“May I go back to the stable and see Hartley Shaw again?”
“Perhaps your ladyship should sit down,” Mrs. Byrne said. “You look flushed. Shall I bring you a tisane?”
Eden felt her cheek self-consciously. “I must return to Dalziel.”
“Wisht, Dalziel should have sold that brute Atlas long ago, but I understand that Lord Bradwell bought him as a colt and had great hopes for him. You knew Dalziel, my lady?”
“He was with my father six years ago.”
“If he’s badly hurt, he will not be able to look after the horses.”
“One of the men—Grubb perhaps—can take Dalziel’s place until he is recovered.”
“Grubb is afraid of horses, and Armstrong hasn’t the strength, though he can ride well enough. Hindle knows nothing of the beasts.”
“Then we shall simply have to hire another groom.”
“Aye, my lady.” Mrs. Byrne’s expression was both sympathetic and guarded, as if she were about to say something she knew her mistress would not like. “It might not be so easy. So many have left the dale, and fewer still would be glad to work at Hartsmere.”
“Ah, yes. The local superstitions. I had hoped that the poor condition of the countryside would make the dalesmen glad of steady employment.”
“It has been harder to find work and keep the farms since the war ended, to be sure. Less and less of the young folk want to stay in the country.”
Mrs. Byrne was dodging Eden’s veiled inquiries quite deliberately. Eden’s head pounded, and she sincerely wished that she could leave all these decisions to Aunt Claudia.
But that was not to be. Shaw had already proven his skill with horses. If he were in need of work, the immediate problem would be solved. Yet a certain unease attended the thought. Why?
“Be that as it may,” Eden said, as much to herself as to the housekeeper, “I must go up the stable and wait with Dalziel until the men come for him. Please watch Donal until I return.”
“That I will, my lady. Here, now, let me fetch your pelisse.”
“You’ll be a good boy for Mrs. Byrne, won’t you?” Eden said, straightening a twist in Donal’s collar. “I won’t be gone long.”
“Can’t I come?”
She tousled his hair. “Not this time. But we will be together again soon.”
With the merino pelisse drawn close about her like a suit of armor, Eden returned to the stable. Much to her surprise, Dalziel was on his feet. Beside him stood Shaw, not touching but somehow lending support, even so.
And she saw his face.
I know this man, she thought. The moment of recognition was brief, but it shook her to the core before she realized that it must be an illusion. She would have remembered such a face.
Hartley Shaw had looks that took her breath away. His were the sort of features one might find in a member of the ton, but more sharply cut, bolder, less refined. The chin was dimpled but firm, mouth generous but masculine, nose decisive.
And the eyes… the eyes were the verdant green of new spring growth, nestled in the heart of winter. For Shaw’s expression was as cold as the land around them.
He met her gaze with not the slightest hint of deference, and she could have sworn that a mocking smile lifted one corner of his mouth.
“I’ve seen to your horse,” he said, neglecting to add her title.
“Thank you.” She forced herself to look away. “Dalziel?”
“I’m better, my lady,” he said, holding his shoulder. “It’s still not right, but the pain is gone. Shaw helped me.”
Eden would have had difficulty imagining Shaw bending enough to help anyone, had he not stepped in to save Donal. He was as unyielding as one of Elgin’s Greek statues.
And yet he had moved with grace and suppleness when he had worked with Atlas. Could a laborer be as graceful as if he’d spent years learning to move in expertly cut clothing, and in perfect time to a quadrille at Almack’s?
Dalziel cleared his throat. “My lady, by your leave, Shaw here’ll help me to my bed.”
“You must wait for the doctor at the house,” Eden said firmly. “Grubb and Hindle will take you down.”