“James, were the Romans here in Yorkshire?”
“Yes they were. There’s quite a pretty village called Aldborough that was really a Roman city. Not much has been done to it, but there are two quite excellent mosaic pavements. Perhaps in the future they will find more. Why do you ask?”
“The trees. They look so old, they were probably here with the Roman centurions. It’s very romantic, don’t you think?”
James heard a horse whinny loudly and grinned. “That’s Bellini, the most beautiful Arab I’ve ever seen in my life. Marcus gave him to me last year. He’s already sired two fillies and three stallions. Come see him, Jessie.”
Bellini was as black as a coal bin and surely as intelligent as James, Jessie told him as she patted the magnificent stallion’s black nose. “He’s a sweetheart.”
“All the mares think so. Last winter, just before I came back to Baltimore, a mare from the Rothermere stud jumped poor Bellini. She kicked one of my stable lads badly when he tried to pull her off.”
“You’re making that up.”
“No, no. Come meet everyon
e.”
She met his head stable lad, Sigmund, who had come to James from Croft’s stud just twenty miles away, a stud famous for its Byerley Turk blood.
“Stop drooling, Jessie,” James said as he watched her pat every single horse, feed each one a carrot she’d snatched up from the bucket outside the stable, and tell them how very lucky they were.
“It’s hard,” she said, turning to smile at him. James froze. He didn’t make a single move, utter a single noise. There was a shaft of sunlight coming over her shoulder from the open stable door, framing her hair, making the redness of it glisten like a sunset on the west coast of Ireland where James had visited a racing friend. She was smiling at him, and that hair of hers, in a simple braid, somehow looked different. He realized that it was looser, that there were myriad lazy curls framing her face. He turned away. He didn’t like this at all.
“This is Caliper, an old fellow who’s seen more changes than any other stallion in Yorkshire.”
Caliper got two carrots and more pats from Jessie than he deserved.
“Come to the house now.”
It was obvious to Jessie that the Duchess had overseen turning the inside of Candlethorpe into a livable dwelling. She wished she could tell James that she, Jessie, could do wonders with Marathon, if only . . . well, enough of that.
She shook her head and ran her hand over the top of a chair that was covered with lovely dark blue brocade. Very new dark blue brocade. There were two Aubusson carpets on the floor of the drawing room and several groupings of settees and chairs. There were several landscapes on the walls, but unlike Chase Park, there were no family portraits. The walls were freshly painted, a pale yellow, making the drawing room light and airy.
She met Mrs. Catsdoor and her son, Harlow, who took care of Candlethorpe when James was gone.
She met Mr. Goodbody, the gardener, and his undergardener, Carlos, who’d washed ashore off Scarsborough some five years before. He was from Spain, he told everyone in his broken English. He never gave any details.
“The gardens are beautiful,” Jessie said as she stepped out the wide French doors that gave onto the east lawn, not even a fraction of the size of Chase Park, but quite lovely in high summer, hydrangeas, roses, hyacinths, daisies, all blooming madly. “The Duchess insisted,” James said.
“You sound almost embarrassed. Isn’t it manly to admire beauty?”
“The Duchess adores flowers. I let her have her way,” James said, ignoring her question. He turned to face her. “Which do you prefer—Candlethorpe or Marathon?”
“I’d like to own both. Each is special in its own way. You won’t sell either one of them, will you, James?”
“Not unless I go bankrupt. Would you like some lemonade?”
“What I’d really like is to ride Bellini.”
He grinned down at her. “Perhaps on your next visit. He’s a devil, though he acts charming enough when he wants to. Are you wearing stockings with that sinful riding outfit, Jessie?”
She didn’t hesitate, just pulled up her riding skirt to show him pristine white stockings that disappeared into her black riding boots.
“The Duchess must be going bankrupt clothing you.” He was frowning—why, she didn’t understand. She thought it was a jest, nothing more, yet James had lost his sense of humor.
“No she’s not. I’m paid two pounds a week. I plan to shop tomorrow and pay her back.”
“Two pounds a week? What riches. She pays you the money to pay her back. Come now, you know you can’t remain at Chase Park until you’re old and doddering.”