Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
On his return to Brantstone after church, Sebastian spent the time until dinner, avoiding Fanny and Freddy by shutting himself in his own bedchamber with the London broadsheets.
He sat in an overstuffed armchair covered in the same silk as the walls and bed hangings and surveyed the room.
When Connie arrived he would consult her about redecorating.
She had a marvellous eye for what suited the occupant of a room.
All he knew was that the pale silk wall coverings and matching bed covers and elegant gilded furniture was not his style.
However redecorating was a luxury he could ill afford.
He rose to his feet and looked out the window.
It still lacked an hour until dinner, so he decided that a long overdue visit to the stables would be in order.
He found a side door and circled the house until he reached the magnificent buildings built in the same style as the house and entered under an elegant clock tower.
Thompson, the head groom, had been included in the introductions on his arrival and came out to meet him, hastily pulling a coat on over his shirtsleeves. Sebastian greeted him by name and asked to be shown over the stables.
‘Honoured, my lord,’ Thompson replied.
The man escorted him through the immaculate stable block, stopping at each stall to introduce the occupant as if they were favoured tenants.
Sebastian followed, enthralled and a little awed that all these magnificent beasts were now his.
Freddy had been right. Whatever else his cousin lacked, there was no denying he knew his horses.
A dozen racehorses, handsome beasts with long legs and powerful hindquarters, strong and beautifully matched carriage horses and an assortment of saddle horses filled the stalls.
For the first time, Sebastian felt a cousinly bond with the late Lord Somerton.
Anthony may have had no interest in the house and the estate but he understood horses and knew their value.
He stopped to admire a magnificent black stallion. The animal watched him, ears swivelling with curiosity at the sound of his voice as he approached. Sebastian opened the door of the stall and stepped inside, running an experienced hand down the arched neck of the horse.
‘More than a little Arab in this one,’ he remarked,
Thompson nodded. ‘That’s Pharaoh. You’ve a good eye, my lord.’
‘I’d like to ride him.’
Thompson looked dubious. ‘He’s a handful, my lord.’ He hooked his thumbs in his belt and rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘To be honest with you, his late lordship was riding ’im when he had the accident.’
Sebastian gave the handsome beast a thoughtful look.
‘Has anyone ridden him since?’
‘I’ve had him out a few times, my lord, but you know how ’tis when a horse—’ He broke off.
Sebastian knew he had been going to add: ‘becomes a killer’.
‘There’s some as would have had him destroyed,’ Thompson continued
‘That would have been a pity. From what I know of my cousin’s demise, it was hardly the fault of the horse. Get him ready for me, Thompson. I’ll take him out now.’
Thompson hesitated as if about to say something, but thought better of it and inclined his head.
‘As your lordship wishes.’
Sebastian continued the rest of the stables tour by himself.
As he reached the end of the row of stalls, past a pair of matching bay carriage horses, he heard the soft tone of a woman’s voice.
In the very last stall, a small, heavily pregnant piebald mare was being fed withered carrots by no less a person than the dowager Lady Somerton.
She’d not heard him approach and it gave him the luxury of a moment to stop and watch her as she caressed the little mare’s nose and whispered in her ear. The mare seemed to lean against her, nickering softly in answer to Isabel’s voice.
Isabel wore an elegant green riding habit, completely at odds with the dreadful, shapeless black gowns she seemed to favour. A long strand of hair, the colour of dark honey, had escaped the jaunty hat with its green and black feathers and black netting.
No one would describe Isabel as beautiful, but here, when she thought no one was watching, she had a lovely serenity to her regular features, normally glazed in a mask of polite indifference.
In profile, the intelligent brow, strong, slightly pointed nose and a determined little chin gave her the appearance of a different woman to the one he had come to know.
He cleared his throat, and she turned around with an expression that was at once startled and annoyed. Seeing Sebastian, she tucked the loose strand of hair under her hat.
He whipped his hat off and indicated the little pony.
‘Is the mare yours?’
She nodded. ‘This is Millie. I know she’s not much to look at, but she’s my last link with my uncle. He gave her to me for my sixteenth birthday. She has the sweetest temperament of any horse I have ever known.’
Sebastian entered the stall and ran a hand down the mare’s nose and nodded.
‘You can see that in her eyes,’ he agreed, running an expert hand over the mare’s swollen belly. ‘She’s not far off foaling.’
Isabel nodded. ‘Only a matter of days. Lucky girl,’ she addressed the horse, ‘you’re going to be a mama again.’
‘Your husband kept a good stable,’ Sebastian said.
She nodded. ‘Horses were his life and he enjoyed more than a little success at Newmarket. One of the few things he was good at,’ she added.
She gave the mare one last pat on the nose, brushed her hands on her skirt and walked out of the stall.
Sebastian followed her out into the courtyard where a couple of the stable boys were grooming two of the racehorses.
One of the animals fidgeted under the boy’s ministrations and Sebastian gave it a cursory glance, taking in the twitching of its ears and how it pulled against the boy’s hand, the whites of its eyes showing.
A nervous beast. Not one he would trust.
Thompson waited by the mounting block, holding Pharaoh by the bridle.
Isabel stopped and looked up at Sebastian.
‘You’re not going to ride Pharaoh, are you?’
Hearing the genuine apprehension in her voice, he looked at her, seeing fear in her eyes. ‘Why not?’
‘Didn’t Thompson tell you—’
‘That this was the horse Anthony was riding the night he died? Yes, he did. I don’t blame the horse for what happened.’
‘But, Lord Somerton, you are barely out of your sick bed!’
Sebastian ignored her protest and swung himself up into the saddle, wincing as the barely healed wound caught.
This might not have been a good idea, he considered, as Pharaoh recoiled from the unaccustomed weight on his back, going down on his hindquarters, his eyes rolling.
It took all of Thompson’s strength to hold him.
Sebastian took the reins, feeling for the horse’s mouth.
‘Let him go, Thompson,’ he ordered.
The groom obeyed. Pharaoh responded by rearing.
Failing to dislodge his rider, he danced sideways, tossing his head.
Sebastian held him firmly, talking to the horse, calming him.
Only when Pharaoh had settled did he put his heels to the horse’s side, taking him on a slow circuit of the stable yard.
He tapped his heels and the horse responded obediently, moving into a graceful trot and then a canter with only the slightest urging.
Sebastian brought the creature back to where Isabel and Thompson stood, approval written on Thompson’s face and relief on Isabel’s.
Thompson stroked the horse’s nose. ‘You see, old fellow? The new lord ain’t so bad, is he?’
Sebastian wondered if he was talking to him or the horse. Either way, he appreciated the grudging praise.
Isabel added. ‘The new lord is not quite so hard on a horse’s mouth, either.’ She turned to the groom. ‘How is your wife today, Thompson?’
‘Fair ta middling. Kind of you to enquire, your leddyship.’
The lilt of a girl’s voice singing a country song made them all look up.
Young Matilda, the kitchen maid, had entered the yard carrying a bucket from which carrot tops poked.
Seeing the new Lord Somerton, her singing died away, and she stopped in the middle of the gateway, her eyes wide with alarm, staring past the group at the mounting block.
At the sound of a horse whinnying, they all turned to see what had taken the girl’s attention. The stable boy holding the nervous racehorse gave a sharp cry as the plunging beast shook his hold. It whirled around on its hindquarters, rolling eyes fixed on the gateway where Matilda stood.
Isabel cried out a warning, but Matilda did not move.
She stared with wide eyes at the horse and dropped her bucket, scattering carrot tops.
Without thinking, Sebastian pulled Pharaoh around, putting his heels to the horse’s side.
He reached Matilda seconds before the runaway, leaning down from Pharaoh and scooping her up as the racehorse crashed past them, making for the park.
Safe in his arms, the young girl pressed her face into his coat. He put a protective arm around her shaking shoulders.
‘You’re safe now, Matilda,’ he said, and turned Pharaoh back to the mounting block where he let Matilda down.
She sat down on the block and buried her head in her hands.
Isabel pulled the sobbing child towards her and held her close, making hushing sounds.
Sebastian watched her, seeing not the child but the woman who should have been a mother.
Now the danger had passed, a familiar stabbing catch in the wound and, more worryingly, the warm stickiness of blood on his skin reminded Sebastian that the exercise had been foolish.
Making sure he had the animal positioned so that he could dismount on the offside to the bystanders, he slid off, grimacing in pain under the pretence of adjusting the stirrup.
He thanked Thompson, who had taken the reins. Isabel looked up from Matilda, and he inclined his head. Without another word he walked out of the stable yard, only his stiff back and tight mouth betraying the fact that each footstep sent shafts of fire jarring through his body.
He made it to his bedchamber without a break in his stride. Once there, he looked around for a chair, but the elegant silk-covered seats and oriental rugs did not invite the risk of a bloodstain. Finding nothing suitable, he rang for Bennet and sat on the windowsill.
He got no sympathy from his corporal.
‘What were you thinking, sir?’ Bennet chided, removing the ruined jacket and bloodstained shirt. ‘That exit wound is barely scabbed, and you’ve gone and broken it open again. Sorry, sir, I’m going to say it: you’re an idiot.’
‘I should have you whipped for your impudence,’ Sebastian said between gritted teeth. If I didn’t happen to agree with you. ‘Just patch me up.’
‘Patch you up so you can go off careening around on ’orses again? I don’t think so. You’re going back to your bed,’ Bennet said in a voice that brooked no argument.
As Isabel ascended the stairs, she passed Pierce. The old man carried a pile of clothing and was muttering to himself as he stomped past, barely acknowledging her. She caught the words ‘ruined’ and ‘never would’ve happened in the old lord’s day’.
She put a hand on his arm to waylay him. ‘Whatever’s the matter, Pierce?’
‘It’s his lordship,’ Pierce said. ‘Only gone and ruined a perfectly good set of linens. Not to mention his new jacket. I’ve no idea how I’m going to get the blood out.’
‘Blood?’
Pierce indicated the shirt. The red-brown stain on the back of the new linen told its own story.
‘Soak it in cold water,’ Isabel suggested. Gathering up her skirt, she hastened down the corridor to Sebastian’s room.
She found him sitting in a large, winged chair wearing a pair of loose trousers, a clean shirt and a loose green brocade banyan that she recognised as one of Anthony’s.
Underneath the shirt, she could see the tell-tale ridge of heavy bandaging.
He had placed his slippered feet on a stool and had his nose in a book. He looked up as she entered.
‘Don’t stand!’ she said as he reached for the arms of the chair to haul himself up.
As he subsided back into the chair with a grimace, she opened her mouth, but something flashed in his eye and she thought better of it.
‘My dear Lady Somerton, if you’re here to practice your schoolroom manners and lecture me on the foolishness of riding horses when I am barely out of my sick bed, spare yourself,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘I have been lectured by Bennet and disapproved of by Pierce.’
Relief sharpened her tongue. ‘I am naturally concerned for your health, my lord. It would be most inconvenient if you were to die on me now.’
She tempered the words with a smile as he shut the book with a thump.
‘I assure you, Lady Somerton, I have no intention of dying.’
‘I’m relieved to hear that.’
She wanted to tell him what a remarkable thing he had done, but something in his demeanour discouraged discussion of what had occurred in the stable yard.
He held up the book he had been reading. ‘Tell me, are all the books in the library like this?’
‘Like what?’
He flicked the pages. ‘Uncut.’
Isabel took the book from him. John Milton’s Paradise Lost, exquisitely bound in Moroccan leather and embossed with the Somerton coat of arms, its uncut pages smelt as if they had come straight from the printer.
A letter opener sat on the table next to Sebastian’s chair, along with a decanter of whisky and a glass.
She handed it back to him. ‘Your grandfather purchased the library. The books were for show, not for reading.’
He opened it to the page he had been reading and, without looking up at her, said, ‘Please excuse me from joining you for dinner. I am under orders from Bennet that I am not to set one foot outside this room.’
Isabel allowed a smile to catch at the corners of her mouth.
‘You tolerate a great deal of insubordination from your batman, Captain Alder.’
He looked up at her and she saw no humour in his eyes.
‘I owe Bennet my life. He can be as insubordinate as he likes. Thank you for your concern about my health. Now you have satisfied yourself that I am not at death’s door, I will see you tomorrow, Lady Somerton.’
Dismissed, Isabel left the room, closing the door softly behind her, just as the gong rang to announce dinner.