Chapter 18

The scent of snow icy and pure was in the air as Callum stepped down into the garden. It had snowed all night and all day, and the lawn was buried in three or four inches of snow. He gazed up at the sky, where a flurry of flakes was still falling. The snow was starting to fall heavily and he shivered, drawing his coat tight about him.

“The horses,” he murmured under his breath.

He had checked on them before breakfast, but almost ten hours had passed since then. He had promised to take Firelight out on a ride, and he had got as far as riding him up the path when the snow started to fall so thickly that he had deemed any outriding as dangerous. He could barely see, and his horse was skittish, snorting at the flurry that fell on him and the heavy, dull thump when snow slid off a tree branch near them. He had turned and ridden him back and ordered the grooms to rub him down.

“Make sure he stays warm. Keep his stall window shuttered until he is completely dried off,” he had said.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the stable-hand had replied.

That was six hours ago.

Callum battled through the thick snow, hurrying towards the stable. He had brought a lantern with him, the darkness long fallen. He kept careful eyes on the path, not wanting to slip.

He reached the stable, and there he stopped, blinking in confusion. Usually, there would be a lamp or two burning while the stable-hands mucked out the stalls on their evening round. Instead, the stable was entirely dark, no light showing under the door, and he frowned. It was understandable if the stable-hands had done the task earlier, hurrying indoors to where it was warm and dry, but something felt wrong and he stepped up to the door, pushing it open.

The stable smelled damp, and Callum lifted his lantern. A horse neighed. It was Firelight, he guessed. He stepped into the aisle, scraping the snow off his boots as he did so.

“Easy, boy,” he called out to Firelight indulgently as the horse snorted again. Firelight was always talkative, especially when he heard Callum. He walked on down the aisle and frowned as his foot splashed into water. The circle of light from his lantern showed a puddle on the floor, water flowing from the corner. Firelight neighed more urgently. Callum swore under his breath, marching down the aisle and pausing in the doorway. The oil lamp hung on the wall there and he lit it, then gazed around in the brighter light.

He could see nothing untoward. The light fell on a clean-swept aisle. The stable-hands had mucked out, laying fresh straw. The only odd thing he saw was a puddle of water. A big one.

Firelight neighed again, and then Snowstorm and Rainstorm together whickered and stamped. The two stallions—Firelight and Snowstorm—sometimes neighed at one another, but that Rainstorm joined in was odd. Callum walked down the aisle and gasped aloud.

“What in Perdition?” he swore.

Part of the roof had collapsed.

A great, gaping hole stretched above him, perhaps a yard across and two yards long. Through it, he could see the night sky, snow clinging to the edges. A rotten board swung freely, and another one sagged, two or three bending inwards where the supporting beam broke. By such improbable luck that he could only deem it a miracle, the roof that had collapsed was at the very end of the aisle, where the feed-room joined the stable proper. Snow drifted in and melted in the warmer environs, making a big puddle that stretched more or less the length of the aisle. Callum swore again.

“I knew that would happen!” he said aloud. He gazed up at the roof, the weight of what he was seeing slowly filtering through his mind.

The stable was cold. Snow was drifting in and, while the body heat of the horses was enough to make the area closer to the floor warm enough to melt the snow, if a wind came up during the night, the horses would freeze in their stalls.

It was the thing he had feared more than anything. He had always feared that he would fail with the horses. The stable was the one thing he had inherited from his father that he had succeeded in developing.

“Please, help me,” he whispered. He looked around. There were twenty horses—his usual fifteen, and five belonging to guests. The horses for the guests’ coaches were stabled at the coach-house, along with his three teams of coach-horses. He could move some of the horses to the coach-house stalls—but they were also in scant supply, since the guests’ coach horses used up the spare stalls.

Callum went to Firelight’s stall. His horse neighed, rolling his eyes, and then came forward to lip at Callum’s hand. All the horses were agitated, and no wonder, Callum thought angrily. They must have been confused, cold and afraid for hours. Heaven only knew when the roof beams had broken under the snow. Since the stable-hands had not mentioned the fact, it must have been after their rounds were made.

“Easy, boy,” Callum said distantly, stroking his horse’s nose. His mind raced. He needed to get the horses to safety—that was his first priority. But he had no idea how—he was by himself, and did not want to spare a moment in case more of the rotten roof beams collapsed under the heavy snow.

He breathed in deeply, marching to the tack room. What he needed to do first was to get the horses out, starting with Buttercup—who was most at risk if the stable was becoming too cold—and Firelight. To do that, he needed to put bridles on them.

Should I fetch someone? He asked himself. The village carpenter needs to be fetched straight away. And what about the weight of the snow? Someone should go up there and brush the roof. But what if the boards are so rotten that their weight causes damage to the roof?

His mind was in turmoil. He walked into the tack room and grabbed the bridles of Firelight and Buttercup from the wall by the door, then marched out. As he walked into the main stable, someone spoke.

“Your Grace? Are you there?”

“By Perdition!” Callum swore, jumping with fright. Then he turned to the door. Miss Rothwell stood in the half-open gap. Her hair was uncovered, her bonnet hanging down her back. She wore a brown pelisse. Her eyes were huge and confused. She gazed at him with worry.

“Your Grace. I beg your pardon. I saw a light in the garden and I followed it. I was out walking before dinner. I did not intend to intrude.”

“No! No, you are most welcome,” Callum said quickly. “I was merely...” he paused. He hesitated to share his troubles, but he was in desperate need of assistance. He was but one man and he had no idea where to begin in moving the horses to safety. “I noticed a problem with the roof—the back section. It has collapsed,” he explained, gesturing toward it. Speaking of it seemed to steady his nerves, and he drew a deep breath. She gazed down the aisle, her eyes widening as she took in the damage, before turning back to him.

“The horses. We need to get them out,” she said at once.

Callum nodded grimly. “But where?” he asked her, already beginning to bridle Firelight. His horse stepped back, ears flat, whinnying as if Callum was a threat. Callum sighed. His own fear was communicating itself to the horses. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I have no other stalls. The coach-house stalls are full.” He gazed at her, wishing she could think of something.

“The coach house stalls are full,” she repeated, then frowned. “But the coach house itself is not. We can put them in there!” Her eyes brightened, a big smile blooming on her face. “Come on! We must get them there at once, before the roof suffers any further damage.”

“Sorry?” Callum blinked, struggling to keep up with her rapid speech. He gazed at her, and soon her words began to make sense. “You mean...in the coach house? The coach house proper?”

“Yes!” Miss Rothwell’s eyes danced with excitement. “We should take the carriages out. They can remain outside for the night—on the lawn, in the pathway... it matters not where. We can clear the space and prepare it for the horses.” She was already making her way toward the door.

“But...” Callum frowned. “But they will all be next to each other,” he protested. “They may fight.”

“How many do you have that fight?” Miss Rothwell demanded. “We can place the troublesome ones in the stalls that are available in the coach house, or we may fashion temporary fencing to divide the space. It will only be for the night until the carpenter can be summoned. It is the only space we have.”

Callum nodded. His heart soared, a surge of joy flooding him. “It could work!” he exclaimed. “Yes. I will bridle the horses,” he began, managing to buckle the bridle he had put over his hunting-horse's nose. “If you could, please go to the kitchens? Tell Mr Morton that we need the coach-house to be cleared. And send for the stable-hands. And inform them that a carpenter needs to be summoned from the village. After his working hours or no. Get him here—the cost is no matter,” Callum insisted.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Miss Rothwell said, pausing at the door. “Anything else?”

“No,” Callum said swiftly, the realisation sinking in that they were working seamlessly together, that he had sent her off to the kitchen as though it was Harriet or Mr Randell that he talked to—people with whom he had the rapport of a lifetime’s knowing. “Thank you.”

Miss Rothwell disappeared into the snow.

Callum bridled Buttercup, then walked to the tack room to fetch more bridles. He needed to ready all twenty of the horses to be moved. In the group of horses who lived on the estate, only two could not be put in the same paddock, and that was the two stallions. All the rest had an easy rapport with one another and could be housed in the same space for a night together.

“You can have your own stalls,” he told Firelight as he passed on his way to put a bridle on Snowstorm. He glanced at the guests’ horses. He had no idea which of them would tolerate the others, but the stable-hands must have some sense of that by now. He slipped the bridle onto Snowstorm, noticing that the stallion stood without complaint and let him do it. His own mood must have settled a great deal if the horses were no longer feeling afraid.

He was putting a bridle on one of the guest’s horses when a voice hailed him from the door.

“Your Grace?” It was Alan, one of the stable-hands.

“Alan! Grand!” Callum beamed at the sound. “Come in! You, too,” he added, summoning the other stable-hand, Noah, who waited at the door. “We need to move the horses. If you two will bridle them with me so we can lead one pair at a time to the coach-house?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Alan replied, frowning.

“The coach house is almost full. Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Noah said, looking down as if afraid to contradict an order from a duke.

“Yes. It is. Quite right. Which is why we are going to stable them in the main part where the coaches go. If you could tell me which of the guest’s horses may safely be stabled with my herd? I would appreciate it,” he added honestly. He slipped a bridle onto Rainstorm and stroked her muzzle, calming her.

“The coach house? Cor!” Alan exclaimed, eyes round.

“Good idea,” Noah complimented warmly.

Callum just smiled. He was too busy to thank them, and besides, he was not sure how to respond, and so he continued with his task, going back to the tack-room to fetch more bridles.

They fell into an easy rhythm. Callum worked with the horses belonging to their estate, while the two stable-hands bridled the guests’ horses swiftly. A knock at the door made them all turn around. Miss Rothwell was there. She caught his eye and smiled.

“The coach house is empty, Your Grace. The coaches are parked on the lawn. They are quite a sight there.”

Callum grinned. She was smiling, her energy infectious. It seemed to crackle in the air around her. He looked at the stable-hands. At that moment, if she had told them to throw themselves into the brook, they would have done it. They hung on each word she said.

“We can begin leading the horses in, two at a time,” Callum announced, his heart soaring. He beamed at Miss Rothwell. “Thank you,” he murmured quietly.

She smiled back and he smiled to himself. He would have done anything she asked in that moment, even if it meant leaping into the brook himself.

“Come on,” he called to the stable hands, summoning them to the door. “Let’s get the horses out. I shall take Firelight and Buttercup.”

“I’ll take Rainstorm and Snowstorm,” Alan said swiftly.

“I’ll do the two guest-horses who make a fine team together,” Noah offered.

They began leading the horses out.

Miss Rothwell stood silent in the doorway where the aisle widened and met the tack room. The horses walked calmly past her. Callum led them into the coach house without complaint. Firelight went into his own stall on one end of the row of stalls where the coach-horses slept.

They worked for an hour. Callum leaned on the door, sweating despite the trips into the cold, as the last pair of horses were led into the coach house. The vast space was spread with straw on the floor, and one of the gardeners had helped to move the feeding mangers from the stable into the space and filled them with hay and oats. Eighteen horses milled about in the space, feeding or resting calmly. Firelight and Snowstorm were in stalls on opposite sides of the space, able to see the rest of the horses, but not able to see or reach each other.

“All is settled now, Your Grace,” Alan said, collecting a bridle from where he had hung it on a post. All of the horses were standing comfortably, their bridles removed. With so many of them in the space, it was warm, and, more importantly, it would remain so because it was dry and sheltered from the elements. Callum shut his eyes, relief making him feel suddenly weakened.

“Go to the kitchen,” he told the two stable-hands tiredly. “Tell the cook to prepare a fine meal for you—whatever is being served to the guests, you are to have your share. As much as you desire.”

“Cor!” Alan exclaimed; eyes wide.

“As much as we like? Blimey, Your Grace! Thank you!” Noah effused.

Callum nodded wearily. “You need it. And a rest. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Thank you, Your Grace!” Alan called as the two youths hurried to the door.

Callum sighed, leaning back against the wall.

“They did a grand job today,” he remarked after a moment, as Miss Rothwell entered the space. She had worked alongside them all, supervising the proceedings and relaying messages, where necessary, between the duke, the stable-hands and the team who were already working to restore the stable roof. He stared at her. She stood in her brown pelisse, slightly open at the neck to show a pale gown below. Her hair had escaped its style and curls hung around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, but otherwise, she was calm, her eyes bright and glowing in the lamplight. He sucked in a breath. She looked so beautiful. He cleared his throat. Words would not come. He felt too shy.

“Those young fellows were pleased with your offer,” she said softly. “I have never seen two young men run to the kitchen so fast.”

Callum grinned. “They needed it. They did a great job.” He paused. “As did you.” He shook his head. “None of this would have been possible without you. It was your idea.” He gazed around the space. Twenty horses grazed in peace, where, so easily, all twenty could have been shivering in their stalls, catching pneumonia—or worse, succumbing to the cold.

She gazed into his eyes and smiled, shyly, then looked away. “I am simply so grateful that the plan succeeded,” she said softly. “And that I could be of help. The horses are happy here.” She looked up, staring at the small, calm herd of horses.

“They are. I am so glad. And so grateful,” Callum said gently. “Without you, I had no idea. I do not know what I would have done.” He swallowed hard.

Miss Rothwell blushed. “I am glad I could help,” she repeated softly.

He stared into her eyes. She was so close, just a few steps away, and he stepped forward, and slowly took her hand in his. Her palms were warm, the tips of her fingers cold. She gazed into his eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he folded her fingers into his grip. His eyes held hers, her skin soft against his fingertips.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “I owe you so much; at the very least, a heartfelt thank you.” His lips lifted at the corners in a smile.

She gazed into his eyes. “You are in no way indebted to me, Your Grace. I am glad I could assist.”

His heart ached. He stared into her eyes. The skin of her cheeks was petal-soft in the lamplight, her gaze gentle. He longed to press his lips to her own. He moved fractionally forward, then stopped.

“You must be tired,” he murmured. “We should go in. They will fare well without us, I think. They have all they need. We can go inside.”

“Yes,” Miss Rothwell murmured.

Callum loosened his grip on her fingers, heart aching as she drew them away. She looked towards the door.

“We should take ourselves inside,” she said softly. “It is quite cold outside.”

“It is,” Callum agreed and stepped out into the cold. He had taken off his greatcoat during the work and it hung by the door at the front of the coach-house. He lifted it down and shrugged it on. They stepped out into the garden.

The garden was cold. It had stopped snowing, the breeze ruffling the snow on the bushes and blowing soft, powdery drifts of it across the ground. Everything was covered in a thick blanket of white. The path beneath their feet was trampled by dozens of footprints, both of humans and horses. It was slippery, the compacted snow already freezing in the icy cold. Callum reached for Miss Rothwell’s hand.

“It’s slippery. You might fall,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Her fingers were warm in his own. They walked down the path silently. They reached the front terrace. The steps led up to it, bathed in light from the long windows of the house. Callum gazed at her.

“Thank you,” he said again. “We are probably late for supper.” He chuckled.

“We need to put on some other clothes,” she answered. “We are both soaked through.”

“Go in. It’s cold,” he insisted.

“Yes.”

He paused where he was on the step, letting her go ahead of him. She walked to the door and opened it. He stood where he was, reluctant to move. The space of the garden, and of the stable, was magical—there, connection was possible that was not possible in the crowded, public space of the manor. There, it was possible for him to be himself, and for her to be herself. He swallowed hard.

“Good evening,” he murmured as she went inside. “Until dinnertime.”

She laughed. “Until dinnertime, Your Grace,” she replied. She turned in the doorway, dazzling him with a grin.

He stood on the step, unable to move for a second or two. Then he walked up the stairs. His legs ached, his feet seeming heavy as balls of lead. He marched wearily into the entranceway and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. The horses were safe, the roof was being fixed. And he had just spent the afternoon with the most beautiful woman he could imagine.

He was smiling as he walked up the stairs to his room to dress for dinner.