Page 49 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)

“A wise approach,” Mr. Hislop nodded approvingly.

“Aristotle responds to the subtlest shifts in weight and balance. A less precise rider would find him impossible to manage.” He patted the stallion’s gleaming neck with evident pride.

“He represents the culmination of centuries of careful breeding. I’ve spent years searching for a horse with his combination of intelligence, conformation, and movement. ”

Anne watched as the stallion preened under his master’s praise, arching his neck even more dramatically. “He knows his own value,” she observed with amusement.

“Indeed he does! Far too well at times,” Mr. Hislop laughed. “But his vanity is matched by genuine talent. You should see him perform the capriole – a magnificent leap from a standstill with a kick of the hind legs at the apex. Very few horses can master it, but he took to it naturally.”

As Mr. Hislop described other movements from the classical repertoire, Anne found herself nodding with genuine understanding, occasionally asking questions that revealed her own knowledge.

Each time she demonstrated comprehension of some technical aspect, Mr. Hislop’s expression brightened further, as though discovering a rare creature who spoke his particular language.

“My father maintained quite an extensive stable at Rosings,” Anne said, memories flowing more freely now.

“At its height, we had nearly thirty horses, including several Spanish-bred animals trained in these classical movements. Visitors would come specifically to see our stallions perform. There was one particular black stallion, Sultan, who could execute the courbette, rising on his hind legs and hopping forward, for a dozen steps without faltering.”

“Thirty horses! That must have been magnificent,” Mr. Hislop replied, clearly impressed. “Are the stables still active? I’ve heard of Rosings Park, of course, but not specifically of its equestrian program.”

A shadow passed briefly across Anne’s face.

“No, unfortunately. My mother did not share Father’s passion for horsemanship.

After his death, she sold most of the stock, retaining only a few carriage horses and no riding animals at all.

Many of the stable buildings were repurposed for storage.

” She paused, then added softly, “It was as though a light went out at Rosings when those horses departed.”

Mr. Hislop regarded her with unexpected perception. “It must have been difficult to lose not only your father but also the legacy he had built.”

“Yes,” Anne agreed, touched by his understanding. “The stables were his pride. He would spend hours there, often working directly with the grooms and trainers despite his position. He believed that true horsemanship required personal involvement, not merely direction from a distance.”

“A philosophy I share completely,” Mr. Hislop said with enthusiasm. “My father considers my hands-on approach rather beneath our station, but I cannot imagine entrusting Aristotle’s training entirely to others, no matter how competent.”

This comment led naturally to the subject of Mr. Hislop’s own ambitions.

“I’ve been developing plans for a breeding program,” he explained, his voice taking on a fervent quality that reminded Anne, with a brief pang, of Lord Joseph discussing poetry.

“I wish to combine the elegance and collection of the Iberian horses with the speed and endurance of English thoroughbreds. Aristotle will be the cornerstone, of course. I’ve invested nearly all my personal capital in acquiring him and three exceptional broodmares. ”

“That sounds tremendous,” Anne replied with genuine interest. “And have you the property such an endeavour? Proper equine facilities require considerable space.”

Mr. Hislop’s expression clouded slightly.

“That remains my primary challenge. My father owns extensive properties, but he considers my pursuits a youthful fancy rather than a serious enterprise. He has been... reluctant to dedicate acreage to what he terms my ‘hobby.’” The frustration in his voice was evident though restrained.

“I’ve been searching for suitable land to purchase independently, but the investment required for both property and facilities is substantial…

I confess I have a preference for investing my capital in bloodstock rather than property. ”

“I can imagine,” Anne said thoughtfully. “At Rosings, the main stable block can house forty horses, with separate buildings for broodmares and youngstock. We had three paddocks for training and a large field specifically designed for performances.”

As she described the layout of her father’s equestrian complex, Anne found her imagination wandering to the neglected buildings still standing at Rosings.

The grand stable block with its perfect proportions and careful design.

The fenced riding arena where her father had instructed her.

The special stalls with their brass fittings and ideal ventilation.

All still there, merely repurposed or left idle under her mother’s disinterested stewardship.

“The facilities remain largely intact,” she continued, a note of new possibility entering her voice. “They would require renovation, certainly, but the foundations are sound. My father designed the stable complex himself, incorporating ideas from his travels throughout Europe.”

As she spoke, Anne felt something shift within her, like a door long closed beginning to swing open once more.

For years, she had carefully avoided thinking too deeply about Rosings and its possibilities, accepting her mother’s management as inevitable and unchangeable.

But here, discussing horses with someone who shared her passion, she suddenly found herself imagining what Rosings might become again; not merely a stately home maintained out of obligation, but a living, breathing centre of equestrian excellence as it had been during her father’s lifetime.

“You should see the expression on your face,” Mr. Hislop said gently, breaking into her thoughts. “When you speak of Rosings as it was, and perhaps as it could be again, you become quite transformed.”

Anne felt a flush rise to her cheeks, both at his directness and at the realization that she had been speaking with unusual animation. “I had not thought of those possibilities in many years,” she admitted. “My mother has... very definite ideas about how Rosings should be managed.”

“But you are its future, are you not?” Mr. Hislop asked, his tone respectful but direct. “Forgive me if I presume too much, but I gather you will one day be mistress of Rosings in your own right.”

“Yes,” Anne replied, the single syllable carrying more weight and certainty than she had ever attached to it before. “Yes, I will.”

Mr. Hislop nodded, his expression thoughtful.

“Then perhaps these dreams need not remain merely memories.” He hesitated, then added with a smile, “I hope you will not think me too forward, Miss de Bourgh, but I should very much like to continue our conversation about horses. Perhaps you might permit me to call at Darcy House?”

Anne found herself nodding before she had fully considered the implications. “I would enjoy that. My cousin is usually at home to visitors three times a week, on Monday, Wednesday and Fridays.”

As they turned back toward the park entrance to meet up with Kitty and Georgiana again, Anne realized she was smiling, her mind filled not with the weight of recent grief or the constraints of her present circumstances, but with visions of Rosings reborn; its stable yards once more filled with magnificent horses, the sound of hoofbeats echoing through the riding arena, and at the centre of it all, herself, making decisions and bringing her father’s legacy back to life.

It was a startling sensation, this sudden perception of herself as an active participant in her own future rather than a passive observer. More startling still was the realization that she had Mr. Hislop, a gentleman she had met only twice, to thank for reawakening this dormant part of herself.

Elizabeth looked up from her correspondence with pleasure at their arrival as the three young ladies entered the drawing room, their riding habits slightly dishevelled from their exercise and their cheeks flushed with healthy colour.

“You all look wonderfully invigorated,” Elizabeth observed, setting aside her writing. “I trust the morning’s ride was pleasant?”

Kitty’s eyes sparkled with barely contained mirth. “Oh, it was far more than merely pleasant,” she declared, dropping onto a settee and removing her riding gloves with a flourish. “It was positively educational! Would you believe we encountered Mr. Hislop again?”

Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to Anne, who felt colour rising to her cheeks at the mention of the gentleman. “Indeed? The gentleman with the magnificent stallion?”

“The very same,” Kitty confirmed, clearly delighting in her role as narrator. “And what an encounter it was! Anne’s mare took quite an interest in his stallion, a most particular sort of interest, if you take my meaning.”

“Kitty,” Georgiana murmured, her cheeks colouring too at the reference to the horses’ behaviour.

“Well, it’s true,” Kitty persisted, though she moderated her tone slightly.

“Rosalind made her admiration for Aristotle exceedingly clear. You should have seen poor Mr. Hislop trying to maintain his dignity while his prized stallion was behaving like… well, like a stallion.” She dissolved into giggles at the memory.

Anne moved to take a seat near the window, feeling a complex mixture of embarrassment and amusement.

“It was rather mortifying at first,” she admitted.

“But Mr. Hislop handled the situation with remarkable grace. And there is something refreshingly honest about horses. They do not pretend indifference when they feel attraction.”