Drawn by a pair of prized Lancashire Chestnuts, the carriage itself was an immaculate showpiece. The leather seats were hand stitched and stuffed with worsted deerskin and the mahogany inlay around the perimeter of the passenger compartment was perfect in every detail. Lord Knowles had personally acquired the prize geldings at the Cambridge Winter Sale three years ago by outbidding his rivals in a long exchange that had cost him a “sultan’s fortune”. It was a premium he quietly embraced, having verified that their bloodlines ran back three hundred years directly to the livery stock of Hampton Hall, the country estates of Sir Walter Raleigh. For a man for whom lineage was everything the investment in such a prestigious brace was entirely appropriate. His Lordship personally maintained strict direction over their care and handling, these were show horses and vital public confirmation of his family prestige. They were pampered in the barn, and in harness they always trotted and rarely cantered. The proof of their heritage was in their stamina, they could amble heroically at a steady gait for more than an hour.
At Her Ladyship’s insistence only a liveryman dressed in regal appointment drove the coach. Having captured the specifics of the Queen’s personal entourage there would be no detail left incomplete. Smith, her personal chauffeur was a recent addition to the household staff filling the post left vacant by the sudden passing of Woodford, her personal long time favourite on whose complete discretion she could always rely. Smith’s uniform matched the royal household in every detail, including vest, boots and tails with the deliberate exception that the colours of the band on his black top hat were the Knowles family burgundy and gray - not regal red, a minor understatement appreciated by all that mattered.
Woodford had arrived with Barbara to Meaford Hall, a wedding gift of a sort from her own beloved father, who wanted to privately ensure that his only precious daughter would maintain some degree of his personal protection. Woodford’s absolute loyalty t0 the Barton family reached back through two generations to his own grandfather, a personal valet Sir Michael’s own father. Wilfred had become a trusted uncle to Lady Barbara and his untimely death left her abandoned to her husband’s loyal cadre of informants. This would be only the third occasion that had permitted Smith to chauffeur for her personal affairs. His competence behind the traces was obvious but it would be some time before she would dare attempt any test of a private trust. For now her private dalliances would remain in quiet abeyance.
* * *
God’s Work
Danny and Phil had met at noon one rainy Saturday in April. One of the warehouse draught horses had come up lame after slipping badly in the mud and Danny was instructed to help Mr. Fester to lead him to Marks Livery a few blocks down the road. Phil had been the first one out the barn gates to meet them. He ran straight to the horse to take hold of his halter and to begin patting his head. He then reached across his chest, down his foreleg and then began to press his fingers firmly around the suffering knee. Mr. Marks and George Limey both sauntered up behind imploring him to move the animal out of the rain. Philip slowly led the stumbling old fella forward into the barn and tried to comfort him by speaking quietly as they made their way.
As the two older men followed, Henry Marks remarked to Harry Fester, “You can say what you like but that boy has a real way with ‘em, Harry. Somehow they seem to know he’s their friend.”
“He’s a natural all right,”George piped in, “them horses trust him like no one else. It’s a gift - a true gift.”
“George you run an’ fetch Doc Porter over at the Rose and Crown, he’ll be in the back room with his Saturday pals,” Henry instructed.
Danny stood quietly in the stall and watched as Phil tried to calm the old horse as it snorted and shook with pain.
As he stroked his face Phil muttered quietly, “We’ll have to wait for the doc to see him but I’m betting he’s broken his fetlock.”
“How will they fix him?” Danny asked.
“Likely just shoot him,” Phil whispered as he gently brushed the mud from the horse’s face.
“Why? Can’t they wrap it up in a splint or somthin’, make him lie still for a couple of weeks til its better?”
“Naw, they never recover from a busted fetlock, so it’s easier to just shoot ‘em. ‘Sides he’s a pretty old guy.” Phil paused, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, “they tell me it’s all God’s work, but it always hurts like hell.”
Danny just stared at the horse and backed out of the stall just as the veterinarian ambled through the gates.
“He’s over here doc,” George called as he pointed the way.
The old vet pushed past Fester and Danny into the stall. He reached down and pressed his hands around the injured knee and stood straight back up.
“Fetlock’s broken. You’ll have to put im down,” he instructed. “Do it straight away, mind, this old fellow is in a lot of pain.”
“Phil, you take him out to the back paddock and I’ll get my gun,” Mr. Marks directed. “Thanks, for coming straight away in the rain, Doc.”
“Not a problem for me, in fact it was a relief. I’ve been losing to Percy Sweeney again, that beaming old reprobate!”
“You can never trust a banker, they’ve always got something up a sleeve,” George affirmed as Porter marched off back to his game.
Philip had begun to ease the suffering animal out the rear gates and back into the rain. Moments later Danny jumped at the blast from a rifle and stood breathlessly as the great beast first tottered then collapsed heavily in the mud.
The retort was still ringing in his ears as Mr. Marks barked to Phil and George, “You fellas get a team and drag the carcass to the back of Lester’s Butcher. He can take it from there.”
“They’re goin’ to carve him up for dinner?” Danny coughed in stunned amazement.
“Naw, they’ll chunk him up and boil ‘im into tins for the army,” George replied as he headed for the stalls. “They’ll send the hide to the boot works and boil the bones for glue.”
“Harry then turned to Dan and nodded, “We better get back and tell Mr. Jameson what’s gone on.”
“Not to worry boy, they pay tuppence a pound for the meat and a shilling for the hide,” Marks encouraged.
“Nasty business,” old Fester shook his head as he pointed Danny back out into the rain, “nasty, nasty business.”
“I’ll drop in and see ya when I’m done here” said Phil as he handed Danny the harness. “I got to pick up my mother’s supplies.”
“Who’s your mother?” Danny called back.
“Elsie Clark.”
“The laundry lady?”
Phil wheeled at the tone of the question, “Ya, that’s right. You want to make anything of it?” he growled.
“Naw, all the boys love old Elsie. Come find me in the back, I’ll have yer order ready.”
“Good,” said Phil. “Then you can stand me to a beer.”
* * *
First Encounter
It was nearly noon and Danny was already