The stableyard at Rosemere House was familiar, at least, and she crossed it without slowing.
A groom looked up as she entered. “Is everything alright, My Lady?”
“Prepare a horse,” Anne ordered.
“Yes, My Lady. Which?—”
“The fastest one.”
The groom hesitated, then nodded quickly.
Another stablehand nearby paused his work. “Perhaps I should accompany you?”
“No,” Anne replied. “Thank you.”
The groom led out a dark bay mare, already saddled. Anne took the reins, and behind her, footsteps sounded again.
“Anne!”
Lady Carlisle stood at the edge of the yard, her cloak drawn tightly around her shoulders. Up close, her exhaustion was clear.
Anne wanted to pity her, but she could not now that she knew what her mother had done. She mounted her horse and turned away.
“I know exactly where I am going,” she said.
“You are going to a man you have never met, what if you are not allowed to leave with your horse?”
Anne tightened her grip on the reins. “Then I will leave knowing that I tried.” She looked at the groom. “Open the gate.”
The groom obeyed, and she took off.
The gates of Ashford Hall were already open. Ironwork framed the entrance like a warning more than a welcome, and beyond it stretched an estate with stables running down the edges. The sound of hooves cut through the sharp morning air.
Anne dismounted without waiting for help, but already a man had seen her and hurried her way.
“My Lady, you cannot enter without announcing yourself to the house,” he said, matching her pace as she began walking.
“I am not here for the house,” she replied.
“Then I must inform His Grace.”
“Do that if you wish,” she said, not slowing down.
The man hesitated but followed at a distance as she crossed into the stableyard.
The noise inside was immediate. Trainers called instructions across open pens, horses shifted against reins and rails, and somewhere deeper in the yard, a young black colt struck out violently, forcing two handlers back as it reared again, its hooveshitting the ground hard enough to shake loose straw from the beams above.
“Hold him steady,” one of the men called sharply.
“He’s going to break his shoulder if he keeps throwing like that,” another said.
The colt snorted, its muscles tight and uneven beneath its coat. It resisted every hand that approached it.
Anne stopped, and one of the grooms near her sighed. “No one’s been able to calm him since he arrived. He’s thrown three men already.”
She did not respond. She crossed into the handling pen before anyone could block her path.
A trainer turned sharply as she entered. “You cannot?—”
