Page 13 of Saddles & Suits

“He probably would have sold to a developer, right? And then I and all the others would have been out of a job, and the horses would have been homeless, and the gardens would probably have been bulldozed.” Seb shudders, while I cringe back from the very thought. Most of those gardens were designed and planted by my great-grandmother. They’re a stunning blend of traditional and native-inspired.

“Speaking of the gardens,” Seb ventures hesitantly, and I raise an eyebrow, interest piqued.

“What? Do you want to bulldoze them yourself? I know they’re a lot of work, but I kind of like them,” I tease, and thankfully he laughs.

“Nah, I like them too. Everyone who sees them does. That’s what I wanted to talk about. I’ve had several horticultural societies contact me and ask if they can visit. Apparently your grandmother used to have an open day a few times a year, so some of them have been before and would like to see it again. I looked into it a bit, and while I think opening to the public isn’t a great idea, having by-appointment visits with gardening clubs and the like might be workable without upsetting the horses. We could charge a nominal fee.”

I sit back, thinking it over. “I don’t see why not,” I say slowly. “The fee doesn’t particularly worry me. If these people are genuinely interested in the gardens, let them come.”

Surprisingly, Seb shakes his head firmly. “No. It’s great that you want to do this for free, and if it’s a community club or a group that has a limited budget, I’ll do discounts or waive the fee, but you need to think of the estate as a business.” He looks a lot more sure of himself now, determined, and I study him in amusement.

“You’ve put some thought into this. Why didn’t you mention it last weekend?”

The confidence vanishes, and Seb sighs. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be interested. Well, I was worried you’d be too interested.”

Come again?My confusion must show on my face, because Seb explains.

“A property like that eats money for upkeep. More so because the house has the heritage overlay, so we have to be careful with maintenance and repairs. The agistment and riding school bring in some income and are profitable, but when you weigh that against how much the property costs to run overall… I was worried that if you started thinking about it too much, you might decide to sell. Especially since it was the first time you’d come down in years.” He pulls a face. “It was easier to just keep showing you that the stables were profitable and not dwell on the rest.”

That causes a pang, but I can see Seb’s logic. We didn’t know each other. How could Seb have been sure I’d care about the estate? But now that he knows better, he’s reaching out. And that’s great.

“What other ideas do you have?”

Seb lights up. “I haven’t done all the research,” he begins, “but the tennis court has been closed for a decade. If we opened it, I think we could rent it out for lessons. One of our instructors has a friend who’s a tennis pro, and he says the lessons at the tennis clubs are pretty steep. Some of the kids taking lessons don’t want to compete, so they don’t need to be club members. They just need a court and an instructor, and I reckon I can find an instructor who’ll lease the court from us, so we don’t even have to be involved.”

I remember playing tennis on that court, and all the tennis parties my grandmother used to throw in the summer. Has it really been closed for over a decade? That’s no good—it needs to be used. “Do it,” I say decisively. “Make sure whoever you lease it to is reputable, though. Anything else?”

Our server comes then to clear, distracting us with offers of dessert. Seb looks like he might refuse, so I jump in and agree. “It’s your birthday lunch,” I remind him when our server brings the menus. “I don’t have a cake for you, so you gotta order dessert.”

“Twist my arm,” Seb concedes cheerfully, looking at the menu. “What’s good here?”

“I like the caramel pear tart, but most people swear by the cheesecake.” Which is pretty damn good. I can just never pass by anything with caramel.

“Hmmm. Decisions, decisions.”

Despite my efforts to cling to every moment of our time together, the rest of lunch flies by. Seb lays out some of the other plans for the Vale, which include by-appointment viewings of some of the public rooms in the house, and we indulge in our dessert. Seb’s manner is equal parts friendly and professional, and I have to make myself respond in kind. Friends is a good idea, I remind myself later, after Seb’s thanked me for lunch, promised to send information about the new estate ventures, and said goodbye. We’ll start as friends, and if I still want more once we know each other better… well, who knows what could happen?

ChapterNine

Seb

I checkanother item off my list for the day and decide it’s time for a break. I lock the computer—even though I’m the only one in the house, it’s habit—grab my phone, and on my way through the kitchen, I snag my jacket from the chair where I left it. I’ll walk down to the stables and stick my nose in until Chris yells at me, and then I’ll visit Stark for a bit. It’d be nice if I could sneak in a ride, but that would be too long away from my desk.

The stables are as soothing as always—the smell of horse, hay, and even horseshit just makes something in me relax. At this time on a weekday, things are pretty quiet. The stablehands are exercising the horses that aren’t assigned for classes later in the afternoon, and one of the instructors is doing a one-on-one lesson with a fiftyish matron who decided to fulfill her childhood dream of learning to ride but doesn’t want to be the oldest in a class. If I remember right, Chris has a lesson soon with one of his Olympic-hopeful students, but he should be around somewhere now.

I find him in one of the stalls, mucking out while the horse is being exercised. “Don’t we have students for this?” I joke. Warwick insisted that a part of learning proper horsemanship is learning to care for your mount, which means all students are required to tack up and untack their horses, groom them after every ride, and take a turn mucking out and cleaning tack at least once a week. There’s still tons to do, including supervising the beginner riders to make sure they’re doing things right, but it’s a running joke that the worst jobs got left for students.

Chris laughs. “You wanna help?”

For a split second, I consider it. Mucking out isn’t my favorite thing to do, but there’s something satisfying about it. It’s a job that has a definite outcome—you do the job, you see the result. And knowing that the horses have a clean, comfortable, welcoming place to be because you made it that way feels good.

But I don’t have a lot of time, and I’m not dressed to muck out—I have a meeting later with someone at the local council to discuss a license to open the house and gardens to visitors. If I start mucking out, I’ll need to shower, change, and iron another shirt.

“Can’t today,” I say, almost regretfully. “If you need more hands, though?—”

“Nah, we’re good,” Chris promises. “Jen had to call in because her kid is sick, otherwise she’d be doing this. It won’t hurt me to work hard for one day.” Ironically, he leans on his shovel as he says it. “What brings you down here?”

“Needed a break from the computer,” I tell him. “Numbers will be the cause of my death.”

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