The Valentine Legacy Read Online Free PDF

the Ellison flour mills on the Patapsco River, but Old Bess knew how to coax everything to work. The privy had reeked so badly that anyone having to walk near it gagged. He’d had everyone wrap kerchiefs around their faces and they’d dug the old privy under half a dozen feet of earth and built a new one, liming it until no one had tohold his nose within ten feet of it, even if there wasn’t an upwind breeze.
    Then he’d renamed the farm Marathon, showing off his Latin and Greek education, his cousin Marcus had said, cuffing him, adding that he didn’t know the Colonists even knew such things. During the past year James had spent more and more time in Baltimore. Upon occasion he considered selling his stud in Yorkshire, but then he’d just shake his head at himself. He loved Candlethorpe, loved England, and loved his English relatives. No, he wouldn’t give up either of his homes.
    He came around the east side of the stable, automatically checking off tasks he had already done that morning and thinking about what he had to do throughout the afternoon. He came to a halt at the sound of Oslow’s voice, low and deep, a voice that mesmerized anyone who heard it. James’s ears immediately perked up.
    â€œAye, Diomed won a three-year-old sweepstakes in England, at Epsom, way back in 1780. But then he just faded away, didn’t win another race, didn’t do a bloody thing. They put him to stud, but there he was a failure, too. He lost all fertility. He came over here in 1800, bought on speculation, you know. And you know what happened, Miss Jessie? It was our good old American air and American food and our American mares that worked magic in that old horse. His fertility returned and he covered just about every mare in every state. Aye, if Diomed were a man he’d be a bloody Casanova. Diomed is the forefather of the American racehorse. He stands alone, I say. He’ll stand alone forever, you mark my words, Miss Jessie.”
    â€œOh my, Oslow. I remember when he died, I was just a little girl, way back in—When was it?”
    â€œIn 1808. A grand old man he was. More folk mourned his passing in old colony land than they did George Washington’s.”
    She laughed—a pure, sweet, long laugh, nearly as long as those skinny legs of hers.
    James came around the side of the stable to see Oslow sitting on a barrel, Jessie sitting at his feet, her legs crossed, a straw in her mouth. An old hat was set back on her head and her thick red hair was coming out of its pins, straggling down beside her face. She was dressed as disreputably as any of his stable lads on wash day, her wool pants so old they bagged out at the knees and hugged her ankles. It seemed to him, though, that the freckles over her nose were lighter. Her lips weren’t chapped, either.
    â€œSo,” he said, “what was that stuff you were using, Jessie? I thought I smelled cucumber.”
    â€œWhat stuff?” Oslow asked, nodding to James.
    James just shook his head. “So you were telling her about Diomed.”
    â€œI wasn’t using any stuff. I just like to eat cucumbers. Did you ever see Diomed, James?”
    â€œOnce, when I was a little boy. My father took my brother and me to the racecourse and he was there, a grand old man, just as Oslow said, standing there like a king, and all of us went and bowed. It was quite a show. You’re telling me that you carry cucumbers around and eat them?”
    â€œJust sometimes.” Jessie abruptly got up and dusted herself off. James saw that the wool pants were very tight across her butt. He frowned. Jessie saw that frown and said, defensive as a banker with his hand caught in the till, “I just stopped by for a few minutes to see Oslow. I’m not here spying or anything. Oslow said Sober John covered Sweet Susie.”
    â€œYes. It went well.”
    â€œI would like to buy Sober John.”
    â€œYou don’t have enough