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‘Polly, have you met the head groom yet?’
‘Finch?’ Polly blushed a deep and surprising pink. ‘Um…yes.’
‘What is he like?’ Ellie probed, diverted by the blush.
‘He is young to be head groom, but everyone speaks well of him and he’s very…manly.’
Teasing would be unkind, so Ellie nodded, and merely said, ‘I will change into my riding habit and go down to the stables to see for myself.’
Somehow she was not surprised when Polly caught up with her in the stable yard with a better pair of gloves than the ones she had originally selected.
Finch was certainly manly, she decided, feeling interested that being in love with one’s husband did not prevent an appreciation of tall, blond, well-muscled head grooms. From a distance, naturally.
He was refreshingly matter-of-fact about the whole business when she explained that she needed riding lessons. ‘Does your leg pain you, my lady?’ he asked when she was seated in the saddle, and, when she assured him it did not, made no other reference to her limp.
She had been afraid that he might insist on consulting Blake first, but he seemed to assume that she had permission to ride as she wished. He found her a stolid brown pony named Toffee, and spent an hour a day with her in the paddock, patiently teaching her. Polly soon gave up finding excuses and simply tagged along, perching on the mounting block or sitting on the paddock fence.
‘You’re a natural, my lady,’ Finch pronounced after the third lesson, and let her off the leading rein.
By the end of her third week at Hainford Hall Ellie was trotting and cantering, and good-natured Toffee was obediently following every one of her directions. It was a revelation to be able to go at speed—albeit the pony’s paces were not exactly breathtaking—without the awkwardness of walking or the passiveness of being a passenger in a carriage.
She and Toffee made a good pair, she decided as she ventured out on her first exploration away from the paddock, with Finch a tactful distance behind and Polly abandoned at the stables. Neither she nor the pony were anything but what they appeared—plain, straightforward and practical rather than decorative—and she liked that.
It was a lovely afternoon. She had left Blake closeted with Jon and a pile of estate papers and told herself to think about nothing but her posture in the saddle, the beauty of the parkland and the plans for the sunken garden which were gradually taking shape in her mind.
The sight of another horse jerked her out of her abstraction and she stared at the pretty bay mare and its black-clad rider. She was close to the Trenton estate boundary, she realised, even as she guessed who the rider was.
Ellie let Toffee walk on until the two horses met. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Trenton. Have you come calling?’
‘Why, yes. I had hoped to find dear Blake at home.’
The other woman put back her veil. Ellie had not troubled herself with one, feeling that her complexion was unlikely to be damaged by the country air, but then, she reflected bitterly, it was not roses-and-cream-perfect in the first place. Lady Trenton’s features seemed more haggard than before, and there was a suspicious redness around her eyes.
As if conscious that Ellie might have noticed something, the older woman smiled brightly. ‘What a dear little pony. Is it any particular breed?’
Her own mare curvetted a few steps, showing off her arched neck and flowing tail. Lady Trenton was an accomplished rider, it seemed, and not above patronising dear Blake’s plain little wife.
‘None whatsoever, I imagine, but he is perfect for a beginner,’ she returned with a warm smile.
‘Oh? You did not ride before?’
‘No, but I am learning fast. I do, you know. I like to be competent at everything I turn my hand to.’
‘Including marriage and a great estate? It is not something that I imagine you are used to.’
‘Marriage? No,’ Ellie agreed, holding her smile with difficulty.
‘You are older than I was when I married, of course. And doubtless more experienced.’
Ouch, Ellie thought, schooling her expression to show that she was taking experienced at face value. ‘I believe Blake is at home—although I left him and Mr Wilton buried in a pile of estate work. Perhaps I can take a message?’
Lady Trenton produced a handkerchief and touched it to her eyes. ‘If you would. I find myself too… I will write, of course, but please tell him that we have decided to put up a memorial to Felicity at the church. It is a long time since her death, but…’
But the scandal is old history now, Ellie supplied, then chided herself for being uncharitable. But was it a coincidence that they were doing this now that Blake had returned home with a bride?
‘I am sure that will be a great comfort to you,’ she managed.
‘There will be a small ceremony. I will write formally, but I know Blake would wish to be there—would want to know as soon as possible.’
