Bryson waved a hand to one of those who worked under him. “Jerry, Sam, Tom! Saddle up some horses. The colonel here wants to see ‘em go.”
What followed was, to Richard, the most painful display of braggadocio and ineptitude it had ever been his misfortune to witness. He was a cavalryman, trained almost from infancy in the ways of elegant horsemanship, and these blowhards hired to break in the remounts must have learned their skills from the back of a whiskey bottle. A rangy chestnut bucked his way across the pen, his rider making more effort to exhibit his prowess at staying aboard with style than to direct his mount. A second man chose a mouse-coloured little horse, who appeared docile enough, but for the fact that it seemed impossible to turn his head in either direction—assuming his rider even knew how to accomplish such a feat.
“Enough,” he muttered at last, when a scruffy bay propped his front legs and refused to move forward again. Rather than further subject himself—and the horse—to the rider’s mishandling, he drew Bryson away.
“Look here, Bryson, I am expected to send a lot back East within the fortnight. Can these brutes be ready, or not?”
Bryson narrowed his eyes and shifted the chaw around his mouth. “What’s a four-night?”
Richard sighed in exasperation. “Two weeks. How long has this bunch been in training already?”
The hand shrugged. “Four days or so. Five or six for some of the prettier ones.”
“And have you no better breakers than these? I have never seen a more useless set of men. Breaking a horse in properly requires some skill and finesse. Rough, ill-educated hands like these will spoil the creatures.”
Bryson grinned. “The barmaids don’t seem to mind.”
Richard set his teeth and glared at the man until he sobered. “My lodgings are in town. I brought four of my own men with me, and tomorrow morning we will return to set this bunch right. Your men will take instruction from mine, or I will teach them the spur and whip myself. Is that understood? I’ll have none of this drunken foolishness going forward.”
Bryson’s face hardened, and his lip curled as he turned to emit another stream onto the ground. He said nothing but stared in such a way that did not signal surrender.
“And what of their feet?” Richard continued. “I noticed that some have already been shod. I should like to take a closer look, to be certain these buffoons of yours shall not cripple anything.”
“My men don’t do the shoes,” Bryson snorted. “That’s Bennet. He’s out back, in the smithy.”
“Then I shall speak with him next.” Richard gave a jerk of his chin and walked away.
He found the man he sought bent over a hot forge, hammer in one hand and tongs in the other. Standing back, Richard watched in silence as the man beat the molten fire out of a bit of iron, then bent it to his will. He was not a large fellow, and he did not possess the hulking shoulders of most lifelong blacksmiths Richard had seen, but his movements all appeared competent.
A shoe took shape from the iron bar, and Bennet turned for a peg to punch the nail holes into the soft metal. He stopped, eying Richard with a lifted brow. “Good afternoon, Colonel.” He then bent back to his work while it was still hot, just as any smith Richard had ever known might have done. “You must be Marcus’s replacement. I hope, sir, that you know something of horseflesh. Your predecessor did not.”
“And I was hoping to find the same, for your Mr Bryson is an imbecile.”
“I would speak more cautiously, if I were you.” Bennet plunged the cooling shoe back into the forge and withdrew a red-hot spike. He turned, pointing it towards Richard, with a look in his eye that seemed half amusement, half threat. “That is my son-in-law you speak of.”
“Then you are as great a fool as he, and worse so, to give your daughter to such a blockhead.”
Bennet lowered the spike to his anvil and burst into a hearty laugh. “We shall get on well enough, Colonel! I spoke in jest—he is not my son-in-law, nor, God willing, shall he ever be. But as for my daughter, if Bryson laid a finger on her, I expect he would lose it.”
Richard could not help a sly smile, and he watched as Bennet returned to his work. “Where did you learn your trade, sir?”
“Where does any man learn? My father taught me, although I never thought I would have to earn my living at it.” He paused in his work to crank a handle on a surprisingly modern blower apparatus. It appeared to have been made by hand, but it was effective, nonetheless.
“What is your business here, Colonel?” Bennet asked nonchalantly. “Have you come to ascertain that I will not burn down the corrals with my forge, or did you merely look for conversation consisting of more than one syllable?”
“I came to see the horses’ feet. I expected no one here had the least idea what they were about, and I cannot risk a hundred lame horses.”
Bennet tipped his head to the left as he bent it again over his anvil. “I just finished the third shoe on that horse there. I hope it meets with your approval. Now, if you please, I should like to finish for the day, because as pleasant as this conversation is, I am looking forward to a mug and a book in my tent far more.”
Richard shook his head and left the work area. A peculiar man, this Mr Bennet. He walked over to the horse tied at the front of the smithy, and with a gentle pat on the shoulder, picked up the hoof. The foot appeared balanced, the shoe well-fitted, and the nails all perfectly placed. He slowly dropped the horse’s hoof again and looked back to the man at the forge. Bennet appeared to have done with him, for he never even glanced up to see if Richard had approved of his work.
Richard sighed and looked around. The hands were still trying to impress him with their dubious talents—unless that was the way they always rode—and there seemed little more he could do until the morrow when he brought his men and set to work in earnest. A pity he could not travel to another station and buy horses elsewhere, but he had his orders. This entire venture was a bloody waste of his time.
At least there was a proper hotel in town. Given the current state of affairs, Richard expected a decent bed would be welcome by the end of his days here.
Chapter 5
Pemberley
