The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Then she’s not mad about Conker?”

  “Not a bit of it. And first thing I did this morning was check out the menage. Dirt clean!” Then Artie made a face: he made very funny faces without half trying, for he was a bone-thin, gawky adolescent. “The Prince’s saddled,” he added. “Don’t worry, Cat, Conker’ll be sound soon enough.”

  The Prince could wait a moment. She had an apple for Conker that she had filched from the bowl. Endearingly, he nickered when he identified her step on the cobbles of the yard. With delicate bites, he eagerly reduced the apple to moist crumbs, which he then licked from the palm of her hand.

  Saturday, her father had her riding Teasle as leading file for Sean on the Prince. Catriona had ridden Teasle the odd time or two and had actually been the first human weight on his back. Nevertheless, it was an unusual but not unpleasant sensation to have so much horse under her after Conker and the Prince.

  She didn’t notice that Mrs. Healey was watching the lesson until it was nearly over. She was dressed for riding, wearing a blue quilted Husky instead of a hacking jacket, but contrived to remain as elegant as ever.

  “Teasle works well for you, Catriona,” Mrs. Healey said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Healey. If you’re here to ride Charlie, may I watch?”

  “Turnabout’s fair play, isn’t it?” she replied, smiling up at Catriona as she patted Teasle’s damp neck.

  Just then Mick came up, Charlie ambling placidly behind him, a bitless training head collar festooning his head and the old breaking saddle on his back. Catriona thought that in deference to Mrs. Healey, they could have used a slightly better saddle. That one was hard as bricks to sit in for any length of time.

  Mick took Teasle as she was heading for the stable, and, thanking him profusely, Catriona ran back to the menage. She slowed as she reached the end of the passageway and sidled quietly to the corner, out of the way.

  Mrs. Healey stood beside Michael Carradyne in the center as he began to lunge the horse, paying out the wide-webbed lunge line until Charlie was on a thirty-meter circuit, the line taut to the ring on the cavesson nose-band.

  The process of breaking and backing a young horse had always fascinated Catriona. She remembered standing quietly by her grandfather in this same spot during other introductory sessions. Of course, in those days, she had had no real understanding of what she was watching, though she still remembered some of the spectacular sessions with the Tulip’s high-strung progeny.

  For a young horse, Charlie had an amazing sense of balance, his hocks well engaged so that he was already using himself properly, a knack many horses had to learn through long and tedious drills. He was moving from behind, and his strides were so easy that he seemed to be gliding effortlessly, with that subtle little extra flick to his fetlocks, an innate grace that was certain to please show judges. Although her father’s plans for Charlie had not been discussed with her, she knew what would be routine for the young horse over the summer and for the next year, for it was the sequence that Cornanagh followed with all its animals in the hope of attracting buyers and extracting from them a premium price for the “made” horse. One day someone would offer her father the money he wanted for Charlie, and he’d be sold on, as Teasle hopefully would this summer, maybe even this spring at the show, if he showed to advantage. Abruptly, Catriona realized she did not want to see Charlie sold on. If she could only grow some leg over the next few months, she’d be able for Charlie.

  She caught her breath and bit her lower lip. How could she be so disloyal to Conker? But Catriona had learned to be a realist about horses, and Conker was getting on in years. It wasn’t fair to make horse or pony work past its usefulness. And oh, the Charlie horse would be a dream to ride.

  Her father began to talk Charlie from trot to walk and then to stand. Charlie had already learned not to turn in to his handler and stood, head turned to watch for commands, perfectly square on the track. Collecting the broad lunge line hand over hand, Michael Carradyne walked to Charlie and patted his head, murmuring encouragements. Then he led the gelding to Mrs. Healey.

  “Trina, come here. We’ll want an extra hand, just to be on the safe side.”

  But Charlie never moved as Michael Carradyne gave Mrs. Healey a leg up. She lay over the saddle for a long moment while both she and Michael slapped Charlie along the flanks and sides and moved the stirrups against him, all motions designed to familiarize the animal with human activity around and about him. At a word from the trainer, Mrs. Healey slipped back to the ground and praised Charlie.

  “Up and over this time, Selina. Hold him steady, Trina.”

  Again an unnecessary command, for even when Mrs. Healey sat up properly straight in the saddle and slipped her booted feet into the stirrups, Charlie just stood, ears pricked, eyes ahead of him, relaxed and completely unperturbed.

  Catriona and her father walked beside the gelding as he was led back and forth in the center of the menage. Then her father began to pay out the lunge line.

  “Give him a leg aid, Selina, get him used to the pressure. Trina, walk at his head on the outside now. Don’t let him swing in.”

  After two full circuits, Catriona was dismissed from that duty as Charlie was gently persuaded to trot. All he did at that command was to snort a bit, toss his head, and quicken into the trot.

  “He has the loveliest movement,” Selina Healey said, a delighted smile on her face. “Like silk. Oh, he’s going to be a joy to show. I’ve been riding hunters too long. And just look at him arch his neck. Michael, this horse is a consummate ham.”

  Walk. Trot, walk again on the other rein. Trot, walk, halt, walk, trot.

  “That’ll be enough for today. His back needs to strengthen up but he’s coming on a treat, Selina. A real treat!”

  No sooner had Mrs. Healey dismounted than the older Doherty appeared in the archway, wanting principally to be reassured that Sean had a very good chance of winning the Wednesday class. Then, after he had been adroitly handled, Barry appeared from the potato field to say that the cattle had broken the fence at the stream, the farrier had arrived for the weekly shoeings, and Sybil was on the phone, wanting a word with her father.

  “Doesn’t the man ever have any time off?” Selina Healey asked as she and Catriona led Charlie back to the yard.

  “My grandfather used to say that you never had time off if you worked horses: only the horses did.”

  Selina smiled down at Catriona. “C’mon, I said that I’d change Conker’s poultice.”

  As Artie had noted, Mrs. Healey did know a thing or two about veterinary. She and Catriona fixed the poultice and rebandaged Conker, the last part under the approving eye of Michael Carradyne.

  Her father ran expert hands down the bandaged foreleg, then asked, “Catriona, would you pull the Prince’s mane? It’ll be too thick to plait neatly. And give him a good grooming. I want his coat to shine.”

  “Let me help,” Selina Healey said.

  “My dear Selina,” Michael began, pausing only when he saw the eager look on his daughter’s face and the entreaty in Selina’s.

  “No, really, Michael. David’s away north, checking over his holdings there in case the banks actually do strike. Do you think they will?”

  Michael shrugged. “If they do, they do, though it’s an idiotic notion considering the Republic’s finances.”

  “Got all your money in the mattresses?”

  Michael stared at her a moment and then, throwing back his head, roared with laughter. “Even the tinkers use banks, you know.”

  “That’s what I like in you, Michael. You get on with the job at hand and let tomorrow take care of itself.”

  “If you work with horses, that philosophy saves you a great deal of needless worry.”

  “C’mon, Catriona, I need a mane comb.”

  The Prince had a thick mane, the tough strands able to inflict thin, painful wounds. Mrs. Healey made her use a glove on her right hand and showed her a trick of snatching a few strands only. Then
they also thinned his thick tail, considerably improving his general appearance.

  “Do all your brothers ride?” Selina Healey asked Catriona as they worked.

  “Yes and no. My grandfather taught all of us, and my cousins. Harry’s the best competition rider, but he’s working down in Wexford and can’t always get time off. Philip is very good, and he generally gets a good show out of a horse. He’s not quite as effective over jumps.”

  Selina Healey muffled a laugh. “Sometimes, my dear, when you’re talking about horses, you sound a hundred and one. There, now, don’t hang your head. You do know what you’re talking about. I’ve noticed that. What else does Philip do? I haven’t seen him around the yard during the weekdays.”

  “He has a very good job as a salesman,” Catriona said, “with Crawford’s in Dun Laoghaire. My mother thinks he’d do well in advertising, and she wants him to go live with my uncle in Long Island.”

  “Would you?”

  “What? Like him to go to America?” Catriona was unused to having her opinion sought. “I’d miss him,” she said slowly. “He’s such fun. He knows a lot of jokes, and he has a good seat and hands.”

  She didn’t understand why Mrs. Healey chuckled again and patted her shoulder.

  Mrs. Healey joined them for dinner at noon, and Bridie outdid herself with a thick hearty lentil soup, freshly baked bread, steak, chips, and a cream sponge cake. Nor did Mrs. Healey mind that Mick and Artie sat down with the family. In fact, she coaxed Artie into the conversation and chatted with Mick about old Mr. Mac, whom they had both known. Philip told some jokes that had Mrs. Healey drying tears of laughter from her eyes, and Michael laughed as loud as anyone. Indeed it was the most pleasant meal that Catriona could remember in months.

  “It’s only about time that someone got praise due them,” Bridie said as she and Catriona cleared the table. The cook was chuffed by Mrs. Healey’s compliments on the meal and her apologies for adding to Bridie’s work. “And she meant it. Every word of it. Lovely woman, Mrs. Healey.”

  13

  MICHAEL Carradyne felt a curious sense of anticipation as he and Selina swung out of the yard, she easy in the saddle of Flirty Lady, who was far better behaved as a hack than as a hunter, and he on the four-year-old brown gelding Emmett, whom he was shaping up for the August Horse Show.

  They went up the road to McBride’s lane, the gate open since Evans was working the big field. In a companionable silence they rode down the farm lane and on to the grass path bordering the stream. Michael reminded himself to send Artie down here with clippers, for some of the branches had grown from nuisance to hazard. They trotted from the farther gates past the farms and halted only briefly as they came on to where the old Delgany road was interrupted by an unpaved but graded stretch of the new dual carriageway. Catching Selina’s glance, Michael nodded and they set the horses to a controlled canter down the wide, curving road. They slowed in mutual accord just before the barrier that closed off the unfinished carriageway and turned the horses back, reins loose as the horses blew.

  Hoping to prolong the outing, Michael turned the gelding up Blackberry Hill, and Selina’s laugh challenged him as Flirty Lady trotted energetically past, up the steep slope. He encouraged Emmett, and the gelding obediently lengthened. Then the two were in stride together, the mare laying her ears flat back, only her rider’s firm control preventing her from swinging her head to bite the gelding for his attempt to pass her out. They reached the crest of the hill and, again in accord, pulled up the sweating horses.

  “What a heavenly day!” Selina said, removing her hard hat to ruffle her damp blond hair. “I don’t know why I stop when the hunting season ends. This is clearly the best time of the the year to ride.”

  “Well, this year, at any rate,” Michael replied, grinning, and her eyes danced back at him, appreciating the whimsies of their climate.

  “Any chance that the good weather will hold for the Spring Show?” Selina asked.

  “If it happens, I’ll enjoy it.”

  “Is that your philosophy in life, Michael?” She glanced at him sideways.

  “As a soldier, I learned to live from one day to the next, expecting only what happens. That way one isn’t disappointed.”

  “Oh, dear, that’s a rather grim way of looking at life, isn’t it? Or maybe it isn’t,” she went on before Michael could answer. “We’re always advised to live each day as our last. Such a bleak notion, that this day could be my last.” She gave him a determinedly gay smile. “Stupid, really, since I fully intend to live to a ripe and graceful old age, like my granny, who was as wise as she was beautiful, even at eighty-seven.”

  “That’s a grand age.”

  “She always said it was because she had good bones. She didn’t suffer from whatever it is that makes people’s spines curl up. She always stood, and sat, ramrod straight. She rode side-saddle until she was eighty, you know, and only quit because her favorite mare died and she never reposed the same confidence in the replacements Daddy found.”

  “My father knew your grandmother and had the greatest respect for her.”

  “Everyone did. Catriona has good bones, too, as well as an astonishingly mature outlook. I’m impressed with the way she has taken the disappointment of not riding in the Spring Show.”

  “Yes, she took that well.”

  “She’ll be a beauty when she grows up. And frankly, I think she’ll stay in horses.” She noticed Michael’s frown and misinterpreted it. “Oh, I know most girls her age are crazy about horses, but sometimes it’s not a passing fancy, and I’ll wager that’ll be the case with her. Now what have I said?”

  Michael made an effort to clear his expression and gave Selina a quick reassuring grin. “Sorry. I agree with you, actually, though it’s not really a good life for a girl.”

  “Why not? Look at Iris Kellett. Or Marian Mould and Liz Edgar in the UK. If Catriona has your backing and Cornanagh horses, she could do famously. It’s not as if she’d be stuck in some hunter yard, having to cope with idiotic beginners and cack-handed adult novices. She’s got a fine standard right now. How many Pony Club tests has she passed?”

  “Actually, none,” Michael said. “She’s not much on group activities. Tends to stay at home—”

  “Shouldn’t you say, in the yard?”

  “—with the exception of the little Evans girl.”

  “Well, she should get out more. She’s too intense at times. And mixing’s good for her social development . . . . Now what have I said?”

  “I do apologize, Selina.” And Michael was sorry—sorry that the conversation had taken a turn, that could only remind him of Isabel.

  “No, I think I should apologize,” she said, and, leaning across the small gap that separated their horses, touched his arm contritely. “I have no business discussing your daughter.”

  “On the contrary, you have her interests at heart.” Michael tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. “You appreciate her ability and her real needs. And you are right. She should get about more, and the Pony Club ties in with her interests, at least. Her cousin, my brother’s daughter, is coming to spend the summer here. She rides, but how well I don’t know.”

  Selina gave a rude snort. “Yanks!”

  “Both Catriona and Patricia can join the Pony Club. I’ll speak to the Secretary. She’ll be at the show.”

  They rode on in harmonious silence again as the horses negotiated the slippery mud of the down slope and came out onto the Delgany-Pretty Bush road. Once past the left-hand bend, they trotted up to the T junction. The children at Pretty Bush were playing a ball game in the middle of the road and, squealing, scattered to the sides of the road as the horses walked by. The sea spread out to their left, glistening blue in the sunlight. All too soon for Michael, they turned in Cornanagh’s gates.

  The yard was empty; Mick and Artie would be out checking the field horses and yearlings.

  “That was the nicest ride I’ve had in years, Michael,” Selina said, swingi
ng her right leg over the pommel and kicking her left foot free of the stirrup.

  Michael dismounted and reached up to assist Selina. She clasped his forearms as his hands circled her waist and smiled down at him as he lifted her from the saddle. He caught the scent of her light perfume, and the curve of her smiling mouth begged to be kissed. How he wanted to. Then, all too aware that he still had his hands about her waist, he released her abruptly. He stepped back and busied himself with the stirrup irons and undoing Emmett’s girth, but his hands still tingled from the feel of her. He told himself not to be an old fool.

  “Just leave Flirty Lady in her stable, and I’ll get the tack,” he said.

  “What? Mr. Mac would turn in his grave. And think what a bad example it would be to Catriona.” She led her mare to the tack room, ran the stirrup irons up, and stripped off the saddle, handing it to him.

  “Just leave the bridle outside the stall, Selina. I’ll collect it. And thank you for all your help today.”

  “It’s been my pleasure, Michael. It’s been a lovely day!”

  He smiled back at her and wished that he weren’t quite so out of practice in gallantries. With a final wave, she left the top yard. He let out a sigh for the fleeting moment he had held her in his arms, then shook his head and opened Emmett’s stable door.

  There had been nothing untoward in spending an afternoon in her company, he thought. But he reminded himself sternly that he was married, fifty-two, and had a grown family. Selina was also married and not yet thirty. He had never had much respect for men his age who got involved with younger women.

  When he heard Selina’s Lancia leave the yard, he roused himself and returned to the house, going at once to the small room on the ground floor that he used as an office. He had those bloody tax forms to complete. A self-imposed penance, he thought with a rueful grin. He must send in a cancellation for Conker, too. Because of the injury, he’d get a partial refund of the entrance monies. Every economy helped. Now, if Teasle showed to advantage and attracted a buyer, and the gelding should, he’d keep his bank manager happy as well.