Soul

‘Bravo! Aidan, you are a natural horseman.’

The Colonel stood at the nursery door, dressed in his evening clothes.

‘Papa!’ Aidan held up his arms. Immediately, the Colonel came over and took Lavinia’s place beside the child.

‘Now isn’t this grand? Your very own horse and a fine stallion at that!’

Lavinia watched as Aidan, keen to impress his father, galloped faster and faster.

‘It’s an expensive gift, Lavinia, and very kind of your father.’

‘Aidan is his only grandchild.’

‘And look at our son, our beautiful boy—isn’t he a wonder?’

Lavinia, seeing James’s loving look, softened. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she kissed the back of his neck.

He did not look up from the child. ‘I have to leave for the Carlton shortly—a regrettable business meeting. You must not wait up for me, Lavinia.’

After a solitary dinner, Lavinia wound her way through the corridor to the music room. She sat at the piano and began a piece her father had taught her—the memory of which now felt as if it were from a different life belonging to a different woman. A knock at the door disturbed her playing.

‘Madam, would you care to study the menu I have prepared for tomorrow?’ The housekeeper stood in the doorway holding a piece of card.

‘Not at the moment, thank you, Mrs Beetle.’

‘But it is customary for the head of the household—’

‘Do we have guests tomorrow?’

‘No, madam.’

‘Then I shall trust that Cook will prepare her usual excellent cuisine.’

‘Madam, I think I should point out that the Colonel expects—’

‘Mrs Beetle, I am perfectly aware of my duties. I just wish, at this moment, to be allowed some reflection on my own. Is that too much to expect?’

‘No, madam.’ After the smallest of curtsies, Mrs Beetle backed out of the room. Sighing, Lavinia returned to her playing, only to be interrupted five minutes later by a maid sent in by Mrs Beetle to draw the curtains.

Exasperated, Lavinia left the music room and, craving solitude, made her way to the courtyard. Before she realised it she found herself in the stables.

The shivering flanks of the horses gleamed. Each stood in its own stall, some with their noses thrust into buckets, chewing meditatively; others glancing hopefully over their glossy backs at Lavinia. Seeing she was not their keeper, they turned back to their feed.

A lantern blazed overhead, and in the far stall an extra lamp burned to warm a recently born foal and its mare. Lifting her skirts, Lavinia walked over and reached across to caress the mare. Its skin was warm and coarse to touch, but of immediate comfort. Lavinia felt like a young girl again, hiding in a secret haven, relishing her escape from the sense of being constantly observed: by the servants, by Lady Morgan, by her husband…

‘That letter there is a J. I swear on it. That much I do know.’

A voice, male, deep and American, rumbled from the other side of the stables. Lavinia walked along the row of horses. Aloysius the coachman sat in an empty stall, his back against the door, a lantern in one hand.

Sitting next to him was a Negro boy of about eighteen, dressed in a riding coat and breeches. Lavinia did not recognise his livery. The two were examining a piece of paper Aloysius was holding up to the lantern’s light.

‘Samuel, that is no J; that would be a T, as in Tattle.’

‘I know a J when I sees one!’

‘Aloysius?’

Upon seeing Lavinia the two men immediately hid the jug of stout they’d been drinking from. Throwing on their caps and dusting the straw from their clothes, they jumped to their feet.