The Stable Mistress – Part 2: Paddock

The lesson was slow and severe and wonderfully physical. She had him stand, kneel, walk a straight line across the barn floor with a bucket of water in each hand without spilling a drop. She made him recite the yard's rules and the names of every horse, correcting each slip with a tap of the crop on the flagstones. She stood behind him with a cool gloved hand at his nape and told him, in a murmur, precisely how she expected a good yard manager to behave. She corrected his posture with two fingers and his tone with a look. It was strict, exact and deeply fond, and the whole barn seemed to settle around her voice like a herd at dusk.

Every half hour: "Does Mr Reid wish to continue?" "Yes, Mistress." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

"The Mistress does not require thanks." But a smile flickered.

Past midnight, the lantern guttered.

"Paddock," said Philippa, softly.

It was her word, and she meant it for them both. The hat came off. The gloves came off. She hung the crop on its peg and sat down on a hay bale in the corner, in her old jumper, and patted the straw beside her.

"How are you?"

"Schooled," said Dominic, sitting down, laughing damply. "Properly."

"You were magnificent." She draped a horse blanket over them both and kissed his forehead. "The best I've ever trained."

"Will the Mistress require me again?"

"Every Thursday," said Philippa, smiling into the dark. "After the evening feed. I have a number of exercises planned."

"I'll bring my own bucket," said Dominic.

"Good horse," said Philippa, and the old barn went quiet around them.

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