‘One can’t deny Ronnie has a good eye for men as well as horses,’ Gill conceded, adding beadily, ‘Is it currently on or off between her and Mr Sit Tight do we know?’

‘No idea.’ Petra flashed her big, easy smile.

The cause of much fascination, stud owner Ronnie was a Percy family prodigal, her scurrilous past, forthright presence and uncertain future keeping tongues wagging.

These days the Bags rarely rode past the stud without standing up in their stirrups to take a better look, especially since Petra, who regularly dog walked with Ronnie, had hinted at a clandestine affair with three-day eventing’s sexiest silver fox and six-time Olympian, craggy sexpot Blair Robertson.

‘The Bolter won’t stay single for long,’ Gill predicted.

‘I heard she got very pally with your Shakespeare director from the Old Almshouse over Christmas.’ Mo gave Gill one of her Carry On winks.

‘They’re hardly a good match,’ Gill dismissed, guarding her secret crush fiercely. ‘Kit’s an academic, so not nearly he-man enough for the Bardswold Bolter. She’s bringing this lusty young horse-whisperer over for herself, mark my words.’

‘When does Horse Boy arrive?’ asked Bridge, who had a vision of Poldark in Pikeur, all dark, thrusting good looks.

‘The Horsemaker,’ Petra corrected. ‘Later this week, I think Ronnie said. One touch of his hand makes horses follow him like disciples, apparently,’ she sighed, clearly in the Poldark zone too. ‘Goodness knows, they need him. The stud’s really short-staffed now Pip’s stopped going in to help.’

‘No bad thing; silly woman was a menace around those horses,’ Gill said chippily. ‘Ronnie’s obviously cash-strapped. We all know old Lester’s superhuman at seventy-whatever, and Ronnie’s no shirker, but they’ve got far too many horses.’

They were passing the open gateway of the stud farm drive now, all the Bags glancing up the long, poplar-lined stretch of tarmac to its golden-faced house and two interconnected Cotswold stone stable yards, the weathervane glinting above one of the arches, pointing north as the wind stripped their faces.

‘Pax has been helping out a bit,’ said Petra.

‘That’s one of the daughters, right?’ Bridge, whose only knowledge of the Percy family came from the others gossiping, knew that Ronnie had been estranged from all three of her children for years. ‘Is she the redhead we keep seeing parked up in a Noddy car in village lay-bys, shouting into her Bluetooth?’

‘The same.’

Mo bustled alongside Petra again, loving village drama. ‘She and the Scottish husband do up big old Cotswold piles and sell them for a fortune, don’t they?’

‘Places like Petra’s, you mean,’ Bridge snorted.

‘Much smarter.’ Petra took it in good cheer.

‘Playpens for pop stars, footballers and city boys.’ Sounding highly disapproving, Gill signalled for single file as a car approached, the quartet moving up onto the verge and waving thanks to weekenders from one of the thatched cottages on The Green as they edged past in an immaculately clean Audi, eyeing the horses with trepidation. ‘Mack Forsyth’s a shark,’ she told the others over her shoulder. ‘He’s quite a bit older than Pax – closer to Ronnie’s age. Obvious father figure; never seen him out of a suit.’