Miss Betham curtseyed hastily in the straw, her cheeks flaming red in her embarrassment. “Your head groom said it would be all right –”
He held up his hand. “It is fine, Miss Betham. I like having these young horses handled in this fashion. It makes training them later on far more easy if they have learned to trust people. Which,” he added, pointing behind her, “I expect that boy does.”
Miss Betham half turned and discovered the colt trying to eat the end of her braid. She quickly pulled it from his mouth, smiling. She played with his face and ears, speaking as she did so. “He does not have any teeth yet,” she said, glancing up at him shyly. “I let him suck on my fingers.”
“I confess I have let foals suck on my fingers, too,” Maximilian told her opening the stall door and walking in. “I like this little fellow. He may not make an exceptional horse when he is grown, but I like him just the same.”
“Why would he not?”
“I will show you.”
Stepping in close, Maximilian picked up the colt’s right front foot. “See, Miss Betham? The fetlock is not straight, it turns outward.”
“He may grow out of it, Your Grace.” She gazed at it and frowned.
“True. He may. Since faulty conformation usually strikes both legs, not just one, it may be something that will correct itself over time. His bones are still soft, you see. If this leg was bent at a bad angle while in the womb, it may still right itself.”
“I do hope so,” she said, fondling the colt’s ears. “I hope you would not put him down for this one flaw.”
“Of course not.” Maximilian smiled. “The leg is certainly not bad enough to warrant that. He could still become a nice riding horse.”
“I wish I could buy him,” Miss Betham said in a tiny voice.
Maximilian gazed at her for quite a while, liking her more and more. A thoroughly nice young lady who loved horses as much as he did, and his thoughts ranged to Lady Helena, who did not. “You never know what might happen in the future, Miss Betham,” he said quietly. “Have you spent all your time with this fellow? I imagine the other foals would like some attention, as well.”
She grinned and permitted him to lead her out of the stall. Maximilian could not have spent a better afternoon than watching Miss Betham pet and talk to many more foals. Those who were shy and did not permit her to approach them, she instinctively knew to crouch down, making herself smaller. The curious foals that crept up to her would not let her stop crooning and scratching
“You are a natural with them, Miss Betham,” Maximilian commented. “I do not think anyone here can handle these babies the way you do.”
“Now you are just flattering me, Your Grace.” She smiled at him, giving him the benefit of those beautiful hazel eyes.
“Flattering with sincerity,” he replied, “I mean it.”
She gazed down at herself, her blue gown covered in bits of straw, her hands almost black. “I have never been this dirty before.” Her eyes lit up and her mouth curved into a smiled at him. “And loving every minute of it.”
He laughed. “I used to enjoy getting filthy in here. But people prefer their Dukes spotless, so I do not get many opportunities anymore.”
“Your Grace.”
Maximilian turned to find Fergus hurrying toward him. Fergus tugged at the bill of his cloth cap toward Miss Betham, then spoke hurriedly. “We have a mare in labor, Your Grace. Perhaps you and the young miss might want to witness it.”
“Yes, of course,” Miss Betham said, approaching the stall door. “That is, if it is all right with you, Your Grace.”
“Absolutely.”
He closed the stall door behind her as the foal inside whinnied, forlorn. The two of them followed Fergus down the aisle, then turned a corner and down yet another. Their heels clicked on the brick floor as they hurried, and Maximilian stifled the impulse to take Miss Betham by the hand. As much as he liked her, even Dukes did not seize a woman’s hand.
The grey mare lay on her side in the straw, her groom crouched at her head. He tugged his forelock in lieu of a bow and continued stroking the mare’s face and neck, all the while speaking softly coaching her. The mare breathed in deeply and groaned as a contraction struck her.
“Oh, my,” Miss Betham said, pointing toward the two small hooves sticking out from under the mare’s tail.
Maximilian leaned in close to be able to keep his voice low. “That is how foals are born,” he said. “Feet first. Then the nose will follow. Once the head comes out, the rest of the baby slides out relatively quickly.”
“What happens if the feet do not come out first?” she asked, staring at the sight of the laboring mare with awe.
Maximilian and Fergus exchanged a glance. “Then someone has to try to turn the foal. If the foal cannot be turned, they both die.”
“Oh, no. I am so very glad this one is coming out right.”
