The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Depends on his price.” He could hear a voice made gravelly by chain-smoking Woodbines. “And who’ve you got to show him? Philip’d look damned silly up on him, too long in the leg, make the horse look even smaller. That Artie? Now, he’s good enough on the ground and a decent work rider, but he’s got no style whatever. Have to show a horse properly, and you’ve no one to do that.”

  “Trina?”

  “Too young. No point in feeding a horse for two, three years until the girl is old enough for him. You’ll never make a profit out of this business, Michael, if you don’t spin ’em off as soon as you can for whatever you can.”

  “That gelding can be made into a fine horse—a junior eventer, maybe. I’ve got a feeling about him.”

  “Then buy him, man, for not a shilling more than you have to give, and stop havering. I can’t abide indecision.”

  Michael slowed as he reached the Willow Grove, noticing that Jack’s car was already there. And Fiona’s red Mini. He grinned. The evening could prove most rewarding. He went in by the side door, past the loos, and into the lounge. Buxom, redheaded Fiona Bernon was in a corner seat, chatting in her animated way with her friends. She gave him a friendly wave as she caught sight of him but didn’t so much as take a breath in what she was saying. Looking to his left, Michael saw that Jack Garden was at the bar, one hip on a stool, turned sideways toward Bob Kelly.

  “And here he is himself, just the man I need,” Jack said cheerfully.

  “And why do you need me, Jack?” Michael asked affably as he joined the two men. Michael nodded a greeting to the publican and signaled Tom to pour a pint for himself and two more for his friends.

  “I’ve a problem only you can solve.” Jack pretended mystery, taking a fold of Michael’s raincoat sleeve to pull him closer. “Remember me sending the wife to America to visit her relatives? Well, yet another one appeared this week, combining a business trip with a chance to see the land of his fathers.” Here Jack allowed a mock American accent to color his speech. “Only he’s the most awkward one yet. He wants to ride to the hounds!”

  “Can he ride?” Michael asked, grinning at Jack’s discomfort.

  “He says he can, but you know Americans. Problem is that I’ve nothing up to his weight. Grace has been wingeing that the family honor is at stake and all that shit.” Jack gave Michael a look of piteous appeal. “That is, of course, if you didn’t sell all your hunters abroad.”

  Michael ignored the snide remark—he had recently sold four horses to the Italians and some were still annoyed about it. He did some rapid mental revision. If he told Lycroft that he should have a change of mount, that would free Jake for Jack’s guest. The bay was not only well up to weight, but he could be counted on to cope with an indifferent rider just as long as the man could stay in the pad. And the favor would put Garden under obligation to him. Not that that would go all that far in the matter of the gelding, but you never knew.

  “I think I can sort something out all right. Bray’s or Wicklow’s?” Michael asked.

  “Pffst, the man wouldn’t be up to Wicklow’s. He’s a Yank, man, and has probably never seen a hound, much less rid to them! Thanks,” he added in an altered tone. “I knew you’d see him right for me.”

  Michael frowned slightly, catching what Jack didn’t say. “Won’t you be hunting with him?”

  “Don’t you remember? My hunter pulled a shoulder muscle two weeks ago, and he’s still unsound.”

  “I had forgot. Well, there’ll be enough of us from Cornanagh to keep an eye on him. Philip and I will both be hunting. So will Catriona. If he’s backward, she’ll keep an eye on him.”

  Garden pretended to be affronted, but Bob Kelly found Michael’s suggestion excessively funny.

  “So when’s the Yank coming?” Michael asked when Bob’s laughter had subsided.

  “Jaysus, he’s here already. He and the wife are off to Dublin with mine for a bit of culture tonight at the Gate. Fortunately, I’d other business this evening”—Jack lifted his pint glass, slyly winking—“and regretted that I couldn’t join them. He’s done the entire bit, checking out his genealogy, to be sure he’s Irish enough for his political aspirations.” Jack rolled his eyes extravagantly and was rewarded with chuckles. “The lengths these Yanks’ll go to prove an Irish connection!”

  “And then there’s Bord Fáilte demanding more funds to improve tourism,” Bob Kelly said, always the conscience of the Dáil in Delgany. “First, they let all these artistic people in, and now they want us to cope with hordes of tourists, poking and prying . . . .”

  “And buying,” Michael said firmly. “We could use more of them, you know.”

  “Not satisfied with selling to Europe, you want to corner the American market, too?” Jack asked Michael, outraged.

  “Your man isn’t over here to buy horses,” Michael replied, “but he is buying seats at the Gate, and tweeds, and Waterford glass, and good Irish whiskey.”

  They spent the rest of the evening arguing the pros and cons of increasing tourism in Ireland.

  When Tom called, “Time, ladies and gents, time!” Michael glanced across the room to Fiona. She was looking in his direction and gave an almost imperceptible nod, smiling as she turned back to listen to what her friend was saying.

  Michael downed the last of his pint, feeling a pleasant excitement. Sometimes, he thought, anticipation was the best part of these clandestine meetings. He couldn’t raise more than a fleeting gratitude for Fiona’s willingness, and he was reasonably sure she had more than one discreet liaison.

  “See you, Jack, Bob,” he said. “Last check on the horses!”

  Garden grimaced forbearingly at Michael’s habitual excuse. Without apparent hurry, Michael walked through the dark cool night to his car and quickly drove up the Altador road, pausing, as always, halfway up, at the entrance to the Castle. He hadn’t long to wait before Fiona’s little Mini came along, and when she had passed him with a flash of her lights, he followed her the rest of the way to her cottage.

  5

  BLISTER was in Catriona’s thoughts the next morning when she heard her father thump on her door. This Friday’s morning was clear, if cool, and there was a light breeze, which meant the ground would be just right for the hunt tomorrow—if it didn’t rain in the night and spoil everything. She rose eagerly because there were only today’s school hours to get through, and she could tell Mary Evans about her cousin’s visit.

  Once she got home from school, she’d have Ballymore Prince to ride. The pony had to be well exercised before Sean’s lesson with her father on Saturday morning. Depending on how fresh the pony was, she might just have to ride him again in the morning before she helped with the hunters. So, really, the only bad part of the bright Friday was having to attend school.

  Catriona dressed fast in her chilly room. She could hear Philip in the loo. She tried to get in there before he did because he took forever with shaving and all that, but he wouldn’t shift until he was finished no matter what her emergency. She scrambled downstairs to the hall loo, even remembering to rub a towel over her teeth to get rid of the fuzz. Bridie might check.

  But when Catriona entered the kitchen, Bridie just scowled, clattering her ladle against the porridge bowl and thrusting it at Catriona, who murmured her thanks, not meeting Bridie’s eye. In one of these moods, Bridie might berate you for incidents that you’d totally forgotten. It put you at a severe disadvantage.

  Bridie had been working at Cornanagh almost as long as Mick Lenahan. She had come with her husband, Barry, when he had been hired as cowman by the old Colonel. For all she was two inches under the five-foot mark, she had energy to spare in her oddly misshapen figure. Bridie was tiny to the waist and always wore her aprons tightly cinched, but her hips were out-of-proportion broad. She wore her thin gray hair tightly skewered in a bun at the nape of her neck, and her rather prominent nose drooped over her lips because she often left her false teeth in a glass in one of the kitchen cabinets, claiming they hurt
her gums.

  Philip had once suggested that Bridie’s gums drove her to drink, and that her sour mornings invariably coincided with Barry’s dart tournaments. Bridie drank, Philip maintained, only on those evenings when Barry was safely out of the house until midnight and she could finish a bottle by herself. For medicinal purposes, of course.

  Catriona, who had encountered her brothers, even pious Jack, drink taken often enough, had argued that Bridie never reeked of drink as others she could name did. But she was ignored because Philip and Owen enjoyed the idea of stern Bridie deteriorating in a bout of solitary drinking.

  Catriona inhaled surreptitiously as she passed Bridie but caught not a whiff of stale liquor or even mouthwash that would be disguising the lapse.

  “D’you have a tissue, Catriona? Blow your nose. I can’t abide a sniffling child,” Bridie said irritably.

  Catriona applied a tissue obediently before she slipped into her place at the table. Owen winked at her, jerking his head over his shoulder in Bridie’s direction. Catriona dropped a knob of butter into her porridge and stirred cautiously for the lumps that often occurred when Bridie’s mind was not entirely on her cooking. For a wonder, it was smooth enough, and she dug into her breakfast. Her brothers used to tease her because no child was supposed to like porridge, but Catriona even missed it when the weather turned too warm for Bridie to stoke up the Aga stove.

  Owen was going quickly through his eggs, rashers, and sausage, alternating with bites of toast, his uneven front teeth making their unique impression on the slice. His hair was a dark brown, worn back without a part, and his eyes were a muddy color, not the rather brilliant brown of his mother’s. He wasn’t as tall as his brother, or cousins, and his clothes always looked a bit rumpled, though Catriona knew Auntie Eithne was forever pressing his suits and slacks and ironing his shirts. Owen could be very nice indeed, when he tried: it was just that half the time he didn’t care to try.

  Suddenly he rose, swallowing the last of his coffee and shoving half a piece of toast into his mouth.

  “C’mon, Cat, we’re running late,” he mumbled around the bread.

  Catriona swiveled for a glimpse at the kitchen clock and continued to spoon oatmeal into her mouth even as she rose from the chair.

  “Catriona Mary Virginia!” Bridie shrilled. “And you’re not any better, Owen Carradyne. No better than you should be on any score, and I’m the one as knows it.”

  “Did you put her in that mood?” Catriona asked as they hastily threw on their outer clothing on their way to the front door.

  “Sure it’s Friday the thirteenth, Trina. She’s practicing to feel unlucky today. C’mon!”

  As she plumped down on the cold leather of the Mini’s passenger seat, Catriona breathed a prayer that the car would start first go. She had to get out and push when it didn’t. When she was legally able to drive, she thought, she’d sit in the driver’s seat and Owen would have to push it. But for a mercy, the Mini’s engine turned over immediately.

  “Thank God!” Owen said. “It almost never starts when we’re late, does it, pet?”

  The car had another trick in its repertoire—it bucked all the way up the drive, its exhaust making an awful noise. Catriona groaned, sliding down in the seat. She’d hear about that from Mummie when she got back from school.

  And coming round the Kilquade turn is the red Carradyne Mini, Catriona thought as Owen, now in second gear, threw the little car into the curve and booted it up the road. They were still in second past the church and on up the long hill by the Russian village, into the S bend with Owen far too much to the right for Catriona’s peace of mind. What if they should meet someone barreling down the road from Kilpedder? But it did no good at all to ask Owen to slow down or keep to his side of the road. He’d only tell her what good reflexes he had and ask, Didn’t she trust her own cousin?

  Actually, Catriona secretly enjoyed the exhilaration of Owen’s driving. And he braked to a squealing stop most effectively at Mrs. O’Toole’s shop where the Hagan boys were waiting. Catriona cast a hopeful glance down the road and saw the squat red-and-cream form of the Wicklow bus just rounding the curve from Fowler’s garage. Reassured, she got out of the car and stood well clear of the Hagans, although what they could have done in the short wait for the bus, she couldn’t imagine. They had endless variations of mischief.

  Marty Byrne was driving the bus again this morning and gave her a cheery “Good morning!” He was better at keeping peace on the trip to Wicklow town than the other driver, who thought scowls and bellows ought to suffice. She gave him a grin, which widened as she saw that Mary Evans was saving her a place in the second seat back.

  Mary was her best friend and lived only over the hill on the back road to Delgany. She was exactly Catriona’s height, but she, too, wished to be tall and Willowy like the owner of Flirty Lady, Mrs. Healey. Mary still had most of her childish plumpness, a pink-and-white complexion, and dimples in both cheeks. She was an uncomplicated child, as quick to laughter as to anxiety over trifling worries. She had very pretty green eyes and dark blond hair, which she wore in a Dutch boy bob with a fringe across her forehead.

  “My cousin’s coming to stay this summer,” Catriona said, unable to contain her news a moment longer.

  “Which one?” Mary tried to pretend that she wasn’t envious.

  “Patricia from Connecticut, Uncle Eamonn’s girl. He wants her to learn how to ride like an Irishman.”

  Mary whooped, covering her mouth, her green eyes sparkling. “Well, that’s a turn-up, isn’t it? Your father won’t put Blister down, then, will he?”

  “Right!” Mary’s ability to come quickly to essentials constantly endeared her to Catriona. Besides, Mary was the only other girl in her form who had a pony, who understood about horses, and was, in the words of Captain Carradyne, “not a bad little rider.” “Will you be hunting tomorrow, too?” Catriona asked.

  “Sure thing, with the hunt at Willow Grove. Mother said that isn’t too far for me to hack over alone.”

  The bus heaved itself through the Newtownmountkennedy bend and halted in front of Nolan’s to let the next gaggle of children on.

  “Where’ll your cousin sleep?” Mary asked once the bus started up again.

  “In with me, of course,” Catriona replied. “I’m going to ask Mummie if we can have the boys’ old bunk beds.”

  “Bunk beds? That’d be super, that would.”

  Catriona nodded enthusiastically. “And there’d be enough space in the center of my room so we wouldn’t be walking all over each other. I could store all my winter things and leave her space in the wardrobe.”

  “What’s she like?”

  Catriona shrugged. “All we’ve got are Christmas photos.”

  Mary made a grimace. “They’re no good, really. Can’t tell you what you need to know. What did she say in her letter?”

  “Oh, Patricia didn’t write. My uncle Eamonn did. To my father.”

  “Then you really don’t know if she’s coming.”

  “Well, I don’t think Uncle Eamonn would waste time writing a letter to Father if he didn’t mean her to come. He’s a busy executive.” But Catriona had a sinking sensation that maybe this was an American-type joke.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “I should hope not.” Catriona spoke in a somewhat repressive voice, much like her mother’s, although she wouldn’t herself have noticed the similarity.

  “Who’ll bring her over?”

  “Uncle Eamonn didn’t say, or maybe he did and Father just didn’t mention it.”

  “Your auntie?”

  “More than likely,” Catriona replied with more confidence than she felt. Although all her American relations had come for Tyler Carradyne’s funeral five years ago, she couldn’t remember that much of the visit, since a seven-year-old girl child didn’t attend many of the evening affairs.

  “It could be a very good summer for us,” Mary hazarded, trying to restore Catriona’s good humor. “Maybe if
Patricia isn’t able for Blister, Mother would lend your father our old Patch. He’s not good for much, but he taught Mother and me how to ride, and he’s got a few more years left in him, Mother always says.”

  “Oh, Mary, could you lend us Patch?” Catriona felt relief wash over her. She couldn’t have asked: one just didn’t beg the loan of a horse—at least, the Carradynes didn’t. “Hadn’t you better ask your mother?”

  “Oh, I will, but she will because I know your father’s a stickler.”

  “For good reason.” Catriona thought darkly of the time when an acquaintance of her father’s, a man known to be a capable rider, had begged the loan of one of the hunters to keep in his own stable for the hunting season. The animal had been returned to Cornanagh with bowed tendons in both front legs.

  “Sorry.” Mary dragged out the word in exaggerated remorse.

  Catriona gave her an elbow in the ribs, and the two subsided into giggles as the bus joggled around the fountain in the square and stopped just short of the Dominican School.

  “Well, only today to go and the week’s over,” she said to Mary as they rose to leave.

  That afternoon Catriona half walked, half jogged the mile from the bus stop to Cornanagh, her school bag banging against her back, as she looked forward to riding Ballymore Prince. All the dreads and deeds of the school day were forgotten, even Sister Conceptua’s threat of a math quiz next week because no one had been able to finish the prep.

  Such mundane matters could not afflict Catriona Carradyne with a weekend of Horse in prospect, a hunt tomorrow and Philip riding Teasle in a training show on Sunday. School was the necessary evil she tolerated as a bridge between weekends spent with Horse. And the weather had held fair. That was only a bonus, for Catriona cared nothing for the weather if she was working with horses. Except, of course, when too much rain canceled an event.