The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  She closed the iron-strap gates of Cornanagh behind her and paused briefly as she crossed the Ride, to test its surface. A little soft, but not boggy. Would her father ever find the perfect all-weather material for the ride and the lunge yard?

  She passed the gate lodge where Mick lived, charged down the path behind Bridie’s cottage and through the passageway, then ran full pelt across the cobbles to the back door.

  Flinging her school bag to exactly the right spot in the corner by the boots, she began to shed her coat and jumper as she climbed the stairs two at a time.

  “Catriona Mary, can you not enter the house like a lady?” Her mother leaned over the balustrade. “I will not tolerate such behavior. You’re nearly a young woman, and you’ve the manners of a tinker. I shall have to speak to your father!”

  “I’m sorry, Mummie, but there’s only so much daylight left to ride in,” Catriona replied as she generally did.

  “I really will have to speak to your father,” Isabel repeated, and, dismissing the incident almost as fast as Catriona, returned to the box room, where she was restoring order to the cluttered shelves.

  What was she to do with Catriona? The girl was not the least bit like her older sister, Sybil: as different as chalk and cheese the two were. Sybil had been a biddable child, taking pains with her appearance, well mannered, dutiful, and not the least bit interested in horses. For which mercy Isabel had thanked the Blessed Virgin. It was enough of a worry that all the boys had had to ride up to the exacting standards of both Tyler and Michael. Injuries were so common in riding.

  Irritably she pushed aside the box of hacking jackets, relics of Tyler’s career as a show jumper, thriftily saved for future Carradynes. Well, Catriona would soon be a woman, and her mind would turn from horses to boys. Isabel gave a shudder. Sybil’s one lapse from grace in her eyes had been her fascination with boys and her blithe marriage at nineteen to Aidan Roche.

  Isabel had tried very hard to dissuade her daughter from marriage. Not that she could find argument against Aidan, who was already assistant manager in his father’s shop in Dun Laoghaire. When Sybil had been adamant, Isabel had yielded, fumbling so badly in her attempt to explain the ordeal to come that she had only then been able to forgive her own mother’s inability to discuss the subject. Consequently, Isabel had suffered a shock when, on her return from her honeymoon in Marbella, Sybil had winked at her mother and said, “Oh, Mummie, it wasn’t as bad as all that.”

  Too bad Catriona showed absolutely no sign of a religious vocation, Isabel thought, dusting the tall Carradyne hatbox that contained the top hat her father-in-law had worn in dressage competitions. Now, if she could only be encouraged to prefer dressage to show jumping, perhaps there might be hope. Such excellent families on the Continent competed in the dressage arena at Goodwood.

  Why, oh, why, did she constantly go back to marriage for Catriona? Maybe the girl’s interest in horses should be encouraged as an alternative? Too bad that both Colonel Dudgeon and his marvelous old trainer, Mr. Mac, were dead. They had had world recognition as Ireland’s leading trainers, and certainly Burton Hall had turned out top riders and successful horses. Why, the Queen of England sent her horses to be schooled there. Isabel would have felt more confident of the quality of her child’s instruction if the colonel or Mr. Mac had been there to oversee it. It didn’t occur to her at all that her husband was their equal.

  Meanwhile, Catriona wasted no time changing into her jods, a thermal ski top, and two jumpers. It’d be cold on the ride. She padded downstairs in her stocking feet, hoping to be quiet enough not to attract her mother’s notice again. In the front hall, she pushed aside her school bag and rummaged until she found her jodhpur boots among the clutter. She grimaced as she shoved her feet into the slightly clammy interiors. She had meant to put newspaper in them on Wednesday to absorb the damp, and now she was stuck with the result of her oversight. She grabbed up her hard hat and was out the door, giving Tory’s ears an affectionate pull.

  The farrier was in the yard with her father and Artie, who was holding Mr. Hardcastle’s bay hunter.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Boyne,” Catriona said, for she liked the blacksmith. He explained things while he worked.

  “And how are you today, Catriona Carradyne?”

  “Saddle up the Prince, Catriona,” her father said without giving her time to respond.

  “I quartered him for you, Catriona,” Artie said in an aside as she passed him, and she smiled her thanks. With the pony already groomed, she could just saddle up.

  “If this fella keeps on losing shoes,” the farrier was saying, “there’ll be no hoof left to set any nails in, Captain.” He held up the bay’s off fore and pointed to the series of old nail holes and the clinches torn out by the last loss.

  “There’re only two more hunts this season, John, and I’ve nothing else Hardcastle could manage on a hunt. A summer at grass will set the hooves to rights.”

  Catriona hummed as she got the Prince’s tack down. She tested the string girth, selected brushing boots, and paused by the over-reach bells. But they were only going for a hack, not a jumping lesson. Though if no one came with her, she might sneak the Prince in for a run down the jump alley. Blister was nowhere near as exciting to jump as Ballymore Prince.

  The Prince farrupped happily when she entered the stable and butted at her hand for the treat she usually had for him, but she’d been scolded for nicking stale bread.

  “Those horses are fed far too well,” Bridie had complained. “They don’t do anything for us, but the hens’ll lay better for a crust or two.”

  Catriona patted the Prince’s arching neck and then unbuckled his rug, automatically folding it the long way before sliding it off into the manger. Then she began to tack him up.

  Ballymore Prince was a bay, of that marvelous shade not quite “blood” and certainly not mousy, superbly set off by his full black tail and mane. He had beautiful conformation, this delicately boned miniature horse, being of quite different stock from the blunt Blister. There was considerable power in the Prince’s hindquarters, deceptively so. The pony could clear a barrier four feet high and a bit or a six-foot spread without a bother to him. His head was his best feature, almost classic in its fine line and proportion, with well-set liquid brown eyes, often rolling white preparatory to some mischief, and rather large but shapely ears. When Catriona started to put the brushing boots on his hind legs, he messed about a bit, but then he always did.

  “Stannup!” She growled it the way Mick or her father would, and the Prince stood. She buckled on her hat, took her gloves from her waistband, and led the pony out.

  Without skipping a word of his reply to John Boyne, Michael Carradyne stepped over to check the saddled pony. He gave Catriona a brief smile and the nod to mount, watching her with slightly narrowed eyes. To a nervous rider or an erring groom, that look could be unnerving. Catriona checked her girth, hoisted it up one more notch now that she was mounted, and then waited quietly.

  “A moment, John,” her father said, placing one hand on the Prince’s neck. “No canter work today, Catriona. Keep him at a good working trot, on the bit and rhythmic.” He cocked his head warningly. “Three laps of the Ride. You can take the jump lane tomorrow before Sean gets here, but today I want this pony between the aids and working hard.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she replied, and pressed her legs to move the Prince off.

  He began to fuss instantly, and her hands resisted his attempt to career out of the yard. She was up to all the pony’s tricks and only wished that Sean were, too. The Prince was so easy, really, to manage.

  She heard her father take up his discussion with John, although she was aware that both men watched her until she turned out of the yard and right toward the ride. As soon as she had the Prince’s full attention, she gave enough with her hands to set him off at the prescribed working trot.

  The Prince was eager, and he tossed his head, resisting the conservative pace, his teeth clattering agai
nst the vulcanite bit. She could feel him gathering his hind quarters and checked him, gently. He’d get chucked in the mouth enough tomorrow when Sean rode.

  The Tulip, hearing hooves on the ride, bugled a challenge and charged right up to the stud railing. He shook his head and great curved neck with its full black mane at the impudent pony passing his domain.

  “Hello, Tulip, how’s she cutting?” Catriona said, not losing her rhythm. She thought he looked gorgeous, even if his off side was muddy from a recent roll. He shook his head at her again, extending his neck and whinnying, stamping imperiously with a front foot.

  The Prince tried to lengthen his stride, but Catriona kept a firm grip on the reins and her legs tight against him: she could almost see the white of his eyes. The Prince was terrified of the Tulip.

  “He could eat the Prince in two bites,” Mick was fond of saying proudly of the great old horse, “and that’d learn the little sod!”

  Once past the Tulip, the Prince was willing to settle a bit. Despite his fractiousness and displays of terror, the Prince was a pleasure to ride, a challenge Catriona thoroughly enjoyed. He had a smooth even trot which was the result of many hours of work by Catriona and her father. Before they’d turned to face the sea, gun-metal gray in the waning afternoon light, the Prince was on the bit and listening, aware that this rider could make him obey.

  The Ride, as it was called, had been created by Tyler Carradyne and followed the perimeter of Cornanagh. It was a good track, nearly two miles long, from which the stones had been carefully pried, with a surface that changed from grass, to peat, to shavings for firm footing. Three smaller paths branched off the main ride on the longer northern side of the property. One of the smaller paths was dissected by a variety of jumps—some fences could be adjusted in height, others were fixed—and the small stream that flowed through Cornanagh Stud had been slightly diverted and dammed to provide a water jump a third of the way down the course. The longest of the extra tracks was a measured five furlongs. The shortest followed a zigzag up and down the natural ridge running parallel to the main ride.

  Catriona and Blister had had many exhilarating afternoons chasing up and around the various tracks, sometimes with Mary, who would hack over on her pony. But today Catriona was riding work, and she was far too responsible a rider to alter her instructions. She held the Prince at the working trot speed, counting it out occasionally—one-two, one-two, one-two—to be sure of the rhythm. The sun was bright through the stark branches as she turned on the sea side of the Ride, catching glimpses of the dull gray water through the bare trees. The Prince’s ears twitched at the sunlight, but they were soon behind the thick ditch hedges again. One-two, one-two, one-two. She gave the jump track the merest glance as they passed its entry. The Prince reacted to the opening, but she pressed her left leg in, and he obediently yielded away from temptation.

  “Tomorrow, fella,” she murmured, and his ears wigwagged at the reassuring sound in her voice. One-two, one-two.

  He leaned into the left again as they neared the ridge track and then dropped behind the bit a moment in disappointment. One-two, one-two. One of her father’s maxims was that you always schooled a horse even when you were just out hacking. What was the point of working a horse in the menage to achieve the perfect pace and gait if you let him go any which way on track or road? A well-schooled horse should always be on the bit, except for those moments when he was allowed to stretch at the walk, relieving his back muscles.

  The most beautiful part of the Ride, Catriona thought, was the beech alley, a double row of trees that must have been planted by the very first Carradynes, for their trunks were immense, their first branches twenty feet up. She felt very small on the fine-boned show pony as they swung up the Ride under the massive beeches, past Mick’s cottage, then Bridie’s, toward the front of the main house now as they finished the first lap. So that the Prince would not get a mistaken notion that one circuit was their work for the day, Catriona reined him in only when they were well past the entrance to the stable yard. Then she slowed him to the walk, critically feeling for the smoothness of the transition from one gait to the next.

  “Good boy, Prince, that’s a good boy,” she said, slapping the curved neck. She loosened the reins to give him a chance to stretch but kept the walk active. Not that that took much doing; the Prince was active under any circumstances. As proof, he began to edge to the left, putting as much distance between himself and the terrifying stallion as the track would allow. “And the Tulip’s gone in, so you don’t have to spook at his paddock.” She straightened him.

  6

  THE light was waning as they finished the third lap, and the pony knew he’d been worked. Just at the stable yard gates she dismounted and snagged a handful of the late winter grass as a treat for him. Munching contentedly, he walked obediently beside her back to his stable. With a swatch of straw she worked the saddle marks off his back before she rugged him up. He butted for a head rub: his left ear always itched. She complied.

  “Catriona, we need help feeding,” her father called, and she gathered up the tack to put it away before she lent a hand with the feed buckets. “You’ll clean that tack before dinner?” her father added as he gave her the pony feeds. She nodded, wondering if there’d ever come a day when he realized that she knew the routine without reminders. But then he even told Mick what to do, so it wasn’t as if he thought her especially feebleminded. Catriona might not always understand why she did certain things in school, but around horses, her comprehension verged on the instinctive. She knew the wheres, whys, and whens of stable management.

  However, cleaning tack made her arrive at the house just as Bridie was serving up the dinner.

  “Where have you been, wretched child? Your auntie Eithne’s away, and your mother only just back from one of her meetings, and no one to set the table, and the good plaice nearly burnt to a crisp with me seeing to everything all at the oncet. Didn’t you know you was to help me?”

  Catriona looked frantically at her saddle-soap-stained hands and dashed for the kitchen sink.

  “Not there! Oh, spare me,” cried Bridie, lashing out at Catriona with her dishcloth to drive her away from the sink.

  “Now she’s contaminatering my taties. Was there ever such a girl?”

  When Catriona entered the dining room after a cursory wash in the loo, she found the table set and everyone in their places, waiting for her. She slid into her seat, keeping her eyes down. She just knew there was a frown on her mother’s face. In fact, her mother gave a particularly authoritative sniff, but her father broke the silence first.

  “I’ll expect that tack to be well cleaned, Catriona, not skimped.”

  “I did it and took the mud off the brushing boots as well, Daddy.”

  “Michael,” Isabel began, “you know how Bridie fusses if she’s not helped with the tea, and Eithne had to drive to see her father . . . .”

  “You were here.”

  “I was not, Michael. Mairead Sims called a meeting of the hospitality committee.”

  “I see,” Michael Carradyne replied in the tone of voice that plainly said he wasn’t to be bothered with domestic problems.

  “Michael!” Isabel’s soft protest told volumes about her dismay and her continued martyrdom to horses. She served the fish, showing her disapproval of her daughter by giving her the smallest piece, one with a charred tail.

  Actually Catriona liked burned bits and ate them all, though she pretended to sulk about the penance. She’d probably have to do the washing up by herself, but the Prince had gone so well for her that she really didn’t mind.

  “The paper says that milk producers are to get an extra two shillings a gallon,” Isabel remarked to begin the evening’s dinner conversation.

  Catriona tuned out her father’s polite reply and lost herself in wondering which route they’d take the next day at the Willow Grove hunt. It would be a scent drag because, as Mick was fond of saying, the real foxes were too smart to let the dogs catc
h them. Indeed, they hadn’t started a fox in years. Billy Evans rode good lines—dragging a bag of rags redolent of fox spoor for the hounds to follow—so it could be a fast hunt even if they went through Calary Bog, where the going would be very heavy and slow everyone down. Not that that wasn’t a good idea because it was a Saturday hunt and likely all the Grafton Street Harriers—as the locals contemptuously styled businessmen who hunted on the Saturday—would be out. There’d only be the St. Patrick’s Day hunt on Tuesday left of this year’s season. Then a few weeks’ break, and the spring show-jumping season would get into swing. This would be her last hunt for 1970, so she wanted it to be an especially good one.

  In a way, it was too bad that her cousin Patricia couldn’t get here for hunting—at least to see a hunt move out, always a thrilling moment for Catriona, no matter how the hunt turned out. But perhaps it was just as well, for it wouldn’t do for Cornanagh to turn out a rider who might disgrace them. She must remember to tell her father that Mary had offered her old pony, in case Patricia needed a bombproof mount.

  She tuned back in briefly to the dinner conversation, but it had moved from milk to the Troubles up in Ulster, and she didn’t like hearing who had killed whom and how the whole exercise was bloody useless.

  Friday evening she was allowed to watch telly. Though there was seldom a program she wanted to see, she watched up to the nine o’clock news because she was allowed. Then she was glad to retreat to her room. That afternoon she had remembered to draw the drapes, and her room was warm enough for her to read for a little while. Mary had loaned her a new Pullein-Thompson book about horses: Catriona found non-horse books a real chore. She finished a chapter, turned out her light, and went to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day for Cornanagh’s stables.

  Saturdays—and Sundays, too, for that matter—Catriona was awake even before she heard her father thump on her door. One of these days she might actually open the door before he had a chance to knock, just to surprise him. Would he find it amusing? However, if Michael Carradyne found her prompt appearance at the breakfast table pleasing, he gave no indication, merely nodded at her. It occurred to Catriona, in a flash, that she hadn’t realized before that her father was as given to significant nods as her mother was to sniffs and Auntie Eithne to sighs. When she got old enough to have such habits, which would she pick?