Bram studied Anderson over the rim of his cup. Bram could see the age around Anderson’s eyes, his face tanned and wrinkled from a life lived outdoors. Anderson reminded him of the old groom at his family home. His father still hadn’t found a way to pension him off without hurting his pride. ‘The stables are well-kept and the quarters are decent. What drove them off?’
It was Anderson’s turn to eye him over a swallow of whiskey. ‘It wasn’t a “what”. It was a “who”. Some men don’t like taking orders from a lady.’
Ah. Phaedra Montague. He should have guessed. She’d been far from pleased with her brother’s announcement at the fair. ‘She makes life difficult?’ Bram asked. Did she plant frogs in their beds? He couldn’t envisage her stooping to such juvenile levels.
Anderson wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘Nah. She doesn’t do it on purpose. It’s not her fault she knows more about horses than they do. She doesn’t mean to drive them away.’
The first thing that struck Bram was that he doubted it. She probably did hope they would move along. She had not hidden her disapproval at the horse fair. The second was that she had the old groom wrapped around her finger. He was clearly defending her.
‘She’s that good?’ Bram took another swallow, trying to cultivate an attitude of nonchalance while he probed for information. It was always best to know one’s quarry before one began the hunt.
‘She’s that good. Lord Giles is a bruising rider but she holds equal to him. It’s not just the riding though. It’s everything else. It’s like she can look in their souls, that she can reach them on a level no one else can.’ Anderson poured himself a second drink. ‘I’ll tell you something crazy if you want to hear it and if it won’t send you packing.’
Bram was all ears. This part of the country was known for its superstitions and ghost tales and Anderson had the makings of a fine storyteller.
‘Two years ago last June we had a white stallion named Troubadour. He belonged to her brother Edward. Edward was off fighting Napoleon but Troubadour had been left home. One night around the fourteenth, he started acting all crazy-like in his stall, kicking, stomping. He wouldn’t eat. No one could get near him except Miss Phaedra. She sat with him for hours getting him to calm down. Mind you, there was no one here. All four of the boys were at war. It was just Lady Phaedra and Lady Kate and the duke, of course. When Lady Kate came out to see her, Lady Phaedra was crying something fierce. She told Lady Kate Troubadour was dying and that she feared young Lord Edward was dead. Before sunrise, Troubadour lay down in his stall and refused to get up. A month later, word reached us that Lord Edward had fallen at Waterloo, the very night Troubadour died.’ Anderson tapped his head with his finger. ‘She knows them, knows what’s in their heads.’
Bram nodded. He’d heard stories about horses that could sense their masters’ distress. He’d never heard of anything quite as drastic as Anderson’s tale. So, Lady Phaedra talked to horses and read their minds. Well, he’d see about that for himself, but it was clear Tom Anderson believed it in full.
They passed a companionable evening discussing the horses and their workout needs. There was the spirited mare the eldest daughter, Kate, had left behind when she’d gone to America not long ago. There were the general horses kept for guests, not that there’d been many guests outside of family in recent months. There was Giles Montague’s black beast of a stallion, Genghis, nearly as dark as Warbourne. And there was the elegant chestnut thoroughbred, Merlin, Lord Jamie’s horse.
‘Lord Jamie?’ He quirked his eyebrow in question. Yet another younger brother, perhaps? How big was this family? Bram was beginning to wonder.
‘Lord Jamie is the eldest. But he went to war too, and didn’t come home. Only Lord Giles and Lord Harry returned.’ Anderson shook his head. ‘It’s been a bad business all around for the family. Lord Giles wanted to be a career military man. He never wanted to be the heir, never was jealous of Lord Jamie. But it wasn’t to be.’
‘He died too?’ Bram asked quietly. He knew several families in London who’d lost loved ones thanks to Napoleon. Families both rich and poor alike had lost sons.
Anderson shrugged, a light twinkling in his old blue eyes. ‘Don’t know. That’s a whole other kettle of fish brewing up at the house these days. Lord Giles is pretty closemouthed about it, as he should be. But there was no body ever recovered and then last fall this woman shows up with a little ‘un just about the right age claiming she’s Lord Jamie’s wife. She’s living at the Dower House. The family is trying to do right by her, although the whole thing seems off to me.’
‘Why?’
Anderson jerked his head the general direction of the horse stalls. ‘Merlin’s still alive. He and Lord Jamie were as close as a horse and human can be, just like Edward and Troubadour,’ Tom Anderson answered matter-of-factly, as if everyone bought into folklore without question.
Bram refrained from comment. He supposed stranger things had happened. When he’d driven through the gates of Castonbury today, it had looked normal enough—the manicured grounds, the outbuildings in decent repair, the stables immaculate. It had looked better than normal. From the outside, one would never guess the turmoil that simmered beneath the surface. What exactly had he let himself in for? Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t ‘boring.’ All fears of ennui had been effectively banished.
Phaedra rose early and dressed quickly in breeches and a loose shirt. Rising early was imperative if she wanted to escape the eagle eye of Aunt Wilhelmina. She did not approve of Phaedra roaming the estate in breeches nor did the redoubtable lady approve of rising before ten in the morning. Neither of which was surprising. Aunt Wilhelmina spent most of her life disapproving. Still, Phaedra preferred not to be on the receiving end of her aunt’s disapproval and there seemed to be a lot more of it headed her direction since Kate had left after Christmas with her new husband.
In the breakfast room, Giles was already present with his coffee and newspapers. He looked up as she entered and uttered a brief good-morning. She nodded. This had become their ritual. Both of them enjoyed rising early but early rising was not synonymous with a desire to engage in conversation. They wanted to eat first, let their minds sift through the agenda of their days.
Phaedra piled her plate with eggs and hot toast. Chances were she wouldn’t be back to the house for luncheon. Her mind was already sorting through the things that needed doing at the stables: check on the gelding with the sore leg, make sure the hay delivery had arrived from the home farm, do a general walk-through to check on the stalls and horses. There was Warbourne to see to and horses to exercise.
The activity would fill her day until sunset. The busyness was a blessed relief from the empty house. She’d grown up in a large family, used to being surrounded by brothers and a sister, but war and the passing of years had brought an end to that. The boys had gone to battle. Only Giles had come home and then only because duty demanded it. Harry had come home and left again. Kate had married. Really, Kate’s marriage was the last blow, the last desertion. The two of them had lived here together during the years the boys were at war. It had brought them close in spite of the difference in their ages. Now Kate was gone, choosing Virgil and a new life in Boston over Castonbury and the familiar. And her.
Now it was just her and Giles, the oldest and the youngest, nine years separating them. She hoped it wasn’t disloyal to Jamie to think of Giles as the oldest. But Jamie was dead now, whether there was a body or not, and Giles had done his best to pick up the reins of duty in the wake of great tragedy.
Phaedra sighed and bit into her toast. Since Kate had left, mornings were hardest of all, the time when she was most acutely aware she’d been left behind. The once merry and heavily populated breakfast room was empty. Giles was here but he had Lily and in the summer they would marry. They would fill Castonbury with a new generation of Montagues. Time would