The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Can I trust you to plait four hunters this morning?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she replied eagerly as Bridie served her porridge. “Which ones?”

  “Black Bess, Jacko, Flirty Lady, and Stormy. I want you to take the Prince out first, a lap at the trot and a controlled—mind you, controlled—run of the jump alley. Do not”—Michael Carradyne waggled an admonitory finger at his daughter—”do not let him out.”

  “I won’t, Daddy, I know what he does to Sean if he gets the wind up.”

  Michael gave his daughter a long, appraising look, then smiled at her. “You’re a good little rider, Kitten,” he said with a rare display of affection. “That pony’s wasted on Sean.” He pursed his lips as if regretting his indiscretion.

  Catriona grinned at him. “Don’t worry, Daddy.”

  “Minx. What have you been doing to upset your mother? She says you’ve the manners of a tinker.”

  “Only on a horse, Daddy.”

  Michael Carradyne tipped his head back and laughed aloud. “What else does she expect of a Carradyne? C’mon. We’ve a lot to do before the hunt starts.”

  Mick and Artie were feeding the horses when father and daughter emerged from the house. Barry was bringing the trailer, hitched to the tractor to speed the mucking-out, as Catriona swung the Prince out of the yard. The pony danced, taking great exception to the tractor’s menacing appearance, while Catriona, laughing, sat down to his antics. Finally she urged the Prince out and down to the Ride to give him his warm-up. The Tulip came charging up to the paddock rails to see them on their way.

  They were barely back into the now tidy yard when Catriona heard the throaty sound of a heavy car, gearing down to make the turn into the yard.

  “That’ll be Sean and his father,” Michael said, and Catriona was sure there was a trace of impatience in the set of his jaw. If Sean found his lessons with Captain Carradyne a trial, so did the captain. “Give him a bit of a brush before you bring him out, Artie.”

  Artie, catching Catriona’s gaze, winked at her. They both felt sorry for the Prince on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

  But she had hunter manes to plait. She got the mane comb, packets of rubber bands, and the old stool and started with Flirty Lady. The mare could be difficult, and Catriona wanted to be sure that the plaits were perfect because she was in awe of Selina Healey, Flirty’s owner. Catriona knew that her mother was rather chuffed that Mrs. Healey, who had been Lady Selina Worthyn before her marriage, kept her hunter at Cornanagh. Such connections mattered to Isabel Carradyne.

  What mattered to Catriona was that Mrs. Healey was a superb horsewoman. Even her father said so. She had a deep seat, a light hand, and an instinct for her volatile mare’s sometimes outrageous behavior. The woman never faltered in the field, no matter what the obstacle, even the ditch at Glenealy. Flirty Lady had never been known to refuse and was exceedingly clever in getting herself and her rider over any jump.

  Catriona had never actually heard Mrs. Healey make a single remark to anyone. She would appear promptly at the hunt, accept a leg up from either the captain or one of his sons, smile graciously, and move off. Consequently Mrs. Healey retained every ounce of glamour that Catriona accorded her. And, unlike some of her father’s clients, Mrs. Healey’s accounts were always paid by return of post.

  So, Flirty Lady received Catriona’s best plaiting effort. Despite the care she took with each, she was finished before Sean’s lesson ended. And since Jacko and Stormy were in the top yard, some of her father’s louder commands to Sean were completely audible. Occasionally she winced for the Prince’s sake, as the orders confirmed her notion that the lesson was not going well.

  “Stop chucking him in the mouth, Sean. Give with your hands. Small wonder the pony refused. Give! Give!”

  That was more than Catriona could abide. She ducked into Auntie Eithne’s side door, up the steps to the first story, and she had started into Auntie Eithne’s bedroom when a strange sound caught her attention. The door to Owen’s bedroom was open. She could see his naked back, and he was exercising in the strangest way, rocking back and forth. Whatever was he about? Then Catriona caught sight of the second occupant of the bed: a girl underneath Owen, her dark hair loose on the pillow and the oddest expression of concentration on her face.

  Abruptly aware that she ought not to be here, ought not to be witness to what was happening in Owen’s room with his mother away, Catriona abandoned her idea of overlooking the lunge ring from her aunt’s room and slipped down the steps as soundlessly as she could.

  She was busy grooming Blister when her father, Sean, and the sweating pony returned to the bottom yard. Sean was white and rebellious, and her father wore his firm-lipped look. He signaled for Artie to take the pony and with a motion of his hand indicated that the pony was to remain tacked up. Artie nodded, with a look of pity for Sean as he turned away. Then her father, one arm about Sean’s shoulders, escorted him back to the main yard.

  As soon as the high-powered Mercedes had left the premises, Father was back in the yard, calling for Catriona.

  “I want you to take Prince over the fences in the lunge ring. Carry a stick and don’t let him away with anything. Now, Catriona.”

  She nodded, not quite looking at her father because she could tell that he was furious. She knew perfectly well that he was not annoyed with her, but she hated her father in this sort of a mood. Equally, she disliked the damage to the Prince, undoing her careful schooling of the past week.

  The Prince tried to run out at the very first upright, but she was waiting for just such an attempt and gave him a sharp crack with her stick. By the second fence he was on the bit again, reassured by her kind hands and firm seat. He actually enjoyed the last obstacle.

  “That’s enough, Trina,” her father called from the entrance. He didn’t sound quite so tense, and obediently she circled the pony.

  At noon they all took time off for a bowl of Bridie’s thick lentil soup.

  “It’ll keep you warm hunting,” she said, watching sternly until everyone had finished.

  The first to appear for his horse was, as usual, Mr. Hardcastle. No sooner was he mounted up and out of the yard than Jack Garden appeared with his American relative. Barney Camwell was appropriately dressed for a hunt, but all his clothes looked new and the boots so stiff it was a wonder he could walk in them at all.

  Catriona watched as Mr. Camwell had to be practically hoisted into the saddle by the combined efforts of Jack Garden and her father, the man laughing all the time as if this were the greatest lark. Artie, who was holding Jake’s head, shot her an exasperated look, which he quickly erased at a scowl from Michael. Just then the other owners arrived, and there was a bit of a scramble to get everyone mounted. Catriona barely had time to collect Blister and mount before the cavalcade started off, her father leading Mrs. Healey’s mare, with the American paired off with Mr. Hardcastle and Philip on Teasle behind them. Catriona brought up the rear. Blister snorted and tossed his head. He knew perfectly well where they were going, and Catriona gave him an affectionate slap for his high spirits. It was a beautiful day, and it was going to be a good hunt. At least for herself, Catriona amended, watching the American bounce all over the saddle as they trotted up the road. Poor Jake. He’d be back sore tonight.

  Mary was waiting for her at the pub on Champers, her black pony. They both dismounted to give their ponies’ backs a bit of a rest while they watched the adults mounting up. The two daughters of Mr. O’Brien, the master of the hunt, who were assistant whippers-in, were collecting the cap money and chatting vivaciously with the better-known members.

  Mrs. Healey arrived, parking her red Lancia sports car just beyond where the girls waited with their patient ponies. As always, she was properly dressed for the hunt, her long blond hair netted neatly under her hard hat, her stock blazingly white with a pretty jeweled pin securing it, her jacket and jods without a speck on them, and her custom-made long boots polished to perfection. Mrs. Healey was also weari
ng a clear red lipstick and just a hint of blue eye shadow to emphasize that color in her gray-blue eyes.

  Catriona and Mary were equally impressed by her smart turnout. If only one of them could grow up looking so elegant, so tall and willowy slender . . . . Then Michael Carradyne led up Flirty Lady, and Mrs. Healey, her head just visible above his shoulder, walked up to the near side. She gathered the reins quickly and took a graceful leg up into the saddle, smiling her thanks as Flirty Lady began her usual excited dance about the verge.

  “It’s a big field today,” Mary said, surveying the assembly. “Over a hundred, I’ll bet.”

  “Almost the last hunt of the year, and a fine day,” Catriona replied. “What else would you expect?”

  “You ponies,” said a whipper-in, coming up to them on her big bay, “mind yourselves now, and don’t get into trouble.”

  Catriona agreed meekly, but Mary muttered, “We’re less likely to get into trouble than those Saturday experts. And she knows it, too.”

  “Isn’t that what she means?” Catriona replied, giggling.

  She swung up on Blister’s back just as the hounds were released from the horse van and had to restrain the eager pony from rushing forward. Mary had a time holding Champers in as well, but eventually the hunt streamed away after the master and the whip, and they were able to let the ponies move out in the wake of the longer-legged hunters.

  “Oh, great!” Mary cried as the hunt was led up the road. “We’re going Calary Bog way.”

  Catriona was equally delighted, for there’d be some good runs across the high plateau fields behind Sugar Loaf Mountain. There’d be ditches, not as big as the ones on the Glenealy Hunt, but respectable and certainly easy enough for a poor rider like Mr. Camwell. Jake’d see him safe. If he lasted.

  They went up the steep road and down the other side, right into the bog, and the hounds followed the drag, yapping excitedly. As they reached the top of the road, the two girls could see the hunt field spread out below them, the master’s red coat visible half a mile away and the white of the hounds’ patches as they leaped low gorse.

  Catriona looked for and found Jake, cantering along by her father and Mr. Hardcastle, Mr. Camwell evidently holding his own, though he rode like most Yanks, feet straight out in front of him, hands higher than they should be, and his reins far too long. Then Mary and Catriona had to concentrate on the course as the ponies went full pelt down the slope.

  Blister was enjoying himself, too, on this clear, crisp March day, to tell from his high blowing. He charged down the slope and took the first ditch out onto the road, falling back to a trot before banking the next obstacle neatly. Ahead of the two girls, horses were already flying the next ditches and out across the long field to the top of Calary Bog. Then down the far side, where the hedgerow was thicker, and across another field, a trifle soggier going for the big horses so that the lighter ponies caught up with the main field. Mary grinned over her shoulder at Catriona for the pleasure of passing out adults. Catriona caught sight of her father well ahead, with Mrs. Healey to his left and Mr. Camwell, with little choice in the matter, hanging on to Jake’s mane as the old hunter traversed the next ditch.

  It wasn’t as if she were urging Blister to noble deed and a faster pace, Catriona thought, exhilarated, as she and Mary passed out slower horses. The ponies were just more able for the ground, and it really wasn’t fair to have to pull them back when they were going so well. Catriona gave Blister his head to jump the next ditch, and then they were off and running toward the next obstacle. She noticed that several of the big hunters had failed to take the ditch ahead of them and were circling for a second try. But, as she was only a couple of strides away from the ditch, she and Blister had the right of way. She heard Mary call out, but not what she said, and turned her head left to see what the matter was. She could feel Blister gathering himself to take off.

  The next thing she knew she was thumped to the ground with the breath knocked out of her. Blister screamed, high-pitched and terrified, almost in her ear. She heard Mary cry out, and some instinct prompted her to roll as a horse came down just where she had been. The roll hurt her left arm terribly, but then Blister’s continued screaming blocked out everything else. She got to her feet, still dazed, her eyes not quite focusing. Then she found Blister. He was trying to stand and couldn’t. He was trapped in the ditch, trapped with both front legs broken. Someone began to scream, and it wasn’t until much later that Catriona realized it was herself. She flung her body against Blister’s neck to keep the valiant pony from trying to rise. She was only peripherally aware that another horse had crashed down into the same ditch but had struggled to his feet, reins flapping as he trotted away, his rider floundering after him.

  Catriona clung to Blister’s head, trying to reassure him, weeping bitterly because she knew there was only one thing that could be done for her lovely pony. Where was someone to do it!

  “Hold his head steady, Catriona,” she heard a voice order, and she turned her head away so that she would not see the pistol. The bullet might have thudded into her own skull, for she felt the impact through the pony’s neck. Then Blister slumped, and she screamed again, for his head pinned her left arm to the bank.

  Someone lifted the weight from her and began to ease her gently out of the ditch.

  “There now, child, take my hand,” said a crisply kind voice. Blinded by blood and tears, Catriona tried to comply, but her left arm wouldn’t move and she couldn’t see the proffered hand.

  “For God’s sake, Captain, leave the tack, man. Help your daughter.”

  Someone was mopping at her forehead then, and suddenly Catriona could see Mary, her round face pale and terribly anxious, and there were a lot of people crowding around her.

  “It certainly wasn’t the child’s fault, Michael,” the kind voice was saying. “She had the right of way. He rode right across her path. Lucky she wasn’t killed, too.”

  Catriona wanted badly to lie down. She knew she was swaying on her feet.

  “At times, Michael Carradyne, you are an insensitive bastard. Here, hand her up to me. I’ll bring her to the road. Head wounds always bleed profusely. There. That’ll hold.”

  Someone had bound up her head, and she was able to see better. Then suddenly, she felt her father’s arms about her. She cried out because he caught her sore arm. The next moment she was seated across a saddle and pressed against someone who smelled faintly of lavender.

  “Easy now, child. We’ll have you safe and warm.”

  “You’re Mrs. Healey,” Catriona said wonderingly.

  “Why, so I am,” the voice said, laughter running through it. “And you’re a very brave little girl.”

  “No, I’m not,” Catriona said in a wail. “I’ve just lost my pony.”

  The horse began to move forward, and Mrs. Healey tightened her grasp on Catriona, inadvertently pressing the broken arm so tightly that Catriona fainted.

  7

  THE only one who really could have understood how keenly Catriona missed Blister was Mary. And girls Mary’s age weren’t allowed in hospital . . . unless they were sick. And no one told Catriona why she was kept in hospital once they had put seven stitches to close the cut on the back of her head and splinted her arm. The doctor told her that it was only a simple fracture and would mend in next to no time.

  The nursing sisters told her that her father and mother had both been in to see her the evening before, but she’d been asleep from the medication. Catriona was aware of several meaningful glances exchanged by the sisters, winks and nods, and she worried that she’d said or done something wrong.

  That afternoon her mother brought in her schoolbooks. “As it’s only your left arm you’ve broken, you can still write and do your preparation.”

  Catriona thanked her mother, but she had no enthusiasm for anything, much less schoolwork. She leaned back against the pillows and sighed.

  “Your head doesn’t still ache, does it, Catriona?” Her mother’s tone was u
rgent, and Catriona felt her mother’s moist warm hand on her forehead. “I should never have let your father take you hunting. I really am going to have words with him.”

  “Was he very angry?” Catriona winced, thinking of poor Blister. She could still feel the thud of the bullet.

  “He was furious! Raging! I heard”—Isabel leaned forward and lowered her voice since Catriona was in a ward with three other women—”that he had a terrific argument with Jack Garden. He oughtn’t to blame him because his American relative was so inexperienced. Apparently, Mr. Camwell just got back on Jake and rode on, totally oblivious to what he had done to you and that poor old pony. Your father was livid. He took the horse away from him and made him walk back. Needless to say, that didn’t set well with Jack Garden, either. I do wish your father would control his temper.” She sighed.

  Catriona rested her head back on the pillows, wondering if it was a sin to be pleased that Mr. Camwell had had to walk back down from Calary in stiff new riding boots. She still didn’t quite know what had happened, and it was no use asking her mother.

  “Did you know that Mrs. Healey came all the way into the hospital with you?”

  Catriona opened her eyes in astonishment and noticed a little flush in her mother’s face.

  “Mrs. Healey?” Catriona was distressed. She’d have got Mrs. Healey all bloody.

  “And the flowers are from her as well.”

  Catriona had noticed the little bouquet, bright with narcissus and orange tulips and some white blossom, but as she’d never been in a hospital before, she’d thought flowers were part of the services. Her mother located the card.