A Man For All Seasons
Page 4
“I'm sorry,” she said.
He was touched. “Serves me right.”
She looked up again and burst into laughter, showing two rows of delicate pearls. A dark ringlet of hair curled from beneath her helmet, a velvet question mark against the smooth white brow. He wanted to wrap it around his finger, to feel its texture.
But he didn't. “Best be off then.”
Without a word she set her legs lightly to her horses sides and together they clip clopped loudly out of the gate and into a tiny lane, hedged thickly either side.
He was content to follow, which was just as well since it would have been quite a squeeze to go two abreast. Intrigued, he observed the novel new world in which he found himself as they passed tiny little cottages with wavy tiled roofs and crooked chimneys.
At one place there was a cavernous barn filled with Fresian cows waiting patiently for their turn at milking. In gently undulating paddocks sheep grazed wrapped in white, shaggy coats. Despite the leafless trees, the landscape seemed incredibly green to Chad. He could barely imagine how it would look in spring.
Dresden shied violently as a bird broke cover from a large bramble. Chad gave him a swift kick in the ribs and the horse subsided with a long pained sigh.
“That was pheasant. Daddy breeds them for the shooting season.”
Chad thought this seemed pretty unsporting but refrained from saying so. In a small tree a tiny brown bird with a bright red breast tilted its head and observed them. “What's that then?”
Seraphim smiled. “That's a robin. Friendly little birds.”
Between two small houses a muddy track appeared. “This is a bridleway,” Seraphim continued. “England is full of old tracks that are still held for the use of horses and pedestrians.” She grimaced. “As you can see, the motorbike riders use them too. Make a hell of a mess.”
The mud was loose and viscous. Chad listened fascinated as his horse's feet suctioned in and out. The track was fairly short and to his surprise it opened out onto a broad expanse of grazing and then to a river.
On the opposite bank, half hidden behind a screen of huge weeping willows, stood the most amazing house he'd ever seen. Long and low, its white face was crossed with black beams of wood. Its roof, a pale honey blonde, was made of some sort of reed or straw. Tiny dormered windows glittered through lead panes and a horse weathervane galloped over head. All the outbuildings, including a boathouse, boasted matching thatched wigs. It was something out of a fairy tale.
Chad realised he'd reined in Dresden and that Seraphim had stopped behind him. He felt her eyes upon him.
“Beautiful, isn't it?”
He gazed silently, trying to find the words. He gave up. “Ripper.”
“Come on, there's some great places further on.”
Somewhat reluctantly he followed. Seraphim pointed out to him an ancient bridge, built in the twelfth century, a pretty pub called the 'The Angel on the Bridge', and long, narrow canal boats, decked out in brass and brilliant colours.
Then she stopped abruptly and, taken by surprise, Chad couldn't avoid a collision. Dresden grazed up against Pollyanna's side. For one brief moment he felt the firm length of the young woman's thigh press softly into his own. Then she was gone.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, not quite meeting his eye.
“No worries,” he said, and spent several seconds placing Dresden at a respectful distance. He chanced a glance in her direction and was relieved to see she seemed quite composed. But then, he thought, why shouldn't she be? After all, he'd no reason to believe that she'd have felt the same violent volts of electricity that he himself experienced. After all, she was engaged to be married.
“Look,” she said, and pointed down to the water.
He spotted them immediately. A flock of swans, sailing in full white regalia down the Thames.
“Oh look at that!” Seraphim looked at him then.
Her eyes sparkled and her full lips parted slightly in her excitement. God but he wanted to kiss her.
“Look,” she said again.
Unable to do anything other than obey, he forced his eyes to the birds. They were impressive. And then he realised what it was that had so sparked her interest. Toward the back of the flock, dark as night beside their virgin white, swam a lone black swan.
“It's a black swan!” she cried.
Indeed it was. He thought how strange it was that the Australian bird was as foreign to her as the white ones were to him. It seemed like an omen. But whether good or bad he couldn't say.
“Wonder where he came from,” he mused aloud.
She shook her head. “I can't imagine. It must be from a private zoo or something.” She swung Pollyanna around and set off again.
He fell in beside her. The sun began to rise. Diamantés sparkled off the dew in the black branches of the trees. Crows rose ponderously from their roosts, cawing rudely to the world.
“We've got crows back home,” he said.
“Really? What's it like, you know, your home?”
Images blossomed in his mind's eye, but how to explain? “Well,” he finally said, “it's like this horse here.” He touched Dresden's short, thin mane. “You think you've got it licked. For a while it gives you what you need, but then one morning you wake up and it bucks up big time. It's a big, hard country. It's dry mostly. When the rain comes the galahs hang upside down on the power lines and spread out their wings to catch it.” He stopped, feeling a little foolish.
They rode silently; Chad thought he'd bored her.
“What's a galah?” she asked suddenly.
“It's a bird. A kind of parrot. They're sort of grey, with bright pink on their chests and pale pink on their heads. They live in big flocks and nick the grain. Cheeky buggers.”
She chuckled softly, a soft bubbling sound, like an underground spring. “That's the most I've heard you say.”
He grinned, infected by her amusement as she pushed up her right sleeve and inspected her watch. “Better be getting back. I've got to go into London for a fitting.” Perhaps she sensed his confusion for she glanced at him briefly before continuing. “For my wedding dress.”
Like a pair of synchronised swimmers the two horses circled and headed back. The pace increased significantly. Stretched out before them the long green strip of meadow seemed to beckon.
Chad grinned. “Fancy a bit of a spin?”
Her fine black eyebrows drew together for a moment. Then she shook her head adamantly. “Oh… no. I really shouldn't.”
“Why not?”
“I'm not supposed to. I told you, I had a heart condition as a child. Dad worries about me. I promised it would be just a quiet walk out.” Her words rushed out, tripping over themselves.
She looked as fit as a mallee bull to him. “So, do you always do as you're told?” He swayed a little toward her, so close he could almost taste her scent. He grinned. “Or are you just a chicken?”
Six
Seraphim drew in a giant breath of air. It rushed down her respiratory tract, sharp and exhilarating. She recognised the challenge for what it was. Or, at least, she thought she did. This man had an unwitting ability to make her mad. Did she always do as she was told? What a bloody nerve!
She opened her mouth to deal out the dressing down that he so thoroughly deserved, but then she faltered. A little voice begged to be heard. “Of course you always do as you're told,” it said. She realised then that her anger was misplaced. It was herself she should be mad at.
She looked into the wide set topaz eyes, with their black centre and thick black lashes. Secretly she couldn't help but admire the way he lounged in his saddle, reins loose, crisp black hair rippling in the breeze, utterly sure, utterly relaxed. What wouldn't she give to be so self-assured?
Fear clutched at her throat like a rabid dog. Her legs felt as if they'd been filled with custard. She sat up, her torso taut and wired, the pulse in her throat hammering like a pneumatic drill. Damn him. “Last one home's a rotten egg.”
Dimly, through the whistle of the wind and pounding of shod hooves, Seraphim heard him laugh. As her mare accelerated beneath her she could barely breathe. What if she fell? What if she didn't have the strength to stop her? What if they ran through a barbed wire fence or hit a tree? What if they slipped into the river? She didn't dare look toward the grey flat expanse of water, as if to do so would draw her inexorably into its depths.
A large clod of mud hit her in the cheek, cold and hard. A blur of dark horse scooted by and Chad waved cheekily as he overtook her. Dresden began to draw away. It looked like they were going to win. She felt Pollyanna strain to stay in the race and suddenly Seraphim wanted to help her. She let out a wild whoop of laughter, which caught in a sob in the tightened core of her throat. She stood a little in the saddle and brought her weight forward, relaxing her hold on the reins.
And then they caught up, the two mighty horses running neck to neck, heads bobbing in unison. For one brief moment she caught Chad's eye and he nodded. Then Pollyanna drew ahead and inside Seraphim's chest a great bubble of joy burst into crystals of light.
Above a copse of trees, the village steeple rose and Seraphim knew that home was getting close. She sat back down in the saddle and Pollyanna, puffing like a steam train, dropped back to a trot and quickly, a walk.
She watched as the other pair surged past and admired the man as he slowly cantered a circle on a thoroughly over-excited Dresden. She admired the length of his legs, the strong broad back and capable, sensitive hands. She liked his hands and the dusky tone of his skin. Hastily she redirected her thoughts. Perhaps she should get some therapy. Still, he'd have made a great dressage rider.
After a few minutes he joined her and they rode in silence, sweat steaming from their mounts, their flanks rising and falling in heaving pants. For a brief moment she wondered what it would be like to kiss a man with a beard. Would it tickle?
She looked at him. “You let me win.”
He smiled then. “Never.”
She patted her horse's sweaty neck and some of her exhilaration trickled away. If she turned up at the yard with Pollyanna like this, everyone would know she'd been galloping around the countryside. Of course that meant by morning tea half the neighbourhood would know, and by lunch her father would have informed her mother. Inwardly she groaned. Their well-meaning censuring drove her to distraction. Not that it happened very often.
“Chad, do you mind if we take a detour on the way back, you know, to let the horses cool a bit?”
He shrugged. “I'm not going anywhere.”
Relieved, her spirits lifted again as they slopped back through the bridle way and onto the road. She turned right and headed down to the village of Little Bottom. Chad found this pretty hilarious, and wanted to know where Big Bottom was. She showed him the old well, the Saxon church and the big house whose giant yew hedges were artfully pruned into animal shapes.
When he laughed he seemed younger somehow. “How old are you?” she asked, then felt herself flush, ashamed of her rudeness.
But he seemed unperturbed. “I'm nearly twenty-six.”
She was astounded. Why, he wasn't much older than she was. Yet she knew from her father that he ran his own business, and successfully too. Added to that was the recent revelation about his former rodeo shenanigans. His family must be loaded. Curiosity consumed her. “Do you have a big family?” She was pleased with her choice of words. It seemed a nice, inoffensive question.
But after a minute, when he didn't reply, she looked over at him. Her heart sank, for despite the beard she recognised a tightness around the eyes and a certain tension in the strong lines of his neck. She realised she'd somehow made a blooper.
He didn't look at her. “No,” he finally said.
They rode on in silence but she felt as if the easy camaraderie that they had established had been erased. She acknowledged that this upset her but refused to look any deeper.
Salvation came in the form of a herd of cows milling around a row of hay racks. There he stopped and observed them. “Bloody nice.” His tone was light and casual; he seemed his usual relaxed self.
She wanted to hop of Pollyanna, vault over the four rows of barbed wire, and kiss each curly head fervently. Instead she nodded vigorously, torn between her delight in his return to good humour and her desire to disguise her ignorance regarding the livestock. The only breeds she really recognised were fillet steak and roast beef.
He pointed at one large animal nearest to them. “I like the Herefords. Good tempered. Mind you they do better crossbred at home. Bit of Brahmin blood helps in the dry and with tick resistance.”
“I see,” she nodded wisely as she lied valiantly, desperate to keep the conversation alive. Actually she just loved to listen to the alien cadence of his voice. Dreamily she envisioned herself out in the Australian outback, bringing in the cows with Chad, riding side-by-side kickin' up the dust.
But then the church bells began to peal the hour. Dresden skittered across the road.
“What the hell's that?” asked Chad, after he'd brought the horse back in hand.
She was surprised. She barely heard the bells, they were just part of the background noise, like vehicles and wind. “It's just the church bells. It's eight.”
Soon they where home, clip clopping over the pebbly yard surface. They dismounted and she had a rather inelegant tug of war with one of the grooms as he tried to take Pollyanna from her. She clung onto the rains with grim determination. “Let go,” she hissed.
The boy stood back thoroughly alarmed. Breathless but victorious she led the mare over to her stable and untacked her. Beneath her saddle and bridle the brown coat had become hard and dark with dried sweat, the white legs caked in dried, flaky mud. She made her way swiftly to the tack room and armed herself with brushes, humming happily under her breath. She felt great.
Suddenly she jumped violently as she stood up from beneath the mare's front legs to find she was being observed. For a moment she thought it might be Chad, but disappointment flooded through her when she recognised the pale face of her betrothed. With considerable self-control she forced a smile onto her face. “Hi.”
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Grooming my horse.” Wasn't it obvious?
His lips formed a petulant moue. “I just came to offer you a lift into London. I have to go to the office.”
She felt guilty; he was only trying to help. “Thanks. I won't be too much longer.”
He waited while she hastily threw Pollyanna's rugs back on and fastened the many straps and buckles. She could feel his growing irritation.
“You shouldn't be doing that,” he snapped.
“How the hell do you think I managed in Germany?” she flashed back, thoroughly fed up. No sooner where the words out than she regretted them. Her father had only let her go because he'd paid exorbitant fees to free her from any need to perform physically hard labour. But she'd been unable to sit back and watch the incredibly overworked staff run around after her and had insisted on pulling her weight. It had been one of the happiest times of her life.
But Bloody Barry would blab. She was a little shocked at her introspection. Since when had her fiancé become bloody?
She stalked back to the tack room, seething. She threw the brushes back into their drawer and tried to collect herself. Something tickled her face and a dark form swung before her left eye. She gasped in horror, her rage fading instantly. A small scream burst out of her lips and she began to dance around, slapping and waving her hands around her head and face in a frenzied dance.
“Get it off! Get it off!” she shrieked.
“For goodness sake, don't be so ridiculous. It's just a spider,” said Barry.
But she wa
s beyond reason. She began to cry. “Get it off.”
And then a pair of strong arms entwined around her, holding her still, and a hand brushed her cheek briefly. Blinded by fear she instinctively held onto her salvation. For one brief moment she leant into the rock hard breadth of his chest. He smelt of horses, hay and healthy young male. Then she was alone.
“It's gone Seraphim. It's all right now,” said Chad quietly.
Her tremulous hands patted her face. The long sticky thread had gone along with the hairy, leggy monstrosity. She took in a long shuddering breath of relief. “Oh God, I'm sorry. You must think me a complete fool.”
Barry snorted his agreement.
Chad observed her. There was a strange intensity about him, an aura of curious melancholy. He shook his head. “No shame in being afraid.”
“I'll be leaving in ten minutes. If you're not ready I'll go without you.”
But Barry's voice was just a hazy drone in the background. She barely acknowledged the sharp click of his leather-shod feet as he left the tack room.
Suddenly her life seemed terribly complicated. What had seemed a few days ago to be the firm foundations of her life and future was now strangely out of focus. It was as if she'd put on someone else's strong prescription glasses. Her world had become fuzzy and indistinct, unfamiliar almost.
Panic surged in her chest. Why did she feel this way? What should she do? What could she do? Everything was organised. The invitations had gone out. Her final fitting for her gown was today. It was inconceivable that she back out at this stage. Wasn't it?
She returned to her first unanswered question. Why did she feel this way? Almost of their own volition her eyes travelled to Chad. She looked into his face and stared into his eyes. For some reason she felt as if she would find the answers there.
He held her gaze. Both stood quite still.
Finally he smiled softly. “My mum, she was terrified of spiders,” he said.
She understood somehow that he'd shared something. “Thank you.”
“No worries.”
Not another word was spoken as they made their way back to the house, for which she was grateful. They walked side-by-side, not quite touching. As they walked, Seraphim forced herself to think. She would go to London, she decided, but not with Bloody Barry. And white dresses were definitely no longer part of the equation.