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“He’s not a-gonna like it,” the old man murmured, but made no effort to stop me.
The stable building was both big and old, possibly even older than the house. There were great timbers and sagging, time-worn stalls. The house was in better repair, even though it was definitely worn and shabby. There appeared to be adequate food, water and bedding, however, so my sudden rush of worry about the beasts was allayed.
Originally the stables had been built to house a number of animals, at least twenty judging from a quick and probably inadequate count, but I could only see less than half a dozen inhabitants. There were two large, well-muscled beasts obviously bred to pull ploughs, a superannuated small white mare whose skin hung loosely around her protruding bones like old cloth, and an old hunter who looked as if he still might be able to give a decent ride if nothing too much were asked of him.
I stopped to give each of them a pat and an affectionate word or two. The poor white mare looked as if she had already died; as much as I loved horses, I felt it was almost an insult to keep such an aged and debilitated creature in the land of the living. Her muzzle was completely white, her eyes rheumy and possibly blind. She liked being petted, however, and seemed to mourn when I moved on to the hunter. He too was old, probably older than he appeared, but the spark of life still was strong in him.
Saracen, of course, held pride of place in a double-large stall. He whickered when I entered, giving me the very flattering notion that he remembered and liked me. As I reached the door of the stall he stepped forward, putting his head over the low wall to reach toward me. We stood there happily, me petting, him happy to be petted, as I plotted again and again how to get him home.
“Going riding?”
I whirled and was pleasantly surprised to find Stanhope standing behind me, giving the old white mare a scratching behind the ears. I would swear she was smiling.
“Good morning. Doubtless you have heard that Sir Mordecai has given the order I shall not ride unless accompanied by an approved family member and upon an approved ladies’ mount, who doubtless will be spavined and superannuated.”
He laughed, then his face went serious.
“Surely you jest? No? Well, it is hardly a surprise considering your exercise yesterday. You probably should feel fortunate that he did not condemn you to poor old Buttercup here.”
“Surely no one rides that poor old beast any longer,” I exclaimed in horror. “She can barely stand on her own, let alone bear the weight of a rider.”
“No, she hasn’t been ridden in years from what I understand. Mrs. Draycott rode her last, I believe.”
My mind rebelled at the concept of Great Aunt Zipporah riding at all, even a beast as lacking in size and (one assumed) ill-temperament as Buttercup.
“This is perhaps the only creature which engages Sir Mordecai’s heart. Buttercup is the last offspring of a well blooded mare whose name I have sadly forgotten, but which was the favourite of Sir Mordecai’s late wife. It is said that he went out of his mind with grief when Lady Beatrice died. She had loved her mare, so it was pampered and cosseted until it died, and the same with her accidental offspring here. Sir Mordecai has shown these two beasts more love than he has any two-legged being in his life.”
The perverted affection both touched and repelled me. He would love and pamper a horse, but sell his granddaughter into a repellent marriage and confiscate her fortune just to feed his grandiose ideas of family. It did not make me regard him any better.
Giving the poor old mare a final scratch, he wandered over to join me at Saracen’s stall.
“Have you finalised your purchase yet?”
“No, and Sir Mordecai says it will never happen. He does not see any reason for a young woman to have a horse like Saracen.”
Stanhope looked down at me with surprise.
“In truth? Even after he saw you ride him?”
“Especially after he saw me ride him. He was most adamant, and I fear my unruly tongue involved you as well. I told him to sell Saracen to you and I would buy him from you - with you making the hundred pounds’ profit, of course.”
He threw back his head and laughed, a great ringing sound that filled the echoing barn and sent shivers down my spine. Yes, I was definitely attracted to this man, more than to any other man I had ever met; it would be very easy to make a fool of myself over him. Worse was the knowledge that I might not be able to keep myself from doing it.
“And his reaction?”
“Loud. And explosive. Sir Mordecai is apparently not accustomed to being challenged.”
“No, indeed he is not. The reputation of his temper is fearsome.”
“Good morning, your Lordship,” said the aged stablehand, pulling his forelock and giving a kind of bow before opening the stall and leading the white horse out. The poor old thing could barely stagger. “Time to take Miss Buttercup here out to grass. Her does love her grass, her does.” Gently stroking her neck, he led her out of the barn.
“Jasper loves that old horse,” Stanhope murmured.
“Your Lordship?” I asked pointedly.
He gave me a cool but not unfriendly glance. “Jasper calls everyone your lordship, even Broadbank. Haven’t you noticed?”
I shook my head.
