by R B Marshall
I’d been blithely enjoying the sunshine and the pastoral views around me, laughing at fluffy lambs playing games of tag while their mothers dreamily munched on lush spring grass. Overhead, chattering swallows swooped and swirled, and the dew adorning the cobwebs on the fence beside the track sparkled like diamonds on a lace bodice.
In the distance, lumpy green hills led steadily northwards towards the barren purple grandeur of the Cairngorm mountains. It made London seem like an overwrought, self-important hell-hole in comparison. I gave silent thanks, once again, that Lady Letham had taken a chance on me, which allowed me to leave all that behind and return to my native Scotland.
And then I spotted something white under a bush.
For someone as tall as me to reach into the small space under the spiky hawthorn bush was really difficult. Especially wearing stiff riding boots, which aren’t really designed for scrabbling around on the ground. But it would be worth the scratches if I could just get the little dog—for that’s what the white thing turned out to be—to come to me.
It was some sort of terrier, a grubby white and brown thing, with its shoulders stooped and its head hanging, crouching under the prickly shrubs that lined the path I’d been riding along a minute earlier.
“Here, boy, you look like you need a friend,” I crooned to the dog, trying to give off an air of kindness. If I could only stretch a little further, I might reach him.
Just at that point, Leo helpfully decided to take a step backwards, straining my muscles almost to breaking point. Giving the reins a tug, I clucked at the horse. “Walk on,” I asked, and, with the resulting loosening of the reins, I was able to let the dog sniff my fingers.
My reward was a quick lick from a small, pink tongue. “Aw, you’re a sweet one,” I said. “How come you’re out here on your own. Are you lost?”
Could he have strayed while on a walk? I slid a finger down the soft curve of his neck. No collar. Perhaps he was abandoned deliberately. That thought made me feel sorry for him, and I extended my hand to pat his head, imagining grey cars and black tarmac and dark skies. “Poor boy.”
Beside me, Leo stretched his big face down to look under the bush, and snorted at the little pup.
The terrier’s eyes widened in fright, and before I could do anything about it, he’d turned tail, wriggled through a gap, and disappeared off into the trees.
I stared at the black space where he’d been, then scrambled up and turned to Leo with my hands on my hips. “Look what you did! You acted like a fire-breathing dragon and scared him away.” Leo, of course, was totally oblivious to what he’d done. His soft brown eyes regarded me calmly, then he moved his attention to the bush beside us, and nibbled at a leaf.
A minute later I was back in the saddle, trying to damp down my frustration and get back to enjoying my ride. Trotting along the path—a disused railway line, now given over to ramblers and horse riders—my eyes scanned from side to side like a spectator at a tennis match, looking for the wee dog. But there was no sign of him. Maybe I’ll find him in the village.
Our route looped invitingly round a little wood, then led into the outskirts of Glengowrie, the Scottish village that was my new home.
Parked on the verge beside the first cottage we reached was a red van, engine running and indicators flashing orange. A short, wiry man in a dark uniform jacket, blue shorts and running shoes stepped out of the vehicle, tucking a parcel under his arm. “Morning,” said the postman, his tanned face crinkling like a walnut as he eyed my chestnut steed. “Is it you that’s the new girl who works with the horses at the big house?”
“Yes.” It would never cease to amaze me how quickly gossip could get round a small village. “I’m Izzy Paterson. Nice to meet you.”
“Evan Grainger,” said the postie, who positively bristled with energy. “Tidy horse you’ve got there.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at him. “Oh—you’ve not seen a wee white and brown terrier on your rounds today, have you? A Jack Russell, I think. Or did you hear if anyone has lost a dog? I saw him in the wood back there,” I indicated over my shoulder, “but he ran away before I could catch him.”
Evan shook his head slowly. “Not that I can recall.” His face brightened. “But if I hear anything, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Training and riding finished for the morning, Trinity and I were grabbing a quick bite to eat in the tack room before starting the afternoon’s work. There was something comforting and old-fashioned about the smell of leather and saddle soap, the worn oak boards on the floor, and the soft grey light filtering through the small panes of the ancient window.
Her knife poised over a jar of apple chutney, Trin frowned at her sandwich. “I wonder what really brought him up here from London?”
My head had been full of the morning’s work, making mental notes of what to do next with the horses, so it took me a minute to realise she was talking about Richard the farrier. I blinked. “I dunno. Unless he trained up here.”
“But he must’ve been working for a while—he ain’t that young. Thirty? What d’you think?”
Trin was a little older than me, with the big three-zero approaching fast, and she was a bit touchy about her age. After a disastrous relationship in London, an eligible man of a similar age was exactly what she needed.
However, Trin’s question helped me realise what had been bothering me about the Lonesome Cowboy. Why would a decent farrier uproot himself, leave his clients and his friends and start anew in a place like this? Glengowrie was lovely, but it wasn’t exactly the centre of the universe.
Of course, you could ask the same question about me, but in my case I left a totally different career in the rat race of London to pursue my dream of being a dressage rider and trainer. Lady L was the first person to take a chance on me—so here I was, back in my native Scotland and loving every minute of it.
Plucking a couple of grapes from the bunch in the fruit bowl, I leaned back. “At least thirty, I’d say. You’ll need to ask him more about his background, next time you see him.”
Trinity’s face brightened at the thought. “I’d better start doing a rain dance,” she said with a mischievous glance at me.
Oh dear. She really is smitten.
I was spared from any more musings about the new farrier by the entrance of Lady Letham, resplendent in cashmere and floral print, randomly accessorised with red gardening gloves, green wellies, and a polka-dot patterned walking stick. “I come bearing gifts!” she said, leaning on her stick with one hand, and setting a round tin filled with sugar-sprinkled shortbread on the table between us. “Or,” she paused, “should that perhaps be bribes?”
An index finger raised imperiously. “But first, lest I forget, the plumber is scheduled to do the last few…” her fingers waved in the air, “thingummy-bobs on Stables Cottage next week. So you should be able to move in the following weekend.”
The cottage at the top of the stable yard should actually have been ready when we first started at Glengowrie Stud. But it seemed that project management wasn’t Lady L’s foremost skill. “Thank you, we’ll look forward to that,” I said, waving a hand at an empty seat. “Please, sit down. Have some shortbread.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” She propped the stick against a wooden saddle rack and delicately picked up a biscuit. “I’ll tell Jacintha that you’ll be moving from her pied-à-terre in town, forthwith.”
Trinity raised an eyebrow. “It’ll be good to get me own room again. And not have to wear earplugs.”
I gave her an evil look. She insisted that I snored, but I was convinced it was just heavy breathing that was amplified in the quiet of night.
“Oh, I do apologise most profusely, my dear.” Lady Letham brushed some sugar crumbs from her skirt, then gave Trinity a placatory look. “Jacintha’s place was the only one available at such short notice.”
“It’s been fine,” I said, anxious not to upset my employer. “But we’ll look forward to being here on site. It’ll be better i
n case of any emergencies. Now, you said something about a favour?”
Lady L caught my eye and clasped her hands together. “Yes. Isobel, darling, I have a special task for you. I’ve just been on the telephone to my dear friend Libby, and I’ve organised for the big girls to go up and meet her handsome boy Eagle. If all goes well, we’ll get some little Eaglet babies in eleven months’ time.”
“Allegra and Daisy?” I asked, translating her shorthand to mean that she wanted her two warmblood mares to go to stud where a stallion would have his wicked way with them.
“Yes. Eagle is such a gorgeous Highland Pony. You know that my ambition is to breed some of the best Scottish Sports Horses. I’m sure that, with his bloodlines, he’ll produce some lovely foals.”
“Okay.” I bit one of the grapes in half, savouring the sweet taste. “When do you need them to go?”
She pushed the tin of biscuits in my direction and gave me a sideways look. “This afternoon, if you could possibly manage that, my dear? I would love for them to get into foal this month, so they will have their foals next April. I think they’ve both just come into season.”
I blinked, mentally reviewing my ‘to do’ list for today. With eight horses to look after and a part-time business on the side, there wasn’t a lot of spare time for unplanned trips. “Where abouts is Eagle?” Maybe if it wasn’t too far, I could squeeze it in later this afternoon.
“At Libby’s stud,” Lady L said, as if everybody should know.
Munching another grape, I creased my brow. “Remember, I’m not from round here.”
“Oh yes, dear, of course.” She pointed vaguely out the window. “It’s north of here. Balmoral. I’d imagine it’ll take you at least an hour to get there with the lorry—the roads are just shocking. Single track with passing places for much of the way.”
“Balmoral?” Trin interjected. “Like, the Queen’s summer palace?”
“Castle,” Lady Letham corrected. “Yes. Libby has a stud in the grounds.”
“Libby…” My mouth hung open. “You mean, Queen Elizabeth?”
She nodded. “Yes, Libby. That’s what I said.”
Trin’s eyes were like saucers. “You know the Queen?”
“Yes. Ever since I was a girl. In the summer holidays, Mummy would take me up there and we’d play together. Libby, dear Margaret—God rest her soul—and I.” As she talked, Lady L’s fingers waved through the air, like she was conducting an invisible orchestra. “And then, for a while, I was a lady-in-waiting. That was before I got married to his lordship. Such fun! Travelling the world, the parties, the dresses, the jet-set…” Her face sparkled with the memories.
I swallowed and looked down at my riding breeches and gilet, which had seen better days. Might have to dig out my best show gear to visit a royal castle. “Will the Queen be there?”
Lady Letham let out a trill of laughter. “No, no, she won’t be there till the summer. Dear Libby is at Windsor just now, hosting a reception for an ambassador or some such. You’ll be seeing her man, Hamish. Hamish Douglas, who runs the stud. He’s expecting you.”
With my precious cargo of Lady Letham’s two best mares in the back of the lorry, I negotiated the last few miles to Balmoral on autopilot while I went over the arrangements—and rearrangements—we’d had to make to accommodate this unexpected trip, to make sure I’d not forgotten anything.
Around me, imposing pines crowded either side of the narrow road that followed the route of the River Dee. On one side, the land fell away and down to the tumbling river, although I only got glimpses of it through the trees. On the other, rolling hills and forests led north and west to the majestic mountains of the Cairngorms National Park. But, for once, the soaring landscape didn’t soothe my mood.
It wasn’t the first time in the last three weeks that Lady L had sprung something unexpected on me. I hadn’t worked out yet if she was spontaneous or just disorganised. Perhaps the latter. Surely she must’ve been planning to send the mares to stud for a while? It’s not something you just do on the spur of the moment.
Or maybe she’d always intended to send them to Balmoral, and just forgotten to tell me? That’s probably more likely. She did say she’d just noticed that the mares had come into season. And at her age, forgetfulness probably went with the territory.
A sign up ahead had a castle on it and an arrow pointing right. Crunching the lorry down a gear, I turned into tourist car parks milling with spring visitors to the castle, thinking about how I’d have handled a boss like this during my time at the bank.
I’ll ask her to have a weekly planning meeting. And I would use that time to report back on the youngsters’ progress and discuss any competitions we could enter. Yes, that might work.
Hopefully, that way I’d not get any more surprises sprung on me, and have to leave Trinity to cope on her own. Well, almost alone. Lady L had asked Jimmy, her handyman, to do some extra hours to help while I was away. Jimmy was a hard worker, and would muck out four boxes in the time it took me to exercise one horse. But he didn’t take anything directly to do with the animals. So Trin would be left with all the rugging, grooming and turnout to do by herself.
And I wasn’t going to be away just for an afternoon, as I’d originally thought. Lady L had asked me to stay till the morning, so I could be sure the mares were settled before I came back. I glanced at the small bag on the passenger seat, which contained my overnight stuff and my laptop. At least I can get some work done this evening at the B&B. So the trip wouldn’t be a total bust.
“After one hundred yards, you have reached your destination!” the sat-nav pinged as we crossed an iron-balustraded bridge over the river.
Up ahead on the right I could see imposing wrought-iron gates set into a granite-block wall beside a modest, stone-built gatehouse. A policeman stood guard.
We’re here, I thought, straightening my spine and gripping the steering wheel. The queen might not be in residence, but it was still a daunting place to visit. I could only hope that Hamish the stud manager would be friendly.
Chapter Three
It wasn’t Hamish that I met first, though. Searching for something that looked like a stable yard, I eased the truck along one of the back roads in the Balmoral estate, wishing I’d not been too intimidated to ask the security guard for directions.
Ahead of me was a guy in green wellies, cord trousers and green tweed jacket, striding along the side of the road with a black Labrador at his heels. The only thing that spoiled the Monarch of the Glen look was a rather incongruous faded blue baseball cap on his head. Unruly reddish-brown curls escaped from the bottom and spilled over his collar.
“Excuse me,” I called, pulling alongside him and winding down the window. “I’m looking for Hamish at the stables.”
The green eyes he turned on me were arresting, that was the only word for it. They were offset by a chin with slightly too much scruff on it, a high forehead and a wide mouth. How would I describe him to Trin? Somewhere between boy-next-door and Hollywood, maybe? Yeah.
Pushing the brim of his hat up his forehead, he gave a wry smile. “If you’re looking for the stables, I’m afraid you’re headed the wrong way.”
His voice wasn’t the Hooray Henry received pronunciation I’d expected from his garb. Instead, he spoke with a soft Highland brogue—presumably a local.
For a moment, he stared down the road behind us, then seemed to come to a decision. “But I can show you, if you’d like?”
“I’m Craig MacDonald,” he said as he clambered into the passenger seat, encouraging his dog to sit between his boots in the footwell, “and this is Jet.” He held out a hand. “Welcome to Balmoral.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “Izzy Paterson.” His strong masculine presence, the faint aroma of sandalwood and the brief clasp of his warm hand momentarily froze my brain. It was a while since I’d been near a man my own age. Obviously. Get a grip, Izzy.
I cleared my throat. “Usually I’d look up Google Maps or get instructions,
so I know where I’m going. But my boss was rather vague, and I guess even Google gets their wrists slapped if they provide too much detail of where the royals live.”
He chuckled. “Aye, and thon’s only the half of it. Did they make you sign away your firstborn just to get through the gate?”
“Pretty much.”
Circling a finger in the air to indicate I should do a u-turn, he nodded at the visitor pass on the dashboard. “And it’ll be the same rigmarole all over if you come back here again.” He pierced me with those emerald-green eyes. “Or is this just a one-off visit?”
For a minute, I concentrated on manoeuvring the lorry into a rather ungainly thirteen-point turn. It gave time for my heart rate return to normal. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I’m delivering a couple of mares to the stud and I’ve to check on them tomorrow. I guess I’ll need to collect them at some point if they’ve to stay—Lady Letham was a bit vague on the details.”
“Of course! So old Alice is your boss.” There was a brief pause, then he quirked an eyebrow. “But that would explain a lot.” He pointed into a small side road. “Turn left here.”
“Oh dear. Is there something I should know? About Lady Letham, I mean. I’ve not worked for her very long.”
He smiled, revealing teeth that were also somewhere between Hollywood and Haddington. Not perfect. But not bad. “Och, don’t worry. She’s no’ an axe-murderer or anything like that. Just a bit… forgetful.”
“Phew!” I hammed it up, wiping my brow theatrically.
“And turn right at this one,” he directed. “So I’m guessing you’re new here?”
“Yeah. Just moved three weeks ago. I’m from just outside Edinburgh, but I don’t know this area of Scotland at all.”
Up ahead on the left of the road I spied two grey stone cottages with slate roofs, white porches, and gardens which seemed to be competing to be the most colourful. Beyond them was a parking lot, then a riding arena with a crumbed rubber surface, surrounded by a post and rail fence. A building along one side of the arena formed part of a square stable block, with a clock tower over the open gates directly ahead. “Is this us?”