The Pretty Horse-Breakers

by Barbara Cartland

  “She will be ready,” Mrs. Clinton promised. “Would you like me to send for her now?”

  “That is quite unnecessary,” Lord Manville replied curtly. “The luggage wagon will conduct her baggage about nine o’clock. I myself will be here at ten-thirty if that is convenient to you both.”

  He made the words sound as though it was more of a command than a request.

  “Candida will be waiting,” Mrs. Clinton assured him. “And the sum which is owing to me, my Lord, is in the region of six hundred pounds.”

  “It will be sent to you during the course of the day.” Lord Manville said.

  He turned towards the door. He reached it and inclined his head.

  “Good day to you, madam.”

  “Good day, my Lord, and thank you,” Mrs. Clinton replied in what she hoped was a voice as cool as his.

  The door closed behind him and she heard him go down the stairs. Then she put her fingers to her mouth to stifle a laugh. The imperiousness and the insolence of him!

  Yet what a man he was! She could not help running across the room to watch from behind the lace curtains as he crossed the pavement and climbed into his tilbury. He picked up the reins, the long whip in his right hand, and the groom, releasing the leader’s bridle, ran to the back, scrambling aboard just as the tandem set off down the street.

  Mrs. Clinton’s eyes followed Lord Manville until he was out of sight.

  Top hat at a slight angle, his almost classical features, the sharpness of his jaw line, the width of his shoulders, all made him a man that any woman would yearn over, even one as old as herself.

  And she had now brought him to heel! She had made him visit her! All these years he had eluded her, although she had entertained nearly all of his friends.

  Well, she had won. It was her brains and her cleverness that had achieved what might have seemed the impossible. She had captured the attention of ‘the heartbreaker’ and forced him to make use of her service.

  Everyone would learn about it sooner or later, which would be greatly to her advantage.

  But how was she to explain her victory to Candida? That was a question that perturbed her even in her moment of triumph. She told herself she was being nonsensical. Never before had she worried about the feelings of any of her women.

  They had just been names, she could list them on her books and the mere fact that they existed brought her in a considerable and ever-increasing income.

  But Candida was different. How different she did not like to explain even to herself. Now she picked her words with great care one by one.

  “It is Lord Manville who has bought Pegasus,” she said and half expected Candida’s face to light up at the name.

  “He is a true gentleman,” she went on as the girl did not speak, “and Major Hooper thinks he is the finest judge of horseflesh in the length and breadth of the land. Pegasus is indeed a fortunate horse to be included in his stables.”

  “Major Hooper said I was to go with him,” Candida said. “What am I expected to do?”

  Mrs. Clinton paused a moment.

  “I think I must leave it to Lord Manville to tell you that,” she said slowly. “He is coming to collect you tomorrow morning to take you to his country seat. I am told Manville Park is a magnificent place. Now I have to visit Madame Elisa and pay what I owe her. So I suggest that you go upstairs, Candida, and start packing. You had best do it yourself – Rose is not good with gowns, being too heavy-handed.”

  “I have not any baggage to put them in,” Candida said.

  “Oh dear, did I not tell you?” Mrs. Clinton asked. “I bought some trunks a few days ago. I will tell John to bring them down from the attic.”

  “You bought some trunks?” Candida exclaimed. “Then you expected me to go away. Why? What have I done? I like being here with you.”

  Mrs. Clinton’s face softened.

  “I know, dear, and I like having you. But you could not stay here for ever, it would be impossible. I have never had a girl in the house before and besides – ”

  She paused.

  “Besides what?” Candida asked.

  “Oh, never mind,” Mrs. Clinton said sharply. “I cannot stay here talking all day. You must leave it to me, Candida, and trust me to do what is best for you.”

  “Will I never see you again?” Candida asked.

  “Of course you will,” Mrs. Clinton replied. “You will be back, they always come back. But then things will be different.”

  She was talking almost to herself and Candida looked at her in perplexity.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “If only you would explain to me.”

  “I’ve not got the time,” Mrs. Clinton replied crossly. “If I don’t go to Madame Elisa’s now, she may have gone to visit a client. Run upstairs, Candida, like a good girl and start packing. It will take you some time. And you might change the satin cushion in the drawing room. That tiresome Lord Lindthorp upset a glass of port over it last night. Why he cannot drink champagne, which does not stain, I cannot think. But you will find another cover in the linen cupboard.”

  “I will change it,” Candida said.

  Mrs. Clinton had not waited for her answer. She was already walking down the hall and John was opening the front door for her. Slowly, as though every step was an effort, Candida made her way upstairs.

  In her small bedroom she sat down on the bed, asking herself over and over again what it all meant. Why did nobody explain things to her? What would Lord Manville want her to do?

  He was very wealthy, that was obvious, perhaps he had a riding school. She knew such an idea was ridiculous and yet it was something to realise that she did not yet have to say goodbye to Pegasus. It was bad enough to part from Major Hooper and Mrs. Clinton, of whom she had grown fond these last few weeks. Mrs. Clinton was sometimes unpredictable, but she had been kind in her own way.

  Candida knew that Mrs. Clinton had taught her a great deal.

  If for instance Lord Manville asked her to arrange a dinner party, she would be able to do that. She knew how to cope with the household accounts and what duties the servants were expected to perform in a large house. Also due to Mrs. Clinton was that she knew how to dance, what type of curtsey she should make to different people, even to a Prince of the Blood, one piece of information, she thought, she was very unlikely ever to need.

  Yes, Mrs. Clinton had been kind and so had Major Hooper. It had been a wonderful experience to school his horses, teaching them to walk collectedly and obediently round and round the stableyard so that they would be safe for a nervous rider. Then she had been able to ride Pegasus every morning, to take him over the jumps in the riding school.

  She wanted to cry at the thought of leaving it all, but the tears would not come.

  She was disturbed by John carrying in the new trunks, round-topped in shiny black leather. He fetched five of different sizes and set them down on her bedroom carpet.

  “That’s the lot,” he said with a grin. “It’s sorry I’ll be to see the back of you, miss.”

  “And I have no wish to leave,” Candida answered miserably.

  “My Ma used to say what can’t be cured must be endured,” John told her. “Keep your pecker up, miss!”

  A little comforted Candida packed for nearly an hour until, feeling as if her back was breaking, she thought she would go downstairs and change the cushion cover in the drawing room before Mrs. Clinton returned.

  She fetched the fresh one from the linen cupboard. It was in pale pink satin embroidered with forget-me-nots and Candida thought with a little smile that her mother would have thought it in bad taste. However, it smelt of the neatly stitched lavender bags that Mrs. Clinton put amongst all her linen.

  Candida went to the drawing room and found the cover on which his Lordship had left a large purple stain of port wine. She took the cushion and was just beginning to replace the cover when she heard voices.

  One was loud and aggressive, although she could not hear exactly what
was said. She could, however, hear John expostulating.

  ‘It must be one of Mrs. Clinton’s gentlemen friends,’ she thought, ‘but it’s strange that they should call at this hour. They never come before the evening.’

  Then to her astonishment the voices grew louder and suddenly the door of the drawing room burst open.

  “I’ve told you, sir, Mrs. Clinton is not at home,” John almost shouted.

  “Don’t worry about that, my young fellow,” the gentleman replied, as he forced his way into the room, “this is the young lady I want to see. I have no need for Mrs. Clinton’s presence.”

  As the gentleman spoke, he pushed the door to with his hand, shutting John out. Candida stared in surprise at the large, florid, middle-aged man with an expression on his face that instantly made her feel shy. According to her teaching, she dropped him a curtsey.

  “I am afraid Mrs. Clinton is out,” she said quietly. “If you would like to wait for her, I don’t think she will be long.”

  “I’m in no hurry for her return,” the stranger replied. “I’ve been trying to see you, my dear, since yesterday morning and I’ve been circumvented at every turn. But now I have succeeded. Let us introduce ourselves.”

  “I am sorry,” Candida said quickly, “but I have matters that require my attention upstairs. Be so kind as to excuse me.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort,” he answered smiling.

  “I don’t think Mrs. Clinton – ”

  “Damn Mrs. Clinton!” he interrupted. “Must we go on talking about that boring woman when I want to talk about you? Now, let’s start again. I am Sir Tresham Foxleigh and you – what is your name?”

  “Candida Walcott,” Candida replied.

  “A very pretty name for a very pretty girl,” Sir Tresham approved. “Now, let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? I saw you yesterday and knew that you were exactly the sort of filly I’ve been looking for. I’ve a cosy little villa not very far from here that will suit you admirably and as for horses, well my stable is at your command. If there is anything else you particularly like, I’ll buy it for you.”

  “It is very kind of you,” Candida said in a bewildered voice, “but – ”

  “Kind? Of course I want to be kind!” the stranger asserted. “And you’ll be kind to me, won’t you? I assure you that I’ll appreciate someone as lovely as yourself, far better than those feckless young bloods you associate with. What is more I shall see that you have the right setting for your beauty. Every woman wants that. There’s no one so beautiful that they don’t need a frame and a frame is what I’m willing to give you.”

  “I am afraid that I could not accept presents from a stranger,” Candida said quickly.

  Sir Tresham put back his head and laughed.

  “Admirable,” he said, “nothing could be more attractive – the unsophisticated, the ungreedy! You’re as clever as your appearance yesterday on that great black monster. God knows where Hooper got it from!”

  Candida stiffened. The gentleman was obviously deranged, she was sure of that, at the same time he had no right to disparage Pegasus.

  “I am afraid, sir, I have really some important matters to which I must attend,” she said, moving towards the door.

  Before she could reach it, he was in front of her.

  “No, you’re not going to run away from me like that! I’m frightening you, am I? Very well, we’ll take it slowly. I’m a blunt man, I know what I want and I go for it bald-headed. But if you want to play it another way we’ll do what you wish. May I, my dear, pretty, adorable Miss Candida, have the privilege of taking you out to lunch or, if you prefer, dinner?”

  “No, I-I am – afraid not,” Candida said.

  “Already engaged, are you?” Sir Tresham smiled. “Well then, tell him you’re no longer interested! For I assure you, my dear, I’m going to look after you and no one else.”

  There was no doubt that the gentleman really was crazy, yet he stood between Candida and the door.

  She had an idea.

  “Let me bring you some refreshment, sir.”

  She tried to pass him but his arms went out and held her.

  “No,” he said, “I need no refreshment but you. Come, my dear, a little kiss to start our acquaintance and then we can go on from there.”

  Candida gave a cry and struggled against him. To her horror she realised that he was extremely strong and was only amused by her struggles.

  He drew her nearer –

  Then, as she screamed, the door opened.

  “May I ask what is going on here?” Mrs. Clinton enquired.

  Sir Tresham turned and his grip on Candida slackened. With one lithe movement she escaped him and, pushing past Mrs. Clinton in the doorway, she ran out of the drawing room and up the stairs. Her cheeks were burning and she was breathing quickly as she reached the sanctity of her bedroom.

  She shut the door and locked it.

  “How could any man behave in such a manner?” she asked aloud.

  How could he dare to speak to her in such a crazed way and then try to kiss her?

  She was shocked and disgusted – she was at the same time convinced in her own mind that Sir Tresham must be mad. Only a madman would want to give presents to someone they had never met before. Besides this there had been something rather horrible about the way he had looked at her.

  She could not explain it, she only knew that she felt an instinctive repugnance for him. She was ashamed that she had stayed so long in the drawing room.

  Downstairs Mrs. Clinton was saying,

  “You have no right to force yourself into my house, Sir Tresham. John told you I was not at home and your behaviour is not that which I expect from a gentleman.”

  “Now, don’t you get hoity-toity with me,” Sir Tresham smiled, installing himself comfortably in one of the easy chairs. “You know why I am here and the sooner we start coming to terms the better. I’m a good client of yours, as you well know.”

  “Do I?” Mrs. Clinton said. “That is a surprise to me! You remember the last girl I introduced you to. She was apparently not to your satisfaction.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that,” Sir Tresham replied.

  “I think you do,” Mrs. Clinton answered. “You promised me not only two hundred guineas for the introduction, but fifty pounds for the clothes I had bought her. But you may recall that when she had moved into your villa you said that they were not new and had been used on other occasions. So you did not pay me.”

  Sir Tresham looked uncomfortable.

  “I’m a rich man, Mrs. Clinton,” he said, “but I don’t like being had for a mug. That girl, as I subsequently discovered, had been seen at Cremorne and Kate Hamilton’s in half the gowns that you told me you had purchased entirely for my delectation. As a matter of fact, I meant to pay you. I kept her for six months and she turned out to be quite amusing.”

  “Nevertheless, I am still waiting for that money,” Mrs. Clinton persisted.

  “And you shall have it,” Sir Tresham replied. “I will write a cheque now or would you prefer banknotes?”

  As he spoke, he drew a great wad of ten pound notes from the inner pocket of his coat. He counted out five of them and held them out. Mrs. Clinton took them and placed them in a drawer in her desk.

  Then she said,

  “And now, good morning, Sir Tresham, I don’t do business at this hour.”

  “Now, look here, Mrs. Clinton,” he protested. “I called here at three o’clock yesterday afternoon and was told you were not at home. I called again at five and again at seven and I received the same answer. I want that girl and the horse if necessary and I’m prepared to pay for them.”

  Mrs. Clinton smiled.

  “I am sorry, Sir Tresham, you are too late.”

  “Too late, damn it!” he exclaimed. “Who was here before three o’clock?”

  “That is my business,” Mrs. Clinton replied.

  “I am not allowing any whippersnapper to get ahead of
me,” Sir Tresham fumed. “Who has got her? Is it Manville?”

  “You know me well enough, Sir Tresham, to be aware that I never give away my clients’ names or discuss their personal business,” Mrs. Clinton replied. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must ask you to leave. If you wish to call upon me again this evening at the proper hour, I shall, of course, try to accommodate you. There is a very pretty young widow I don’t think you have met.”

  “I don’t want a pretty young widow,” Sir Tresham bellowed. “I want that girl Candida, and I’m going to have her.”

  Mrs. Clinton shook her head and at the same time pulled the bell-rope hanging beside the mantelpiece.

  “You are not going to do this to me,” Sir Tresham shouted angrily as John opened the door.

  “Sir Tresham is leaving, John,” Mrs. Clinton said in a cool unflustered voice. “Please show him downstairs to his carriage.”

  “Damn it, this is the last time you get the better of me, woman,” Sir Tresham snarled.

  Nevertheless he left the room and preceded John downstairs.

  Mrs. Clinton gave a little sigh, but looked far from distressed. She was used to handling men like Sir Tresham Foxleigh. They always made scenes if they did not get what they wanted, but she was confident that, although they might sulk and stay away for a few months, they would come back in the end.

  There was no one else in London who could even begin to rival her position when it came to supplying the very best quality goods.

  At the same time she hoped that he had not upset Candida. There was no knowing what a girl as sensitive and unsophisticated as Candida might do. She might run away, she might even refuse to go to Lord Manville’s.

  With an anxious expression on her face, Mrs. Clinton went upstairs.

  She knocked on Candida’s bedroom door.

  “Who is it?”

  There was no mistaking the fear in Candida’s voice.

  “It is only me, dear,” Mrs. Clinton answered.

  She heard Candida run across the room and unlock the door.

  “Has he gone?” she asked breathlessly.