TOSS WAS IN TROUBLE with George Darker over the loss of the valuable mare. He railed against the unfairness of it all and shouted back at the estate manager, who had not listened to his original warnings about Ragusa.
Lord Buckland himself arrived down at the stables. He had liked Ragusa. ‘A good horse!’ he said sadly. ‘Won a few good races in her day and we’ve bred many a fine filly from her.’
But this didn’t stop them sending for the knackers’ cart to come and take her away. Michael made sure that young Brendan was busy elsewhere; the lad was upset enough.
Miss Felicia, the youngest daughter of the house, appeared in the stables too. She’d heard there was a new foal. Strict instructions had been given that there was to be no mention of the demise of Ragusa. Nothing was to spoil the eleven-year-old’s enjoyment at seeing the new horse.
‘I thought the mare’s stable was there!’ Felicia said to Michael, pointing to Ragusa’s empty stable. Michael didn’t say a word.
The young girl clapped when she saw the bay colt and the chestnut mare standing close together.
‘Oh, he’s lovely! Just so perfect! But he’s not one bit like his mother!’ she declared
‘Perhaps he’s more like his father,’ offered Michael, trying to make light of it.
He liked Miss Felicia. She spent half of her time in the stables and was a proper little tomboy. Her older sister, Rose, was about Michael’s own age and a beauty, but she rarely set foot in the stableyard unless it was to request a carriage. She had no interest whatsoever in horses, or in the stable lads and grooms and jockeys who worked for her father.
‘Michael! Didn’t you hear me? Which do you think is the finest horse in my father’s stables?’ enquired Felicia, letting the new foal nuzzle at her fingers.
‘Well, that I’m not sure of, Miss, it would depend on what you’d be wanting the horse for. Samson and Jolly are two of the best farmhorses you’d ever get, and your father’s pair of greys are considered the finest carriage horses in the county. Your father loves Old Tom when he wants to go out on a day’s hunting – he says rain or wind or sleet, Old Tom never lets him down. And you … well, do you remember that you had a great shine for Markey?’
‘Markey isn’t a horse,’ the girl spluttered. ‘Markey’s a donkey.’
‘Well, that didn’t seem to matter when you were small and you’d be sneaking him carrots and apples.’
Felicia giggled. ‘Which do you think?’ she insisted, tossing her auburn curls off her face.
‘Some of them are fast. Jerpoint’s very fast. Nero’s won four races already and Toss feels that Juno might have a good chance this season.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I like this youngster,’ he said, nodding towards the colt.
Felicia ran her white palm along the foal’s coat. ‘He’s a bit small and a bit wobbly,’ she stated, ‘but I like him too. What’s he called?’
Michael shrugged. ‘He was only born early this morning, Miss. Toss hasn’t had time to discuss it with your father yet.’
‘This morning!’
Michael nodded, trying to block out memories of Ragusa.
‘Then … I think we should call him Morning – Morning Boy. I’ll tell Father.’
Michael smiled. Whatever that young lady suggested, her father usually agreed to. Having no sons, Henry Buckland was besotted by his two daughters, especially Felicia, who followed him around like an over-eager puppy.
‘Felicia! You are to come into the house immediately!’ They both turned at the same time to see Rose standing at the gate to the cobbled yard. ‘Mary is running you a bath and you are to get changed. Mother is very vexed with you.’
‘I’ll be along in a minute,’ Felicia muttered in annoyance, kissing the middle of Morning Boy’s nose.
‘Now!’ insisted her older sister, reluctant to walk across the cobbles in case she stood in some horse dung.
Felicia turned on her toes. ‘Rose Geranium Cowslip Buckland, I’ll be with you right now! ‘she shouted.
Michael tried to hide his smile. Miss Felicia reminded him so much of his younger sister, Peggy. Full of spirit. Poor Rose had turned the colour of a turkey-cock and was walking as fast as she could, skirt flying, back up the avenue. At the top of the rhododendron-lined avenue stood the big house.
Michael remembered when, as a young lad, he had first come to work in the stables of Castletaggart House. He had found it so hard to believe that anyone could live in such a grand place, with its hundreds of sparkling window-panes and stonework ledges and wide granite steps. In the six years since he’d come to work at the big house Michael had learnt so much – not only about horses, but about the big house and its ways.
At first Toss had only let him clean out the stables, just mucking out, the very worst job in the place. Michael begged for the chance to ride the horses and was overwhelmed with disappointment at each refusal. Still, Toss had no complaints about his work.
‘I’m watching you!’ was all Toss would say.
Obviously, Michael had to show his ability before he would be trusted with any of the Buckland horses. In time, Toss gave him his chance.
There was no doubt that Castletaggart House was the finest house ever and Lord Henry Buckland a very wealthy man. Every fish that swam in the river and lake, every cow that grazed on the vast green fields, every pheasant and woodcock that inhabited the undergrowth, every apple or cabbage that grew from the rich brown soil was part of the vast Buckland estate. There were about forty tenants’ cottages on the estate for the workers and their families. The tenant farmers worked the estate lands and in return were given a patch of ground where they could only grow barely enough to feed their own families.
Michael would watch these men – young, middle-aged and old – come cap-in-hand to the estate manager’s office, queuing outside to pay their rent and hand over their dues. They reminded him of his father long ago, that same wooden look in their faces, their eyes set, their hearts hardened. They probably had ignored the pleas of wives and children to hold a few shillings back in case the winter was hard, or the sickness came – or worse, God forbid, that the potatoes would fail again. No, these men would pay their way and hand over the money they earned, the crops they grew, the animals they raised. They had no choice.
George Darker, the estate manager, would write down the figures in big brown ledgers. He was barely civil to them, stubbing the page with a dirty finger to show where they were to sign their name or make their mark.
Sometimes Lord Henry, if he was in the mood, would join them, puffing his pipe, making polite conversation with the men.
Michael could sense a growing feeling of unease amongst these tenant farmers. He listened as they talked between themselves, behind cabin doors and in crowded public houses. Michael wondered what would come of all this talk. These men wanted change …
‘Michael! Are you listening to me?’
Michael looked down.
Felicia was gazing up at him, impatient. ‘I’ll be back down to see Morning Boy tomorrow afternoon, after my lessons.’
‘That’s fine, Miss.’
She raced across the yard, swinging on the open gate, and humming to herself as she tried to catch up with her sister and make amends.