by Lou Kuenzler
To Mum and Dad for all my fond memories of the real Summer’s Place. LK
“Poor Joe! He was young and small, and as yet he knew very little…”
Black Beauty by Anna Sewell (1877)
Contents
Cover
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Two
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Part Four
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Part Five
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Part Six
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Author’s Note
Copyright
Chapter One
The last time I saw Father, he was standing in the doorway at Summer’s Place, wearing his scarlet hunting coat.
“Don’t go! Why can’t you just leave the poor fox alone?” I said.
“Josephine Judith Green, I never knew you were so soft-hearted,” he sighed.
“I’m not soft-hearted,” I said.
Nanny Clay snorted with laughter on the stairs behind me. “Begging your pardon, sir. You could describe your daughter as many things … but soft-hearted isn’t one of them,” she said. “Stubborn maybe. Or spoilt. Or rude. Or…”
“I’m sure you’re right!” Father gave Nanny Clay a little bow. She was his nanny too when he was a boy. Neither of us are ever brave enough to argue with her properly – not even Father, though he’s a grown-up and Lord of the Manor with the finest horses in all the county. “Josie might be jolly rude to people,” he teased, “but she is daft as a duckling when it comes to animals.”
“I’m not a duckling. I just feel sorry for the poor fox!” I thumped my fists against the banister as I heard the hounds baying in the paddock outside.
“Watch your temper, young lady!” warned Nanny Clay.
But Father just smiled.
“I’m sure you would feel differently if you came hunting with me,” he said, stepping out the door.
“Oh, may I?” I leapt down the last stairs in a single bound, almost tripping over the hem of my frock. “Thomas could have Merrylegs saddled in five minutes flat.”
All thoughts of the poor fox vanished from my mind like a snuffed-out candle. All I could think about was leaping ditches, crouching flat on Merrylegs’s neck as we thundered over the fields with the hunt.
“We’ll keep up with the pack,” I promised. “I know Merrylegs is small and tubby and I’ve outgrown him … but we’ll gallop like the wind.”
“I’m sure you would.” Father shook his head. “But I’m sorry, Josie – you can’t come. I was only teasing. You know I promised your mother I would never let you hunt. She always said it was too dangerous.”
“Why? What does she care what I do – she isn’t here to stop me!” Mother left us when I was a baby and never came back; it was still the talk of the county after all these years. “You don’t care what I do either, Father,” I cried. “You care more for your fancy new hunter than you do for me.”
I saw a look of hurt come into his eyes and he took a step back.
“Enough, young madam!” Nanny Clay shook her finger. “There is no call to speak to your poor papa like that. Him, who has done his best to raise you on his own ever since your flighty mother danced off to London without so much as a backwards glance.”
“Keep Mother out of this!” I snapped. It broke my heart that she had left, but I hated the way other people always tried to blame her.
“I’m sorry, Josie.” Father turned towards the door. “The subject is closed. But you’re right about one thing. Little Merrylegs is too small for you now. I’ll talk to Thomas. We’ll find you a nice quiet mare.”
“I don’t want a silly mare. I don’t want anything. Go off and kill your fox. I hate you!” I spat.
Of course, I wish I had never said it now.
I wish I had told him to be careful.
I wish I had told him I loved him.
But I never got the chance.
They carried Father’s body into the house on a plank of wood. I couldn’t see his face; it was covered with his scarlet hunting jacket. There was a dark stain all down one side, darker than the bright red coat.
I screamed. But I couldn’t cry. It was as if everything was in a fog.
I knew Father’s broken body was underneath that coat. But I couldn’t bear to think about him being dead. All I could think was how strange it was to see old Thomas the groom and his stable lad inside the house. I had only ever seen them outside or in the stables. They put him carefully on the floor and someone – Thomas, I think – told me a doctor had been sent for. But I knew it was too late, there was no saving him.
“Sir Charles was dead the minute he hit the ground,” I heard Thomas murmur quietly to the stable lad. “First time out on the new hunter and he took the ditch too fast. Never felt a thing, I shouldn’t think.”
The fog in my brain got thicker.
“Mind you go out through the servants’ hall,” I told them sharply. Somebody had to take charge – that was my job now.
“Yes, Miss … and our condolences.” Old Thomas bowed, his cap bunched up in his hands. “Come on, lad.”
The stable boy – I had forgotten his name – gave me a nod, and then they both left.
Nanny Clay laid a hand on my arm.
“You poor child,” she sobbed. Tears were streaming down her plump pink apple cheeks. “Come away while the doctor does his work.”
I shook off her attempts at comfort.
“No. I will stay with Father – it is my duty,” I said, trying to sound firm even though my knees were shaking and my voice was little more than a whisper. “I am mistress of Summer’s Place now.”
But I was wrong about that. By the time Father was buried in the family plot in our little church beyond the meadow, his lawyer, Mr Hadaway, had come to read the will. “I’m not sure how much your father told you about how the estate was left, my dear,” he said, and I shook my head. “It is customary,” he explained, “for inheritance to avoid the female line.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, staring at him. “That I get nothing, because I’m a girl?”
“Not nothing,” said Mr Hadaway quickly. “When you marry you will receive an allowance.”
“But I’m only twelve. I won’t get married for years…” None of this made any sense. My head was spinning. “Who will own Summer’s Place? The land? The horses?”
Mr Hadaway coughed. “Your – ah
– second cousin Eustace has been named heir,” he said.
“Eustace?” I couldn’t bear it. The last time Eustace had been here all he had done was pull my hair and bully the kitchen cat. “He is greedy. He is lazy. And he cannot even ride!” I cried.
“Have a care. That is the new master of Summer’s Place you are talking about,” said Mr Hadaway.
But I was already running across the hall and out of the door towards the stable yard.
“Oh, Merrylegs,” I sobbed, dashing into his stall and flinging my arms around the tubby pony’s dappled neck. “Everything is ruined now.”
I clutched his shaggy grey mane, crying properly for the first time since Father died. I was dry-eyed at the funeral (even though Nanny Clay stowed three handkerchiefs in the cuffs of my black dress and sobbed her way through at least eight hankies of her own).
But now I wept big gulping tears that would not stop. Nanny Clay was right; Father had spoiled me dreadfully. But he had teased me too; he had loved me, and he had taught me to ride. I had loved him and now he was gone. I cried for the loss of my proud, funny father.
And I cried for me.
“Oh, Merrylegs,” I wailed. “Nothing will ever be the same again.”
Chapter Two
Cousin Eustace had been at Summer’s Place for three weeks before I saw him step outside.
It was such a waste! He was only six months older than me. There were at least a dozen horses in the stables eager for exercise. The land agent came every day asking the “young master” to ride the boundaries and see the land. But Eustace just shut himself away in the drawing room with a pair of little clippers, growing mustard and cress plants in the scooped-out shells of boiled eggs.
“Like hair for Humpty Dumpty,” as Nanny Clay said.
“Country air is such a challenge for him,” his mother, my Aunt Lavinia, explained to us one morning. “The dear, delicate boy has such a sensitive soul. He is quite unused to wind and weather and the smell of farmyard dung.”
“Indeed, Mother.” Eustace blinked, sipping a glass of milk as pale as his pasty skin, which never saw the light of day.
“If you don’t like it here, go back to London,” I said. “Leave me in charge. At the very least you should ride out and meet the tenants. It is your duty…”
“You would be well advised to mind your own affairs, Josephine,” Aunt Lavinia scolded. “Eustace is master of Summer’s Place now and, until he comes of age, I shall act as mistress of the Manor, offering support and guidance to the dear boy.”
“But Father rode every day,” I said.
“I think we are all aware of your father’s obsession with horses.” Aunt Lavinia peered over her spectacles. “To follow the example of a man who galloped into his own grave seems most misguided to me.”
“Misguided indeed.” Eustace giggled as he slurped his milk.
“How dare you!” I cried, tears prickling my eyes. “Everything you have here – everything at Summer’s Place – is thanks to Father … and his father before him.”
“Well, there will be changes now. I have plans.” Aunt Lavinia lifted a small gold notebook and pencil from the table. She was forever writing lists in it, and made such a show of scribbling and sighing, I knew she wanted me to ask what they were about. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. I turned on my heel and walked calmly to the door.
“I have plans of my own,” I said.
“Really?” sneered Aunt Lavinia. “Well, enjoy them while you can.”
As soon as I was out of the room, I gathered up my skirts and ran.
“Nanny Clay,” I cried, almost bumping into her as I charged into the nursery. “Tell the stable lad to saddle Merrylegs. I shall be going for a ride.”
“But you’re still in mourning for your father.” Nanny Clay looked shocked.
“Yes! And I have been cooped up far too long already,” I raged, kicking at the skirting board. “If I stay inside another moment I shall become as pale and useless as The Slug.”
“That is no way to talk about your Cousin Eustace—”
“Ha! But you knew who I meant. He is a slug. A lazy, hide-at-home nonsense of a boy. Him? Master of Summer’s Place? Ugh. I wish I was a boy. If I was a boy, I would—”
“But you are not a boy,” said Nanny Clay. “And ifs and wishes will break your heart. I should know. I have been told today that I must—”
“I tell you what is worse than a slug!” I cut across her. “A scorpion! That’s what Aunt Lavinia is with all her nasty notes and little plans. A scorpion with a sting in her tail.”
“You may be right.” Nanny Clay sighed. “But I don’t suppose it is fitting for a young lady to say so.”
“I don’t care what’s fitting.” I groaned. “I don’t care about mourning. Father is dead – wearing stupid tight-laced clothes and sipping tea will never bring him back. He’s gone. And he wouldn’t want me stuck inside like a butterfly in a cage.”
“You? A butterfly? I’ve heard it all now.” Nanny Clay began to giggle. “But you’re right, Master Charlie … I mean Sir Charles, your father, God rest his soul – would want you out there enjoying the fresh air. I’ll send word to the stables to have the pony saddled.”
“You’ll need to put my hair up and tell the maid to bring my riding clothes as well,” I said.
“Yes, Your Majesty!” Nanny Clay gave a great exaggerated curtsy as if I was a queen. She bobbed down so low I heard her old knees creak. “At least your riding habit is black and your hat has a veil. That shows some respect, at least.”
Five minutes later she was brushing out my long red hair.
“Ninety-four, ninety-five…” She battled with a knot behind my ear.
“Ouch!” I yelped as my head wrenched back, but Nanny Clay barely missed a beat.
“… Ninety-seven… It was like rats’ tails when I started, but see now… Like burnished copper. You look more like your mother every day,” she said.
“No!” Was Nanny Clay teasing? My mother was a beauty. I turned and looked at the portrait hanging on the nursery wall behind us. Father had paid a famous artist to paint Mother when they were first married … just after she gave up being an actress on the London stage. A little brass plate underneath the picture said: Lady Valentina Green, 1863.
“Your father had that painting moved up here into your nursery the day she ran away,” said Nanny Clay, seeing me looking at it. She had told me the story a hundred times before. But I liked hearing it – there was so little I really knew of Mother. “He said you should always have it by you. A young girl needs her mama watching over her. But he never wanted to set eyes on it again.”
I stared at the painting.
“Do you really think I look like her?” I felt a hot blush creep up my neck. It couldn’t be true. Mother was perfect, like a goddess. That’s why she ran away. She was too special … too golden to stay stuck here in the country with us. Surely I looked nothing like her – not with my carrot-orange hair and freckled nose.
“Hmm!” Nanny Clay turned her back on the portrait. “Fine looks are for the rainbow,” she said. “It’s fine morals that keep folk on the ground. Just remember that when I’m not here to guide you…”
“But you’ll always be here, Nanny Clay.” I laughed. “You are as much a part of Summer’s Place as the stable clock.”
“Tick-tock, times change.” She sighed.
Before I could ask what she meant, her mouth was full of pins and she was tugging my long loose hair into a bun.
Chapter Three
I dashed into the stable yard, desperate to be off on Merrylegs, out in the fresh air. I expected him to be waiting for me by the mounting block but there was no sign of him.
“What’s taking so long?” I sighed. I was about to call out, when I heard old Thomas the groom talking to the stable lad in the stalls. I still couldn’t remember the boy’s name.
Something made me stop and listen. Their voices were hushed and hurried as if they were sharing se
crets … but the stony walls made their words echo like a well.
“… This new lot don’t care for horses,” whispered the boy.
“At least you’re young,” said old Thomas. “I hear they’re looking for lads up at Birtwick Park. Nice estate, the other side of the Beacon Hills. Squire Gordon keeps a fine stable.”
“If it’s so fine, why are they missing a lad?” the boy asked.
“The last one’s gone off to be a soldier.” Thomas coughed hard – he’s been wheezing for years now because of the dust in the hay.
“Smart fellow. Reckon I might do the same. This job’s a thankless one and no mistake,” grumbled the boy.
“Not tired of the horses, are you?” asked Thomas.
“Of course not,” said the lad. I heard the echoey sound of him patting Merrylegs’s neck. “It’s them up in the big house I can’t be doing with.”
Ha! Even the servants agreed with me! Who’d want to work for Aunt Lavinia and The Slug.
But what the stable lad said next made my cheeks burn with shame.
“Gentry!” he snorted. “No manners at all. They’re too la-di-da to take sugar without a silver spoon, but I bet half of them don’t even know my name.”
“Ha! You’d be right there, young Billy,” Thomas said with a wheeze.
“Billy!” I whispered, burying my head in my hands. Of course! I remembered now.
