Marjorie slipped into a stable door to give herself a moment to collect her thoughts. She had to decide on her next move, warring with herself over whether to move forward with her plan or simply run to the safety of Windle Manor.
You can do this, Marjorie, she thought feverishly. There’s nothing waiting for you at home except a troublesome marriage and a family on the brink of ruin!
A shadow passed through the doorway of the already darkened stable and Marjorie shrank back, readying herself to run or hide. When she saw that it was an older man, perhaps the master of horse at this event, she steeled her courage and called out.
“Good sir! Can you answer me a question?” she asked, trying to sound formal yet lowborn while still maintaining her charade.
“What’s that? Who are ya? Why are ya in here?” the man demanded, and Marjorie recoiled only slightly. It was hard to remind herself that if a man spoke to her in a manner such as this, her ruse must be working.
“Sir, I’m looking for employment. I’ve come here to find a stable in need of a skilled horse hand.” She stopped and waited, hoping she’d kept the tremble out of her voice.
“Well, ya come to the right place, but I don’t know as anyone will be thinking of laborers today. Tis more of a festival than a serious event.” The man looked her over, and Marjorie was grateful for the low light in the stone building that obscured her features. “Haven’t seen such a skinny slip of a stable hand before, though. Ya gots references?”
“Aye, sir. I can get letters from my employer. I’ve worked for them since I was a lad, and am now prepared to find another stable in need of my skills,” she replied, wondering when she’d become so adept at lying.
“Who’s yer employer?” he asked, seemingly interested.
“The Marquess of Mortham, sir, Lord Charles Acton.”
“Mortham, ya say?” The man looked incredulous and for a moment Marjorie thought that might be a good thing. But then the man threw back his head and laughed, his cackling bellow filling the long row of stalls. “Word of advice, my boy. If yer looking for to be hired, you might not want to mention that name. You’d be better off telling folks you’ve never laid eyes on a horse, and don’t know how many legs it should have!”
“Why is that, sir?” she demanded, forgetting all about employment and worrying about this new revelation. “I mean, I wasna aware of my master’s reputation elsewhere.”
“Boy, let me tell you something,” he replied, his voice softening somewhat. “That stable’s all but cursed… cursed with a master who doesna know the first thing about horses. He’s trying to keep his stalls filled and his coffers even more filled out of love for his dead wife. Now there was a woman who knew horses. She was so astute, folks used to joke—behind her back, of course, outta respect—that it was equine blood that ran in her veins.”
Marjorie didn’t know whether to be furious or grateful. She did not appreciate the jest at her father’s expense, but this new information about the admiration others had had for her mother warmed her heart.
“What d’ya think Mortham should do then? I only know how we run that farm, not the business of it all. I can tell ya that we do everything we can for those horses, and treat ‘em as though they were our own!”
“Aye, boy. I’m sure ya do. But until yer master lays off the gambling table, lays off the drink, and stops telling people they’ve just bought a thoroughbred instead of a plow horse, he’ll stay on the path to ruin. More than a few folks have been duped into paying a pretty penny for a horse that was supposed to be a champion, only to find out it didna know how to run in a straight line, let alone win at this track.”
“So Mortham is a cheat?” Marjorie asked darkly, trying to sound more like a concerned employee of the household rather than a daughter whose anger was flaring at this scandalous conversation.
“Now, now, let me take back at least some of my words. No, I do’na think he was intentional about any of this, but I’ve only met him in passing. I think he simply don’t have a sense for this kind of business. First, ya gots to know more than a thing or two about horses, but then, ya got to have the right kind of connections, ya know? This business is just as much about making nice with the right people as it is raising up a champion horse.”
“Thank ya for the warning, sir. But do ya have any more advice? Like who I might speak to for a position?” she asked, still hoping her plan might unfold.
“Well, you know, the Duke of Fenworth has a large stable but only a few horses. He might be one to talk to, if ya can interest him in building up his stables. ‘Course, he’s na here today. This kind of thing bores him, and at his age, the walking around just wears him out.”
Wonderful, she thought sourly. My future husband not only doesn’t own horses or care about them, he cannot even be bothered to attend!
“Anyone other than Fenworth?” Marjorie asked, trying not to sound bitter.
“Aye, there’s a few. Have a look,” the man said, pointing out the door. “See that bunch across the way, beside the bright tent? Tis where a good bit of the more serious owners will spend their time. They’re not the most well-known of this set, but they’re the up-and-comers. Mark my words, in but a few years, they’ll be the ones everyone looks to in this sport. They’ve got money to put into their horses, connections to the right breeders, and a fire in ‘em to win. Tis where I would start.”
Marjorie thanked the man and headed off, taking the long way around the center ring so she could calm her nerves. The information about her father—and therefore, her family and prospects—was heartbreaking. How could her father have let her family fall into such ruin?
At the same time, her heart grieved for him. Imagine the poor man trying to keep his wife’s truest passion alive in her honor, only to flounder and not know what to do. Why had he not consulted her? She would have done anything he’d asked of her, helped him with both the horses and the contacts such a world required.
It suddenly occurred to her why her father might have been so intent on she and Harriet being “seen,” wearing the right attire, riding in the square at the right time of the day. Perhaps he’d been trying to get in with the right families for all of their sakes, and not just to foist his daughters off on someone willing to pay to marry them.
Too soon for her liking, Marjorie was near enough to the group of men the stable master had pointed out. They chatted happily over their drinks, and not trying to spy on their words, she was only able to catch a few sentences here and there.
Don’t be a coward now, she thought to herself, this is the whole reason you’ve come! You’re doing this not only for yourself, but for Harriet… and even Father!
“Pardon my intrusion, sirs,” she began, but the men either did not hear her words or chose to ignore them. She coughed somewhat loudly and tried again more forcefully.
“Yes?” one of them asked, his disdain for her interruption clear.