Stanley’s ears twitched as he set to a canter.
Ahead, all Ernest could see was a mass of terrified expressions – horse, man and a female of indeterminate age. Blue ostrich feathers abruptly took flight from the lady’s hat and the man’s capes attempted the same, but alas, attached as they were to the bacon-brained fool, they could only flap like fledglings left at the nest.
Keeping to one side of the debacle, Ernest galloped full pelt towards the rampaging beasts, but on approach, he noted the reins now hung loose, and that although the horses’ ears were flat back, their eyes were not yet wild, but more…petrified at the lack of guidance.
Still there was naught Ernest could do from this direction, so he galloped on past to tug Stanley into a sharp turn, his faithful steed not flinching but trusting and most likely pondering on those oats.
They sped back up the avenue in pursuit, but the pair of mares, he’d observed on passing, had marginally slowed at the sight of the regal Stanley so they caught the runaway curricle with nary a sweat.
Ignoring the shouts of warning from spectators – as if he couldn’t see the colossal bloody lake ahead – Ernest galloped past the lurching curricle and kept pace with the pair of bays, easing close until a foot or so apart. He switched Stanley’s reins to one hand and reached out, fingers stretched…almost there. “Come on, girl,” he softly intoned. “Nearer. I won’t hurt you.”
The mare’s muzzle shifted towards him, eyes drawn, Ernest’s fingertips mere inches from the bridle and he stret–
A whip of leather lashed overhead and he soundly cursed as the curricle horses shied and even Stanley broke his stride.
“Cease that bloody whip,” Ernest bellowed over his shoulder, heart echoing the rhythmic thunder of the numerous hooves as the slate-grey Serpentine loomed ahead.
He urged Stanley on once more, bark chips scattering from beneath them, aware the avenue was reaching its end. Murmuring reassurance to the mares, Ernest edged near before in desperation, he threw out a hand to the nearest bridle, roaring his relief as soft leather met his clasp.
Now he just had to hold on.
Of course most onlookers would expect him to attempt an intrepid leap onto one of the horses’ bare backs, but these weren’t of his stable and besides, being carriage prads, they’d most likely buck a man to the pink azaleas.
Instead, he stayed alongside, guiding them, arm wrenching, the statuesque Stanley – who held no affection for water – also steering the mares with a deft nudge.
With howls of relief from the onlookers – or disappointment, one could never quite tell with the English – they curved past the Serpentine bank, the gallop slackening to a canter, the pair then calming to a trot with both the presence of Stanley at their side and Ernest’s hushed words. No doubt exhaustion and the lack of whip also aided matters.
Even so, he let the mares decide when to halt, their heavy exhalation and lathered withers attesting to their fear.
At length they slowed – to a walk, then to a stop, a smattering of applause from the onlookers greeting them. After straightening his glasses, Ernest threw a leg over to dismount, offered Stanley a pat and with deliberate nonchalance, approached the snorting matched pair.
With eyes averted and his back to the trembling creatures, he gathered their reins and chatted softly till their pants eased and a muzzle nudged his shoulder, then began to nibble his hair.
The spectators gradually dispersed, returning to promenade or picnic now the afternoon’s entertainment was at an end.
“You there,” he called to a lad who’d arm muscles like a bag of nuts. “Hold the reins, would you? And of Stanley here.”
The lad plodded over with a grubby frown. “They safe?”
“Don’t stare them in the eye, just give a scratch behind the ears and talk to them quietly, if need be.”
The lad gawped. “Wot about?”
“Well, what’s this afternoon’s gossip? The Royal squabbles? Byron’s latest affair? How the lunar eclipse last month might be responsible for this cold July weather? It matters not for ’tis the sound not the prose.”
“I’ll tell ’em about some barmy nob I seen in Hyde Park then,” he mumbled before gathering the reins. “Or my Sally in the alley yesternight.”
Not entirely sure Stanley would relish such a salacious tale, being a gelding and all, Ernest nevertheless tendered his thanks and turned to the curricle occupants. The dishevelled driver was assisting a lady down from the high seat, her concealing and featherless hat now skew-whiff and resembling a plucked chicken.
Ernest stroked a hand down the nearest horse’s rump. “Did a dog scare them?”
The driver twisted, shielding the lady from view as he straightened his greatcoat. “You have my utmost thanks, sir.” His nose held the redness of too much liquor, eyes a beetle brown. “And no, the damn witless creatures just took off.”
Ernest nodded, but his palm encountered welts along their flanks and ribs, the cut of whip, and his brow rippled, teeth gritted. “How long have you had them in Town?”
“Well, I…”
“They are new to London.” In a dress and pelisse the hue of dusk, the gentleman’s beauteous companion stepped forth, her cheeks flushed and blond curls tousled. “Mr Maddock here assured me they had been conditioned to town life.” She cast the gentleman in question a stare that could freeze the ballocks off an ox. “But apparently not.”
