As he washed off his unprecedented day in the kitchen, he considered what had passed between himself and his former spouse. She was right; their behavior had been improvident. They should not have gotten themselves into such a situation. They both knew better. But she was dead wrong about one thing. It was obvious to Marshall, no matter what she said, that it was not behind them now. Not by a long shot.
Chapter Nine
The sky was the middling gray between night and sunrise when Kelan dragged himself out of bed, dressed, and stumbled to the stables, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The morning fog clung to the ground; he amused himself by pretending his feet had disappeared, and that he was a ghost floating across the stable yard.
The lad entered the dark stable and was greeted by the familiar, clean smells of his trade: hay, dung, and oiled leather. A few soft wickers acknowledged his arrival.
Sometimes he resented that the horses ate their breakfast hours before Kelan got his, but then he reminded himself to be grateful. There were few jobs to be had in his native Midlands anymore, and the money Kelan sent home to his widowed mother and siblings helped keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. His Grace paid well, and the head groom was a fair man. Kelan reckoned if the Duke of Monthwaite wanted his horses kissed on the lips every day, he should be obliged to pucker up and thank his lucky stars for the chance.
He made his way down the row of stalls, doling out feed to His Grace’s cattle.
Kelan approached Rosemary’s stall. She was with foal, and so received a larger portion of feed than the others. He reached into the feed sack, not paying attention to his feet, and suddenly found himself sprawled on his back with the air knocked from him. Feed spilled across the clean dirt floor.
“Bollocks!” He had only been at Helmsdale a little over a month. He didn’t want to foul up and give the head groom a reason to send him packing. He picked up the feed sack and turned on his knees to find the obstacle that had caused him to slip. It was a brown jar, half full of some sticky substance. Kelan stood, brushed the dust from his pants, and glanced into the stall. Rosemary was not waiting at the stall door for her morning feed like the other horses had been. She was usually more eager for her breakfast than the rest. He wrinkled his brow and leaned over the door.
The horse lay on her side on the stall floor. Kelan could see her stomach moving in and out, but she didn’t look good. Slowly, he walked into the stall and crouched next to the mare’s head, extending a trembling hand. She whinnied the instant he touched her. He snatched his hand back and wiped horse sweat onto his pants. Her breathing was hard and labored. She wasn’t supposed to foal for another month, but if Kelan had to guess, that’s what seemed to be happening. Fear gripped his heart. What if the horse died? Suddenly, the feed he’d spilled seemed a small thing.
“Hang in there, girl,” he told the ailing animal. “Mister Roden won’t let nothin’ bad happen to you.” He backed out of the stall and left at a dead run to fetch the head groom. He found the man at breakfast. Between panting gasps, he communicated to his superior that something was terribly wrong with Rosemary.
Together they went back to the stable. Roden had been head groom at Helmsdale for over twenty years, and regarded the horses almost like his own children. Kelan thought the older man might cry when he saw Rosemary’s sorry state.
Roden made soft, shushing sounds to the horse, just like to a fretful babe. He pulled a rag from the waist of his pants and wiped the sweat from the mare’s face. Kelan shifted nervously from foot to foot, wringing his hands as he watched, uncertain what, if anything, he should do. He didn’t think he was making any noise, but Roden crossly told him to be quiet as he laid a hand on Rosemary’s belly. The head groom closed his eyes for what seemed to be a very long time. After a while, he opened them again. “She’s having contractions, but they’re not strong. All we can do is keep her quiet and hope they stop. If she delivers now, the foal won’t make it.”
Kelan resumed his nervous stepping. The only thing worse than a dead horse would be a dead foal. His Grace would not be happy about that. He chewed anxiously at his thumbnail. Roden sighed and rose, leaning heavily on his knee and making the same grunting sound Kelan’s grandfather made when he stood up.
The head groom patted Kelan’s shoulder. “You did the right thing coming to get me, lad. We’ll take care of her as well as we can, and hope for the best. Go on with your duties now.”