Amanda's Story

A Search and a Sale

Lady Day had come and gone, and Rachel had heard nothing from Monsieur Beauchamps. She watched the people who proceeded in and out of Stokesley, and had even carefully studied the guests and travelers they passed on their way to the garden party at Kipling Hall. Still, no familiar shape caught her eye, nor a familiar horse of fine Yorkshire breeding.

She set out on her mare, Jenny, the day after the garden party. Her route took her past the farms that lay between Stokesley and Ayton. The fields and pastures were revealing green, except where the plows had been turning the earth to a rich brown. The sheep had bleating lambs following their meanderings through the folds. Even the birds were busy with spring nesting.

Despite the signs of new life, Rachel's emotions were as dry as last winter's grass. She usually reveled in the release spring brought to the moor farms, delighting in the prosperity at hand. Today she kept a stoic expression, eyes roving constantly. She'd begun to notice smaller details, clues to what people were doing and who they were meeting with, since she'd entangled herself in the work of gathering intelligence for Beauchamps. So an extra horse tied out front of the Simms' farmhouse caught her eye. She walked Jenny past the house, then pulled to a stop behind some thin saplings. She waited, letting Jenny graze, and cocked her ear to listen.

"Thank 'ee, sir," came the voice of Mr. Simms.

"My master wants the horse delivered in a fortnight. Can you send someone?" Rachel glanced over. The man wore a well-cut coat and polished boots. He was probably a steward or man of business for a gentleman.

"Aye, after the farrier fits 'im up, my boy will ride 'im over." Mr. Simms took a sheet of paper from the man and began to fold it.

"Very well. The Baron will look forward to adding a fine yearling to his stable. Now to find a match."

"The Vicar Pearce, he has some fine horses."

"Ah, yes, but ... I've heard reports of a poor temperament that runs through his stock."

Mr. Simms scratched his head. "He's most particular in his breeding. Don't know why ye'd hear that."

The steward shrugged. "No matter, the bay coloring of this horse will look fine in the traces, and there are many Cleveland-bred horses that are similar."

"Aye, and next to mine, of course, the best be the Pearce's."

The man shrugged again. "Not for the price they're asking. Four hundred pounds for this animal is more reasonable."

Rachel swallowed the bile that welled in her throat. She nudged Jenny's sides and guided her out of the roadside grass, then sped to a canter. Her thoughts rattled as she passed the rest of the farms.

Four hundred pounds? It could have been ours. Should have. Her cheeks burned red.

Such evil gossipers, spreading false tales of our horses. She reined Jenny sharply around a turn and took a path that avoided the village and followed a little stream instead.

Why must Dabney's death be followed with this punishment? They had a half dozen horses for sale, and three new foals due this spring. No buyers. But the neighbors had a buyer, and their horses probably shared a bloodline. She shook her head at the injustice.

After a long canter, Rachel's turbulent thoughts began to subside. She let Jenny slow to a walk, chagrined that she'd been heedless of her horse and even the direction she took. She was surprised to find herself near Marton-in-Cleveland, a town in the center of the valley and close to where the River Tees widened on its path to the sea.

The manor house of Squire Huxtable lay ahead, his cottages and stables to her left. Off to the right, the fields were walled off to signal the start of Sir Fisher's land, a baronet.