Now, after the flight to Boston and the train from New York, they were nearly there. The train crawled through countryside, dozing and silent beneath a brilliant, icy blue sky. The mid-morning sunlight fell through the trees as the track passed through woods carpeted with sepia brown leaves. Ilona glimpsed the occasional house in the distance and stared at the hills rising out of the plowed soil of rolling fields. She still found it hard to accept that this would be her new home. She found it hard to get used to the immensity of the sky and the hugeness of everything. There was nothing cozy about this land which still had a rawness to it.
“This is our stop,” her father announced as the train began to slow. The trees and farms gave way to houses and, eventually, Mayville, which was announced by a simple painted sign on the platform and a solid, red brick Victorian building.
Ilona’s legs shook as she followed her parents off the train. Francis’ parents were easy to find as they stood waiting on the platform. There was a flurry of hugs and tears and she found herself swept up by a tearful Anna.
“I can’t believe this.” Anna laughed. “It’s so lovely to meet you at last. I’ve done what you asked. Francis still doesn’t know you’re coming.”
“How is he?”
“Pining for you.” She took Ilona’s arm. “It’s been very hard to keep your secret. He knows that your parents are coming. We just didn’t bother to tell him when. He’s been keeping himself busy at the factory, but he’s very quiet. He’s been waiting and hoping. I’m so glad that you’re here, Ilke. I couldn’t have wished for a better daughter-in-law, and I just know that you’ll both be very happy.”
“I still can’t believe I’m here.” Ilona looked out of the window of the car as Jonathan drove off the main street and onto a narrow, gently sloping lane. She caught glimpses of the lake between the trees and curled her hands into knots to stop them from shaking. She had endured six months of longing to reach the quiet, wooded lane beside the lake and a house she had yet to see. The last few minutes of the drive seemed to last forever, but eventually Jonathan announced that they’d arrived as he pulled the car up in front of a large, white wooden frame house, a Victorian fantasy of gables and shutters.
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if you’d like to come in,” Anna said, as they climbed out of the car.
“Is he home?”
“He should be.” Anna squeezed her hand. “Just follow the lane down the hill and around the bend. It’s a white house with blue shutters, the one with the black car in the drive.”
“Thank you.”
Her mother kissed her cheek. “We’ll see you later, darling. Go and see Francis and put the poor boy out of his misery.”
Ilona didn’t need any further encouragement. She headed back up the drive and onto the lane. The tiredness from the long journey fell away as she followed the lane along the slope. The trees cast long shadows across the damp gravel and the only sound was the crunch of her shoes. She resisted the urge to run. She didn’t want to turn up on his doorstep all flushed and breathless but she walked as fast as her shoes allowed her. She ignored the scenery, knowing that she would have a lifetime to become acquainted with it. A cold breeze rose from the lake and rattled the bare branches of the trees, sending tiny eddies of dead leaves across her path. She shivered a little as the road curved around to the left and revealed a drive that led to a white house with blue shutters. A black car was parked in front beside a front porch that ran along the width of the house. A gable rose above the front door. Ilona paused for a moment to catch her breath and to look at the house, surrounded by a sweep of leaf-covered lawn. It seemed impossible that it was to be her new home, and she fell in love with it in an instant. She hid her trembling hands in her pockets and climbed the front steps. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door and waited. When there was no answer, she tried the latch and it gave way beneath her hand.
“Francis?” She crept through the front door and found herself in a sunlit hall. A staircase rose to the right and doors led off from both sides of the foyer. She tried the left hand one first and ventured into a sitting room, which ran the depth of the house. Sunlight streamed through several tall sash windows. At the far end, two windows looked out onto the back porch and beyond to the lake.
“Francis?”
The house was quiet and she trailed through the room, past the settee in front of the fireplace and an upright piano at the far end, between the two windows. The walls above the warm, amber paneling were white and hung with pictures—a photograph of a Spitfire in flight and a watercolor of a copse of willows beside a very familiar looking river. There was evidence of Francis’ presence in the shirt draped over the back of an armchair and the mantelpiece above the stone fireplace dotted with mementoes from his sojourn in England—a beer mat from a pub, a pint glass and his flying gloves. The top of the piano was scattered with sheet music, pencils and an empty glass where the smoky tang of whiskey still lingered. It wasn’t hard to imagine him sitting there in the soft, autumn light and playing. She noticed, with a languid twist of her gut, her framed photograph resting on top of the clutter, the dry sprig of heather tucked into a corner of the frame.
The door at the far end of the room led back into the hall and to another door that opened into a large, bright kitchen. Francis’ years in the military were evident in the tidiness of the house. The breakfast plate and mug were neatly placed on the draining board next to the sink. The range gleamed beneath an array of pots that hung from hooks above it. Cookbooks were stacked on a shelf to one side. Back out in the hall, another door led out onto the back porch. She peered through the window and finally found Francis, raking leaves on the back lawn. He was absorbed in the task. Ilona enjoyed the novelty of watching him for a moment. His hair was tousled and touched with sunlight. In spite of the chill of the day, he had discarded his jacket and had pushed the sleeves up on his shirt. She had never seen him looking so beautiful and she had never ached so much for him as she did at that moment. She opened the back door and stepped out on to the porch.
“Francis.”
She watched and waited on unsteady legs. He paused and looked up. Her heart fluttered against her ribs and she couldn’t move, but he did. Before she could either speak or move, he had caught her up in his arms and lifted off her feet. “Oh, darling,” he breathed into her hair. “Ilke.”
She put her arms around his neck and clung to him. The long years of war and waiting and longing fell away and she cried helplessly until he silenced her with a kiss, cradling her face in his hands. It was a kiss rich with longing, promise and passion and it left her trembling. She was left in no doubt that, he had missed her.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
“I couldn’t be anywhere else. I did what you asked and every answer that I found brought me back to you. If it had been possible, I would have been here a long time ago, but there are no ships and we had to fly. If I could’ve swum the Atlantic, I would have done it. These last six months have felt like forever.” She couldn’t take her eyes from his face. “I love you, Francis and I will marry you.”
He kissed her again. “Will tomorrow do?”
“Tomorrow?”
“We can go to the County Courthouse right now and pick up our license. What do you think?”
“Yes, I think we’ve been engaged long enough.” The prospect of such an immediate wedding seemed the perfect end to such a long journey.
“I suppose we’d better stop off at Mom and Dad’s first. They’ll be all afire to see the happy couple. You know, I wondered why Dad closed the factory down for the whole week. He told me that, because the war was over, everyone deserved a whole week to celebrate Thanksgiving. I guess we have a lot to be thankful for, don’t we? I know one thing. If you stay here with me any longer, they will know that we’re up to no good.” His hands strayed to her hips. “As tempting as that is, my love, I’d rather wait until tomorrow and carry you across the threshold, because we’ll
have the rest of our lives. No more waiting for leave, no more pining, longing, or empty nights.” He touched her face. “Can you imagine it, Ilke, after all these years?”
She shook her head. “I can’t. It seems impossible. It seems unreal. I still can’t believe that I’m here with you, about to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“It’s real.” He took her hand. “And this time tomorrow, we’ll be married. Six years ago I would have never imagined this. I may have wanted it very badly but I never thought it would happen.”
She smiled. “It took a little while, didn’t it?”
“It will be worth the wait, I promise you. We’ve been through a lot, you and me, and now we can finally enjoy the peace.”
“No more war, no more planes, no more waiting.” She closed her eyes as he kissed her knowing that, finally, she had come home.
* * * *
The airfield was still under the cold, frosty light of the moon that glinted on the wings of the planes as they rested on the grass beside the silent and empty runway. The kestrel wheeled down from the night sky and found its roost, settling down to rest, far away from the shifting winds of the moors. It tucked its head beneath one wing and slept as one last ghost flickered and faded away like autumn mist beneath the slowly turning stars.
Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:
Christopher’s Medal
S A Laybourn
Excerpt
Chapter One
“Arse like a fry cook,” Harry declared.
Grace glanced up from the hoof she was examining. “Who’s got an arse like a fry cook?”
“This horse, Boss.”
She straightened up and looked at Harry. He had just finished putting the shark’s tooth quarter-marks on Allonby’s hindquarters and had stepped back to admire his handiwork. Considering that he had probably spent at least three hours in the pub after morning stables, he looked relatively sober. The quarter-marks were perfect and the colt’s coat gleamed like varnished oak, even in the gloom of the saddling enclosure. Grace had learned that Harry could be as pissed as a rat and still turn a horse out to a very high standard.
She smothered a yawn and wished the colt’s owner wasn’t going to be attending. She was glad that it was the General rather than one of the syndicates. He and his wife were much easier to deal with than a group of inebriated bankers or estate agents.
“He does look good, doesn’t he?” A racehorse trainer had once said that a good horse should have ‘the look of eagles’. Grace was pleased to see that Allonby had that look when he lifted his head and surveyed the activity on the lawn beyond the enclosure. His ears were pricked and he stared sharply at something that no human could see. That serene and arrogant gaze gave her goose pimples. She just knew she was looking at the winner of the night’s five-furlong sprint.
Grace patted Allonby’s neck and glanced at her watch. “The General should be here soon.”
The paddock quickly filled up with other horses, trainers, grooms and owners, standing in knots on the lawn. Women dressed in summer finery enjoyed the soft warmth of the July evening as they strolled across the lawn. Grace envied them their Pimms and gin and tonics as she took a sip of lukewarm water from her plastic bottle while she searched the crowd for Allonby’s owner. The jockeys were already making their way out of the weighing room and she spotted Billy Riley in the General’s gray and claret colors. Allonby’s owner, guest in tow, also strode across the grass toward her.
Grace allowed herself a relieved smile when Harry handed her the saddle, grateful that the General was one of those owners who stayed out of the saddling enclosure. She hated the owners who lingered in the box, pestering her with questions and talking as if they knew something. Grace tightened the girth and patted the colt on the rump when Harry led him toward the paddock. Allonby walked ‘like a hooker’—another pearl of wisdom. He had a loose, easy swinging stride and, although he was busy looking around, the lead rein remained relaxed and the colt’s ears twitched while he listened to Harry talking calming nonsense. Her father had put a lot of work into the horse and Grace could see why. People stopped to watch him when he ambled past, then look at their race-cards. She wondered what odds he was getting down in the betting ring.
“He looks good, Miss Webb,” Billy observed as they headed toward the owner.
“He does. If you behave yourself, we might win this one.”
The jockey laughed. “Don’t you worry. I’ll save the bad stuff for after—fancy joining me?”
“No thanks. You know me, no stamina these days. Plus, Dad’s up at York tonight so I’m in charge tomorrow.”
“You always have an excuse, Boss.”
“With good reason. Remember the last time we went out? I didn’t stop vomiting for days. You have lousy taste in restaurants, Billy.”
Grace smiled when she approached the General. He was easy to spot in a crowd, with thick white hair and an alarmingly red complexion.
“Hello, Grace.” He took her hand and kissed her cheek. “It’s lovely to see you.”
“It’s lovely to see you, too.”
“I brought a guest, I hope you don’t mind. Mary couldn’t make it. She had a bridge tournament or something like that. Anyway, this is Christopher Beaumont. I served with his father in the army. His family and mine have been friends for years.”
Grace became aware of his companion for the first time, a tall, lanky man with short, brown tousled hair and almond-shaped eyes the color of strong tea. “It’s nice to meet you,” she murmured as he shook her hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, too. I’ve heard a lot about you, Miss Webb.”
“All good things, I hope.” She offered him a smile and took in the neatly pressed chinos and the blue and white striped shirt. His eyes held her, dark and rich with secrets.
My God, he’s beautiful. How am I supposed to concentrate on a race with this distraction?
His cologne smelled of juniper and lemons and Grace felt like an idiot while she fumbled to retrieve her Assistant Trainer frame of mind. Billy stood at her elbow awaiting her instructions. She turned to him and hoped that no one saw him wink. “Keep him tucked in behind the Godolphin horse,” she told him while they walked across the paddock. “That’s the one you have to watch, but I don’t think I need to tell you that. If there’s still plenty in Allonby at two furlongs out, move him out and let him run. He’s as fit as he’s ever been.”
Another wink. “Yes, Boss.”
Harry turned Allonby in and Grace gave Billy a leg up. She caught a glimpse of the favorite who jigged about, coat darkened by sweat. “It seems,” she said to him, “that the Godolphin horse is a bit worked up. That’s no bad thing.”
Billy grinned. “Don’t worry, Boss. I’m on it. Just put your eyes back in your head and do your be-nice-to-the-owner thing. I don’t think you’ll find it hard tonight, somehow.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Nah. I just know you, that’s all.” He gathered up the reins and patted the colt on the neck. “See you in the winner’s enclosure.”
Grace stood on the edge of the grass and watched them walk toward the course. Allonby was still calm, still taking everything in. Even in the warmth of the evening, he hadn’t broken into a sweat. He swished his black tail and followed the other horses.
“So, Grace, what do you really think?”
She was unaware that the General had come to stand beside her. “I think he could win. He worked really well last week and ate up afterwards. That’s always a good sign.”
“What does that mean?” Christopher asked. “That he ‘ate up’? Is that important?”
Grace looked at him and felt absurdly pleased that he seemed interested in what she had to say. “When a horse does hard work it takes a lot out of them. Some horses can be a bit picky and they won’t eat afterwards. It’s as if they get too wound up and they won’t settle. Allonby didn’t let his hard work bother him. He ate everything he was given. He’s like tha
t. He’s very laid back, except where it matters.”
Someone strolled past with a huge plastic cup full of Pimms and Grace wanted one. She also wanted a cigarette but resigned herself to waiting until after the race. “We’d better find a place in the stands,” she said absently.
They followed her as she picked her way along the front of the stands. She kept her eye on Allonby, watching as he cantered lightly toward the start. She could tell from the set of his ears that Billy was talking to him, keeping him calm. She loved the way that the colt skimmed so easily across the grass. Her father was convinced that he could win the big sprint at Newbury in September, and this race was the first test of his ability.
Christopher discovered some space in the stands and Grace found herself wedged between him and the General. She tried not to let the cologne distract her and, instead, studied the formbook with more diligence than usual until the horses went behind the stalls and the steward raised the flag. Then, Grace forgot all distractions when the gates flew open and twelve two-year-old thoroughbreds sprang onto the track in a melee of jockeys, silks and thundering hooves. Grace spotted Billy and was glad to see that he had tucked himself neatly behind the Godolphin horse at the rail.
Allonby ran smoothly, not fighting his rider’s hands. He flicked his ears back as he listened to Billy. At the three-furlong pole, Grace held her breath when he eased out from behind the other horse. It was clear that he still had plenty of go in him. Billy hadn’t even picked up his stick. Instead, he leaned low and pushed forward with his hands and heels. Grace sat on her hands. If she’d been watching the race alone at home, she would’ve been riding the race with Billy, yelling him on, pushing her hands out as if she were holding the reins. At the two-furlong mark, Allonby stretched his neck and found another gear. He pounded past the third-place horse at the next pole and, when he approached the final furlong, swept past the second horse with contemptuous ease before bearing down on the laboring leader. Billy showed him the stick and he quickened once more.
A Kestrel Rising Page 29
