Necessary Evil

by Killarney Traynor

  No one, that is, but me. I suppose that’s why I was so bound and determined to keep the farm open and working. I wasn’t a Chase, so even if I did have children, they wouldn’t have the name. The farm was my uncle’s one legacy, and I had appointed myself guardian of it.

  Vowing to preserve something is one thing. Bringing it about is quite another. I’d always known that Susanna and Michael Chase were not very interested in money, but I’d never known how close they played everything. Every month was a long, knock-down drag-out fight between me, the checkbook, and the bank, and the struggle was starting to tell on me. Even I could see that. My hobbies and interests had dwindled to almost nothing, my back was constantly stiff from both the burden and the broken mattress I couldn’t afford to replace. A line had etched itself on my face, my romantic prospects (excepting, perhaps, the long-shot Joe Tremonti) were practically null, and my hands had grown calloused with time and work. Despite my best efforts, my manners had grown more brusque, almost rude.

  Relinquishing the fight was not an option. Aunt Susanna deserved to keep her home and the Chase family legacy, tarnished though it was. Besides, I hadn’t run out of ideas yet.

  That morning in particular, I remember standing in its shadow, looking up at the familiar lines, thinking, It’s not over yet. I promise, Uncle Michael, I won’t give up.

  Even as I said it, dread crept around the edges of my heart. I don’t really believe in premonitions; but if I did, I would say that I knew, even then, that the fight was about to take a turn for the worse.

  Chapter 5:

  That Wednesday was one of the longest days of my life.

  It started off normally enough. Aunt Susanna was in her room preparing for an exercise class with Darlene, and I, home from work, had my usual routine of stable mucking, bill paying, lessons, and teaching.

  The bad news started right after she left. I was checking my emails and discovered one from the New Hampshire Board of Historical Properties, once again turning down my application for Historical Property status. It was a serious blow. Having them assume the financial responsibility for the buildings would have eased our struggle considerably, and perhaps even have given Aunt Susanna the freedom to do something else with her time and income, like get a winter place in Florida, maybe, or visit her sisters in the Carolinas.

  The board’s refusal changed nothing, aside from dashing my hopes again. I would have handled the disappointment much better if I hadn’t also spotted the mortgage statement on the stack of yesterday’s bills. I’d only just finished paying the minimum on our credit cards, and our checking account didn’t have enough to cover this as well.

  Thankfully, I had lessons to give, getting me out of that office. But watching little girls in pink helmets going in endless circles on the back of a shuffling pony only depressed me. They seemed oddly emblematic of my life. The concentration on their faces, the almost panicked way the new riders gripped the reins with their hands rather than the saddle with their knees struck a chord in me. I spend too much time in my head anyway; but sometimes, I wondered if I wasn’t doing the same in my own life: riding in tethered circles with bad form.

  Mrs. Fontaine’s daughter, Alice, had a lesson that day, which didn’t help my state of mind.

  While Alice was a nice little girl with a smile so sweet it could give you cavities, her mother was a nervous, pushy sort who liked to speak her mind. She was unhappy with me because, after a year of lessons, her daughter still wasn’t jumping. I had tried to explain to her that jumping was only for the more experienced, that it was perfectly normal for it to take two years or so before a rider was ready. Mrs. Fontaine was not unlike other parents when she insisted that Alice was especially talented, and could be trained at a faster pace than the others.

  I knew better. Alice was a gentle girl with a level head, but she was not a natural equestrian. If anything, she needed more time, not less.

  I never said that, of course, but my watered-down explanations were enough to upset Mrs. Fontaine. Unable to override me, she would instead try to undermine me with veiled threats.

  “The Shoepflin Farm a few towns over offers more competitive training for girls Alice’s age,” she’d say. Or, “It’s a long drive to here from Andover. I keep thinking we should go someplace closer.”

  I’d become used to over-anxious mothers and their badgering techniques, and I was determined that I would not let her upset me. The farm had a vested financial interest in keeping the Fontaine’s business: not only did Alice take her lessons here, but Mrs. Fontaine’s sister boarded two horses with us. If Mrs. Fontaine left, no doubt she’d take her sister with her.

  Alice had her lessons at six p.m., after her piano lessons. They always arrived dressed in full gear, on time, expecting Alice’s favorite pony - Red Rider - to be ready. Normally, we insisted that the rider prepare the pony, but as Mrs. Fontaine was nervous around horses and Alice was still so little, we waived this in their case.

  At 5:45, I was heading to the barn to prepare Red Rider when I met Lindsay coming in the opposite direction. She was looking very cheerful.

  “I’ve got the Hendersons at six,” she said. “Do you mind if I take Missy out for a run before I go home?”

  “Be my guest,” I answered. “She could use the exercise. I’ve got one more lesson, then a long, leisurely night of balancing budgets to look forward to.”

  “You’ve got the Fontaine’s tonight, right? Gosh, am I glad tonight is your turn in rotation.”

  “Why?”

  “Red Rider threw his shoe. You’ll have to use Greybeard, and you know how he loves little Alice’s crop.”

  “Oh, terrific!” I exclaimed. “I’m going to have to keep them on the lunge line. Mrs. Fontaine will love that. I’ll get the lecture about holding her daughter back. You wouldn’t want to trade, would you?”

  “Not on your life. I’ll take the Henderson girl any day of the week.”

  She hurried off, and I glumly went into the barn to check on Red Rider and saddle up Greybeard.

  As predicted, Mrs. Fontaine was not at all pleased. She was even more upset when she learned that we weren’t going to be using the indoor ring.

  “Why not?” she asked, practically pouting as I opened the door to let Alice lead her dark charge out into the yard.

  “It’s in use at the moment,” I lied. It actually needed to be cleaned and the sand re-spread to make a smooth riding surface. It should have been done a week ago, but both Lindsay and I had been too busy to tend to it.

  I wasn’t about to admit as much to Mrs. Fontaine. The truth would have only made her more upset.

  “We’ve used it before with other people in it,” she pointed out. “Why is today different?”

  “We’re using Greybeard today and he isn’t as comfortable around other horses,” I said hastily, and instantly wished I’d said anything else.

  Mrs. Fontaine’s eyes grew wide with shock. I skipped ahead to help Alice lead her horse.

  It was a lovely night. The sun was low in the sky, blinding us as we headed for the west fields, where the training paddocks were. I hadn’t given much thought to which paddock we would use, but as the first two had jumping equipment set up in them, I decided that we’d use the far ring, instead of the usual outdoor training ring.

  Alice was in her usual good mood, as unflappable as her mother was anxious. Dressed in immaculate riding garb, complete with shiny boots and a short crop, she crooned and rubbed Greybeard’s nose as we walked along. I watched her, wishing that current child safety policies didn’t make it absolutely imperative that a parent be present at these lessons.

  Mrs. Fontaine would be much happier at home, I reasoned. As it is, she’s going to be catching up in a second to pester me. I should have stayed in veterinary school.

  Sure enough, Mrs. Fontaine soon caught up with us, her fashion boots clumping unsteadily on the trail, her eyes flashing behind long lashes.

  “Do you mean to say that my daughter is on an unsafe hor
se?” she sputtered.

  “Absolutely not. Greybeard is as gentle and nice as Red Rider. But we’re, uh, training horses in the ring tonight and they’re unsteady. Red Rider is older and wouldn’t be bothered, but Greybeard is a young guy. He’s absolutely lovely, really.”

  I went ahead to open the paddock gate. Alice, unmoved by her mother’s unhappiness, led the pony in and up to the mounting stool. I stepped inside and was about to latch the gate behind me when Mrs. Fontaine caught my hand in a steel grip.

  Prepared as I was for her temper, I was caught off guard by the unmasked anger in her eyes.

  “Have you checked it first?” she hissed.

  “Checked what?” Admittedly, my tone was snappy.

  “The ground – have you checked it for holes?”

  I stared at her. Lindsay and I had been finding evidence of treasure hunters with increasing regularity, but we’d been careful to keep it from the parents and students. The only rider who might have known would be Karen Guinta, who’d come across a hole a week ago, but I convinced her that it was there as part of a surveying project. So how did Mrs. Fontaine know? Had she found one? How could I ask without admitting to the danger?

  Then Mrs. Fontaine went on. “I don’t want an accident to happen to my daughter like it happened to Michael. I insist that you inspect the grounds before she rides.”

  I could hardly see for the anger. It took every ounce of restraint for me not to tell her off properly.

  As I took a breath, I thought, All this time and no progress. I still lose it whenever someone mentions his name.

  “It was inspected, Mrs. Fontaine,” I said, carefully, politely, but she would have to be blind not to have seen the smoke pouring out of my ears. “Lindsay, used this paddock only this morning. And we haven’t been bothered by trespassers in quite some time, just so you know.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard. Karen Guinta saw one of those prospecting holes only the other day.”

  Darn it. So Karen hadn’t bought my story.

  “Karen Guinta said that?” I asked sharply. “What else did she say?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Charlie White told me about it. He called to ask me if I’d seen anything suspicious on your farm. He thinks that you’re still being bothered by treasure hunters.”

  I sighed. Of course, Charlie White was behind this. A wannabe journalist who edited an online rag by the name of New Hampshire News Now, he was always looking for something sensational, a trick to pull off in the relatively tame Granite State. He’d been all over my uncle’s death, writing opinion pieces and conducting interviews until finally even Aunt Susanna told him off. When the Beaumont letter was published, his coverage was brief and uninterested, partially because there was another, bigger story in Franklin. I’d thought we were finished with Charlie White, but it seemed that the story was not as dead as I’d thought.

  I was still mulling this over when Mrs. Fontaine said, “I won’t have my daughter riding on dangerous ground.”

  “We check all the paddocks every morning,” I said automatically. “There aren’t any treasure hunters on the property. Professor Maddox’s discovery put an end to that.”

  “That’s not what I heard…”

  “I can’t help the rumors, Mrs. Fontaine,” I cut her off. “I can only tell you the truth.”

  I might have added, Or a part of the truth.

  Mrs. Fontaine’s green eyes flashed at me. “Well,” she hissed. “The truth of the matter is, I’ve been uneasy bringing Alice here. My sister likes you, but I’ve seen nothing to convince me that you’re any better than any other instructor, even though you charge like you’ve trained a triple-crown winner. I can’t see that it’s worth it, frankly. You may love horses, but you don’t seem to have any discernable talent. You certainly aren’t anywhere close to the reputation that your uncle had, and I’m not even sure that his reputation wasn’t grossly overrated…”

  That did it. I broke her monologue by smashing my hand against the rough, wooden rail. She jumped as though I’d hit her - which, frankly, had been my first instinct.

  “Mrs. Fontaine,” I snapped. “If you’ve got nothing better to do than insult me and my family, you can take your contract and your daughter and walk out right now.”

  She stared at me, and I stared back.

  “Mom? Miss Warwick?”

  Alice sounded frightened, and it takes a lot to snap that little girl out of herself.

  The silence stretched long enough for regret to start infringing on my self-assurance. Mrs. Fontaine looked at me with disbelief mingled with caution. Then she stepped back, still smoldering, but nodding for me to go on. I took in her stance, her set jaw, the way she angrily fingered her phone, and I thought, I’ve lost it. I’ve lost their account. We’ll go under. I’ve lost.

  Yet, even then, I knew that if she’d said one more word about Uncle Michael, I would have verbally leveled her.

  Just when all seemed lost, a cheery voice sounded from down the path.

  “Hey, Alice! Mind if we join you?”

  Lindsay approached with the Henderson girl jauntily astride the roan thoroughbred, her grandmother following at a distance. Beaming with confidence, my assistant looked like she had come to save the day.

  Then, she did.

  “Good grief, Mrs. Fontaine! Where did you get those boots? Please tell me that they make a cheap knock-off, because I totally need a pair.”

  To my shock, Mrs. Fontaine flushed with pleasure and said something about a sale. Lindsay continued to gush, then admired Alice’s outfit - and in short order, she had Mrs. Fontaine laughing with Henderson’s grandmother. She introduced the two girls to each other and had the pair of them working companionably in the ring, Alice on the lunge line while Henderson rode in circles around her.

  I stood in the middle of the ring, holding the line, aware that the sudden peace was as fragile as the first ice over Walden Pond. Mrs. Fontaine’s glances in my direction were enough to tell me that I was not in her good graces yet. For the sake of her daughter, and probably Lindsay, she stayed civil up until the party broke up in the barn. The Hendersons walked the roan back to his stall, Lindsay went into the tack room to clean the saddle, and we were alone.

  Mrs. Fontaine sent Alice on ahead to the car, then she turned to me.

  “I suppose you expect an apology,” she said. She was in the doorway, the falling sun outlining her thin profile. She looked both impressive and brittle.

  I was honest. I told her I wasn’t, but I offered her one. She brushed it off and looked at me with scorn.

  “I don’t allow people I hire to speak to me the way you did,” she said. “I would withdraw my daughter from this place and insist on a full refund, except for the fact that she really loves that girl, Lindsay. So we’ll keep our account with you. For now. But I expect better service in the future, Miss Warwick, or I promise you, both Alice and my sister will find other stables and tell others why. Do you understand me?”

  It was impossible to misunderstand her. Oh, how I wanted to fling the offer back in her face, to tell her to take her little girl and the two overindulged horses and find some other stable stupid enough to put up with her. I wanted to tell her that she could tell the world what she pleased, that it would take more than her insignificant voice to worry us. I wanted to hold my head up high and put her highness back into her place.

  The problem was I knew exactly what her position was. Mrs. Fontaine might be more trouble than eight of my other clients put together, but I needed her business. Alice was one of a tight group of girls, all of whom had signed up for summer camps. If Alice left, that was bad enough, but I knew that she’d take others with her, and the farm couldn’t handle it.

  Mrs. Fontaine was implying that I couldn’t do without her business, and she was right.

  So I drew a deep breath, and I threw up a prayer, and I looked her in the eye.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fontaine,” I said.

  It was the hardest thing
I’d ever had to say, but that was nothing compared with watching her draw herself up and stride off, the warrior triumphant. The proud Chase girl had joined her in battle and lost on her own ground. There would be no dealing with Mrs. Fontaine in the future. She knew her place and mine, and I was done.

  But there was nothing I could do about it, so I cleaned her daughter’s fancy tack and put it on her specially marked peg.

  It was the least a peasant could do.

  Chapter 6:

  I entered the house, dirty, defeated, and so tired that I almost forgot to leave my boots by the back door, as Aunt Susanna had requested so many times. I called out to her as I untied them, but there was no answer. I went into the kitchen and flipped on the lights.

  It was neat, with only a few dishes in the sink, and nothing prepared on the counter. I was famished, so I quickly washed my hands in the sink and pulled open the fridge. It was a discouraging sight: sparsely populated with eggs, a quart of milk, and a few limp vegetables. There weren’t even any left-overs.

  I sighed and slammed it shut, then went over to the bread box. Two stale crusts of wheat bread lay dejectedly on their sides. I’d meant to go to the grocery store, but the workload had put the need out of my mind. I wondered why Aunt Susanna hadn’t gone, but realized that this was my week to do the shopping. So this was my fault.

  I let the cover to the bread box fall shut and rubbed my eyes as my stomach growled. With a grunt, I pulled the cover open again and shoved one of the pieces of bread in my mouth. It was like eating sawdust.

  Hopefully, Aunt Susanna had some ideas for dinner, because I was fresh out.

  “Aunt Susanna!” I called again, through my mouthful.

  Odd. She was usually in the kitchen at this time of night, preparing something, even if it wasn’t her turn to cook.

  I went to the hall and called again, but as I did so, the wall calendar caught my attention. Today’s date was circled in red, with the words, Class, 7pm, written in my aunt’s hand.