By mid-afternoon, nearly the entire household staff had gathered near the paddock fence, pretending to have errands nearby, all secretly waiting to see what would happen.
Elsie arrived at the paddock exactly when she said she would, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her expression calm and unreadable. Nathaniel Cross stood near the fence with his arms crossed, a smug grin already forming on his face, certain he was about to watch her humiliated in front of everyone. Bridget Lowe stood beside him, whispering something to another maid, both of them stifling laughter.
Tempest was already waiting in the center of the paddock, led out by a nervous stable boy who released the lead rope and hurried back toward the fence as fast as his legs could carry him. The stallion tossed his head, stamped the ground, and let out a sharp warning snort that sent a ripple of fear through the crowd.
Elsie climbed over the fence without hesitation and walked toward him slowly, her hands open and relaxed at her sides. The crowd fell into a tense, breathless silence. Tempest's ears flattened for a moment, his powerful body coiling as if ready to bolt or rear, and several onlookers gasped, certain they were about to witness disaster.
But Elsie did not stop. She spoke to him in a low, steady voice, words too quiet for anyone else to hear, and something in the stallion's posture began to shift. His ears rose again. His stamping slowed. He lowered his head slightly as she reached him, allowing her fingers to brush gently against his neck.