“And she needs some cheer. Beth’s father died this spring leaving her and her mother alone.”
They stared at one another, and for a moment the crowd faded, the sun gleamed and all she saw was this man she couldn’t help but so desir–
“Bejabbers. No, no, no.” Redmond shook his head as Daniel now landed in a greasy heap. “Let’s get this organised. I’ll show ya how we do things in Ireland.”
He shrugged off his jacket and handed it to Aunt Beatrice, proceeding to roll up his sleeves and reveal tanned forearms.
“My, my,” declared Aunt with a flutter of lashes and fan of fingers. “Can I hold anything else for you?”
Hebe grinned as he brought the back of Aunt’s hand to his lips. “That’ll suffice for now, Bea. I’ll not be a moment.” And the stable master ducked under the rope and strode into the arena.
“I do so adore it when he takes command like this,” Aunt Beatrice said somewhat breathlessly.
“Gather around, lads!” The stable master beckoned with a raised hand. “In Wychmere, we work as a team, do we not?”
Raucous huzzahs filled the warm air as men and lads scrabbled beneath the ropes.
All fell quiet as they huddled close, listening intently, nodding, murmuring and gesticulating until at long last a cheer went up accompanied by much manly backslapping.
Hebe wondered why no one had considered sawing the pole down, but perhaps that was a woman’s intuition and the males would arrive at a similar conclusion in their own time – or when the effects of the mead had lessened.
The five brawniest men proceeded to form a circle around the pole, arms raised upon each other’s shoulders, grip tight.
With a fair few grunts, four of the less brawny men hoisted themselves onto the shoulders of the first and likewise entwined their arms, bare feet shifting for purchase.
Once they’d steadied themselves, Daniel, Thos and a third lad began to scale the backs of the men, hands grasping at shirts and dragging on breeches to much cursing.
“This might just work,” whispered Ernest in Hebe’s ear as though any breath might topple them, for the onlookers had also hushed, the girls in white biting their lips and leaning over the ropes with eyes wide.
The brows of all were now creased in concentration as the three lads settled themselves at the top, arms laced and toes curled into the shoulders of those below.
“Brace yourselves, lads. Brace,” called Redmond as he then hoisted Isaac, the youngest recruit to the stables, onto the first tier of shoulders.
From there, and with no apparent fear, Isaac began to scramble up the backs of the men as though a squirrel up a tree, bare feet digging and fingers grasping at bands of breeches, shirts and neckcloths.
Curses and grunts eschewed, the tower wavered, and Aunt raised a palm to mouth.
“Steady,” Redmond shouted, and Hebe wrung her hands as the boy reached Thos’s shoulders and attempted to stand, one arm to the pole for support.
He straightened his knees to raucous applause.
Then waved a hand.
Then teetered…
The crowd gasped as one; Ernest tilted his hat; Hebe bit her lip.
Both hands grasped the pole once more.
Redmond O’Conner rolled his eyes as Isaac sought a knife from his back pocket and one-handedly began to slice through the rope that held the mutton.
Hebe also dared not breathe for fear it would gust this house of cards to the straw.
Isaac tugged at the mutton to tear the last threads of rope and the tower of men shuddered, but with it freed, he slung it to his back, bringing the rope over his shoulder and tying it to his waist.
Then he embarked upon the precarious descent, accompanied by hushed whispers from the crowd.
He nigh blinded Thos with a finger to the eye but made it to the middle tier before his bare foot slipped, his arm struck a man’s chin and…
