“Aye, sir,” he mumbled around another yawn, rubbed his eyes, and left, and the visitor to Laytham Hall wasn’t mentioned again.
“This birth is moving along more quickly than I’d anticipated.”
“Aye, Mr Ruston.” Jem Nye, the young man who had once given me such a wonderful birthday gift and who had since risen to the position of assistant to Mr Ruston, was just rising to his knees from behind the labouring mare. Naked to the waist, his torso gleamed with perspiration, bits of straw clinging to him. “Get her head, please, Sir Ash?”
I dropped to my knees and took her head in my arms, stroking her broad forehead and patting her sweating neck.
“There now, my pretty lady. You’re doing splendidly.” I was worried about her. She was getting on in years, and this would probably be her last foal.
