A Brooding Beauty (9 page)

It was an inescapable fact that men had better luck than women. Why, just look at her husband – eight months ago he had been broke and destitute; now he was rich as a lark and off traveling the world spending
her
dowry while she was stuck in his downtrodden estate. Not fair at all, that.

Giving the sheep an absent pat on its furry head, Margaret skipped down the side of the hill and half walked, half ran the rest of the way to
Heathridge
.

In better hands the fifty seven room estate must have been nothing short of magnificent, but time and neglect had taken its toll. Paint was peeling from the window trim. Large chunks of plaster were missing from the walls. Even the grass surrounding the estate was overgrown and filled with weeds after the gardener had quit and there had been no money to replace him. The inside of the mansion was no better than the outside, with dingy floors, dusty tapestries, and an overpowering smell of mold on rainy days.

Flushed and perspiring slightly, Margaret slowed to a more dignified walk just short of the front steps. They spiraled out from the main door, but even they were chipped on the edges and grass had begun to grow between the granite cracks.

Hastings
, the butler/footman/occasional head cook met her just inside the door with a cool glass of lemon water. A portly man in his early fifties, he had loyally served the
Heathridge
family for thirty years and had not received a salary for the last five of them. Still he stayed on, mostly in part because he had no where else to go, and no family to speak of.

“Here you are, Lady Winter,” he said, extending the glass out to Margaret.

She took it and drank thirstily, hiccupped, and set the glass aside on a dusty table. “I have told you not to call me that,” she reminded him sternly.

“It is your name,” he said.

“No, it is my husband’s name. And we both know I am hardly a Lady, so why bother with all the fuss? Call me Margaret if you must, Maggie if you want, and never, ever,” she paused to shudder, “address me as Duchess.”

The hint of a smile appeared beneath
Hastings
’ rather impressive salt and pepper moustache.
“As you wish, Lady Winter.”

Margaret threw her hands up in the air. “
Egags
, why do I bother? What time is dinner tonight,
Hastings
?”

“Half past five o’ clock, Lady Winter.”

She shot him a narrowed eyed glance. “I have time for a ride, then?”

“If you wish.”

“Ha!” she cried triumphantly. “You didn’t do it that time.”

“Do what, Lady Winter?”

Her shoulders slumped. “I give up. If I am not back in time for dinner, start without me.”

“Certainly not,” said
Hastings
, looking aghast that she would dare suggest such a thing.

Margaret rolled her eyes. “There are five people living here besides myself, Hastings. Why should you all have to wait if I am running late? Just keep a plate warm and I will eat when I return.” Turning on her heel, she trotted down the steps before
Hastings
could argue with her, and went directly to the stables.

Destroyed by a fire and rebuilt recently, it was the only building on the property that had not fallen into a state of disrepair and Margaret was determined to keep it that way. She called each horse by name as she strolled into the barn and one by one they popped their heads over their stall doors to greet her with warm
nickers
of affection.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, pausing to scratch Poppy, a dark palomino, under her chin. In her younger years Poppy had plowed the fields that now lay fallow behind the main house, but now she had more gray hairs on her face than brown and walked with a slight limp. Her sweet nature made her one of Margaret’s favorites, and she often spoiled the mare with carrots and apples stolen from the kitchen.

Hay was piled neatly at the end of the barn. Filling a wheelbarrow with the sweet smelling dried grass, she fed each horse in turn and when they were all nibbling at their hay exchanged the wheelbarrow for a large bucket of oats. She soaked Poppy’s grain for the old draft mare had little teeth left to chew with, and opened up all of the stalls to let the horses out into their evening grazing pasture when they were finished eating. They filed past her one by one, too used to their daily routine to raise a fuss, and she followed them out to swing the gate closed behind them.

Now came the not so pleasant part, but it had to be done, and after scooping her hair up underneath a floppy hat and rolling up her shirt sleeves, Margaret fetched another wheelbarrow and began mucking out the stalls.

It was hard labor, but she enjoyed the simple quietness of it. A wry smile captured her lips as she remembered how her muscles had screamed in protest when she had first taken over care of the entire stables, but now her arms were strong and easily capable of dumping manure and hauling pails of water to and from the stalls.

She was on her second to last stall when an unfamiliar whinny rang through the air. Still holding her pitchfork, Margaret poked her head out of the entrance of the barn and watched with interest as a gleaming bay approached. She was so entranced by the horse’s fine build and elegant way of moving that she didn’t even notice the rider until he dropped to the ground in front of her and placed the horse’s reins in her hands.

“Here,” he said, not looking at her. “Cool him out and groom him.”

Margaret bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Oh, she noticed the rider now all right, although he certainly did not notice her. “Would you have me feed him as well?” she asked, deliberately speaking in a low voice.

“Yes, of course,” the rider said in a short, clipped tone. “And have him tacked again in an hour. I will not be staying here long.”

“Might I ask why?”

The rider turned and leveled dark green eyes at her. Margaret held her breath, waiting for him to recognize her, but he merely reached in his pocket and tossed her two coins which she reached out to catch automatically. “Cool him out, groom him, and feed him. I will be back in an hour.”

Without another word he walked away towards the house. Margaret stared after him in wordless disbelief, certain at any moment he was going to turn around and come back. When the front door slammed behind him, she shook her head.

“Can you believe that?” she asked the bay. The horse regarded her stoic silence. “Yes well,” she continued, grunting a bit as she loosened the bay’s tight cinch, “you have to be loyal to him. You’re his horse.
But I’m just his wife, and I don’t like him a’ tall.”