“How would I start?”
“You relax,” Ethan said, finding he needed to swallow a few times before going on. “You let your body relax, and you don’t fight the fall. If you’re traveling at speed, give up the reins, or you’ll just jerk your horse’s mouth before you lose them anyway. Try to slip down the horse’s side, but tuck up to protect your head. Your horse will never try to step on you, so don’t even consider it a risk.” He went on, his voice gradually becoming more even and his breathing easing up.
“I’m ready,” Jeremiah said, clutching the reins desperately and sending his pony in a plodding circle at the walk.
“All right.” Ethan stepped away, making sure to keep his own body and tone of voice relaxed. “When I say ‘pismire pony,’ you relax, let go of the reins, and curl down along Lightning’s side. He’ll probably stop and give you a puzzled look.”
Jeremiah nodded, his expression suggesting he contemplated the mental equivalent of a severe birching.
“Steady on.” Ethan took another step back. “One, two, three… pismire pony.”
He’d nearly whispered the last two words, and Jeremiah tipped, slipped, and tumbled off his pony’s back. The pony halted, swished his tail, and sniffed at the little boy in the dirt. Ethan crouched down and met Jeremiah’s eyes.
“You did it. I’m proud of you.” He wanted to damn cry he was so proud.
“I did it.” Jeremiah sat up and was promptly pulled into his father’s arms. Wordlessly, Ethan hugged him— really, really hugged him. This wasn’t a sneaky hint of a hug in the midst of a picnic hubbub. It wasn’t a surreptitious, teasing hug while choosing from the breakfast buffet. This couldn’t be construed as anything but a hug, plain, heartfelt, and sincere.
“I did it.” Jeremiah said again, closing his eyes and laying his head on his father’s shoulder. “I fell off.”
“Splendidly,” Ethan assured him. The pony spoiled the moment, pony fashion, by butting Ethan’s shoulder, nearly pushing man and boy onto their arses in the dirt.
“Wretched beast,” Ethan murmured, still holding his son. “Shall we see how your brother fares?”
“He’ll be fine,” Jeremiah said as Ethan set him on his feet. “He’s little.”
“I know what you mean. He seems to bounce through life.”
“Is that bad?” Jeremiah watched as, at the halt, Joshua slid off his pony.
“No,” Ethan said, thinking of another little brother who seemed to bounce through life. “But he didn’t bounce just then, did he?”
“No.” Jeremiah grinned. “You don’t bounce either.”
“And neither do you, Jeremiah.” Ethan smiled back. “But you fall beautifully.”
Ethan sent his sons up to the house, and off they went at a dead run. He turned toward the stables, intent on retrieving his waistcoat, knowing that hours of ledgers and correspondence awaited him in the library.
A cheering thought intruded: he and Alice had never quite gotten around to a discussion of the boys’ curriculum.
And then the cheering thought was interrupted by the sight of a groom who had Joshua’s pony, Thunder, trailing on a lead behind him. Thunder was rearing and propping, and for good cause. The groom was using the end of the leather lead shank to whack at the pony’s neck and shoulders.
“Step on me, will ye?” the man shouted. “I’ll show ye who ye can step on, ye hairy little shite. No damned manners, and getting fussed all day has ye spoilt rotten. The knacker would love to take a knife to yer tough little hide.”
“Hold,” Ethan said quite loudly as he approached the man, “and I do mean now.”
The man nodded. “G’day to ye, guv. Little monster thought to stomp me good.”
The little monster was still kiting around on the end of his lead line, eyes rolling at the potential new threat Ethan posed.
“Give him to me.” Ethan held out a hand for the lead shank, keeping his voice quiet. “When did he attempt this violence?”
The man gestured to the stables, fifty yards distant. “In the barn. Just up and tromped on me boot.”
Sturdy, if worn, heavy boots, Ethan noted. And the groom himself had the thick, muscular physique and dusty, worn attire of a typical plowboy.
Thunder, by contrast, was a Welsh pony, an elegant little equine standing about twelve hands. He was small enough to work the mines, about as small as a riding mount could be, even for a child.
“So you thought to discipline him here.” Ethan stroked a hand down the pony’s coarse mane. “To impress upon him the error of his ways, what, a quarter mile and ten minutes after the crime?”
“He’s stubborn, that one.” The groom eyed the pony balefully. “Takes a firm hand.”
Miller came puffing out from the stables, just as Ethan would have bellowed for him.
“Problem, Mr. Grey?” Miller asked, using deferential address before an inferior.
“Did Thunder act up in the barn? Perhaps misbehave in hand or take advantage of Mr. Thatcher here?”
“Thunder?” Miller snorted and glanced at the now-quiet pony. “That beast doesn’t know how to misbehave, unless it’s to snitch a mouthful of grass. He dodged a little when a cat jumped up the ladder beside him, but it weren’t mischief.”
“A misunderstanding then,” Ethan said. “Easily explained. Miller, you will see Thunder to his paddock, please?” Ethan gave the pony a final pat and passed the lead shank to Miller.
Thunder—a good boy of the equine persuasion—followed docilely.
“Mr. Thatcher.” Ethan eyed the man coolly. “I trust Miller’s judgment more than my own when it comes to horses. What have you to say for yourself?”
“Miller weren’t leading the damned pony.” Thatcher’s chest heaved with indignation. “Them’s dangerous, ponies are. Them’s quick and mean and belongs in the mines with both eyes put out.”
“How did you come to work in the stables?”
“Came to help with the last harvest in the fall,” Thatcher said. “Miller took sick in the winter. I stayed on.”
And Ethan had trusted Miller to sort out the bad apples that had come in with the harvest.
“Stay away from the ponies, Thatcher. Another such misunderstanding, and I will turn you off. Ponies can easily be made mean, but that pony belongs to my son and is none of yours to make mistakes with. Do we understand each other?”
Clearly, Ethan was making an enemy. The man’s eyes narrowed, his expression closed, and his gaze went to where Miller was turning the pony out with Lightning, who bucked and cantered up to his mate in welcome.
“I understand ye clear enough.” In a cavalier display of rudeness, Thatcher spat his words, turned his back on his employer, and stomped off. Which confirmed to Ethan he should have fired the man, plain and simple. He’d have Miller find a pretext for doing same, but leave it in his stable master’s hands. Some of the joy of the morning was tarnished, but not all.
He could find Alice and interrogate her regarding Latin primers and whatever else she’d been prosing on about before more important matters had come under discussion.
He smiled as he turned back toward the house, but paused before the peach tree, not intending to grab a snack but merely to assess the ripening crop. As he stood in the tree’s shade, he spied Alice walking hand in hand with a tall, dark-haired man in riding attire. It wasn’t anybody Ethan recognized, and Alice was a fair distance from the house. As he debated intruding—a gentleman did not spy—Alice stopped and wrapped her arms around the man, holding him in a fiercely close embrace.
Ethan left his chambers for the lower floors of the house, his toilet repaired sufficiently for the noonday meal.
His mood, however, was not in good repair at all. He caught the eye of the footman at the end of the
