To both sides, an array of stables and stalls were laid out, built in timber and stone. Young grooms brushed down beautiful mares and picked their hooves with curved hooks. A colt skittered as he was saddled and a fine grey poked his head over a gate at the goings-on. Hebe smiled – to sketch all these splendid animals in this setting was more than she could ever have asked for.
“Hebe, dear. Are you well?”
A concerned hand touched her cheek and she realised a tear had trailed. “Yes, fine. I’m just…content.”
“Good. We shall have a fulsome dinner and retire early. ’Twas such a prompt start and I haven’t been awake at five in the morning since that trip up the Nile.”
The carriage door clattered open, the steps were lowered and Hebe hastened to the damp cobbles, a rough hand assisting. “My thanks. Oh, Aunt, isn’t it wonderful?”
Silence.
Which was most unusual, and she turned.
Aunt Beatrice had halted, one booted foot to the top step, her gloved fingers held within the…stable master’s, Hebe guessed, as although the man’s clothes were tousled, they were of good quality, a mane comb protruding from his pocket.
The two of them simply stared at one another and Hebe could not quite discern their expressions – surprise, certainly.
“Aunt?”
Beatrice’s head snapped around. “Oh, sorry, dear.” And she tugged her hand away, stalking down the carriage steps unaided. “What were you saying?”
“It’s wonderful, is it not? And this is just the stables.”
The man gave a curt nod and strode off to the stalls, leaving them dawdling on the cobbles as lads rushed to unhitch the horses, others goggling at their mountain of luggage.
“Thee the artist thas gonna bide awhile?”
A whack of stick upon stone and Hebe twisted to an elderly gentleman sitting upon a wooden bench beneath a jutting roof. He was slender with ruddy cheeks and a slouched cap upon iron-grey hair. And for some reason, a white goat with no tail stood patiently by his side.
“Er… I’m Mrs Locke, an artist, yes. And this is my aunt, Mrs Cassell.”
From the interior of the stalls came a loud snort – horse or man, it was difficult to tell.
“I be Grampy Tom, retired stable master by twenty years or so, and I be here to keep an eye on the youngsters so they don’t make a hackle of it.”
“Good afternoon, Mr Grampy Tom. I’m pleased to meet you.” Hebe gripped her upper arms and rubbed them. “I do hope this grey weather clears.”
One of the lads noticeably groaned, but the elderly stable master beamed and perused the weather cock as it snoozed in stationary lassitude upon the tiled roof.
“Well, lass, if you ask I, the south wind always brings wet weather.”
“So…”
“The north wind wet and cold together.”
“So…”
“The west wind brings the rain.”
“And the east?”
“East wind blows it all back here again.”
“So…”
“It’s going to rain… Though might not, never can tell when the frogs are quiet.” He gave a roguish wink.
Deciding she rather liked the grizzled man, Hebe grinned and returned his wink before swivelling to dash after her aunt who was striding purposefully in Garvey the butler’s wake. Those sturdy double doors in the limestone wall were now ajar and once through, Hebe and her aunt both halted in astonishment.
