by Lou Kuenzler
Someone had lit the gas lamps. Perhaps a maid. But there was no mug of cocoa waiting. No one to help me out of my clothes or brush and plait my hair as Nanny Clay did every night. No one to scold me for saying my prayers too quickly.
I rang the bell five times but still nobody came. Aunt Lavinia must have told them not to. When I had struggled out of my dress, I sat in my petticoat sobbing on the end of my bed.
“Josephine Judith Green,” I sniffed, staring at my red-eyed reflection. “This is ridiculous.” I had never cried more than a dozen times in my whole life and now I seemed to cry a dozen times a day.
“Enough!” I said, standing up and turning to my mother’s portrait. “I will put a brave face on. If they want to send me off to look after some horrid old spider who lives all alone, then I shall go. And I shall not let them see that I care.” I nodded my head to the painting. “I shall be like you, Mother. I shall pretend I am an actress performing in a play.” I held the edge of my petticoat and curtsyed.
I had never spoken out loud to Mother’s picture before. I never needed to. Nanny Clay was always here. She certainly wouldn’t have held with people chitter-chattering to portraits – especially not portraits of runaway mothers who had brought shame, not only on themselves, but the whole family.
“Well, she’s not here to judge us now, is she, Mother?” I said. “I wish you were with me though. Perhaps if you had stayed, just a little longer, I might know more about needlepoint and music and singing. Things that might amuse a cross old lady. Aunt Lavinia is right: all I know about is horses.”
I yanked off my petticoat and began to wriggle out of my bloomers. As I kicked my undergarments across the floor, I saw a neat pile of clothes on the window sill.
FOR THE VICARAGE – said a note in Nanny Clay’s big round hand. Even on the day she was leaving, she had remembered to fold and press Billy’s outgrown garments so that the parlour maid could take them to the village for the poor. Even his white long johns had been washed and dried.
“A stable lad’s clothes,” I said to myself, running my fingers over the coarse fabric of the ragged tweed waistcoat. “If only I could have a job with horses instead of old ladies…”
And then, with my hand still resting on the pile of old clothes, an astonishing idea came to me, an idea so exciting that my knees began to shake. What if I was to dress up as a boy? What if I was to take a job in a stable? Aunt Lavinia had said that working with horses was all I was fit for. And I knew there was a job going for a new stable lad at Birtwick Park – the very same place that Merrylegs was going in the morning…
If I disguised myself, I could hide in the load of hay and go with him.
When we reached Birtwick I could slip down from the cart and ask for the job. I could escape from Aunt Lavinia and The Slug. Merrylegs and I would never need to be separated after all.
It was a wild idea. Mad. But why not? My palms were sweating.
I took the long johns first, then grabbed the rough brown trousers from the bottom of the pile, sending everything else tumbling to the floor as I hopped on one foot, struggling to pull them on. Although Billy was broader and taller than I was now, these old outgrown clothes of his were baggy, but they weren’t a bad fit. There was a long white shirt and a frayed belt, as well as a pair of short, scuffed boots. I stuffed a silk handkerchief in the toe of each and found the thick grey winter stockings Nanny Clay had knitted for me. If I tied the laces tight, the boots were snug enough. Lastly I grabbed Billy’s flat cap and rolled my long red hair up into it.
“What do you think?” I asked Mother’s picture. Although there was no one here to see me my heart was racing. All the dizziness from the drawing room was gone. It was excitement which made my head buzz now. But a glance in the looking glass wiped the smile from my face. The curls of hair escaping from the cap instantly betrayed me; it wouldn’t fool anyone.
“People will see that I am a girl in an instant.” I sighed, shaking my head as great red tresses tumbled down my back.
I pulled open the little drawer in the side of the dressing table. There was only one thing to be done. The nursery scissors glinted in the lamplight. With trembling hands I lifted them and began to cut.
It had taken a whole lifetime to grow my long red hair and in a matter of moments it was gone – a shaggy-haired urchin stared out at me from the looking glass.
Biting my lip, I examined my strange new reflection. I barely recognized the thin, speckled face which scowled back. Were my ears always so large? I peered more closely. My green eyes widened. Did I really have that many freckles on my nose? They seemed to stand out twice as much now the fringe of hair which framed my face was gone.
“I certainly don’t look like you any longer, Mother,” I said, glancing sadly at her portrait. If ever there had been any resemblance it was lost. While she was still a goddess, I looked like a startled hedgehog.
I swallowed hard. Thank goodness Nanny Clay wasn’t here. It would break her heart. “Your crowning glory!” she always called my long red hair.
I scooped up the fallen curls from the floor, opened the window and flung them in to the orchard outside. Then, slipping off my boots but leaving my new clothes on, I curled up on top of the covers and tried to doze.
I left the window wide open so that the crowing cockerel in the chicken coop below would wake me at first light.
If I was going to be up in time to stow away with Merrylegs, I could not be late.
Chapter Seven
I was awake before the cockerel crowed.
I leapt up and stuffed my feet inside Billy’s well-worn boots. In the half-light, I gasped in surprise as I caught sight of my short hair in the looking glass. But there was no going back.
I turned to Mother’s portrait for the last time.
“I wonder if you came and said goodbye to me when you ran away,” I whispered. She had left a note for Father. But nothing at all for me.
I had found the sheet of pretty blue paper tucked into a cedar box on Father’s desk one rainy day and read it secretly. But when I went back a few days later, the note was gone and I glimpsed a scrap of burnt blue paper in the grate. It was not a long letter. I still remember every word it said.
Dear Charles,
I am going back to London. I am suited neither for motherhood nor for country life. Do not look for me.
Your dearest,
Valentina.
Father took her at her word. He did not try to find her.
“If she wants to come back, she knows we are here,” he always said. “I do not wish to hunt her like a fox.”
She never did come back.
I reached up to touch her pale hand in the portrait. “Goodbye, Mother. I hope you are happy wherever you ran to,” I whispered, pulling Billy’s cap firmly down on my head. “It’s my turn for adventure now…”
Then I ran – out of the nursery door and down the stairs without ever looking back.
I was amazed by the noise my footsteps made in Billy’s heavy boots. The leather on my own riding boots was as thin and smooth as a linen bed sheet. These clodhoppers were as thick and wrinkled as the hide of a rhinoceros. I had to tiptoe all the way to the stables. As I turned the corner I was surprised to see old Thomas already in the yard with a broom in his hand.
I ducked back behind the tack shed wall.
The cobbles were as clean as a dinner plate but Thomas still seemed to find something to sweep up.
“I shall miss this,” he said, calling over his shoulder to Merrylegs. “But I’m too old for anyone new to take me on.” He paused and leant against his broom for a moment, wheezing.
I felt a pang of guilt. I had never stopped to think that with the horses gone there would be no more work for Thomas either. He had been at Summer’s Place since my grandfather’s day.
“Well, Merrylegs, lad,” he said, giving himself a little shake. “You’ve got a fine day for it.”
He was right. The pink glow of the morning sunrise was still han
ging in the air, but golden-yellow rays were creeping in now too.
As Thomas began to sweep again, I heard the plodding slap of hooves and a big roan cob pulling an empty hay cart clattered down the lane.
This is it, I thought. The man from Birtwick Park had arrived.
Thomas stepped forward and shook hands with the driver.
“John Manly, coachman to Squire Gordon,” said the big sandy-haired man, lifting his cap as he jumped down from the seat. He was middle-aged. Perhaps a little younger than Father, but tall with broad shoulders like a bear.
The very first thing he did was to loosen the harness on the roan cob.
“We’ll let old Justice breathe a bit before we turn around.” He grinned.
“Good idea,” said Thomas, fetching a small scoop of oats and a shallow pail of water for the horse. Then the two grooms took pitchforks and began to fill the cart with hay.
“Strange to think they’ll not need fodder here next winter. It’s a sad day that sees the end of the famous Summer’s Place stud,” said Mr Manly.
“Aye. As soon as you take the little pony, I’ll be off myself,” said Thomas. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever be back. Except perhaps to visit the churchyard and pay my respects to the master.”
“Thank you!” I whispered under my breath, grateful to think that Father would never be quite alone.
Then, when a fat mound of hay was piled on the cart, the two grooms turned towards Merrylegs’s stall at last.
“Let’s fetch the little fellow. He’s a fine pony,” said Thomas.
With a pounding heart, I took my chance, shot out from behind the tack shed and dived into the cart, burying myself beneath the mountain of hay.
I had only been hidden for a moment when I heard Thomas tying Merrylegs to the back of the cart with a rope.
“You be good, little fellow,” he whispered. “You might not be the biggest or grandest chap we ever had at Summer’s Place, but I’ll miss you all the same.”
Then there was a creak of wood above my head as Mr Manly heaved himself up on the seat.
I held my breath, terrified that I would sneeze as the hay tickled my nose.
“Ready, Justice?” The coachman clicked his tongue and the cart moved at last.
I had done it. We were off. I was escaping from Aunt Lavinia and The Slug. I wriggled a little, pulling Billy’s cap over my nose and mouth to keep the dusty hay from my face.
“Stop! Wait!” The cart pulled up sharply as I heard old Thomas shout.
I froze. Had he seen me move?
His footsteps ran along beside of the cart. “Don’t forget your pitchfork, Mr Manly.”
“Thank you.” The wooden bench squeaked as the coachman turned around. “Just toss it in the back, will you?”
I smiled with relief. They hadn’t seen me after all.
There was a heavy thud.
“Ouch!” The sharp prong of the pitchfork jabbed me behind the knee. Only the thick blanket of hay stopped me from being stabbed right through.
“Did you hear that?” I froze as Thomas’s voice sounded above my head. He was leaning right down over the cart.
“Hear what?” said Mr Manly.
“A squeak,” said Thomas.
I was sure they would hear my thundering heart.
“Must be a rat,” said Mr Manly. “It’ll soon jump out once we’re on our way.”
“Reckon you’re right,” said Thomas with a dry laugh. “Even the rats don’t want to stay at Summer’s Place now.”
Then the grooms called goodbye to each other, the cart shuddered and we were off again.
The only sound now was the flat clop-clop of the cob’s big feet and the jolly clip-clip of Merrylegs tied behind. But it was a long time until I dared to move.
We must have been rattling along the lane for ten minutes before I wriggled to the back of the cart. I peered through the hay, hoping I could still see Summer’s Place. I would have loved one last view of the big white house and the stable clock. But we were trotting along between tall hedges and all I could see was the church spire. As the bright morning sun caught the weathervane on the top, I thought of Father lying in his grave below. It was as if he was sending me his blessing.
“Goodbye,” I whispered. “God rest your soul.”
Then Merrylegs saw me peeping out of the hay and whinnied in delight.
“Shh!” I warned him putting my fingers to my lips. “You mustn’t give me away.”
The cart rocked as we turned another corner and when I looked up again the steeple was lost in the distance. My old life at Summer’s Place had slipped away.
Chapter Eight
Justice the old cob plodded on along the lanes. The day was hot and I was soon sweltering beneath the hay. With the rocking of the cart, I began to feel drowsy. After my restless night and early start, I must have dropped off.
The next thing I knew, the air was cooler and I was woken with a start.
The cart had stopped.
“Steady, lads,” said Mr Manly in a soothing way. From under the hay, I could see that Merrylegs’s ears were pricked and the cart shook as calm old Justice fussed and fretted in the shafts.
What was going on?
I heard the thud of galloping hooves in the distance. Merrylegs and the old cob both whinnied. They were answered with an excited neigh from far away across the fields. I could hear raised voices shouting in the distance too.
The cart creaked as Mr Manly shifted.
“Come on, Justice. Sounds like there’s trouble at Birtwick,” he said clicking his tongue. “Trot on. We best get home…”
Birtwick? So we were nearly there.
Justice had broken into a brisk trot.
The raised voices were still shouting far off. There seemed to be quite some hullabaloo – as if a large crowd had gathered. I could hear frantic neighs too. Urged on by the coachman, Justice had begun to canter. On the end of his rope, little Merrylegs was lolloping along behind. There wasn’t a moment to lose if I wanted to get out of the hay unseen.
“See you later, Merry … at Birtwick Park!” I whispered as I wriggled to the back of the cart. I was going to have to jump. I tried not to look down at the ground whizzing past. If this went wrong, I would break my back on the rough stones or Merrylegs would trample me with his hooves before he could even try and stop.
With shaky hands, I pulled Billy’s cap tight down on my head, closed my eyes and leapt sideways, praying I would land on the soft grass at the edge of the lane.
Whump! The wind was knocked out of me … but the ground was soft and mossy. I had landed on the verge. I opened one eye and rolled towards the high hedge, staying low in case Mr Manly turned his head. Thank goodness for Billy’s loose-fitting clothes. I would never have managed this in my skirts and petticoat. Not even in my riding habit.
As my breath returned, I lay back and smiled. I had done it. I had run away from home. I had leapt from a speeding cart. I was free.
As soon as the cart disappeared around the corner, I scrambled on to all fours. The bushes were flecked with wool and there was a small round hole in the bottom of the hedge which looked as if it might have been made by a sheep. I pushed my way through, eager to be off the public lane so I could sit a moment, steady myself and think.
But, as soon as I came out into the field on the other side, I blinked and gasped with surprise.
A beautiful black horse was galloping towards me. His saddle was hanging upside down beneath his belly, the stirrups flying up against his flanks. His reins were in a tangle too. His eyes were wild. But in spite of his disarray, he was the most incredible horse I had ever seen.
As I raised my head, I saw that the group of men I had heard were shouting and waving their arms from the next field as they sprinted in this direction. I could see the long, low shape of a stable block behind them.
Birtwick, I presumed. The horse must have bolted from home.
As he reached the hedge I had scrambled through he began to sp
in in wild circles, his long black tail held high with nerves. I saw the reins were caught around his leg; he might fall and break his neck.
“Whoa! Steady, boy.” I stepped forward and held out my hand towards him.
The horse skidded to a halt and stared at me, his ears pricked, ready to turn and bolt at any moment. At least he had stopped galloping. But his flanks were heaving and he snorted like a dragon.
I took another step forward and he threw his head in the air, rearing up in panic as the rein pulled against his leg.
“Shh. Don’t be afraid.” He had got himself in a terrible frenzy. If only I still had one of Merrylegs’s sugar lumps to offer him, then perhaps I could reach out and take hold of his bridle.
I looked down and saw that the front of Billy’s rough tweed waistcoat was covered with hay from the cart.
“Here, boy. It is not quite a sugar lump … but it is fresh and sweet.” I gathered the loose strands into a bunch and held the hay towards him as if I was a gentleman offering a lady a bouquet of flowers.
The frightened horse stretched out his nose and sniffed. He was big and beautiful – shiny black all over except for one white sock on his front leg and a perfect white star right in the middle of his forehead. The most beautiful creature I had ever set eyes on.
“You must be hungry after all that galloping,” I urged as he sniffed the hay again.
I noticed that the men had stopped shouting. Even from so far away they must have realized I was having some success and were holding back to see what happened next.
The horse nibbled the top of my bouquet of hay. I held my breath as I leant forward and slipped my fingers under the noseband of his bridle.
“Got you!” I said gently. I did not want to tug on the reins while they were still around his leg. But as he pulled the hay from my fingers and began to chew it, I raised my other arm and scratched between his ears. He let out a low sigh and lowered his velvet nose into my hand.
“There. Just like Merrylegs.” I laughed. “A big softy after all.”
The young horse watched me, still breathing heavily. He was even more wonderful close up than he had been from far away. His dark intelligent eyes blinked as he flared his nostrils.
