He spun, pulling the cloth from his face. “What are you doing here, miss?”
Drat. Creeping out of my hiding place, I brushed the straw off my skirts and straightened my clothing, giving myself a moment of composure. “I was simply inspecting the stall to make sure you had done your job correctly. Father says not to trust the servants, after all.”
Although his face was barely visible under the smears of dirt, I caught the boy’s scowl without question. “My father taught me right. I know how to muck out the stalls, and I do a fine job. Enough to make him proud. You would not do any better.”
Flattening my mouth as I tugged on my dark plaits, I refrained from stomping my foot. “I doubt it is hard. Whatever you can do, I can do. And I will do it better.”
“Is that a fact?” Reaching for his pitchfork, he stared me down with eyes as black as a crow’s feathers.
My arms fell to my sides as the blood drained to my feet. “Ye-s.” Unable to stop the quiver in my voice, I swallowed, wishing I could retract the challenge.
“Well, let’s see you go to work then. I have five more stalls to do. And you best get them finished before my father returns from his supper.”
The boy was only an inch or two taller than me. He could not have been more than ten years’ of age. Maybe an anniversary or two ahead of me. But he looked at me with a surety that I was inferior. If anything got me riled up, it was that. The boy was a stable hand. How dare he!
Pinching my mouth tight, I swiped the fork from his hand before charging towards the next stall. Plunging the tool into the hay with a grimace on my face, I held my breath against the stench. With the fork full, I turned, glaring at him as he leaned against the door, arms crossed.
“Well, where do I put it?”
“I thought you already knew?”
Huffing in annoyance, I pushed past him, searching for a barrel, or perhaps a cart.
I found a cart a few stalls down and dropped my offering into it before adding the fork and wheeling it over beside the boy. With a sweet smile on my face, I retrieved the tool and began loading more soiled hay, ready for disposal. I laboured steadily without complaint, proud of myself for matching his challenge, though it was the hardest thing I had done.
My arms burned. I squirmed, needing to peel my sweat-soaked clothing from my skin. Out of puff, I eyed the boy past the mountain of hay overflowing the cart and squared my shoulders before grasping the handles. With a great heave, I prayed for the load to move.
It did not.
“What troubles you, miss?” Glee sparkling in his eye, he feigned concern.
I pulled in a breath through my nostrils, narrowing my eyes. “Nothing at all, young man. I am perfectly fine.”
Another heave, and to my delight, this time it budged. Gripping the handles until my knuckles were white, I pushed with my legs. The cart moved a few inches before the top-heavy weight began to topple sideways. I screamed, jumping back in despair as all my hard work spilled across the brick floor.
“Oh, more is the pity. You need to work faster if you are going to catch up.”
My lip quivered, eyes stinging as I clenched my fists. Another scream caught in my throat, this time from frustration and hatred for this infuriating boy. I held onto it, not wanting to give in to his childish game, but the tears came. I could not stop the wretched things from wetting my cheeks, and all at once I collapsed in defeat.
“Now, hold your tears.” He crouched in front of me, dipping his chin. “You asked for this, remember?”
I would have thought he was basking in his victory if it was not for the panic on his face. The scoundrel had been toying with my good intentions. He wiped the sweat from his brow and sank his teeth into his bottom lip. It suddenly occurred to me that I had a distinct advantage. His game had turned against him.
Sniffing and wiping my face with my pinafore, I set him in my sights. “If you wish to avoid my father becoming aware of your deception, whereby you will surely lose your position, you will help me clean this up.”
“Oh, no. You said you could do the job better than me. You made the mess; now it needs fixing.” He pushed the fork in my direction with an infernal tilt to his lips.
I got to my feet, crossing my arms. “I do not have to do anything, but I am willing to finish what I started ... with your help.” It was of great importance to me—the following through of one’s promises. I was aware that his intention was for me to scuttle away with my tail tucked under my skirts, never to return, but I was inclined to prove him wrong.
There was an added incentive. To have to endure my presence and assist me in completing the task with which he had been charged—at half the pace to which he was accustomed—would surely drive him mad.
He scrambled up, his mouth twisted, eyes merely slits.
I should have walked away. He had taken advantage of my naïveté, but I had managed to turn things around.
I had him.
Triumph.
Still, I wanted to prove to myself that I could do the job, even if it was with a little help.
He scoffed. “Fine. But you will do
