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can see the result,” Mr. Spencer said proudly, pointing to an engraving of a wild-eyed horse leaping to the finish line, his jockey’s spindly whip raised high in triumph. “Hartley Smile. Won the Cup down at Dublin three times before we retired him to stud. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
    “Of course,” William lied, making every effort to admire Hartley Smile. It was difficult, of course, from the engraving, which was just an artist’s idea of what a horse ought to look like winning a race. It would have been more convincing if Mr. Spencer would actually show him the horse. And he thought he’d like to see him, actually. He was always on the look-out for a good new stallion. “Is Hartley Smile here?”  
    Spencer shook his head. “The breeding horses are all kept down the valley at Ivan O’Kelley’s farm. Whenever I get one into the yard that I find promising, I tell his lordship and O’Kelley comes up for it.”
    “I rather thought the chestnut I was on today might be worth breeding.”
    “Bald Nick?” Spencer smiled. “You know, I’ve often thought the same. We might race him against the clock and see what his times are like.”
    William silently congratulated himself. “But why the name Bald Nick? I thought that an odd moniker for such a good-looking horse.”
    “Oh, when he was a youngster, he took Grainne through the middle of a five-barred gate and left his forelock and scalp behind. As well as Grainne.” Spencer got up and put away the heavy stud book.
    “Good heavens. That must have been rather traumatic.”
    “Grainne’s a hard girl to frighten,” Spencer said off-handedly. “Got right back on and jumped him on the way home, just to teach him he couldn’t be afraid of the fences. She was plucking splinters out of her arms and face for a fortnight, though. Has a bit of a scar on her neck from it, as well. But Bald Nick, now, he’s never touched another fence. It’s made him terribly careful. So it’s an ill wind.”
    “Indeed.” William was imagining that slim, beautiful figure he’d seen on horseback today, galloping away from him on her dark bay mare, as she must have been that day, bloodied and trembling, picking herself up from a pile of shattered wood and brushing herself off before she put a boot back in the stirrup and swung aboard her terrified horse, unwilling to allow him to be ruined by fear. She was really an astonishing woman, he thought. He wanted to know more about her.
    “Miss Spencer is truly an accomplished horsewoman,” William said experimentally, hoping Spencer would take the bait and boast about his daughter. But he was disappointed, for the subject was quickly changed.  
    “Well, it’s an early morning tomorrow,” Spencer announced, yawning theatrically. “Hope you don’t mind if we keep country hours here, William. Mrs. Kinney will see you out.” He gestured at the door and the grey-haired housekeeper appeared as if summoned by magic, William’s coat in hand.  
    William jumped up, stuttering out his good-nights, and in just a moment found himself out on the moonlit cobbles. He crossed to the road and began the short walk to the cottage near the stable-yard. Home, as he’d have to think of the tiny pile of stones.  
    The cottage was damp and cold, and the fire a chore to light. For a moment, he wished he’d made some excuse to stay at the pub instead of living here alone, but he shook away the idea. He’d made his decision to come out here to the ends of the earth, to lie low and to wait, and while the gossips chattered on the other side of the Irish Sea he would just have to learn to light a fire properly on his own. But he did decide, cursing at the stubborn flint and the even more stubborn kindling, that tomorrow night he would bring a lantern to the Spencer house, and be sure to bring home a flame to do this task for him.  
    It had been a funny first day on the job, he thought as he settled at last into the moth-eaten armchair, putting