“Is the kangaroo yours, Jack?” I asked, pointing to the bookcase.
“He is,” Jack replied. “His name is Joey—it’s what baby roos are called—and I’ve had him since I was an ankle biter. He’d’ve ended up in an op shop if I’d left him at home, so I brought him along with me on my travels. Joey’s been from the Snowy Mountains to the Kimberly, from Sydney to Perth, from the Great Barrier Reef to the great hunk of rock known as Uluru.” He sat back, folded his arms, and regarded Bree resignedly. “Go ahead, take the piss. Ask why a bloke has a kid’s toy in his rucksack.”
“I don’t have to ask,” said Bree. “I get it. It’s no fun to travel alone. It’s better to have a mate with you.”
Jack seemed taken aback by her respectful response. I wasn’t, because I knew something he didn’t. I knew about Ruru, a small and very tattered brown owl Bree had carried with her on an epic journey that had taken her from New Zealand to her great-grandaunts’ house. By sheer luck, Jack had confessed his eccentricity to three people who wouldn’t find it risible. Although Emma didn’t have a Reginald or a Ruru or a Joey of her own, she was far too open-minded to ridicule those of us who did.
“I’d love to sit around and chat,” said Emma, pushing her chair away from the table, “but I have to be back to the manor by two, so I’d better get to work. I’ll take measurements, notes, and photographs today, Jack, and use them to draw up a preliminary plan.”
“I’ll be in the front garden if anyone needs me,” said Bree, getting to her feet.
“I’ll join you after I’ve cleared the table,” Jack told her.
“I’ll be in the back garden,” I announced, “clearing the path from the kitchen door to the well.” I gazed at Jack with feigned innocence. “Millicent Scroggins will make her wish as soon as she’s back from the dentist’s. You wouldn’t want her to turn an ankle, would you?”
Jack threw his napkin at me, laughed, and began to stack the dishes.
I caught Emma’s eye, and with a small jerk of my head directed her to meet me in the back garden. She responded with a mildly puzzled look, but I found her waiting for me by the well when I emerged from the kitchen armed with a rake.
“I presume you’re scheming,” she said quietly.
“Don’t be so suspicious,” I scolded, raking up the strands of ivy strewn about the well. “I simply think it would be nice if the young’uns spent some time together. On their own. Without older folk around to cramp their style.”
“Matchmaking,” said Emma, gazing heavenward. “I should have known.”
“There’s nothing wrong with giving natural impulses a gentle shove in the right direction,” I said.
“I’ll leave the shoving to you,” said Emma. She rested a hand on one of the well’s sturdy posts and scanned our surroundings. “I’ve almost forgotten how much I enjoy gardening.”
“You’ve been too wrapped up in the riding school,” I told her, bending to my task. “You should take a break once in a while. Grow a prize-winning eggplant, knit a circus tent, invent the cure for the common cold.”
“There’s no room for a break in my schedule,” she said. “I couldn’t ask for better partners than Nell and Kit, but they can’t run the school by themselves and Derek has his own business to manage.”
Emma’s husband, Derek, owned a construction business specializing in restoration work. His daughter Nell—Emma’s stepdaughter—and her husband, Kit, lived with them at Anscombe Manor and worked full-time at the Anscombe Riding Center.
“They look after the horses and the students beautifully,” Emma went on, “but the rest of it—the business end of it—is my responsibility.” She heaved a small sigh. “These days I spend more time behind a desk than on a horse. I hardly ever get to teach a class anymore. I’m too busy managing schedules, accounts, supplies, maintenance, personnel . . . I do everything but climb into a saddle. When I started the school, I didn’t envision myself shuffling paperwork, but the paperwork must be shuffled and I’m good at that sort of thing.” She gave another little sigh. “I wish . . .”
I leaned on my rake and asked curiously, “What do you wish?”
“I wish the perfect someone would appear on my doorstep and manage the riding school for me,” she exclaimed. “I’d offer room and board if I thought it would attract the right person. Heaven knows we have rooms to spare at the manor.”
I stared at her, speechless. Emma was used to my passionate outbursts, but I seldom heard one from her, and I’d never before heard her utter a negative word about her beloved riding school. I wasn’t quite sure what to say.