Highest Stakes (8 page)

  "Bloody hell! Look what ye done," the boy cried.

  "Look what
I've
done? I'm sorry to have made you spill it, but I was simply looking for the rubbing house."

  "'Tis over yon, ye muttonhead!"

  "Muttonhead? There's no occasion for rudeness. If you hadn't overloaded your cart…"

  "If ye hadn't come along and pulled me o'er, it ne'er would have happened. But now ye'd best clean it up afore Jeffries or Devington comes along."

  "Me?" she replied incredulously. "I'm not the clumsy oaf who dumped it. It's not
my mess
to clean."

  "Well, I ain't about to be last to finish me chores. Devington is back from Doncaster and will have me turning over the reeking dung pit instead of breaking me fast wi' t'other chaps."

  "Well, I'm sorry for you, but that's nothing compared to what
you've
done to my only pair of boots, you ham-fisted lout!"

  "'Tweren't me what pulled the wheelbarrow arse over teakettle, ye wantwit! Go bugger yer mother, and then lick yer boots clean!"

  "Why, I'll box your ears, you brazen-faced little jackanapes!" Charlotte made a fist as if to try, but the boy flew at her first. They both tumbled onto the pile of manure in a wild, tangled flurry of thrashing limbs.

  The commotion caused by the circle of cheering and jeering stable boys drew the attention of the head groom, who was leading his fresh mount out from the rubbing house. Hastily tying his horse, Robert Devington strode furiously across the stable yard to break up the mill. He tore apart the dung-covered combatants by the scruff of the neck. Turning first to the smaller of the pair, he cuffed his ear. "Jemmy! What the devil are you about? It's nigh past feeding time; you've still half your stalls to muck."

  "But it ain't me what started it!" Jemmy whined. "'Twas the new chap what turned over me cart!"

  "I don't give a groat who started it! Now get about your business before I tan your arse with a riding crop! And now for you, lad." He turned ominously to Charlotte and stopped mid-sentence, gaping at the spectacle she presented with her oversized clothes pulled awry and stained with ordure, her cap askew and nose oozing blood.

  "Who the blazes are
you
? Or better said,
what are you
!"

  Charlotte brushed a clump of dung from her flushed cheeks with the back of her hand and haughtily met his stare. "I was simply looking for the rubbing house where I am to meet Jeffries. Now if you would kindly direct me, I shall trouble you no further." Her voice was husky and quivered with righteous indignation.

  "You say Jeffries sent for you? He told me nothing of a new boy." He regarded her closer, quizzically.

  Charlotte refused to enlighten him. "The rubbing house, if you please?"

  "The rubbing house"—he pointed over her left shoulder—"is the squat building hither."

  "Thank you," she replied with as much dignity as she could muster. She turned on her heel and marched to the indicated building where, as promised, Jeffries awaited her with Amoret.

  "Thought ye must be yet bedbound, miss." Puzzled by her appearance, he regarded her head to toe. "A right tussle wi' the lads is not what I expected when ye said ye'd prove yer mettle. Ye look nigh like ye been drug through the yew hedge backwards! By the looks of it, ye been well initiated into the world of the stable grooms." He chuckled.

  "Indeed I have, but I'd rather not speak of it, if you don't mind," she said crossly. Desiring to divert the subject, Charlotte surveyed the low-roofed, poorly ventilated building where Amoret and another heavily blanketed horse stood tied. "What is this place, and why is it so stifling hot in here?"

  "'Tis where the running horses are saddled to ride and rubbed down after their exercise."

  "But why would you not saddle in the stable yard where it's cooler?"

  "'Tis all well and good for the saddle hack, but the racehorse must be kept in condition. This requires sweating the beasts to remove spare flesh what weights 'em down. Though I've no great likin' for the practices of some what calls themselves training groom in Newmarket. I seen 'em destroy good horses by keepin' 'em always in a box wi' no air and covered in rugs three or four layers deep, turnin' the stables into a blessed Turkish bath.

  "They send the horses out daily for 'strong exercise,' two or three times doubled wi' rugs, sometimes even addin' a woolen breast sweater and a hood. They put 'em through a four-mile gallop, and they returns heavin' in the flanks and lookin' like buckets of water was thrown over 'em. After this, the animals be scraped, rubbed down, wiped dry, and new clothes put on 'em afore goin' back in the hot box, where they breaks out in fresh sweats.

  "This routine what some swears by, workin' 'em to exhaustion then clothin' and stovin' 'em, does naught more'n drain their juices such quantities as to destroy their strength and spirits."

"What a cruel and inhumane practice!" Charlotte exclaimed.

  "Now I don't be sayin' a weekly sweat don't do a horse good," Jeffries said. "The cumbrous flesh a fat horse carries tears down his sinews when he runs. I lief run a horse lean than large. A horse don't never meet wi' his destruction by runnin' light in the carcass. But as to the sweats, all things be best in moderation. It be nigh easier to pull down than to put up flesh on a running blood."

  As he spoke, he removed the three layers of rugs from the gelding. Scrutinizing the horse beneath the blankets, he gave a low whistle, murmuring curses to himself. "What's he thinking, the Bart, 'specting me to train a screw like this!"

  "Whatever do you mean?" Charlotte asked.

  "He be from the best sire, and 'he cost too much not to be good, Jeffries,' the Bart says." The stable master snorted in disgust. "Horses run in all shapes, lass, but always best when the shape is
good
."

  "But I've never seen a coat with such a coppery sheen. He's akin to a new penny."

  "Ye must look beyond the coat! Too many judge a horse's condition by the color or shine. This one be bad-kneed and built downhill. His croup's nigh taller than the withers. A horse that's ill-formed can't tolerate the training. He's thick-winded, too. He'll be roarin' like a lion afore the second mile."

  "But how can you know which ones will be any good?"

  "It begins in the breedin' shed, by selecting proven blood from a running family on
both sides.
Too many breeders care only for the sire and the damsire, givin' no heed atall to the dam herself. Begin wi' good blood then make sure the horse be well put together and full of vigor. The rest be in the training."

  "But what will become of this one?" Her hand moved over his coat of satin.

  "I says, by 'is looks, Sir Garfield would do better training that aged broodmare"—he indicated Amoret—"than this four-year-old."

"Amoret? Do you really think so?"

  Jeffries chuckled. "Nay, miss. Her runnin' days be well past, but wi' exercise, she'll regain the vigor she lost in the last foaling. Some light rides on the heath will be good for the twain of ye, though I doubt yer Uncle would be too fond of the notion. Now then, time's a wastin'. We'd best be about your lesson."

  Charlotte looked at him blankly. "But I don't know what to do."

  "Then it be high time ye learn."

  He conducted Charlotte into the harness room. The air was permeated with the rich smells of leather and neatsfoot oil. Several boys were at work cleaning the saddlery. Charlotte scanned the rows of gleaming leather as Jeffries moved to lift Beatrix's saddle from its rack.

  "But isn't that a side-saddle, Jeffries?" She asked, regarding the saddle askance. "I don't want to amble along side-saddle like the fine ladies who parade on Rotten Row. I want to
really
ride, like the lads do. I want to hear the thunder of hooves and feel the wind in my hair."

  "So you've a mind to ride the cracks, do you? 'Tis not the thing at all for a lady, ye know."

  "What do I care for that? Please teach me to ride astride, won't you?"

  "Ye truly think ye be up to the task?"

  Charlotte lit up. "Yes indeed! If you'll only but show me."

  "It'll be the devil to pay if'n the Bart should get wind of it," he warned.

  "I promise he won't. I'll come to the stables before anyone is up at the house. Please, Jeffries."

  The wide hazel eyes did him in. The stable master sighed in capitulation.

  "Thank you, Jeffries!" Turning back to the saddlery, she asked, "Now which one shall I use? This one?" She indicated another saddle.

  "Not unless ye be plannin' to leap the hedgerows chasin' foxes," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  "Mayhap not right away," she answered in all gravity. "But I fail to see the difference between any of those without the leg horn on them," she said with consternation.

  "Then look more closely. Ye see the seat? This rise in the front is called the pommel, and the back is the cantle. On a hunting saddle, the pommel be low so that the rider can rise up in his seat to better take his fences."

  "Oh, I see." Charlotte approached what looked like no more than an elongated leather pad. "And this one, Jeffries?" she asked.

  "Ah, that be a racing saddle."

  "But there's nothing to it! How does one even secure it to the horse?"

  Jeffries pulled out a wide woven strap. "This is a surcingle. It goes over the saddle and around the horse's belly."

  "It doesn't look like it would be very secure," she remarked skeptically.

  "That be true, lass, but 'tis small and light, made that way to not interfere with the horse's running."

  "We'll use this one." He pulled an exercise saddle from the rack, along with a blanket.

  "Now, lass, bring me the snaffle. He indicated an entire wall covered with leather headstalls hanging from their hooks.

  "What is a snaffle?"

  Then commenced her lesson in bits and bridles.

      Her first few lessons were conducted with a long length of rope attached to the bridle, which Jeffries used to control the horse, while Charlotte learned equilibrium in the saddle. Greatly surprising the stablemaster, Charlotte proved to have a natural rider's seat and was confidently poised in only a matter of days. A fortnight later she and Amoret were leaving the exercise paddock and trotting freely out of the stable yard, with the mare tossing her head and snorting in delight.

  With elation Charlotte and Amoret explored the open heath until unexpectedly encountering that horrid undergroom astride Sir Garfield's prime racing prospect. He had snuck up from behind, taking her unawares. Well, in all fairness, he hadn't
exactly
snuck up. He had spoken first, called out, but startled her nonetheless.

  Charlotte was tongue-tied and paralyzed with fear that he would discover her identity and betray her to her uncle, and her only happiness would come to an abrupt end almost before it had begun. With a racing heart, she followed her first impulse, spurred her mare into action, and fled.

  Needing little encouragement from her rider, the spirited mare sprung. Nostrils flaring, tail in the air, she surged forth, increasing her stride with each drawn breath. The young man, struggling to catch them, hung closely over his own horse's neck, spurring, encouraging, but still losing ground until the mist of the heath swallowed them. The sprightly Amoret was lightning on four legs!

  Arriving back at the stable yard breathless, Charlotte dismounted, but Robert arrived hot on her heels. He swung agilely down from his saddle to land directly in her path.

  "You bloody little reckless fool! Do you have no care for either yourself or your horse? She could have easily caught a hoof in a rabbit hole out there and broken a leg, or thrown you and broken your neck. Though by my first impression, the former would surely be the greater loss."

"How dare you lecture me, when you were in pursuit!"

  "The difference is after ten years of riding that heath, I know every warren on it. You don't! Besides the fact that you ran that poor broodmare ragged. You can't ride a horse like that that's out of condition!"

  "But Jeffries said I could take her out for an airing, and she loved every minute of it!" Charlotte replied.