When Charlotte saw the hedge of Logan’s field approaching with its wild hawthorn and four gaps, she felt so ill she thought she might faint. Sandstorm headed for the closest gap rather than the fourth he’d jumped on the outward run. Charlotte’s mind was convulsing with vivid, fragmented images.
Beatrice jumped first. When her turn came, Charlotte turned her head hoping to see empty space and no evidence that a clash had happened, but there were horses and people in a huddle beside the wall. Was that Mandrake standing awkwardly? She would know his outline anywhere. One of his legs didn’t look right.
“Looks like an accident,” shouted Beatrice, already turning Lucifer. “I’ll have to go back.” She knew Charlotte would have no hope of making Sandstorm change direction. “You go on. You should be all right from here.” She kept shouting but the distance between them had widened and Charlotte couldn’t hear what she was saying.
25
Miss East lifted the lid off one of the big pots to smell the Irish stew. “Delicious,” she said to Cook who was red-faced and perspiring. “It gets better every year.”
“Put on the kettle there like a good woman,” said Cook, “and we’ll have a nice cup of tea before the rush. I deserve a puff of the pipe and a sit down. My legs are killing me. Everything’s ready. What time is it?”
“Just after four. They should all be back shortly. I heard a few a while back but they were the children, most likely.” Miss East poured boiling water into the teapot. “It’s a good sign Charlotte isn’t back yet – she must have lasted the distance. I’ve been thinking of her so much all afternoon you’d think I was riding beside her.”
“You’re such a clucky hen where she’s concerned,” said Cook, sinking into her chair beside the range. “You’d think she was your own.”
It was the Dowager who had started the tradition of serving a hot buffet to the hunters as soon as they returned and before they changed. The hall floor of quarry tiles, so easily cleaned, allowed them to come in, muck and all, without removing their boots. She said she wanted to hear their stories in their immediacy. If the visitors went off to rub down their horses and then change, they inevitably swapped experiences with each other while doing those things, so when they finally came in to eat the vividness of the telling had dissipated somewhat. The hall, with its double curved staircases, gilt-framed portraits, stuffed animal heads and, best of all, two huge fireplaces on either side burning unsplit logs that at times were so noisy they sounded as if they were talking to each other, the lights and warmth, did what they were meant to do – offered a contrast between the cold darkness outside and the welcome inside that was an embrace and a sensory assault. The trestle tables with their linen tablecloths were already covered with freshly baked breads, steamed puddings, mince pies, cheeses and cream, waiting for the carved roasts of beef, turkey, ham, venison and the lamb stew to be added when the crowd arrived.
From the distance, the sound of barking filtered into the kitchen. The clattering of many horses’ hooves on cobblestones had Miss East at the door before she had time to think. She was nearly knocked over by the procession of servers coming to collect the hot part of the supper. Cook jumped up as soon as she heard the noise and, not wishing to miss out on one moment of glory, supervised the removal of the feast.
26
Waldron finally found the silver top of his favourite hipflask, the one that had been used by royalty and as such was his most highly regarded portable possession. He was lucky he had found it when he did as thirty minutes later he might not have spotted it in the fading light. With the help of Freddie he remounted and they cantered on. With the thought of Thatcher waiting at Rafferty’s, wondering why he was late, Waldron was keen not to waste any more time getting there.
Freddie, jumping through the second break in the hedge into Langan’s field, noticed some mounted figures huddled together near the fourth break further along, and a riderless horse with its reins hanging loose standing apart. He shouted back to Waldron who, after making a clean jump through the first break, would have continued on unawares if Freddie hadn’t gained his attention.
Waldron made a wide arc to turn, and identified the riderless horse as Mandrake. Was there something about a last-minute change of mount that someone had mentioned? He approached, lifting his arm to drink from the fourth hip flask to help him concentrate. Mandrake, disturbed, stepped sideways. Waldron saw the bulge of the broken bone poke out against the skin. Something would have to be done about that and he was the right man to do it and he had the means to do it and he would do it as soon as he was ready.
He noticed a fourth person. She was holding on to the wall, leaning over and being sick. It was Beatrice.
Freddie went over to the two mounted girls and one boy to ask who the rider involved in the accident had been, presuming it was one of the visiting Blackshaws he didn’t know.
“It was Lady Blackshaw,” the older girl leaned over to say in a whisper so that Waldron couldn’t hear.
“It was Edwina!” Freddie called across to Waldron. “Your wife!”
“I know who she is.”
“Was she badly hurt?” Freddie asked the others.
“It didn’t look good. She was unconscious and her feet were facing the wrong direction,” the same girl whispered. “They took her away just a minute ago.”
“Her feet were facing the wrong direction!” Freddie shouted to Waldron.
“She won’t like that!” he yelled back.
“They’ve just taken her away, whoever ‘they’ are. Get yourself over here so I don’t have to act like a parrot!”
Letchworth, an older brother of the three young people, had ridden off to get help from the soldiers in the army barracks, the girl further explained. The hope was they would have an available lorry that could be used to transport Her Ladyship to the hospital in Cork. He must have raised the alarm somewhere along the way as a number of tenant farmers and their sons had turned up out of nowhere and had just left, transporting her ladyship on a makeshift stretcher to walk the four miles to the road in the hope of meeting up with the military lorry if one turned up, and if one didn’t they intended to walk the twenty miles, taking it in turns to bear the stretcher, all the way to the city. Letchworth was also looking to borrow some type of a firearm so that he could put Mandrake out of his misery as soon as he returned.
“Won’t be needed,” said Freddie. “Lord Waldron has one on his person.”
Sleet continued to fall and daylight was nearly gone.
Beatrice, wiping her mouth and looking distraught, joined the group. Despite approaching quietly, she startled Mandrake, who stepped backwards and faltered before putting his weight on his three sound legs, letting the broken one rest lightly on the ground. She hoped she wasn’t going to be sick again.
“Hold him there, Freddie,” Waldron commanded.
Freddie had ridden off a short distance to relieve himself and didn’t hear. The two girls turned their faces away, and stayed where they were. The boy, aged about seven, hung his head.
“I’ll hold him if you like,” said Beatrice, “but I think it would be better if we all stayed still. He’s not likely to move if you don’t make any sudden movements.”
“I don’t need to be told what to do by a woman, Beatrice, and especially not by you,” Waldron said, checking the revolver’s ammunition. “Have you any idea who you’re talking to? A champion horseman and a crack shot in the cavalry of the British Army for thirty years, that’s who.”
“Wait for Freddie. He’ll be back in a second.”
“Are you insinuating I’m not up to the job? Interfering woman, did you take in a word I said?” He began to dismount. “I’ll do it myself.”
He took his left foot out of the stirrup too soon and swung his right leg too energetically over the saddle, and lost his balance before he hit the ground. The revolver flew out of his hand and landed in the grass. The three young people ducked. Beatrice braced herself waiting for a shot, but there wasn
’t one. She went over to help up the idiot, as she was calling him under her breath. Mandrake had taken two steps back in reaction to the disturbance, and the broken bone now showed at a more acute angle than it had done earlier.
To stabilise herself, Beatrice held on to Brigadier’s mane so that Waldron wouldn’t pull her down when she gave him her hand. He made a few false starts before he was able to attain an upright position. Beatrice was tempted to use the revolver herself but from ingrained deference put it back into his muddy hand, then moved behind him out of the line of fire.
A large shape appeared at her shoulder.
“What’s happened to Charlotte?” It was Manus, dismounting from Neseen, his father’s farm horse.
“Nothing. Charlotte’s fine. Lady Blackshaw was riding Mandrake. It was –”
There was a loud bang and an echo. One of the young girls screamed.
Manus had been unaware of Waldron’s preparations as the old soldier’s back had been turned towards him.
A stream of blood was pouring from one of Mandrake’s nostrils. There was a hole in the edge of his blaze, about six inches below the left eye. Those who were watching thought the gelding looked puzzled and sad, shaking his head and quivering. He lurched when he took a step sideways.
Manus flew at Waldron, wrested the firearm from his hand and shoved him out of the way. Waldron rocked backwards, muttering that he wasn’t going to let a servant treat him like that and there was going to be hell to pay before the day was out. Everyone ignored him.
By now Manus was weeping, but no one could tell as he was dripping wet and hatless, his hair sodden and plastered over his forehead.
He spoke softly to Mandrake, and Beatrice thought she heard him say “Goodbye, dear friend.” Mandrake didn’t move when Manus approached him and rested the revolver between the eyes, watching him directly while he aimed it. The hand Manus used to push the hair from his own eyes, and then shield them from the sleet while he took aim with the other, was visibly shaking. He fired, making no mistake, and stayed in that position while Mandrake, motionless for a second, still looking directly at his stable master while he took the hit, dropped down and then rolled on his side, accompanied by the sound of sighing, his broken leg the last to rest on the ground.
Both young girls sobbed aloud.
Manus returned the revolver to Waldron.
“You haven’t heard the last of this by a long shot,” said Waldron, swaying and holding on to Brigadier for support. “And you can keep your trap shut about this, Beatrice. And you lot as well,” he directed at the young people.
“Won’t say a word,” said the older girl, who couldn’t wait to get back to the house to tell her friends what a fool Waldron had made of himself.
Freddie returned, leading his mount. “Job done, I see,” he said, looking at the fallen Mandrake and ignoring Manus whom he identified by his clothing as a stable hand. “Didn’t notice the nettles and got caught in a bunch of them and couldn’t find any dock leaves.” He helped Waldron remount, and tentatively remounted himself.
“Will we ever get to Rafferty’s with all these blasted interruptions?” asked Waldron, secure in the saddle, deliberately turning Brigadier’s rear end towards Beatrice and Manus before riding off with a show of bravado.
Beatrice took Manus’s shivering hands in hers. “Don’t worry about Waldron,” she said.
“I’m not worried about him.”
“I’ll make sure you don’t lose your position at the stables because of this. I have influence.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but at the moment I’m not concerned about His Lordship.”
“But I am.” Let the drunken popinjay better occupy himself showing some concern for his wife and leave Manus alone, Beatrice thought with contempt.
Manus retrieved Lucifer from where Beatrice had tethered him a distance away and, while the young girl held the horse’s head, helped Beatrice back onto her side-saddle.
She wanted to get to the house as quickly as possible, not only to tell Charlotte what had happened and to be there to comfort her, but also to reassure Bertie, who must be worried about her by now. Manus signalled that he would stay on.
She joined the three young people and set off in a sad procession back to the house. Looking over her shoulder as she left, she saw through the sleet the silhouette of Manus against the last light of day bending over the fallen Mandrake.
27
Miss East looked up from replacing an empty platter with a full one to see Les picking his way through the crowd. This was most odd – it was unlikely he had ever been in the front hall of the house in his life. He was searching every face intently, apparently unaware of the inappropriateness of his being there. Who was he searching for? Perhaps one of the horses was playing up or injured and he was looking for the owner. That must be it.
Please God, don’t let it be me.
When he finally located her and approached, she felt her legs go weak and wished there was somewhere to sit down.
“Is it Charlotte?”
“It is. She’s not hurt but she’s ran off. I tried to catch her. She’s in a real bad state. I’m blaming myself for letting her go.”
They headed for the door.
“I blame myself,” Les repeated. “I just couldn’t say no to her.”
Everyone was having last drinks before going upstairs to change, when there was a disturbance at the door. Bertie saw his wife enter the hall and with an undignified cry pushed people out of the way to reach her side.
“There’s been a bad accident,” Beatrice announced. “It’s Edwina.”
Someone was heard to say in a low voice, “Thank God it wasn’t Beatrice.” Answered by, “You can say that again. There’s been enough bad luck in that family already.” Followed by, “Not to mention the Blackshaws. How unlucky are they?”
Another asked, “How is she?”
“Difficult to say. She’s in good hands. On her way to the hospital. Young Letchworth was the hero of the hour. Had a lorry waiting on the main road and four soldiers ready to take over by the time the helpers carried her there.”
Sighs of relief and sounds almost like applause came from the crowd, and Frobisher Letchworth’s parents felt pride in their son for doing the right thing.
“Where’s Waldron?” asked an army subordinate, who had ridden in this hunt for the first time. “He must be worried sick.”
“Hardly. He’s at Rafferty’s. You won’t get any sense out of him tonight,” said one of the guests.
“And you won’t get much any other time either,” someone else whispered back.
“Shhhh!”
“Does anyone know where Charlotte is?” Beatrice asked.
No one had seen her arrive back.
“One of the stable lads came and fetched the housekeeper a while ago and they went off looking worried. I’d ask her. She’d be the one most likely to know.”
“How’s Sandstorm?” asked someone from the crowd that had by now encircled Beatrice.
“Edwina wasn’t riding Sandstorm,” said another voice. “She was on Mandrake.”
“That’s odd. Why wasn’t she riding Sandstorm?” said another.
“How’s Mandrake then, Beatrice?” Silence. “I was only asking. No need to look at me like that.”
“That’s what I have to see Charlotte about – I promised Manus I’d speak to her myself. Mandrake had to be shot.”
The crowd gasped in unison, and there were cries of disbelief and pity from sections of it.
Beatrice was finding it difficult to speak. “Worse still, Manus had to do it. After Waldron made a mess of it.” More sounds of disbelief, this time punctuated with disapproval. “I must go and find Charlotte and break the news to her. If anyone sees her before I do, please don’t say anything until I see her.” She disappeared back into the outside darkness in a flurry of sleet that was turning to snow.
Miss East and Les finally found Charlotte in the old nursery curled up in Victoria’s cot, suc
king the satin trimming of a red blanket and staring straight ahead into the darkness.
Les lifted her out and crouched beside Miss East, who had sunk to the floor. He cradled the child in his arms.
“Was there an accident?” Miss East asked gently, making a guess.
Charlotte nodded, then flung herself into Miss East’s arms, burying her face in her neck.
“There, there,” said Miss East. “You’re all right and that’s the main thing. Now let’s get you downstairs . . . there, there, don’t take on so . . . let’s get you out of these wet clothes and find you something nice to eat and warm you up and we’ll find out what has happened. It might not be as bad as you think.”
The look she gave Les over Charlotte’s head was filled with alarm and contradicted the reassurances she was giving.
Beatrice didn’t involve the servants in the search – she wanted to tell Charlotte herself in as gentle a way as she could to minimise shock. She was fond of the plain, charmless child with the good seat and sensitive hands who wanted above all to be a champion rider to win her mother’s approval, a blameless child whose day of triumph had been wrecked by a jealous mother who would never approve of her, and a drunken father who couldn’t shoot straight.
The hot steamy kitchen with servants skidding on the tiles revealed no familiar figure sitting in the corner.
Holly, keeping guard in the new nursery beside Miss East’s rooms on the ground floor, was reluctant to open the door until she knew who it was who was knocking. Edwina had given strict instructions that Harcourt was not to leave the nursery that night – she was afraid that Waldron, full of pride at producing a son and heir at last, would command Harcourt be brought in to be displayed to the guests, and in his drunken enthusiasm pick up the baby before anyone could prevent him, raise him high and drop him on the hard floor. So vividly had Edwina outlined the nightmarish sequence of events to her that Holly was taking no chances. No, she hadn’t seen Charlotte since this morning. Was everything all right?
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