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That did it.
Phaedra threw open the carriage door and jumped down, striding towards the scene of the melee purposefully. ‘Lady Phaedra!’ John Coachman called out from atop the box, but she didn’t stop. She would put an end to this barbarism.
Before the horse could rear again, she stepped in front of the rough handler and seized the rope, effectively shoving him out of the way. ‘Easy now,’ she said in firm tones loud enough to be heard. Slowly, she gathered in the rope, making it more difficult for the horse to rise up, talking to him all the while, looking him in the eye. When she was close enough, Phaedra drew an apple slice from the pocket of her jacket and held it out to the horse. He was quivering, still unsure, but definitely quieter than he’d been minutes before. He took the apple and Phaedra reached up to pat his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
‘Good boy, you’re a good boy,’ she crooned, feeling him settle beneath her hand. He was a good boy too; he’d merely been startled by something in his surroundings and Webster’s response had only aggravated him more. She’d have a few words for the captain in a moment.
‘Well, if it isn’t Lady Phaedra Montague.’ She didn’t have to look up from the stallion. The snide voice was all too familiar. ‘I should have known if there was any commotion you’d be at the heart of it.’
Sir Nathan Samuelson strode forward, a sneer of contempt on his face.
Phaedra kept her hand on the horse’s neck, her gaze meeting Sir Nathan’s unwaveringly. She would not be cowed by him. ‘And I should have known if a horse was being mistreated, it would have been yours. The captain is doing a poor job of introducing this animal to his new life.’ Might made right in Sir Nathan’s view of the world, a philosophy he exercised quite regularly in his stables and Phaedra suspected in his personal life as well. He was unmarried, but not for a lack of trying. Last year he’d tried a suit with her sister, Kate, and even more recently with Aunt Claire. Both had refused him on grounds of moral and philosophical differences, to put it politely.
‘Step away, Lady Phaedra. I have miles to go and an order to pick up from my tailor in town before I can be under way.’ He made an impatient gesture with his hand and then paused with a smirk. ‘That is, unless you have more pearls to sell?’ He made the remark sound nasty and a few of the men gathered around to watch the scene laughed. He came towards her, intentionally dwarfing her, crowding her with his size and breadth. She had a little height of her own but Sir Nathan was of hearty country stock. ‘All your pearls are gone except one.’ His voice was a low sneer. ‘The one right between your legs. Who knows, for a good rub, I might give you the horse, show all of you Montagues you’re not too good for the likes of me. We’re fellow peers of realm, after all.’
Phaedra stiffened, wanting to get away but having no exit. She was trapped between Sir Nathan and the horse. ‘Having a title doesn’t make you a peer of the Montagues. You aren’t fit to wipe our boots.’
‘You little bitch.’
Sir Nathan lunged but his body never reached her. A strong hand at his neck dragged him backwards and spun him around. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you how to talk to a lady?’
No sooner had Sir Nathan faced the newcomer, than the newcomer’s fist landed squarely against Sir Nathan’s jaw, sending him staggering into the assembled crowd. Phaedra had only a quick glimpse of her sudden protector in the intervening moments, a dark-haired devil in a billowing white shirt and the face of an avenging angel, handsome and yet raw with power. She would not soon forget that face.
Her avenger turned towards her, a gallant cavalier from a storybook, his eyes alight with blue fire when he looked at her. ‘Are you all right, miss?’
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ Phaedra managed to find her voice, a most unusual occurrence to have lost it in the first place. But it wasn’t every day a handsome stranger leapt to her defence.
‘Shall I punch him again for you?’ the stranger drawled, watching Sir Nathan right himself with the help of friends.
There was no chance to answer. Giles materialised, parting the crowd with his broad shoulders. ‘That will do, I think. Get along with all of you. There’s nothing more to see here.’ The crowd began to dissolve at the voice of authority. One didn’t have to know he was the son of a duke to decide obedience was the best option. Giles motioned for someone to take the chestnut stallion and the throng around them thinned. But her hero remained.
‘This wasn’t the introduction I’d planned,’ Giles began. ‘But I see the two of you have already met. Bram, this is my sister, Lady Phaedra Montague. She’s the one I was telling you about. She’s been overseeing the stables since old Anderson got hurt. Phaedra, this is Bram Basingstoke. He’ll take over Tom Anderson’s duties until the man recovers.’
Her hero was the new head groom? Phaedra mentally revoked his hero status and squelched her disappointment. She’d hoped Giles had forgotten all about the need to hire a replacement. She’d been having far too much fun taking care of the stables over the winter. ‘I’m sure that’s not necessary,’ she said in her best haughty but polite tones. ‘The poor man will hardly get settled, Giles, and Anderson will be up and about. Until then, I can manage. I don’t mind.’ She did not want any help, no matter how handsome the face that came with it. The stables were her domain, the one place where she had some autonomy. She wasn’t about to let a stranger take that away.
Giles gave her a thin warning smile that said he was not to be crossed on this. ‘Phaedra, you’ll be busy with the colt now.’ What he really meant was that she owed him. He’d backed her on her ridiculous bid, now it was time to do things his way.
Phaedra swallowed. ‘You’re right, of course. Warbourne will take much of my time if he’s to be ready to race in May.’ It was a gutsy gambit, based on the hope that Giles would not contradict her in front of the newcomer. They’d not discussed racing Warbourne this year with any specificity and certainly not in May. But only three-year-olds could race the Epsom Derby. This was his year if she meant to do it.
Giles looked at her sharply. ‘That remains for another discussion.’ He flipped open his pocket watch, an effective conversation closer, and checked the time. ‘Let’s get home and get Warbourne settled before we plan his racing career.’
The ride was accomplished without mishap. Their home, Castonbury, was two hours from Buxton, and Warbourne travelled the distance well with a few rests. Phaedra travelled the distance well too. She was thankful Giles didn’t take advantage of the carriage’s privacy to berate her for her behaviour at the fair. She was thankful, too, for the myriad thoughts crowding her mind, all of which made the time pass quickly. There was Warbourne to consider, which stall he should have, how she should begin his training, and then there was the stranger riding up on the box next to John Coachman. He took up a fair share of those thoughts.
Only he wasn’t really a stranger now that Giles had hired him on. He had a name and a position and he posed a threat to her autonomy. She would need to get the rules of their association established early. They were her stables and they were going to stay that way from now on. She was twenty and plenty old enough for some responsibility of her own.
The carriage turned into the Castonbury parklands, passing through the wrought-iron gates of the entrance, and began the slow, grand, winding drive to the house. They travelled past the boathouses and over the bridge that spanned the river and up to the mansion. Phaedra smiled quietly to herself as she looked out of the window. Castonbury’s majesty never failed to impress even her and she’d grown up here her whole life. Bram Basingstoke was probably sitting atop the carriage, his mouth agape at the wonders of Castonbury Park and thanking his lucky stars her brother had hired him on. It wasn’t every day a man got to be head groom at a ducal estate, even temporarily.
The big house came into view but they passed by and headed west where the stable block lay behind the main house. Phaedra looked across at Giles, whose eyes had opened when the carriage halted. ‘We’re home.’ She placed a hand over his. ‘Thank you for everything.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Giles hesitated before asking, ‘Could I leave you to give our new head groom a tour?’
He wanted to ride down to the vicarage and see Lily, Phaedra guessed. She smiled. ‘It’s the least I can do.’ A tour would be just the thing to set the right tone, just the right way to assert herself.
But Bram had other ideas. The moment the carriage halted, he’d jumped down and taken charge of getting Warbourne untied before Phaedra had barely set her feet on the ground. Warbourne responded to him without any fuss and she had to admit that on first impression he had a good way with horses and with men. The other stable hands leapt to do his bidding. She hastened her pace to catch up and walk beside him, wanting at least to give the impression he needed her.
His sense of authority was unnerving, actually. It was almost lordly in its demeanour, not a quality one found in the average groom or stable master. And then there was the issue of his boots. She noticed they were awfully fine. Aunt Wilhelmina was fond of saying a girl could always tell a gentleman by his shoes. Based on those polished, high boots he wore with only a touch of the day’s dust about them, one might almost mistake him for a gentleman—except that he wasn’t.
His dark hair was too long to be fashionably tolerated and his wardrobe lacked certain necessities. A gentleman wore a waistcoat and a coat in the presence of a lady. A gentleman didn’t walk around with his shirtsleeves rolled up and a gentleman most certainly didn’t engage in fisticuffs at a horse fair. No, Bram Basingstoke was clearly not a gentleman no matter how fine his boots or lordly his demeanour. Some men were just born to command. He was one of them, something she’d do well to remember when dealing with him.
Phaedra pointed out the stall she’d decided on for Warbourne. She slipped a slice of apple to the colt for good behaviour while fresh straw was laid down. Satisfied the colt was well settled, she turned to Bram. ‘Warbourne has had his tour, now it’s time for yours. I’m sure you’re anxious to get your bearings.’
The hint of a smile played about his lips. ‘I have my bearings quite well, but I’ll accept your offer of a tour.’ Humour danced in his eyes.
Phaedra’s mouth went dry. Giles’s new groom was a flirt. Her stomach fluttered a bit as it had at the fair. He was the handsome man again, the daring hero. But that would not do for a Montague servant. In the stables or in the house, the Montague staff were impeccably trained and impeccably mannered, except maybe the errand boy, Charlie. The staff certainly did not flirt with the ducal family. Except for Monsieur André, the head chef. He’d wooed and won Aunt Claire. All right, there were apparently some exceptions. But that did not excuse him.
Bram allowed Phaedra to sweep ahead of him. ‘The stable block is divided up into sections,’ she explained, pride evident as she continued. ‘This section is dedicated to the saddle horses. We keep twenty horses for riding purposes. This is Giles’s favourite hunter, Genghis, rescued him off the battlefield.’ She kept up the introductions, stroking the muzzle of each horse they passed until she’d shown him all of the animals and given him an overwhelming history of each.
It was clear she wanted him overwhelmed. She wanted him to be in awe of his surroundings and he was. Castonbury had one of the finest stables in the north. Bram had seen several stables owned by men who considered themselves fine breeders of the thoroughbred, and Castonbury was impressive. He’d noted the elevated iron hay racks in each of the stalls, eliminating the need to keep a large feed trough running the length of the aisles and taking up space. He’d noted, too, that Castonbury had converted the traditional three-sided stall to the modern-styled loose box stall. The horses looked healthy and strong, no doubt a result of their excellent housing.
Phaedra finished with the riding wing and moved to the centre section. ‘This is the carriage house. We have six carriage bays. As you can see, most of the bays are currently occupied. There’s the ducal travelling coach, there’s the landau for spring outings, the gig for trips to the village and so on. It will be important to familiarise yourself with them. On occasion they will need some light maintenance.’ She seemed willing to move through this section far more quickly than she had the prior. He saw why and it more than provoked his curiosity.
Bram put a light hand on her arm. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed towards what appeared to be a large full-sided wagon complete with windows and a roof in the last bay.
‘It’s a horse trailer,’ Phaedra said tersely, determined to move on with her tour. But Bram was intrigued. He strolled over to the contraption, compelling Phaedra to follow him. He circled the perimeter, bending low to take in the undercarriage.
‘It’s for horses,’ Phaedra said finally, giving him the distinct impression she didn’t want to talk about it.
Bram stood back from the vehicle and gave her an encouraging look. ‘Transporting horses when they could just as easily walk?’ That loosened her tongue a bit. It appeared Phaedra Montague couldn’t stand stupidity in any form.
‘It’s for racehorses, so they don’t have to walk,’ she replied sharply. The offering was enough. The pieces fell into place rapidly after that.
Bram nodded with approval, studying Phaedra with a new excitement that had a little less to do with the sway of her skirt. ‘To take a northern horse south, perhaps?’
He could see the ingenuity of this. Most racing was regional, confined to a district because of issues with distance.
In the north, racing was done in Yorkshire and at Doncaster, while in the south of England, the great tracks were at Newmarket and Epsom. Racehorses couldn’t walk to far locales and be in top shape for racing after a lengthy journey. It was one of the reasons racing magnates congregated in Newmarket with their strings—to avoid the travel and risk of injury to the horse.
‘Precisely.’ Phaedra smiled a bit in reply, starting to warm to the subject.
‘It’s ingenious.’ Bram took another tour around the wagon. He didn’t have to ask for whom the wagon was intended. It was for Warbourne and wherever she meant to take him. ‘You were pretty certain you’d win the bid today.’ Lady Phaedra had invested quite a lot in that horse before he’d even been bought. The wagon couldn’t have been cheap. In itself, the purchase had been a risk. ‘What if you had lost?’ Bram held her eyes, watching her expression carefully.
‘I am not accustomed to losing, Mr Basingstoke. Shall we continue the tour?’
After that, she showed him the last bay where the carriage horses were kept—matched greys for the ducal coach and a set of Cleveland bays for the landau. Then they were off outdoors to see the facilities—the oval training track put in by her great-grandfather at the height of the racing craze in the previous century, and the riding house, also a legacy of her great-grandfather.
‘It’s an amazing facility,’ Bram said at last when they finished walking through the indoor riding house with its viewing gallery of the arena below.
She fixed him with a stern stare. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘That’s what you wanted me to say, isn’t it?’ He grinned. ‘You’ve been trying to overwhelm me since we started.’ Bram held out his hands, palms up in surrender. ‘You have succeeded admirably.’ He was impressed with the facility and with her. Warbourne had not been a spontaneous purchase driven by the whims of a pretty, impetuous young lady.
‘Yes,’ Phaedra admitted. ‘You’ve landed yourself a plum. You should be thankful for a job when so many people are out of work. This is more than simply a job. It’s a very good job at a very fine stable. It’s not quite on par with Chatsworth just yet, but any horseman would be grateful for it.’
Bram chuckled outright at the mention of the great northern stable. To compare one’s self to Chatsworth was brave indeed for fear of coming off wanting. But Castonbury was in no risk of that. ‘We’re not too proud are we, princess?’
‘Not proud. Honest,’ Phaedra countered with a confident tilt of her head. ‘Let me show you your quarters and introduce you to Anderson.’
‘I’ll want to talk about an exercise schedule for Warbourne too, so I can get started with the horses right away,’ Bram asserted as they began the walk back to the stable block. The assignment he’d taken on was becoming more intriguing by the moment, largely due to the woman beside him. She had wanted Warbourne. She saw something in him others had not. After seeing the stables, Bram was starting to think there might be something to that. He was itching to get his hands on that colt.
Phaedra faced him squarely. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Mr Basingstoke. You’re here to help Anderson. Warbourne is mine. I don’t need your help.’
Bram tossed her a smile. ‘Of course you don’t.’ He’d not expected her to say otherwise. But that didn’t mean it was true. She would need him before they were through in one way or another.
Chapter Three
Lady Phaedra Montague was a haughty minx, but that was part of her charm. His intuition about women was seldom wrong and his first impressions from the auction had been correct. Bram was still chuckling as he stowed his things in the small room he’d been given over the stable block. Regardless of the hauteur she cultivated so successfully, she was all fire. He must tread carefully.
Bram folded a shirt and put it in the three-drawer chest in the corner. She was a duke’s daughter. He hadn’t expected that. He had expected her to be nicely situated country gentry and gently born, but not quite so highborn. One simply didn’t open affairs with such lofty creatures. The penalties were too high. One might tolerate facing pistols at dawn over the Mrs Fentons of the world but there would be no scandalous pistols over Phaedra Montague. There would only be a ring and marriage, two very permanent reminders of one’s momentary lapse in judgement. It was probably for the best. Giles Montague was no doubt a deadly shot when it came to his sister’s honour.
It was too late to back out now. He’d taken this gamble on scant knowledge, lured to it by Phaedra’s spirit and the challenge of the colt to offset the looming boredom of six months in Derbyshire. He’d never imagined she’d be Rothermere’s daughter. He didn’t know the duke personally, but the peerage was not so large that a duke could escape notice. Bram knew of Rothermere but no more.
Still, he could leave whenever he chose if he didn’t like how things progressed. He wasn’t reliant on the position for a wage or a reference. He could vanish in the night and no one would be the wiser. As long as he dressed the part …
Bram studied the items in the drawer—three linen shirts and two waistcoats from London’s finest tailors. They simply wouldn’t do for stable work. He’d have to go down to the village and look for ready-made work clothes. He’d also have to see about making arrangements to discreetly retrieve his trunk from the inn in Buxton too. It was unmistakably a gentleman’s travelling trunk and would have raised too many questions. There’d been only time to stop by the inn on the way out of town and pack a quick valise. Even that had been tricky since the inn had been in close proximity to the luxurious Crescent area of Buxton, expensive quarters for a man looking for work.
Bram shut the drawer. What did he care if he was caught? The scandal would serve his father right. There was an irony to it. He’d been sent away to avoid further scandal, not to foment it. His father would die a thousand social deaths if it became known his son had taken employment as a groom in a duke’s household and lived above the stables with the other grooms and male workers. He didn’t want to get caught too soon though, not before he had a chance to see if the colt could be tamed—or Phaedra Montague for that matter.
A heavy footfall at the door caused him to straighten. He had company. He half expected it to be Phaedra. ‘So, you’re the one who has come to replace me.’ The voice was thick with the broad sounds of Derbyshire, the sounds of a man who’d grown up here all his life and wandered very little, a man who would see assistance as an intrusion.
‘Not to replace you, to help you. For a while,’ Bram said in friendly tones. He strode forward, his hand outstretched. ‘You must be Anderson.’ The man looked sixty at least, with a shock of white hair and weathered face. But he was sturdy in build with the stocky frame of a Yorkshire man.
He shifted his cane to his left side and shook hands. ‘Tom Anderson I am.’
‘I’m Bram Basingstoke. Have a seat. I’d like to talk to you about the horses.’ Bram belatedly glanced around the tiny room to realise the only place to sit was the bed.
‘Why don’t you come down to my rooms once you’re settled. We’ll talk more comfortably there.’
‘I’m ready now. I didn’t have much to unpack.’ Bram gestured towards the door. ‘I am hoping you can recommend a place in the village I can get work clothes,’ he said as they made the short trip towards Anderson’s rooms on the first floor.
Anderson waved his cane. ‘Don’t bother. I’ve got a trunk of shirts and trousers left over from the last fellow who was here. He was tall like you, they should fit well enough.’
Anderson’s rooms were slightly larger as befitted his status as the stable manager, and furnished comfortably with well-worn pieces. A fire was going in the hearth, a definite improvement over Bram’s cold chamber.
‘The last fellow?’ Bram enquired, taking a seat near the fire.
Anderson chuckled. ‘You don’t think you’re the first man Lord Giles has hired to help out, do you?’ He pulled out a jug of whisky and poured two pewter cups.
‘I hadn’t thought either way on it,’ Bram said honestly. He’d been too busy thinking about Phaedra and the colt to contemplate the nuances of his position.
‘You’re about the fourth in as many months.’ Anderson passed him a cup. ‘Winter hasn’t been kind to this old man. I’ve been down with one thing or another since November and now my hip is giving me trouble. I can’t work the horses with a bad hip.’ Anderson paused and raised his cup in a toast. ‘Here’s hoping you’ll last longer than the rest.’
Bram studied Anderson over the rim of his cup. Bram could see the age around Anderson’s eyes, his face tanned and wrinkled from a life lived outdoors. Anderson reminded him of the old groom at his family home. His father still hadn’t found a way to pension him off without hurting his pride. ‘The stables are well-kept and the quarters are decent. What drove them off?’
It was Anderson’s turn to eye him over a swallow of whiskey. ‘It wasn’t a “what”. It was a “who”. Some men don’t like taking orders from a lady.’
Ah. Phaedra Montague. He should have guessed. She’d been far from pleased with her brother’s announcement at the fair. ‘She makes life difficult?’ Bram asked. Did she plant frogs in their beds? He couldn’t envisage her stooping to such juvenile levels.
Anderson wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘Nah. She doesn’t do it on purpose. It’s not her fault she knows more about horses than they do. She doesn’t mean to drive them away.’
The first thing that struck Bram was that he doubted it. She probably did hope they would move along. She had not hidden her disapproval at the horse fair. The second was that she had the old groom wrapped around her finger. He was clearly defending her.
‘She’s that good?’ Bram took another swallow, trying to cultivate an attitude of nonchalance while he probed for information. It was always best to know one’s quarry before one began the hunt.
‘She’s that good. Lord Giles is a bruising rider but she holds equal to him. It’s not just the riding though. It’s everything else. It’s like she can look in their souls, that she can reach them on a level no one else can.’ Anderson poured himself a second drink. ‘I’ll tell you something crazy if you want to hear it and if it won’t send you packing.’
Bram was all ears. This part of the country was known for its superstitions and ghost tales and Anderson had the makings of a fine storyteller.
‘Two years ago last June we had a white stallion named Troubadour. He belonged to her brother Edward. Edward was off fighting Napoleon but Troubadour had been left home. One night around the fourteenth, he started acting all crazy-like in his stall, kicking, stomping. He wouldn’t eat. No one could get near him except Miss Phaedra. She sat with him for hours getting him to calm down. Mind you, there was no one here. All four of the boys were at war. It was just Lady Phaedra and Lady Kate and the duke, of course. When Lady Kate came out to see her, Lady Phaedra was crying something fierce. She told Lady Kate Troubadour was dying and that she feared young Lord Edward was dead. Before sunrise, Troubadour lay down in his stall and refused to get up. A month later, word reached us that Lord Edward had fallen at Waterloo, the very night Troubadour died.’ Anderson tapped his head with his finger. ‘She knows them, knows what’s in their heads.’
Bram nodded. He’d heard stories about horses that could sense their masters’ distress. He’d never heard of anything quite as drastic as Anderson’s tale. So, Lady Phaedra talked to horses and read their minds. Well, he’d see about that for himself, but it was clear Tom Anderson believed it in full.
They passed a companionable evening discussing the horses and their workout needs. There was the spirited mare the eldest daughter, Kate, had left behind when she’d gone to America not long ago. There were the general horses kept for guests, not that there’d been many guests outside of family in recent months. There was Giles Montague’s black beast of a stallion, Genghis, nearly as dark as Warbourne. And there was the elegant chestnut thoroughbred, Merlin, Lord Jamie’s horse.
‘Lord Jamie?’ He quirked his eyebrow in question. Yet another younger brother, perhaps? How big was this family? Bram was beginning to wonder.
‘Lord Jamie is the eldest. But he went to war too, and didn’t come home. Only Lord Giles and Lord Harry returned.’ Anderson shook his head. ‘It’s been a bad business all around for the family. Lord Giles wanted to be a career military man. He never wanted to be the heir, never was jealous of Lord Jamie. But it wasn’t to be.’
‘He died too?’ Bram asked quietly. He knew several families in London who’d lost loved ones thanks to Napoleon. Families both rich and poor alike had lost sons.
Anderson shrugged, a light twinkling in his old blue eyes. ‘Don’t know. That’s a whole other kettle of fish brewing up at the house these days. Lord Giles is pretty closemouthed about it, as he should be. But there was no body ever recovered and then last fall this woman shows up with a little ‘un just about the right age claiming she’s Lord Jamie’s wife. She’s living at the Dower House. The family is trying to do right by her, although the whole thing seems off to me.’
‘Why?’
Anderson jerked his head the general direction of the horse stalls. ‘Merlin’s still alive. He and Lord Jamie were as close as a horse and human can be, just like Edward and Troubadour,’ Tom Anderson answered matter-of-factly, as if everyone bought into folklore without question.
Bram refrained from comment. He supposed stranger things had happened. When he’d driven through the gates of Castonbury today, it had looked normal enough—the manicured grounds, the outbuildings in decent repair, the stables immaculate. It had looked better than normal. From the outside, one would never guess the turmoil that simmered beneath the surface. What exactly had he let himself in for? Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t ‘boring.’ All fears of ennui had been effectively banished.
Phaedra rose early and dressed quickly in breeches and a loose shirt. Rising early was imperative if she wanted to escape the eagle eye of Aunt Wilhelmina. She did not approve of Phaedra roaming the estate in breeches nor did the redoubtable lady approve of rising before ten in the morning. Neither of which was surprising. Aunt Wilhelmina spent most of her life disapproving. Still, Phaedra preferred not to be on the receiving end of her aunt’s disapproval and there seemed to be a lot more of it headed her direction since Kate had left after Christmas with her new husband.
In the breakfast room, Giles was already present with his coffee and newspapers. He looked up as she entered and uttered a brief good-morning. She nodded. This had become their ritual. Both of them enjoyed rising early but early rising was not synonymous with a desire to engage in conversation. They wanted to eat first, let their minds sift through the agenda of their days.
Phaedra piled her plate with eggs and hot toast. Chances were she wouldn’t be back to the house for luncheon. Her mind was already sorting through the things that needed doing at the stables: check on the gelding with the sore leg, make sure the hay delivery had arrived from the home farm, do a general walk-through to check on the stalls and horses. There was Warbourne to see to and horses to exercise.
The activity would fill her day until sunset. The busyness was a blessed relief from the empty house. She’d grown up in a large family, used to being surrounded by brothers and a sister, but war and the passing of years had brought an end to that. The boys had gone to battle. Only Giles had come home and then only because duty demanded it. Harry had come home and left again. Kate had married. Really, Kate’s marriage was the last blow, the last desertion. The two of them had lived here together during the years the boys were at war. It had brought them close in spite of the difference in their ages. Now Kate was gone, choosing Virgil and a new life in Boston over Castonbury and the familiar. And her.
Now it was just her and Giles, the oldest and the youngest, nine years separating them. She hoped it wasn’t disloyal to Jamie to think of Giles as the oldest. But Jamie was dead now, whether there was a body or not, and Giles had done his best to pick up the reins of duty in the wake of great tragedy.
Phaedra sighed and bit into her toast. Since Kate had left, mornings were hardest of all, the time when she was most acutely aware she’d been left behind. The once merry and heavily populated breakfast room was empty. Giles was here but he had Lily and in the summer they would marry. They would fill Castonbury with a new generation of Montagues. Time would move on. Would she? What would happen to her? What would become of her? Anything could happen. She told herself she had Warbourne now. He was her chance.
