“He was meant to be a race horse,” he said. “But he didn’t have the heart for it.”
“Or the build. He’s enormous.”
“He has to be.”
She gave a short laugh. “I suppose it does make sense. You’d dwarf a smaller mount.”
“Do you ride?” he asked.
“Only a little, and not very well. I’d never dream of attempting to handle a horse of this size.” She drew back from the door. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not very big.”
The corner of his mouth curved up. “I’ve n-noticed.”
“Given my height, I don’t wonder that all the grooms think I’m keen to make a saddle pony out of Betty.” She cast a glance about her. “Are none of them here today?”
“Not this m-morning. Not yet.” He made his way back to the feed room, and she followed. “Danvers is here…somewhere. He’ll feed the rest of them.”
Clara looked on while Mr. Cross made up another bucket of mash. She’d met the coachman, Mr. Danvers, the day she’d arrived, and then again during some of her visits to see Betty. He was a weather-beaten man in his middle forties. Civil enough, but she didn’t relish encountering him when she was in company with Mr. Cross, alone and unchaperoned.
The stable was open on either end. A public place. It wouldn’t be the same as being caught alone with a gentleman in a private room or a closed carriage. Still…
She knew she was playing fast and loose with her reputation. And at a time she could least afford to do so.
Mr. Cross hoisted the bucket of mash. Water sloshed over the rim. “The rain is slowing.”
Clara cocked her head, listening, as she walked with him to the back of the stables. “I wish it would cease altogether.”
As they approached Betty’s loose box, a low groan emanated from within. The unsettling sound made Clara stop short. “What in heaven?”
Mr. Cross brushed past her to open the door. She caught a brief glimpse of Betty before he shut it behind him. The little pony was lying down on the straw, her tail raised, and her sides heaving.
A shiver of foreboding quickened Clara’s pulse. She came to lean over the door of the loose box. “Is she foaling?”
“Trying to.” Mr. Cross knelt down beside Betty on the straw. He talked to her in a low, soothing voice as he examined her.
“But it’s too early, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” His hands moved slowly over Betty’s swollen belly. “Something’s wrong.”
Clara’s mouth went dry. She knew little about physicking horses, and even less about assisting in a difficult equine labor. But as she looked at Betty’s trembling body—and at Mr. Cross’s somber expression—her spine stiffened with resolve. “What can I do to help?”
Mr. Cross’s eyes met hers over the door. “Find Danvers.”
Neville murmured to Betty as he palpated her belly. He’d helped to deliver foals before, and knew enough to recognize that this particular one wasn’t in the right position. It was turned the wrong way around in the womb, and would have to be righted if Betty was to have any hope of a safe delivery.
How long had she been in this condition?
He cursed himself for not having gone to her first. For having wasted time preparing mash for the other horses. But she’d seemed well enough when he’d checked on her last night. She’d been restless of course, but he’d attributed that to her confinement. To her need for exercise.
There had been no other symptoms of impending labor. None that he’d noticed. A mare usually exhibited signs. A distended udder, or the appearance of a yellowish wax on her teats. Betty had shown evidence of neither, which had led him to believe it would be another week, at least, before her foal would come.
Had he missed something important? Had he been so distracted by his burgeoning feelings for Clara that he’d failed to see what was right in front of his eyes?
Betty groaned again, her head moving restlessly on the straw.
Neville stroked her neck. “Easy girl,” he murmured. “You’ll be all right.”
He prayed to God that she would be.
After everything Betty had been through, all the obstacles she’d overcome, surely she couldn’t die in labor. A wild pony, breathing her last in a dratted loose box of all places. What sort of end was that for such a majestic creature? To die in captivity?
Footfalls sounded softly outside in the aisle. Seconds later, Clara’s face appeared over the door, her cloak fastened at her neck. She was breathless. “I can’t find Mr. Danvers. I’ve looked everywhere.”
Neville’s stomach sank. He needed someone to hold Betty while he turned the foal. He couldn’t do it alone. “The Abbey—”
“I’ve already been there. It’s what took me so long.” Damp tendrils of flaxen hair framed her face. She pushed them back from her forehead. “Cook was up, but there was no sign of Mr. Danvers. She said he must have gone into the village last night, or up to one of the tenant cottages. She expects he’ll be back in time for feeding the horses.”
Neville muttered an oath under his breath.
“Is he the only one who can help her?” Clara asked.
“I can help her, but I n-need…I need someone to hold her head and neck.” It would have to be Justin. He knew something of horses, at least, though certainly not as much as Danvers. “You’ll have to fetch Thornhill.”
“You want Mr. Thornhill to hold her?” Clara gave him a doubtful look. “But she doesn’t even know him. If he suddenly appears and attempts to subdue her, she’s bound to find it distressing. Especially after her experiences with that dreadful horse peddler.”
It was the truth. Betty wasn’t going to appreciate the presence of a strange man at her head. It would likely cause her to thrash about. To fight. Making the entire procedure that much more difficult.
Neville gritted his teeth. “There’s no other choice. I…I have to turn the foal. She won’t like it.”
“You’re going to press on her belly?”
“No. I…” He could think of no delicate way to describe it. “I have to…to reach inside of her.”
Clara’s gaze flicked to his hands. Her face paled. “Have you done that before?”
“Once.”
“With a pony?”
“A c-carriage horse.” He knew it didn’t compare, but what else was he to do? “There’s no other way.”