horses out to pasture, rolled a wheelbarrow into the first stall, and jabbed the pitchfork under a pile of dung, imagining it was Hugh’s soft underbelly. She’d scarcely dumped that forkful when a parade of grooms ambled by. They snickered and walked on. One lingered in the door, grinning. Ellie nailed him straight in the jowls with a pile of fresh muck.
“Hey, ya bloody rotter!” he yelled.
“Sorry, governor,” Ellie replied. “Didn’t expect a fellow to be loitering in the door. Thought it more likely he’d help me clean up this barn.” The groom dashed away. After that, no one bothered her until Hugh showed up again.
“How are we doing there, Toby my lad?”
“We’re just about done with the barn … my lord.”
“That’s excellent. Why don’t you put that pitchfork down for a bit?” Ellie dropped it in exhaustion, grateful for the respite.
“Good, now let me show you the grain I need carried over.”
Arms aching, she followed Hugh with a wheelbarrow. “We need five bags taken to the stallion barn,” he announced when they’d reached the granary. Then he stood back, leaned against the wall, and lit a pipe.
Steaming with unreleased hostility, Ellie grabbed the burlap corner of a bag and dragged it off the pile. Whump! It hit the floor, wrenching her muscles, the thud shuddering through her. Pivoting the bag first on one corner then the other, she walked it to the edge of the wheelbarrow. Using the last of her strength, she inched it onto her toes, then hoisted the bag just enough to get a knee under it, and with a mighty effort, tipped it into the wheelbarrow.
Except for raising one eyebrow, Hugh didn’t move.
“Good show, Toby,” he said cheerfully. “Only four to go.”
Ellie gritted her teeth and trundled off with her first load.
By the fifth bag, her arms were rubber, sweat soaked her clothes, and the floppy hat itched. She longed to tear off the topper and dive her face into a bucket of cold water. Straining and grunting, she hauled the fifth bag onto her toes and heaved it one, two, three inches in the air. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t get the bag high enough to shove a knee under. Her arms kept giving out. And the harder she tried, the more it enraged her that Hugh stood there cool as a cucumber, watching her struggle.
She stopped, panting and glassy-eyed.
At last, he pushed off the wall and pointed a booted toe at a grain bag. “You know, at the Davenport farm we put one bag on top of another. That way you don’t have so far to lift to get it into the wheelbarrow. Try it. You might find the technique useful.”
Then he knocked the ashes from his pipe and sauntered away.
If Ellie’d had the strength, she would have throttled him. Instead, she kicked the bag on the floor, tripping herself on its dead weight and falling to her knees in a pile of sacks. “May he rot on the gallows.”
• • •
Eleven A.M. rolled around and Ellie longed for a bath and a pretty white muslin dress.
“Toby, how are you holding up?” came a cheerful bellow as Hugh entered the far end of the barn.
She pasted a smile on her face. “Doing just dandy, my lord.”
“That’s grand. Now, go round up Manifesto when you’ve emptied that wheelbarrow and meet me in the paddock.”
“All righty,” said Ellie.
“All righty what?” Hugh replied.
“All righty, my lord.”
Blessedly, Manifesto didn’t need to be persuaded to leave his pasture. He trotted up and dove his nose into the bucket of bribery grain she’d brought. She slipped a halter over his head, let him finish his treat, and led him toward the paddock.
As she rounded the corner of the barn, she noticed Hugh and a few men standing around a pretty mare who nickered to Manifesto and moved her tail to the side.
Manifesto surged forward, so eager to do his duty as a stallion, he tried to jump the fence. Ellie dragged him to the gate, struggling to keep his attention as he trumpeted his love call. “Wait, big boy.
“Hey, ya bloody rotter!” he yelled.
“Sorry, governor,” Ellie replied. “Didn’t expect a fellow to be loitering in the door. Thought it more likely he’d help me clean up this barn.” The groom dashed away. After that, no one bothered her until Hugh showed up again.
“How are we doing there, Toby my lad?”
“We’re just about done with the barn … my lord.”
“That’s excellent. Why don’t you put that pitchfork down for a bit?” Ellie dropped it in exhaustion, grateful for the respite.
“Good, now let me show you the grain I need carried over.”
Arms aching, she followed Hugh with a wheelbarrow. “We need five bags taken to the stallion barn,” he announced when they’d reached the granary. Then he stood back, leaned against the wall, and lit a pipe.
Steaming with unreleased hostility, Ellie grabbed the burlap corner of a bag and dragged it off the pile. Whump! It hit the floor, wrenching her muscles, the thud shuddering through her. Pivoting the bag first on one corner then the other, she walked it to the edge of the wheelbarrow. Using the last of her strength, she inched it onto her toes, then hoisted the bag just enough to get a knee under it, and with a mighty effort, tipped it into the wheelbarrow.
Except for raising one eyebrow, Hugh didn’t move.
“Good show, Toby,” he said cheerfully. “Only four to go.”
Ellie gritted her teeth and trundled off with her first load.
By the fifth bag, her arms were rubber, sweat soaked her clothes, and the floppy hat itched. She longed to tear off the topper and dive her face into a bucket of cold water. Straining and grunting, she hauled the fifth bag onto her toes and heaved it one, two, three inches in the air. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t get the bag high enough to shove a knee under. Her arms kept giving out. And the harder she tried, the more it enraged her that Hugh stood there cool as a cucumber, watching her struggle.
She stopped, panting and glassy-eyed.
At last, he pushed off the wall and pointed a booted toe at a grain bag. “You know, at the Davenport farm we put one bag on top of another. That way you don’t have so far to lift to get it into the wheelbarrow. Try it. You might find the technique useful.”
Then he knocked the ashes from his pipe and sauntered away.
If Ellie’d had the strength, she would have throttled him. Instead, she kicked the bag on the floor, tripping herself on its dead weight and falling to her knees in a pile of sacks. “May he rot on the gallows.”
• • •
Eleven A.M. rolled around and Ellie longed for a bath and a pretty white muslin dress.
“Toby, how are you holding up?” came a cheerful bellow as Hugh entered the far end of the barn.
She pasted a smile on her face. “Doing just dandy, my lord.”
“That’s grand. Now, go round up Manifesto when you’ve emptied that wheelbarrow and meet me in the paddock.”
“All righty,” said Ellie.
“All righty what?” Hugh replied.
“All righty, my lord.”
Blessedly, Manifesto didn’t need to be persuaded to leave his pasture. He trotted up and dove his nose into the bucket of bribery grain she’d brought. She slipped a halter over his head, let him finish his treat, and led him toward the paddock.
As she rounded the corner of the barn, she noticed Hugh and a few men standing around a pretty mare who nickered to Manifesto and moved her tail to the side.
Manifesto surged forward, so eager to do his duty as a stallion, he tried to jump the fence. Ellie dragged him to the gate, struggling to keep his attention as he trumpeted his love call. “Wait, big boy.
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