A Man For All Seasons
by
Jenny Brigalow
www.steamereads.com.au
Eside Media Pty Ltd
trading as Steam eReads
Copyright © Jenny Brigalow 2013
First Published 2013
ISBN 978-0-9874581-5-5
Except for use in any review, no part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in whole or in part, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at www.steamereads.com.au
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Jenny Brigalow
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One
As Chad Cherub breathed in the scent of leather and lemon, his exhaustion fell away like bark off a gum tree. Excitement flared in his abdomen. Finally he was here. England.
His head tipped back against the high, leather headrest of the luxurious car in which he travelled. Life had taken on a dream like quality. Through the tinted window a long line of sulphur yellow lights snaked away into the distance in a misty trail. How strange it was, he thought, that suburbia was the same everywhere. He could just as easily been travelling through the lamp-lit streets of Brisbane.
He stretched out long legs, enjoying the unlimited space. Whilst trapped for hours within the confines of the great jumbo jet, he'd felt a renewed empathy for battery hens. A soft humming sound caught his attention and he watched with interest as the glass panel that separated him from the front of the Jaguar's interior slid slowly down.
“Are you comfortable, Sir?” said the driver.
Chad nodded. “I'm good, thanks.” Truth was, he felt awkward in the back seat. He'd much rather have been in the passenger seat, or better still, at the wheel. The sleek vehicle was something else. He reckoned it must have more horsepower than a dozen unbroken broncs. Still, it was an experience all the same.
The driver nodded gravely and the window glided up.
Water beaded and ran down the windows. Chad longed to stop and get out of the vehicle to stand bare headed in the rain. He could barely remember the last time he'd done so. Maybe three years? After half an hour the rain stopped, but the urban lights had been left behind. Dense stretches of trees flickered by. The wheels of the Jaguar hissed softly over wet tarmac.
The window slid down again. “We're nearly home, Sir… Chad.”
Nearly there. He thought about his host Walter Driscoll: businessman, entrepreneur and racehorse enthusiast. He was genuinely cheered at the idea of seeing the man again. Good bloke, Driscoll. He just hoped things would work out all right. Long way to come, for nothing.
The car slowed and turned. In the bright beam of the headlights two vast gates swung ponderously apart. Two large lions snarled down at him from aloft columns, frozen for eternity in stone. His eyes followed the gravel driveway that twisted gently through stands of trees, naked of leaf, stark against an inky, moonlit sky. Small pinpoints of light in the distance grew until the vague outline of a vast house emerged. Chad stared in amazement. Old Wally must have a huge family.
The lower levels of the house disappeared behind a wall and the car came to a smooth halt in a gravelled car park abutting what appeared to be a massive stone barn. There were no windows, but a strip of light shone from beneath a pair of huge timber doors. Even as Chad exited the vehicle he heard the scrunch of approaching feet. He found himself enveloped in a hearty embrace, the likes of which he'd never experienced before. At least not from a bloke.
“Cherub you young bastard, good to see you!” Walter Driscoll beamed a smile.
Despite his three chins, mournful bloodhound eyes and Toby jug ears, Driscoll gave off the air of a man well content with his lot in life.
Unsure how to respond to the older man's bonhomie, Chad tried an experimental pat on the smaller shoulder. To his vast relief this seemed to pass muster and Wally, as he liked to be called, stepped briskly back and lifted a meaty hand in the direction of the barn directly behind them.
“Cherub, come have a look at this, old chap.”
For a brief moment Chad wondered if his facial hair added on more years than he'd imagined, until he recalled that 'old chap' was a phrase Wally had used long before he'd grown his luxurious brown beard. Personally, Chad felt the beard gave him an air of authority. At least, he hoped so.
He followed Wally, wrapping his arms around his chest as a northerly wind embraced him. Christ it was cold. His host pushed open one of the massive timber doors. Light flooded through the open space causing Chad to close his eyes involuntarily. When he opened them he found himself in a lofty cavern of sand and light. The old barn must have stretched a hundred metres long and fifty wide. Huge lights hung from cathedral ceilings and the opposite wall housed a long mirror.
Fascinated, and not a little cheered to be out of the searing wind, Chad looked about him. Beneath his booted feet the sand felt spongy and pleasant. The huge space was empty except for a lone horse and rider cantering slowly toward them from the far end. As the pair neared he realised, to his delight, that he was looking at none other than the mighty thoroughbred stallion Can't Take a Trick. There was no mistaking the massive liver chestnut body and four matching white legs.
Sat astride the seventeen hand high horse was a young woman. She brought the huge animal to a halt beside the two men.
Driscoll made the introductions. “Cherub this is my daughter, Seraphim. And I'm sure Trick needs no introduction.”
Chad could only stare, his brain apparently disconnected from his mouth. He felt as if he'd been kicked in the crotch by a Brahmin bull. Black boots on slender legs, long thighs tightly bound in white jodhpurs and a slim torso in a black, turtleneck jumper. Dark mahogany hair, pulled back in a ponytail, emphasised the perfect contours of her oval face. Thick lashes curled onto creamy skin and slanting molten black eyes regarded him with open curiosity. And then she smiled, her wide mouth, with its high upper lip framing even, white teeth.
“Pleased to meet you Mr Cherub,” she said. Then she laughed. It was like sunshine on a dreary day. “You'll forgive me if I don't shake.” She lifted two dainty gloved hands which held not one, but two sets of reins.
Chad had never heard a voice like it. She spoke each with word with clarity, as if she treasured each vowel and syllable. Such was her perfection that he felt completely over
whelmed. Reticent by nature, far from his natural environment and tired beyond belief, his brain refused to cooperate. Vaguely he realised that he was not making the best impression. Desperate, he echoed the only refrain which materialised in the fog of his mind. He nodded curtly. “G'day.”
Wally slapped the horse loudly on the shoulder. “Seraphim, young Chad here is the one I was telling you about. You know, the gent I've been buying mares from in Oz. I'm hoping to talk him into taking Trick over there to stand at stud.”
She smiled again. “I see.” She shortened up the reins. “I'd better get on, or I'll be late for dinner.” Then she circled the great horse away. The only sound in the vast room was the rhythmical two-time tattoo of the horse's hooves as he covered the ground in an explosive trot.
Driscoll turned and pushed open the door. The wind whipped through the gap and bought Chad abruptly from his reverie. He hurried out the door feeling wretched. What a bloody idiot. G'day. Really smooth. He should have asked her about Trick or what she was up to. He should have commented on the great set up she had in the barn. Anything would have been an improvement on his hick from the sticks act. Then he realised that Driscoll was addressing him. He tuned in quickly.
“My daughter is a dressage fanatic. She's just back from a six-month stint in Germany. She'd go back but her wedding's coming up fast. Trick's doing some basic dressage at the moment as part of his rehab programme. Don't know if I agree with it really, but I guess it won't do any harm.”
Chad's tired brain went into overdrive as he tried to assimilate all this. The bit about the stallion he understood. The racehorse had busted a cannon bone the year before, and after a long stint in plaster, he was on the mend. Then his brain kangaroo hopped immediately to the daughter. A fiancé. A wedding. A strange sense of disappointment flooded him. But then he shook himself mentally. What was he thinking? This was a business trip.
It was pitch black a few feet away from the dim light that filtered beneath the barn door. His host set off with his jaunty stride and Chad followed. They crossed the parking lot, gravel scrunching loosely under foot, and followed a towering wall for a short distance.
Suddenly Walter Driscoll disappeared. Chad paused uncertainly. Then he nearly aged ten years when Wally's head materialised from the wall.
Wally smiled. “We'll nip in through the old orchard, it's quicker.”
Chad hurried to his host and found he was actually half in and half out of a doorway. Tucked into the flint façade, the tiny doorway would have been hard to spot, even in daylight.
The rear of the house loomed above them. In the gloom Chad could just make out black shrubs and garden beds and a large body of water glistening softly in the distance. They followed the hard path, shoes clicking loudly in the silence. Only the whisper of the wind in the foliage could be heard. Chad felt a surge of homesickness and a desperate desire for his beloved property. For the familiar shrill of the cockatoos and the rhythmic call of the frogs. A bit of tropical heat would've been welcome too.
As he stepped across the threshold into the kitchen his last wish was granted. The heat hit him like a solid wall. A huge blue cooking range poured out enough warmth to grow a crop of cotton. And probably bananas too. Sitting at a large pine table, two women looked up in surprise and paused in conversation. Both seemed mildly alarmed by the intrusion and started to get up.
“Sorry ladies, just taking a short cut,” Wally said. “Please, don't get up.”
Both women visibly relaxed and sank back down. “Greetings, Sir Wally,” said the elder of the pair.
Chad looked at his host in surprise. Blimey. 'Sir' Wally. What was that all about then?
“Greetings, Moira. Greetings, Shelly,” said his host easily. “I'd better get young Chad here sorted. We'll see you at dinner.”
The women nodded and smiled. The younger of the two, not much more than a girl really, eyed Chad keenly. With the complexion of a peach and a Cleopatra hair cut, she was very pretty. Raising one eyebrow at him, she winked. It made him feel uncomfortable, but he nodded politely and hastened after Wally, keen to escape. There was an oddly familiar aroma in the kitchen; subtly sweet. But Chad couldn't place it. He shrugged it away; it wasn't important.
They hastened down a dim, narrow corridor painted a nauseous institution green, and through a heavy door. Chad found himself in an enormous foyer. A chandelier hung in shimmering splendor, splashing light onto the exotic mosaic floor. A flight of stairs swept upward, wide with elaborately carved banisters. The pale cream walls were adorned with dark oil paintings; rows of flaxen-haired men and women cavorted gaily through the ages. One portrait dominated.
To the right of the staircase a huge canvas stood alone. Against a midnight blue background, dressed in a gossamer white gown with her dark hair sweeping gently across one high cheekbone, was Seraphim. In one hand she held a white dove, which she regarded with serious black eyes.
She was the most beautiful thing Chad had ever seen. He felt a strange sense of awe. But his practical manner soon poked its nose into his emotions. How the hell had Walter Driscoll produced such a raving beauty? She must be adopted.
He jumped slightly as his host slapped him heartily on the back.
“Stunning or what?” Wally beamed, his eyes also resting upon the portrait. “Can't take much credit of course. Takes after her mother.”
Chad nodded. He pondered on the quirkiness of genetics. He'd bred enough racehorses and cattle over the years to learn that gene pools could do strange things. For a brief moment he wondered about his own genetic make-up but, just as swiftly, pushed the thought away. With one last lingering glance at the painting he followed his host upwards.
When he was finally deposited into his allocated room he sincerely hoped he'd be able to find his way back to civilisation. He had only a vague impression of his surroundings. Narrow corridors, blue carpet and heavy, faded curtains had dominated, along with paneled doors with bright gold handles.
“Hope you're comfortable here. The bathroom's just down the way,” Wally said, indicating to his left. “It's four thirty. Dinner is at seven. Drinks at six in the snug. Now I suggest you try to stay awake as long as possible to get a handle on the jet lag. I'll send someone up just before six to show you down. Let me know if there's anything you need.”
Chad reassured Wally that he was fine.
“Jolly good,” he beamed. He turned to go, then paused and looked over his shoulder. “Oh yes, we generally dress for dinner. Thought I'd better mention it.”
Chad nodded reassuringly but his mind ticked over rapidly. Dress for dinner? Well, that was a bloody mercy!
He waded through the thick green carpet to the wide double bed covered with a deep gold duvet. Dark burgundy curtains covered a broad expanse of window and the fern green walls were hung with prints of racehorses. To his relief, his battered suitcase and backpack sat on the bed. He smiled ruefully as he inspected the furniture which consisted of a dressing table, wardrobe and chest of drawers in matching red timber with flared legs. His belongings would probably fit in one drawer.
An ornate carriage clock ticked steadily on the mantel of a fireplace. There was no fire, but the room was incredibly warm. He shed his jacket and jumper and pushed back the curtains. After a few minutes fumbling he managed to slide the heavy window upwards. A gush of cold air blasted into the room. But he barely noticed, for directly below him was the indoor arena. Seraphim and the chestnut stallion were just exiting through the doorway, illuminated by the lights behind her.
He realised she was taller than he'd thought, the top of her head almost reaching the big animal's wither. Her light, musical voice carried on the stiff breeze as she chatted to the horse. Only the odd word was clear. He was spellbound.
Perhaps it was coincidence, or maybe it was the influence of some ancient instinct, for she suddenly looked up. She was too far away for him to see the expression in her eyes, but the smile was unmistakable. His heart beat rapidly in his chest and he smiled back.
<
br /> She lifted her hand and waved. He returned the gesture. Long after she'd disappeared into the dark he stood immobile, oblivious to the rapidly dropping temperature around him.
Two
Seraphim sat amongst the bright pillows piled on her bed, hair wrapped in a thick blue towel, slender body shrouded in a deep blue terry towelling robe. She sat cross-legged, the receiver of a phone pressed to her ear and an expression of amusement lifting the corners of her generous mouth.
“Well, what's he like?” asked Jessica, her old school chum and fellow dressage enthusiast.
“Honestly Jess, I don't know. I've barely set on eyes on the man.”
Jess tutted loudly. “Honestly Miffy, you must have had some impression. I know you're engaged but that doesn't render you deaf, dumb and blind!”
For a moment Seraphim's spirits dropped. Engaged. It worried her that she didn't feel some great rush of joy, or excitement, or well… something, at the prospect. She forced a small chuckle of amusement. “All right. If you go for the strong, silent type, with face hair, he's your man.”
“Sounds yummy,” said Jessica. “Does he look like a cowboy? Do you think he'd wear spurs in bed? Can I come visit?”
Seraphim grinned. Really, Jessica was utterly transparent. It was one of the things she loved about her. “I'm sure he'd be delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Brilliant. Hey, did you hear the latest?”
“What's that then?”
“Well Sarah D'Lacey got it from her mother, who heard it from her best friend, whose neighbour happens to be old Mrs Featherstone; told her that Julian has split up with Georgia.”
Seraphim stiffened and her delicate hand gripped the phone until her knuckles whitened. The colour drained from her cheeks and her body stiffened like a Gordon setter on the scent. “You're kidding?” To her relief, her voice sounded reasonably steady, not betraying the heaving turmoil of emotions within.
“No,” said Jessica, “I'm for real. Apparently she left him for a scuba diving coach. All brawn and no brain.”
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