“Captain, sir…may I tell you something?”
They were out of earshot now of the stables, following a path to the paddock.
“You’re not a bloody woman, are you?” Thorne’s voice was deadly serious but he glanced back and winked. “One hears such things nowadays. Tell away.”
Jack allowed himself a chuckle, then looked Thorne carefully in the eye.
“One mustn’t tattle on a fellow, sir, especially not when one shares quarters with them. But…I felt I really ought to say…about…that smell in Apollo’s stable, sir. The cigarettes.”
Jack waited for a reaction on the captain’s face. Did he realize what would happen if he betrayed the other grooms? But Jack Woodvine always did the right thing. Jack Woodvine, who had broken his shoulder falling off a horse just before conscription began. Jack Woodvine, who had healed, and who had answered the call to do his bit for King, Country and Empire. Jack Woodvine, who had left his father and the farm behind him because ten boys in his year at the grammar had already been killed and he couldn’t chase their faces from his dreams at night.
“Sir…I know who it was. Who was smoking. I cannot tell you who, sir, but I want you to know that, as Apollo’s groom—as your groom, sir, I won’t allow it anymore. Apollo is my concern, sir, and I…I won’t have it. That shilly-shallying about—I simply won’t!”
The captain looked back at him, his face set in a stern expression, those full lips a hard, tight line. When he spoke again, his voice was that of a commander once more.
“The grooms here are a shower of layabouts, rascals and hooligans. Don’t let them draw you into their ways, Woodvine, I won’t tolerate it.”
“Don’t worry, sir. I won’t.”
But even so, Jack didn’t like the idea of lying on that mattress with its ammonia stink of fear, alone, without some fellows to talk to. Even if he had to make up some ludicrous story, as he had before—of losing his virginity to a farmhand’s buxom daughter in a hayloft. When he hadn’t even held a girl’s hand.
And hadn’t wanted to.
At the end of the narrow path was a bright green paddock where half a dozen other horses grazed contentedly, with no idea of what was happening just a few miles away. It was fenced all around and bordered with trees that provided cool shade for those that might wish it. Threaded along the fence and off through the trees was a stream, deep and wide, the sunlight glittering and dancing on the surface like stars in a night sky, and they walked alongside it to reach the gate, which was held in place by a heavy iron bolt.
As soon as Thorne pulled back the bolt and opened the gate Apollo began to surge toward the paddock, the mighty creature pulling at Jack with enough force to have him trotting to keep up. The captain darted out one hand and seized the reins, admonishing the horse with a swift, “Fall back, Apollo!”
The horse responded immediately, though not without a certain insolence as he pulled just a touch, just to make the point that the choice was his to make, not that of the captain or the trooper. When the trio stepped into the paddock, Thorne unbuckled the bridle in a few swift movements and pulled it gently over the horse’s head. He patted his elegant hand against Apollo’s firm shoulder and told him, “Go on then, lad.”
And the horse was gone, cantering as happily as a pony across the paddock and into the shade. There he dropped his head and began to drink from the stream, leaving the captain to watch him with a soft gaze.
As he watched the gentle glee of the great stallion, Jack beamed. He looked back at the captain and tried to push aside the wavy hair that had fallen into his face. But a breeze was stirring up from somewhere, and Jack’s unruly forelock flopped back again.
“What a…a lovely paddock.”
Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. He must’ve broken some protocol somewhere—should one be so casual when faced with one’s captain? What did he remember from training? Being shouted at a lot, shimmying on his hips face down through mud with a lump of wood that was supposed to resemble a gun and finally, when he had been given a real gun, and had been hopeless at firing it. He’d had more luck with the bayonet, but in reality he didn’t fancy his chances if he had to look a fellow in the eye and twist a sharp bit of metal into his guts.
“Loveliest paddock I think I’ve ever seen.”
“And not even twenty miles from here…” Thorne knitted his hands behind his back, his shoulders squaring, his feet set apart in their shining leather boots. He drew in a deep breath and surveyed the horses as they grazed in peace, all except one gathered at the far end of the field. “You’ll soon learn, trooper, Apollo likes his own company as a rule. Perhaps he might make an exception for you, we shall have to see.”
“I…I hope so, Captain.” Jack peered at him from the corner of his eye. The captain’s face was set in a firm expression, as if it were hewn from stone. “I should like, sir, to please you.”
He stared ahead, tugging at a loose button on his jacket.
“Work hard and show proper respect and you and I will get on.” Thorne took a long, deep breath before speaking again. “And if you see anyone raise a hand to Apollo, I want his name, groom’s code or no. Understand?”
Jack nodded.
“Yes, sir. And…I’m sorry, Captain Thorne, if I didn’t show you respect earlier. With my muddy face and taking off my jacket without your permission. It won’t happen again, sir. I promise.”
“You’ll find me a fair master, but I brook no nonsense.” Thorne took the gloves from his pocket and slipped his hands into them, flexing his fingers a couple of times as if to test the supple leather. “Now back up to the yard and get yourself settled. Tomorrow we’ll go through your duties. Really put you through your paces, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack began to walk away, realizing that the captain was standing still, as if his feet had grown roots and those fine, sturdy legs had become tree trunks. He gave a salute.
“Good evening, sir.”
With a strange feeling of loss that he couldn’t quite account for, Jack went back to the stables.
Order your copy from
Pride Publishing
First For Romance
Amazon.com
Amazon.co.uk
iBooks
Sign up for our newsletter and find out about all our romance book releases, eBook sales and promotions, sneak peeks and FREE romance eBooks!
Check out our other imprints and bookstores dedicated to romance fiction:
About the Authors
Catherine Curzon is a royal historian who writes on all matters of 18th century. Her work has been featured on many platforms and Catherine has also spoken at various venues including the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, and Dr Johnson’s House.
Catherine holds a Master’s degree in Film and when not dodging the furies of the guillotine, writes fiction set deep in the underbelly of Georgian London.
She lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill.
Eleanor Harkstead often dashes about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards, and is especially fond of the ones in Edinburgh. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens. She has a large collection of vintage hats, and once played guitar in a band. Originally from the south-east, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.
Catherine and Eleanor love to hear from readers. You can find their contact information, website and author biographies at http://www.pride-publishing.com.
grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
The Captain's Cornish Christmas Page 7