“That was unkind, Mother,” he said at last.
“It was accurate,” she replied. “You are too ready to be moved by a pretty face and a soft voice. See that you are not moved into beggary.”
He turned from the window. “Do you have anything else that cannot possibly wait?”
“Dozens of things,” she said. “But I will pace them out. One cannot consume all the problems of a day at once.”
He managed not to recoil. “How considerate.”
She sniffed and left the study, trailing a faint scent of lavender and disapproval. He tried to return to the accounts. The columns refused to sit still. His mind kept straying to the stable yard, to the way Isla’s hand moved over a horse’s neck, the way Godwin had stood with arms folded, listening, not arguing. By lateafternoon, when Giles appeared at his door with a ledger from the stables, Edward had lost all patience with figures.
“Godwin sends his respect, Your Grace,” Giles said. “He asks if you might sign for the purchase of a new stallion from Mr. Harcourt. The bay we saw at the Newbury sale.”
Edward took the ledger and scanned the neat entries. His own handwriting stared back at him from the page where he had already made brief notes in the margin regarding Harcourt’s horse.
Good shoulders, strong hocks, promising for hunters.
Below his notes, in a different hand, someone had added observations.
Precise. Knowledgeable.
The someone, he suspected, had a Scottish accent.
“Has Godwin been in the office all afternoon?” he asked.
“On and off, sir,” Giles said. “Her Grace was with him for the better part of an hour, going over the broodmares.”
“Broodmares,” Edward repeated.
“Yes, Your Grace. Her Grace seemed very interested in them.”
Giles withdrew tactfully. Edward stared down at the page.
Broodmares. Godwin. Isla.
He found himself rising, ledger in hand, and heading for the stables with his mother’s warnings and his own gnawing uncertainty all scraping together inside his skull.
***
The stable yard smelled of hay and leather, of horses and clean sweat and the faint sharpness of linseed oil. Stable boys moved briskly between stalls, currying coats, filling haynets.
The afternoon light slanted in through the high windows, turning dust motes to gold. Harold Godwin stood in the aisle, arms crossed, listening as Isla spoke. She was beside the door of one of the larger stalls, a small stack of papers in hand, her foot tapping unconsciously as she talked.
“… but if you put Flora to Harcourt’s bay,” she was saying, “you’ll pull out all the wrong faults. Her hindquarters lack strength, his legs are not as clean as they look at first glance. You’d be breeding yourself a stable full of handsome cripples.”
Godwin grunted. “I thought as much.”
“So you need something to correct her faults, not mirror them,” Isla went on. “Whereas Millicent, she’s all length and no power. She’d do better with a deeper-chested stallion. If you insist on bringing in new blood, make sure it’s to improve, not simply to look impressive at the Boxing Day meet.”
Godwin’s mouth twitched under his whiskers. “You’ve more sense than half the men who’ve come through here selling me nags as if they were Arab princes.”
“I have more sense than half the men in London,” she said cheerfully. “But don’t tell them. They would perish of the shock.”
Godwin chuckled. Edward felt something tighten and then loosen inside him. She knew what she was talking about. There was nothing simpering or idle in her manner. This was a woman in earnest conference about stock, not an idle lady meddling for amusement. He stepped forward.
Both Isla and Godwin broke off. Godwin’s easy posture stiffened into respect. Isla straightened, the papers in her hand rustling faintly. There was a reserve in her eyes, a wall.
“Your Grace,” Godwin said. “We were just…”
