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