Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“Belvis, he is truly magnificent, isn’t he?”

“Indeed so, my lady,” said Belvis, pleased at the excitement in her eyes as she stroked Flying Davie’s sleek neck. “Nearly sixteen hands he is, and a beautiful rich bay. You know that most thoroughbreds are bay, many chestnut. Rarely will you see a gray or a black. From his elegantly curved neck, fine muzzle, it’s obvious Flying Davie

has much Arab blood in him. As for the white star on his forehead and the white tufts on his fetlock, ‘tis inexplicable.”

“Who were his sire and dam?”

“Odd that you should ask,” Belvis said, scratching his thatch of curly gray hair. “His papers seemed to be missing when he was delivered here, nearly four years ago. But he’s a winner, you have but to look at him to know it.” He didn’t add that Flying Davie didn’t appear in any of the stud books, due, he supposed, to the former earl’s forgetful habits.

“Why didn’t his owner replace the papers?” Frances asked, feeling the stallion’s hot breath as he nibbled a carrot from her hand.

“The owner had left for India. Died there, from what I understand from his former lordship.”

Frances wiped her hands on her old wool skirt. “Will you come back, Belvis?”

“I’m not as young as I used to be,” he hedged.

“None of us is. Have the years taken your knowledge and skills?”

“Certainly not!”

Ah, Frances thought, he’s weakening. Before she could press him further, he said, “But you know, my lady, the reason I left was that his lordship has no interest. Indeed, he mentioned to me that he just might sell everything.”

“He won’t,” Frances said firmly, her fingers crossed at her sides.

“Well, it appears you’re a strong-willed lady, ma‘am. But still, it—”

“Please, Belvis.” She studied the older man. He must be over sixty, but he appeared as healthy as she. His face was leathery and deeply seamed from his long years out-of-doors. He was short, lean, of a wiry build, but his arms were immensely strong. His eyes were a faded blue, as if the harsh sun had bleached away the color. And the horses seemed to know him and to trust him. He was what her father had called a natural. Frances raised her chin. So was she, a natural, that is.

She drew a deep breath and blurted out, “I shall pay you three hundred pounds a year, Belvis.”

His eyes widened at that. Then he began to laugh, a rusty sound. He stopped just as suddenly as he’d begun, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Tommy tells me that you cured a bruised back leg on Springer, and that he’s now in excellent condition.”

“He no longer even limps,” said Frances. “I ... well, I spent my growing-up years in Scotland learning about horses, about taking care of them. I have even delivered calves and foals. As for Springer, I simply applied frequent formentations, then some liniment for the swelling.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a ladylike hobby to me, ma‘am.”

“I am a Scot, Belvis,” Frances said, her gray eyes darkening just a bit. “I am not a useless creature to be cosseted and—”

“I know, my lady,” he said, cutting her off.

“—and it wasn’t a hobby, Belvis!”

“Evidently not,” he said, rubbing his rather pointed chin. “My lady, don’t misunderstand me. ‘Tis not that I don’t wish to return to Desborough, ’tis just that when all is said and done, it’s his lordship who owns everything.”

“His lordship isn’t here, Belvis.”

“Yes, but—”

“I have no idea if he will return within the next six months.”

“Ah, and when he does return, you plan something of a ... surprise for him?”

Frances’ smile was radiant. “Yes,” she said, “oh yes, indeed I do!”

“And if he sells before he returns?”

That drew Frances up short. She gnawed on her lower lip, considering various possibilities. “I suppose,” she said finally, “that I shall have to write to him in London.” I shall beg, plead with him not to sell.