The Duke's Prize Mare Would Let No Groom Near Her — "Let Me Try, Your Grace," Said the Dairymaid
Heart of the House
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On a March night in a gale, the old Duke of Brettenham's great racing mare began to foal in the straw, and the foal was coming wrong. Since the old man's funeral in January, the mare had let no living soul lay a hand on her. Not the grooms. Not the stable lads. Not even the young Duke, who stood at her half-door every night with an apple in his hand. By four in the morning every man at the stud knew she was going to die.
Nobody noticed the dairymaid. Nan Avery had crossed the yard with her pails to begin the milking, as she did every morning, and stopped at the back of the crowd in her old grey cloak. Then she pushed back her hood, walked up to the door where the head groom would not go, stood beside the Duke in the rain, and said four words: Let me try, Your Grace.
She did not take a lantern. She sat down in the straw. And she began to talk.
What came after was a mare who would let one person near her in all the world, a grieving Duke who came to the stable at half past three every morning and stood at the half-door in the dark, a dawn in a misty paddock that a gambling cousin was never meant to see, a secret from a great round hall full of lights in London, and a Craven Monday at Newmarket that the racing world of England never forgot.
A tender Regency story of a dairymaid with a gift she had sworn never to use again, and the Duke who learned from her how to grieve. Settle in and let this story carry you to the great houses of old England.
If you love slow-burn Regency romance and quiet period stories, subscribe and turn on the bell so the next one finds you.
Tell us in the comments where you are listening from tonight, and which moment of Nan's story stayed with you.
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The Duke's Prize Mare Would Let No Groom Near Her — "Let Me Try, Your Grace," Said the Dairymaid
Heart of the House
5,087 views
On a March night in a gale, the old Duke of Brettenham's great racing mare began to foal in the straw, and the foal was coming wrong. Since the old man's funeral in January, the mare had let no living soul lay a hand on her. Not the grooms. Not the stable lads. Not even the young Duke, who stood at her half-door every night with an apple in his hand. By four in the morning every man at the stud knew she was going to die.
Nobody noticed the dairymaid. Nan Avery had crossed the yard with her pails to begin the milking, as she did every morning, and stopped at the back of the crowd in her old grey cloak. Then she pushed back her hood, walked up to the door where the head groom would not go, stood beside the Duke in the rain, and said four words: Let me try, Your Grace.
She did not take a lantern. She sat down in the straw. And she began to talk.
What came after was a mare who would let one person near her in all the world, a grieving Duke who came to the stable at half past three every morning and stood at the half-door in the dark, a dawn in a misty paddock that a gambling cousin was never meant to see, a secret from a great round hall full of lights in London, and a Craven Monday at Newmarket that the racing world of England never forgot.
A tender Regency story of a dairymaid with a gift she had sworn never to use again, and the Duke who learned from her how to grieve. Settle in and let this story carry you to the great houses of old England.
If you love slow-burn Regency romance and quiet period stories, subscribe and turn on the bell so the next one finds you.
Tell us in the comments where you are listening from tonight, and which moment of Nan's story stayed with you.
I once sat in stall with a mare who would later become my best friend. She was two and I first met her when she was at her mother's side. She laid her head down across my legs in the straw.
That was twenty years ago and she is looking at me now as I write this