hurt. She reared up and, as her head came round towards me, I recognised the comma-shaped blaze and intelligent eye, now terrified.
‘Rancie.’
The boy rocketed out of the saddle and landed on his side on the path. Rancie came down to earth and galloped past the other horses. One of them wheeled round to get out of her way and barged into his neighbour, who kicked him. I think I’d said her name aloud, but with the shouting, whinnying and groans of the lad on the ground, nobody noticed me. I ran after her, scared that she’d catch a leg in the trailing reins and throw herself down. Some way along the path I caught up with her. She’d stopped and was snatching at grass, not like a happy horse eating but a desperate one looking for consolation in something familiar. Scraps of grass were falling uneaten from her trembling lip. She rolled her eye at me and flinched as if expecting punishment. I think a kindly horse feels guilt when it loses its rider.
‘Rancie, girl, it’s all right, Rancie …’ I put a hand on her sweat-soaked shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault. Poor Rancie.’
With my other hand, I gathered up the trailing reins. By then, the other horses were coming past us. The man on the cob was leading one of them because its rider had dismounted and was looking after the lad who’d been thrown. They were coming slowly along the path together, the lad limping and holding an arm crooked across his chest. The man on the cob called out to me as he passed.
‘Well done, miss. I’ll take her.’
If an oak tree could have spoken, it would have been in that deep Hereford voice. Amos Legge, my fair-haired giant. He threw the reins of the horse he was leading to one of the lads and sprang off the cob’s back, landing neatly beside Rancie and me.
‘Thought it was you, miss. You be come to see Rancie, then?’
He didn’t even sound surprised. As he ran his hand down Rancie’s legs, checking for injuries, she bent her head and nuzzled his back with that deep sigh horses give when anxiety goes out of them.
‘No great mishtiff done. Will you lead her in then, miss?’
We followed Amos and the cob along the lane and through a gateway into the yard, Rancie as quiet as a pet dog. The yard was busy, with the horses coming in from exercise and a pair of greys being harnessed to a phaeton. Amos seemed to sense that I didn’t want to attract attention and led us to a box in the far corner.
‘You two wait in there, while I go and see to this fellow.’
The straw in the box was deep, and good clean hay in the manger. At least Blackstone was keeping that part of our bargain, so perhaps he’d keep others. I stayed in a dark corner, talking to Rancie, until Amos came back. He untacked her, plaited a hay wisp and used it in long, sweeping strokes to dry off the sweat. When he put her rug on, he reached under her belly to hand me the surcingle strap, as if we’d been working together for months. As soon as the rug was on, the gold-eyed cat jumped down from the manger and settled in her usual place on Rancie’s back.
‘I thought you’d have gone home to Herefordshire by now,’ I said.
‘No hurry, miss. There’s work for me here if I want it, so I thought I might stay for a bit, see her settled. And it was in my mind I might be seeing you again.’
A voice from the yard called, ‘Amos. Where’s Amos?’
‘I have letters for the post,’ I said. ‘Could you see they go on the next mail coach?’
Blackstone had instructed me to send letters through the owner of the stables, but this was the chance of a little independence. Amos nodded, took both letters from me but gave back Celia’s coins.
‘I’m doing well enough, miss, but what about you?’
‘I’m employed at Mandeville Hall, only they mustn’t know about this.’
‘Amos.’
The call was impatient. Amos picked up the saddle and bridle.
‘You wait here till I come. You’ll be safe enough.’
‘I can’t wait.’
I’d lost track of time, but Betty would surely be getting the children up soon and I’d be missed. Still, one thing was urgent.
‘Rancie must be exercised properly. Isn’t there anybody who can ride her?’
‘I’m too heavy and the lads are feared of her, miss. That’s the third she’s had off.’
‘It’s because she’s light-mouthed. They’ll kill her spirit if they go on like this. Can you tell them you’ve had word from her owner that nobody should ride her until further instructions?’
He nodded, but looked worried.
‘Needs a lady’s hand, she does.’
I don’t know if he was deliberately putting an idea into my mind.
‘I’ll think of something,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back on …’ I did a quick calculation. In four days there might be an answer to one or both of the letters ‘… on Saturday.’
He nodded and went out to the yard, taking his time. When I glanced out, everybody in the yard seemed to be occupied, so I slipped past them without anybody noticing and out of the gates.
‘You look feverish,’ Betty said. ‘Did you sleep badly?’
She’d been kinder than I deserved, getting the children up and dressed, taking them for their walk before breakfast. I’d almost bumped into them on my way back from the flower garden where I’d put a clove carnation on the rustic seat for Celia to find. I’d had to hide behind the beech hedge then rush up the back stairs to wash and tidy myself. By the time they came back to the schoolroom, I was tolerably neat in my blue-and-white print dress and muslin tucker, reading from the Gallic Wars.
‘She’s wearing rose-water,’ Henrietta said, sniffing.
Observant little beast. The maids had taken most of the water as usual, and there had only been enough left for a superficial wash, not enough to abolish the lingering smell of stables.
‘It smells just like my rose-water.’
It was. Desperate, I’d gone into her room and sprayed myself from the bottle on her white-and-gilt dressing table. What do nine-year-old girls need with rose-water in any case? It marked the start of a difficult day in the schoolroom. The children were short of sleep and sullen, still shaken by their father’s anger the evening before. I could hardly keep my eyes open, let alone summon up any interest in Julius Caesar or multiplication in pounds, shillings and pence. Towards the end of the morning, when we’d moved on to French conversation, Mrs Beedle paid us a visit of inspection. She sat listening for a while, very stern and upright, but from the thoughtful way she looked at her grandchildren I guessed she was trying to tell if they were affected by what had happened. What was more alarming was that I caught her looking at me with a puzzled frown, nostrils flaring. She’d certainly noticed the rose-water and probably guessed where it came from, but had she caught a whiff of horse as well?
‘Miss Lock, I am concerned …’ she said, and paused.
‘Concerned, ma’am?’
