“Is he, now?”
The perverse philanderer.
And in the fresh morning sunshine, Hebe tapped her foot upon the cobbled stable courtyard. At dawn, sitting up in her bed and sketching the scene she’d witnessed last night, she’d thought to assess the dissolute rake through fresh eyes, to make sense of it all.
But a leopard never lost its spots, it seemed, just disguised them amongst the savanna grass.
So she sternly informed herself that Lord Ernest couldn’t possibly have been that wonderful with the mare, that she’d imagined such care, mistaken his touch for gentle.
For surely a man could not be both the depraved rake she’d witnessed and a tender enchanter of animals?
“Aye, that he is, but his lordship said thee could sketch the new foal and her dam if thee sit a mite back. Birthed last night, don’t thee know?” He tapped his stick.
Hebe slid her eyes to the weather-beaten gentleman but he gazed in innocence to the blue sky before shuffling off to the stables with a limp.
“The rain didn’t come then?” she called after him as that tailless white goat ambled across to block her path. She shooed with her hands and it nipped at her skirts. She attempted an amiable smile and it belched before sauntering past in its own good time, bequeathing a malodorous waft.
She caught up with the old stable master in the corridor, the boxes and stalls as shipshape and tidy as at dawn.
Mr Grampy Tom sneezed. “It’ll rain, lass. For the cat be wipin’ over his ears.” Hebe looked askance at the snoozing moggy upon the haybale. “And the dogs be eating grass afore noon. And did thee notice those rooks? Flying low, they be.”
Grief, Noah had no doubt embarked upon the construction of his arc.
Before the deluge could fall, however, and under Mr Grampy Tom’s instruction, a chair was placed for her in the far corner of the last stable box and another slatted shutter opened for light.
This morning, the mare appeared tired yet content, standing quiet and munching hay, but the foal floundered about like a puppet on strings, legs pulling straight for a moment, only to flop the next.
Having tendered her thanks, Hebe sat and wrestled her sketchbook from the satchel, her charcoals from a special tin and…began to draw, a quiet felicity descending, not just from the scene before her but this place – a lad whistling, Mr Grampy Tom’s tap of stick, the caw of those low-flying rooks and Mr O’Conner’s Irish lilt as he directed the brushing down of a horse.
Doubtless most visitors to such a majestic castle would begin their first day with a stroll in the grounds or climb the stone stairs to the roof and gaze at the view in peaceful repose. But sketchingwaspeace for Hebe. A way to banish the past.
At the hour of nine this morning, she’d called on her aunt to ask whether she wished to take breakfast but a hand had waved above the coverlet and pronounced it far too early. So Hebe had wandered downstairs to the smaller dining room to help her lonesome self to kippers and tea – no sign of their host.
And now she knew why.
Fair Lydia indeed.
The licentious goat.
In fact, Hebe was now quite sure that the dim light in this very stable at dawn had tricked her eyes into perceiving roughened knuckles and dark callouses upon that suave seducer’s hands. That supposed burn scar was more likely dirt.
More than a few lads wandered in with pails of water for the mare, or to cadge a look at Hebe’s drawings, but never having been precious about her work, she let them, encouraging comment – after all, they knew a horse’s physique better than she.
After an hour or so, she put the sketchbook down to stretch, fingers stiff, just as Mr O’Conner entered with a battered low table.
“Got the maid to bring ya some lemonade, Mrs Locke.”
“How thoughtful. I tend to forget such things when sketching, and I do realise I’m an extra burden for you all, Mr O’Conner.” Hebe inspected her aunt’s past love, knowing a tale or two lay there. He was a handsome man of forty or so years, but deep lines furrowed his eyes and brow, telling of hardship, his lips were not quick to smile and his hair was tinted with many strands of grey.
He laid a swollen hand on the mare’s flank. “Not at all and call me Redmond. A fine artist, ya are, Mrs Locke.”
“Oh, well, I’m not sure… I hope to be. It was my aunt who encouraged me, who told me to disregard males that thought a woman wishing to paint horses was peculiar. She is so…open and worldly-wise.” Slyly, she glanced up to find Redmond’s lips pressed so tight, they’d all but disappeared. It seemed he wasn’t so unaffected by her aunt either. “Mrs Cassell has travelled much, you know. Is considering Peru next year.”
“Likely her rich husband takes her where she pleases.”
“My aunt has been a widow for twelve years now, Redmond.”
His jaw gritted and he shuffled with unease. “Ya painting the neighbour’s horses too, are ya not? Squire Skelton’s and Sir Henry’s thoroughbreds?”
