A falling star, p.14
A Falling Star, page 14
part #3 of Wintercombe Series
Charles, though… Charles, with that air almost of desperation, as if he yearned for something utterly out of his reach, was another matter. He would not play by the rules she knew, because his simplicity and lack of sophistication precluded it. And she had seen that look in his eyes too often, in other men, to mistake it. Her intuition never lied: he was, or fancied himself to be, in love with her.
Poor Charles, Louise thought, with regret for the sincere friendship they had shared all through the autumn and winter months, and which now, inevitably, must be laid to rest. For she was fond of him, she liked him — but only as a friend. He was good-looking, with his honey-blond hair and blue eyes, well-spoken, pleasant — but there was none of that sense of risk and danger, no frisson of the hidden desire that she felt whenever she looked at Alex.
‘Don’t look so sad,’ she said to Charles now, as they kissed each other, cousin-fashion, on the cheek. ‘I’ve already promised Amy that I’ll come back to visit — in the early summer, perhaps, if I can persuade Gran’mère on to her horse again.’
‘Do you promise?’ he said, holding her hand, and his eyes said what his reserve could not put into words.
‘I promise,’ said Louise, knowing that it was better to be cruel than kind, but unable to disappoint him.
By contrast, her farewell to Phoebe was notable for an utter lack of emotion. The older girl looked far from well, though she had supposedly recovered from her cold. She leaned much on her stick, and even the bulky folds of her shabby black gown could not disguise her twisted body, or how painfully thin she had become. So fragile and insubstantial did she seem in the wan pale light of early morning that Louise found herself wondering, in some distress, whether she would see her cousin again, even if she kept her promise to return in May or June.
But Phoebe must be much tougher than she looked, or she would have been in her grave long ago. She smiled at Louise, a rather sardonic expression that was very reminiscent of Alex, and produced a folded piece of paper. ‘If you are going to Taunton soon, could you give this to Uncle Jonah? He is a bookseller, and often keeps volumes by for me. If he can obtain these, I would be most grateful — and either send them to me by the carrier, or, if you are coming back in two or three months, could you bring them with you, if that is not too inconvenient?’
‘Of course it’s not,’ Louise said warmly. She liked Phoebe, respecting her formidable intellectual abilities while having absolutely no desire to emulate them herself, and she also admired her cousin’s complete lack of self-pity. ‘I would be happy to do it — and I do hope to visit Wintercombe again, if Gran’mère will let me.’
She grinned, but achieved no similar response from Phoebe. The older girl glanced around, and then said, very quietly, ‘Louise…you may well think this presumptuous of me, and I will quite understand if you are offended…but I should be very careful of Alex.’
Louise felt a sudden surge of anger. She was not a child, and she was quite capable of conducting her own life. But she held back her annoyance, because she liked Phoebe and did not wish to spoil their friendship. She said, equally softly, ‘Don’t worry. I know he is dangerous. But so were half the men my parents knew in France, and I learned how to handle them in my cradle.’
Her assurance seemed to thaw some of Phoebe’s reserve, and at last she smiled properly, with warmth. ‘Good. Where my brother is concerned, you’ll need such skills. I know, none better, how charming and pleasant he can be when he wants — and he has great gifts, no denying it, even though he does his best to waste and squander them. But I have never forgotten, even when he is at his most entertaining, that he is completely without scruple.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Louise repeated. ‘I can take care of myself — and of him.’
Alex was already mounted, on the handsome dapple-grey stallion that had aroused the admiration of the grooms. Pagan, despite being an entire horse and therefore potentially just as dangerous, though in a slightly different way, as his master, was, as Dan Pardice commented, as docile as an old sheep, his only discernible bad habit being a tendency to chew at the wooden framework of his manger. Louise eyed the snowy fall of Pagan’s magnificent tail, and wished, not for the first time, that she too could possess a horse as fine as that. But her sweet little mare Étoile, the companion of her wildest rides, had been left behind in France to produce her first foal, and all she had now was solid, uninspiring, comfortable Nance, the sort of animal the English considered to be a good safe lady’s ride.
Still, perhaps she could persuade Alex to put her saddle on Pagan for a little while, before they reached Glastonbury, although it required some effort of her imagination to visualise her cousin, in exchange, perched on top of the stout bay mare.
Henry Renolds held Nance for her as she mounted, shook out her skirts and looked around at her travelling companions. Wintercombe did not yet boast a coach — the roads in these parts were generally so poor and steep as to render such an expensive purchase a useless luxury — and so they must travel on horseback. This, of course, was far more welcome to Louise than an uncomfortable ride in a jolting, enclosed coach, insulated from life and fresh air by leather and glass. But Silence, who at her age might have been expected to prefer a less taxing method of transport, seemed quite happy to ride, to Louise’s relief, rather than to hire a coach or even to be carried in a horse litter, the last resort of the ancient or infirm. Her maid, Fan Howard, sat on one of Wintercombe’s lesser nags, with Louise’s maid Christian riding pillion behind her. The group was completed by Henry Renolds, who would help with any horses that Alex might purchase from Glastonbury, and the gangling Lawrence Earle, the other stable lad, who would accompany the women to Chard and take their borrowed mounts back with him.
There was a chorus of farewells from the residents of Wintercombe as they rode out of the courtyard, and Louise smiled and waved to them for as long as they were still in sight. Then, with a sudden rush of happiness and a sense of freedom and adventure, she turned her face to the road that lay ahead, and Glastonbury, the first stop on their Grand Tour of Somerset.
In summer, in good conditions, the journey would probably take a day, or even less, for it was only some twenty-five miles. But in February, even if the weather was kind, the roads were clogged and soft with mud, and dusk came soon in the day. Besides, Silence had announced that she did not have it in mind to travel at a great pace. They would stop at Frome for dinner, and hope to reach Shepton Mallet by nightfall, leaving an easy ten or eleven miles to Glastonbury the next morning.
Louise had hoped for an opportunity to ride alongside her cousin, perhaps to discuss horses in general and her next mount in particular. But Alex, with a certain lack of courtesy, set Pagan off in front of them at a speedy gallop, and they did not see him again until a mile or so outside Frome, where he was sitting waiting for them. ‘Come on, my sluggard aunt! At this rate, we won’t reach Glastonbury until next week.’
‘At my age,’ Silence said, putting back the soft dark hood which protected her hair, ‘I reserve the right to plod on at my own pace, irrespective of your youthful dash and fire. Besides, my poor old horse really isn’t capable of anything faster than an amble. If you really want to gallop that magnificent beast to and fro until he founders, that’s your affair — so long as you pay for our rooms and our meals, you can do as you please.’
Alex laughed, running a gauntleted hand along the stallion’s dappled, sweat-darkened neck. ‘Rest assured, I won’t leave you stranded. But Pagan was in sore need of a gallop, and I want him looking his best tomorrow for Cousin Jan’s inspection — which he won’t if he’s still fat and out of condition.’
‘You’re not planning to sell him, are you?’ Louise asked.
Alex shook his head. ‘Christ, no — he’s worth half a fortune. He’ll stay at Wintercombe to improve our own stock. No, I need our cousin’s advice, since he appears to be the family expert on all aspects of horse breeding. I shall need to purchase brood mares who will match well with Pagan, to produce foals with his stamina and temperament, if not his speed — although it would be pleasant if one or two of his progeny proved capable of racing. Do they still hold matches up on Lansdown, above Bath?’
‘I believe so,’ said Louise, who had heard Charles, some time ago, make reference to such meetings. She added, seizing her opportunity, ‘I would also appreciate Cousin Jan’s advice. Nance is a good enough horse, but —’
‘You wish for something with a bit more fire and brimstone? I can’t say I blame you.’
‘I had a little mare in France, as sweet-tempered as Pagan, and almost as swift — a lovely dark chestnut, like copper, with a star on her forehead, so I called her Étoile.’
‘And what happened to her? Did she break a leg out hunting?’
‘I have never,’ said Louise, quietly and forcefully, ‘never, ever killed or injured a horse under me — all my mounts have retired, or been outgrown, or, as in Étoile’s case, been put to breeding. Do you think me such a reckless rider, then?’
‘Reckless, certainly — but perhaps not in the saddle,’ said Alex. He had guided Pagan so close, as they began the steep descent into Frome, that his right leg was almost touching her. Silence was some paces behind, although not, Louise thought, quite out of earshot. ‘So, Cousin Louise, sweet Louise, do you never ride for a fall?’
‘Never,’ she said, with a sly sidelong glance.
His eyes, that disturbing sapphire blue, were intent upon her. He brushed a stray hair from her face, so deftly that, a second afterwards, she wondered if she had imagined the gesture. ‘Oh, Louise — surely rumour has not lied?’
‘It’s known to be a lying jade,’ she pointed out coolly. There was no doubt that if he had heard even the half of those tales that had been bandied up and down the Loire valley last summer, he would think her ripe for the plucking. A tiny voice of warning, deep in her mind, kept whispering to her in words remarkably like Phoebe’s: but she was adult, sophisticated, experienced in such things, and she could take care of herself. Determined to keep the conversation on a safer footing, she added, ‘There is a favour I would like to ask of you, Cousin.’
‘Oh?’ His eyes sparkled wickedly. ‘Is this my lucky moment, I wonder?’
‘Hardly, with Gran’mère as chaperone,’ said Louise firmly. ‘No, this is a favour which you may not wish to grant, and I will quite understand it if you do not. If you agree, I would very much like to ride Pagan for a space on this journey.’
‘Really? And how do I know that you will take good care of him?’
‘You trust me,’ said Louise, looking him full in the face. ‘You have seen me in the saddle several times — you must have formed some idea of my competence. If you doubt me, then, as I have said, you are quite free to refuse, and I will bear you no malice.’
‘Oh, I have every confidence in your skills on horseback,’ said Alex. ‘But have you considered the figure I shall cut, perched on that bulbous old nag with, no doubt, my feet dragging the ground?’
‘Nance is fifteen hands,’ Louise pointed out. ‘Hardly a pony. Are you so afraid of looking ridiculous, Cousin?’
‘Of course,’ said Alex, and grinned, giving his words the lie. ‘Well, sweet Louise, I have a mind — a mad, lunatic impulse — to trust you. I’ll have Earle change the saddles over after dinner, and you may try Pagan’s paces. But — one word of warning.’
‘Yes, Cousin?’
‘If harm comes to him through your lack of any thought, or care, or your recklessness, then I shall not readily forgive, or forget,’ said Alex, quite pleasantly. ‘Understood?’
‘Understood,’ Louise told him coldly. ‘And I further understand that you do not trust me, or you would not have found those words necessary. Well, I shall just have to make you eat them, shall I not?’
The inn at Frome was warm, welcoming, and supplied an excellent early dinner. Lawrence Earle hid his astonishment at his master’s request, and put Louise’s side-saddle on the big grey stallion. He knew her for a very competent rider, but Pagan was, surely, not for a mere woman to ride. He watched her progress with interest as they clattered out of the inn yard and up the hill towards Shepton Mallet, but to his covert disappointment, she showed no signs of falling off.
Louise was thoroughly enjoying herself. Pagan had a mouth like melted butter, and a beautiful gait, a supremely smooth and comfortable trot that, after Nance’s jolting, graceless stride, was like riding on a feather bed. He had fidgeted a little when she mounted, unused to the novel distribution of weight and the flapping skirts of her habit trailing down one side, but showed no sign of embarking on the battle of wills which she had fought with Shadow. She tried out his paces, noted the enthusiasm of his response and the equanimity with which he greeted such hazards as a furiously barking dog, a sheep stuck in a ditch, and a piece of rag fluttering in the hedge. Finally, she chose a wide straight stretch of road, bordered with a strip of smooth-looking emerald grass, and without waiting for permission from Alex, gave Pagan his head.
It was like riding the wind. The grass was rutted and wet, but the grey stallion negotiated all obstacles with a sureness and agility that aroused her wonder and respect. Shadow would have refused to stop at the end of it: Pagan accepted her increasing pull on the reins, and allowed his stride to shorten to a canter, then a trot and, finally, to a halt. Breathless and exhilarated, she turned him, patting the sleek dappled neck which, despite his exertions, was barely damp with sweat, and waited for the rest of the party to come up.
Alex had somehow persuaded Nance into a lumbering canter. She hoped that his saddle was secure: the length of girth had proved almost inadequate to describe the mare’s extensive circumference, although she was a full hand and more smaller than Pagan. Despite the incongruity of horse and rider, the long lean man and the short stout mare, he did not look in the least ridiculous. She watched him as he approached, savouring his appearance, at once untidy and ill-disciplined with his black hair streaming behind him and his coat flying, and yet also powerful, almost menacing. The burgeoning feeling within her, the suffocating, heart-juddering sense of desire, of lust, was at once dangerous and enjoyable. She might revel in the overwhelming effect that his presence seemed to have on her, but she must not surrender to it, or her fragile reputation would be smashed as if with a hammer.
You were wrong, Phoebe, she thought, careful not to let her hunger show in her face as her cousin pulled Nance up a few yards from Pagan. It is not Alex who is the principal danger: it is I, myself, and my response to him.
She smiled graciously. ‘Shall we change the saddles back? I would not keep you any longer from such a paragon of equine virtue — and besides, I fear that if I’m allowed to sit on his back for much longer, I’ll never relinquish my position.’
‘He is to your liking, then?’ said Alex, removing his hat. The clear light suited his face, with its sharp, bleak lines unaffected by experience and debauchery. Louise felt her heart begin to pound, a slow remorseless rhythm which she fought down. It was lust, pure (or not so pure) and simple, for she did not even like the man, and certainly did not trust him.
‘Assuredly he is,’ she said, letting her delight in Pagan disguise other, less innocent feelings. ‘Worth half a fortune, as you said.’
‘So long as he proves capable of passing on his talents to his progeny,’ Alex pointed out. ‘And not every stallion has that ability. I was only shown one foal that was said to be his, and that was a most promising colt, but chestnut like his dam, and could just as easily have been another’s. It will take three or four years before I can judge whether he will be a good foundation for the improved breed of St Barbe horses which I have been planning.’
‘If he sires a filly like himself, dapple grey, will you sell her to me?’ Louise said. She kicked her foot from the stirrup, and vaulted lightly to the ground. ‘And I will use her as the foundation mare for the Chevalier and St Clair breed.’
‘Then you plan to return to France?’ Alex asked, still sitting the blowing Nance.
Louise, her long fingers busy with the girth strap, glanced up at him. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. It depends on a great many things. Life is not easy for Protestants there, at present.’
‘And you would not turn Catholic? Has not your mother done so?’
‘Yes — but then it matters little to her, she did so to please my stepfather. She is determined, though, that I shall stay Protestant — she says it was always my father’s wish. And so — she sent me to England.’
Alex dismounted and began to unstrap his saddle. Louise noted with amusement that he was more than a head taller than Nance. He said, with a sudden smile, ‘So that was why you were despatched here. I did wonder.’
‘Where else would I find a Protestant husband? And I am half English, after all, even if I am also a Guernesiaise.’
‘By blood only, of course, since your father was drowned when you were…’
‘I was four. I can just remember him,’ said Louise. She finished unhooking the breastplate, and felt Pagan’s soft, velvety lips nibbling at her hair. Laughing, she pushed his head away. ‘No — it’s grass you eat, idiot!’
‘He likes you,’ said Alex. He had taken the saddle from Nance’s broad back, and came over to Pagan. ‘Can you lift that off?’
‘I may be a woman,’ Louise said frostily, ‘but I am not so weak and feeble as you might suppose.’ She pulled the saddle off Pagan with an ostentatious lack of effort. ‘Here you are, sir — you may have your horse back, with my grateful thanks and my deep green envy.’
He laughed as she passed him, and in a companionable silence, broken only by the cawing rooks in a nearby stand of elms, they secured their own saddles. Behind them, on the brow of the hill, her grandmother had appeared, with the servants just behind her, ambling along in no hurry. Louise looked around for a log, a fence, a gate something which would serve as a mounting-block, but the thick bristly hedgerow promised no such help. There was only one alternative: she checked the tightness of the girth, and said to her cousin, ‘Will you assist me to mount?’
