He looked at the foal first. Then at the mare. Then, last, at Kezia, who was leaning on the half-door in her disgraceful habit with her hair coming down under her hat.
"She's up," he said. His voice was hoarse. "Good. I was afraid she'd lie down again and not get up."
"Was it bad?" Kezia asked.
"It was backwards," he said, "and then it was sideways, and then for about an hour I thought I'd lose the pair of them. But she's an old campaigner. She knew more about it than I did." He looked at the foal with an expression Kezia would remember afterwards: worn out, and unguarded, and very nearly tender. "He's sucked. That's the thing. Once they've sucked you can breathe."
"Where is Mr. Pridmore?"
"Gone to his bed an hour since. I sent him. He's sixty if he's a day and he'd been up two nights already." The man got to his feet, slowly, in sections, with a grunt for each. He was taller than she had thought. "Who are you?"
It was not said rudely, only with plain curiosity, and Kezia found she did not mind it. In a stable yard at six in the morning, the usual forms seemed as out of place as a harp.
"Miss Thorley. From the rectory." She nodded across the park. "I exercise the hunters. Or I did. The old Duke liked them ridden by someone with light hands, and Pridmore's lads all ride like sacks of meal. I have come for Sibyl."
"The grey," he said.
"The grey. She goes to London on Monday. Did they not tell you? I suppose you are come about the sale." She looked at him more carefully: the good shirt, the bad boots, the broken nose. "You are from the dealer. From Tattersall's, or one of their men."
He was quiet for a moment. He picked a stalk of straw off his sleeve and looked at it.
"I came about the horses," he said. "In a manner of speaking."
"Then I suppose you will be glad to be rid of me before your master's people come to count them," Kezia said. "But you will let me take her out first. I warn you I shall take her out regardless. It will be simpler for us both if you agree."