Page 58 of Too Scot to Handle
“We are agreed on that priority. About the ponies.”
“Ponies are the equine equivalent of fairies,” Rosecroft said, giving the horse a scratch about the withers. “Not to be trusted, always busy about their own ends, and deceptively adorable. I much prefer horses when there’s a choice.”
The gelding was a big, raw-boned chestnut, its musculature not yet caught up to its size. For a young animal, it was calm and patient with the grooming routine, and its conformation promised smooth, ridable gaits.
“I’d put this fellow at about five,” Colin said. “Possibly six, if he was started late. Needs hill work to strengthen the quarters, which is hard to accomplish in London.”
“That is the bloody damned truth,” Rosecroft said. “I have plans for this one that will have to wait until summer. Until then, boredom is his greatest foe. What do you have planned for four ponies?”
Rosecroft wouldn’t deal well with boredom either.
“The orphanage has one pony to pull Cook’s trap when she goes to market, and a team for when Hitchings takes the coach about town, a pair of bays who are mostly idle. When they’re in the traces, they’re cross and Hitchings requires a coachman to harness them and drive them. Keeping those horses costs a small fortune, and around ill-tempered equines of that size, boys just learning to groom won’t be safe.”
If a pony stepped on a boy’s toes, the boy could shove the wee beast off. A coach horse might break the boy’s foot and still not be inclined to move away.
“Ponies bite,” Rosecroft said. “They kick, rear, strike.”
“And are more manageable than coach horses when they do. These boys have weathered London winters without shelter, lost their families, and endured hours of detention day after day. They need to learn useful activities through which to support themselves or they’ll revert to lives of crime and chaos when they weary of the orphanage’s rules.”
Rosecroft exchanged the curry for a soft brush and started at the top of the horse’s neck. “They need to be boys, but if the orphanage is in want of funds, why take on four more mouths to feed?”
And stalls to bed, feet to trim? Hitchings had asked the same question.
“We’ll get rid of the coach horses and the coach. The pony trap has a bonnet, and Hitchings can time his few errands for fair weather. The boys can learn to groom, maintain harness, hitch and unhitch, and even ride and drive while the House of Urchins saves money.”
The chestnut’s coat glowed as Rosecroft worked his way all over the horse. Rosecroft knew what he was doing too, knew where the horse was more sensitive, and where a firmer touch was in order.
“You’re daft, replacing a proper team with demon ponies,” Rosecroft said. “What will you do if the orphanage has to haul something substantial? Say, a lot of desks donated by a patron? A piano or two?”
“I’ll borrow a team from my brother’s London brewery,” Colin said. “I’ll prevail on MacHugh the publisher to lend me his team. MacHugh the saddle maker could probably oblige me as well, and MacHugh the fishmonger has a huge wagon, though it reeks of fish. You know what it costs to maintain a coaching team.”
“That I do,” Rosecroft said, taking a comb to the horse’s mane. “What about when the boys outgrow these ponies?”
“Then the boys will be old enough to start in some fine gent’s stables, and younger boys can take their places. If you’re not interested in helping, Anwen suggested Lord Westhaven can be relied upon—”
Rosecroft glowered across the horse’s neck. “Don’t be bothering his lordship. His youngest is teething. The man gets no peace, and I suspect he’s to be a papa again. Don’t tell him I said that. Your idea is unconventional.”
Rosecroft had the look of the duke about the chin and nose. He also had a green smear of horse slobber across his cravat.
“Adhering to convention has left the orphanage facing penury. The four oldest boys all slept in one bed last winter because it was the only way to keep warm. They heaped all their blankets together, dove under, and shivered until morning. They organized the smaller boys’ dormitory in the same fashion, else half the children would likely have perished of lung fever.”
Colin hated that the children had had to make shift for themselves, but he delighted in their ability to solve a serious problem on their own—and convention be damned.
“So you’ll give them ponies, the finest guilt offering any parent ever made. Four ponies, not just one or two. Heaven help you if your union with Anwen is fruitful. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Did every Windham have this compulsion to argue? “Rosecroft, what are you doing?”
“Combing my horse’s mane. He likes it, and he’s a handsome lad when properly turned out, if a bit stiff to the right and lacking in courage.”
“You’re an earl in your own right. Your father is a duke, and here you are, your fingernails dirty, your boots in need of a serious shine. What are you doing?”
Every hair of the horse’s mane lay tidily against its neck. “I’m caring for my cattle.”
“Exactly. Even the son of an English duke is taught how to look after a horse, not because that boy will need employment someday, but because horsemanship builds character. Work in the stables also builds the physique, self-discipline, and organizational abilities.
“Ponies are a way for the orphanage to offer the boys all of that,” Colin went on, “while cutting costs. What’s unconventional is that I want those children to have access to at least one of the lessons considered indispensable for every gentleman’s son. Not Latin, not philosophy, not ancient history that they’ll never use, but simple horsemanship. Even an English earl ought to understand that much.”
“Half-English,” Rosecroft said, fishing a lump of carrot from his pocket. “My mother was an Irishwoman who had an irregular relationship with Moreland before he met his duchess.”
