Page 15 of The Last Kiss

“Ah. Well, I suppose it’s the future.”

“So folks say.” Boyd sniffed. “If it were up to me, I know where I’d send those infernal contraptions. And it’s some place the sun don’t shine. Come on, let me introduce you to the girls.”

Harry grinned, deciding he liked this weathered old man, and followed him further into the stable.

“This is Bella,” Boyd said, clucking at the pretty chestnut mare, his swollen fingers stroking her nose. “And that fine creature next door, that’s Sable — a little high in the instep, mind, but a beauty to ride once she’ll let you.”

“Let you?” Harry offered his hand to be sniffed.

“Oh, she’s fussy about her riders, that one.”

“I bet you’re just discerning, aren’t you, girl?”

Boyd snorted. “Discerning, aye.” He watched as Sable huffed and snuffled and eventually permitted Harry’s touch. “She was Mr Ashleigh’s horse — well, still is, but he don’t ride no more.”

Harry kept his attention on the horse, on the white patch on her neck, and moderated the level of interest in his voice. “How come?”

“Because of his leg, I suppose. Ain’t ridden since he come back from the war. Shame, because Mr Ashleigh was a good horseman. Sir Arthur and Lady Dalton, they never much cared for riding. Neither did Mr Roger.”

Harry would have liked to see Dalton ride, could imagine his lean frame moving with the animal, thighs flexing as he rose and fell. He cleared his throat, face flushed. “Don’t see why his leg should stop him riding.”

“Nor do I, but he won’t be persuaded. Least ways, not by me.” Harry felt the man’s gaze on him and, after a pause, Boyd added, “I hear you served together.”

“We did. No better officer than Captain Dalton, let me tell you. All the men loved him.”

Boyd gave a grunt of approval. “Always a good lad, was Mr Ashleigh. I was sorry my Eddie weren’t with him at the front.”

Harry closed his eyes. There was a protocol, he’d discovered, to this uneasy dance. You didn’t ask, you just waited to be told: Ypres, Verdun, Loos, Gallipoli, Passchendaele. The Somme.

Boyd sighed heavily. “He’s in Southampton now. Drives a bloomin’ motor car, of all things. A ‘chauffeur’ he calls himself.”

Harry laughed in relief. “Bet that didn’t go down well.”

“That’s a safe bet, son. Bloody ‘chauffeur’!” His expression changed and he looked away. “Course, we’re grateful he come home in one piece, body and soul. I thank God for that every day.”

Into the silence that fell, Harry found himself saying, “I bet we can get the captain — that is, Mr Ashleigh — back on his horse. It’d be good for him to ride again if he enjoys it, chase away some of them blue devils.”

“Good for the stables too.” Boyd flashed a grin, showing the gaps between his teeth. “And our jobs, eh?”

“Yeah.” Harry turned back to Sable so Boyd couldn’t see his expression; he couldn’t help smiling at the idea of doing something to lift those lines of tension from around Dalton’s eyes. And if that brought them together more often, then who was he to argue?

Boyd spent the next hour or so showing Harry the rest of the stables and outlining his duties. It quickly became clear that the old man hadn’t been managing for a long time, not with those arthritic hands, and it didn’t look like his feet and back were in much better shape.

“I get young John in to help, sometimes,” Boyd said, once Harry had stripped off his coat and tie and grabbed a broom to start sweeping out the unused stalls. “But he’s not got a feel for horses, too interested in aeroplanes and tanks and guns.”

Harry grunted. “He’s welcome to them. I’ve seen enough to last a lifetime.”

“I bet you have. Ah, bloody stupid business, if you ask me.” Harry looked up and Boyd lifted a placating hand. “No disrespect to the boys who perished, mind. God rest their souls.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” Harry returned to his work, relishing being useful. He was looking forward to getting the place ship-shape again, of using his days to build something up, to make something better. “Don’t often hear that kind of talk from those who weren’t there, though.”

Boyd grunted, shuffled his feet where he leaned against the stable wall. “My son was there. When you’re a father, lad, you’ll know that’s worse than being there yourself.”

Maybe it was true, but Harry would never be a father. He had no intention of marrying, had decided years ago that he wouldn’t live that lie. But he remembered how Dalton had cared for his men with a kind, paternal zeal and thought that, perhaps, it wasn’t only parents who felt that depth of love. “I reckon — ”

“Ah, h-here he is!”

Harry looked up, surprised to see Dalton himself in the doorway, a young lady in tow. Boyd scrambled away from the wall. “Mr Ashleigh,” he said, touching his cap. “Miss Allen.”

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