Since the stable-hands had not mentioned the fact, it must have been after their rounds were made.
“Easy, boy,” Callum said distantly, stroking his horse’s nose. His mind raced. He needed to get the horses to safety—that was his first priority. But he had no idea how—he was by himself, and did not want to spare a moment in case more of the rotten roof beams collapsed under the heavy snow.
He breathed in deeply, marching to the tack room. What he needed to do first was to get the horses out, starting with Buttercup—who was most at risk if the stable was becoming too cold—and Firelight. To do that, he needed to put bridles on them.
Should I fetch someone? He asked himself. The village carpenter needs to be fetched straight away. And what about the weight of the snow? Someone should go up there and brush the roof. But what if the boards are so rotten that their weight causes damage to the roof?
His mind was in turmoil. He walked into the tack room and grabbed the bridles of Firelight and Buttercup from the wall by the door, then marched out. As he walked into the main stable, someone spoke.
“Your Grace? Are you there?”
“By Perdition!” Callum swore, jumping with fright. Then he turned to the door. Miss Rothwell stood in the half-open gap. Her hair was uncovered, her bonnet hanging down her back. She wore a brown pelisse. Her eyes were huge and confused. She gazed at him with worry.
“Your Grace. I beg your pardon. I saw a light in the garden and I followed it. I was out walking before dinner. I did not intend to intrude.”
“No! No, you are most welcome,” Callum said quickly. “I was merely...” he paused. He hesitated to share his troubles, but he was in desperate need of assistance. He was but one man and he had no idea where to begin in moving the horses to safety. “I noticed a problem with the roof—the back section. It has collapsed,” he explained, gesturing toward it. Speaking of it seemed to steady his nerves, and he drew a deep breath. She gazed down the aisle, her eyes widening as she took in the damage, before turning back to him.
“The horses. We need to get them out,” she said at once.
Callum nodded grimly. “But where?” he asked her, already beginning to bridle Firelight. His horse stepped back, ears flat, whinnying as if Callum was a threat. Callum sighed. His own fear was communicating itself to the horses. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I have no other stalls. The coach-house stalls are full.” He gazed at her, wishing she could think of something.
“The coach house stalls are full,” she repeated, then frowned. “But the coach house itself is not. We can put them in there!” Her eyes brightened, a big smile blooming on her face. “Come on! We must get them there at once, before the roof suffers any further damage.”
“Sorry?” Callum blinked, struggling to keep up with her rapid speech. He gazed at her, and soon her words began to make sense. “You mean...in the coach house? The coach house proper?”
“Yes!” Miss Rothwell’s eyes danced with excitement. “We should take the carriages out. They can remain outside for the night—on the lawn, in the pathway... it matters not where. We can clear the space and prepare it for the horses.” She was already making her way toward the door.
“But...” Callum frowned. “But they will all be next to each other,” he protested. “They may fight.”
“How many do you have that fight?” Miss Rothwell demanded. “We can place the troublesome ones in the stalls that are available in the coach house, or we may fashion temporary fencing to divide the space. It will only be for the night until the carpenter can be summoned. It is the only space we have.”
Callum nodded. His heart soared, a surge of joy flooding him. “It could work!” he exclaimed. “Yes. I will bridle the horses,” he began, managing to buckle the bridle he had put over his hunting-horse's nose. “If you could, please go to the kitchens? Tell Mr Morton that we need the coach-house to becleared. And send for the stable-hands. And inform them that a carpenter needs to be summoned from the village. After his working hours or no. Get him here—the cost is no matter,” Callum insisted.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Miss Rothwell said, pausing at the door. “Anything else?”
“No,” Callum said swiftly, the realisation sinking in that they were working seamlessly together, that he had sent her off to the kitchen as though it was Harriet or Mr Randell that he talked to—people with whom he had the rapport of a lifetime’s knowing. “Thank you.”
