The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  The final wall, beautifully decorated with urns full of flowers, was deceptive. And high. She went up to it: it had to be four feet, for it was as high as her shoulder now and would probably go up for the final round. Oh, well, she had often jumped Prince that height.

  Others were now inspecting the course, and she watched those who were pacing between the fences. She counted their strides, checking her own assessment.

  “How’s the course?” Mick asked her when she returned.

  “Well.” Catriona thought it over. “Nothing that the Prince hasn’t jumped at home. Just in a different order.”

  “Then where’s the lad?” Mick grumbled. “The captain told him nine sharp so they could walk it twice if need be. And he’d need to.”

  There was now considerable activity about them in the boxes of all the jumping ponies. Catriona craned her neck towards the entrance, looking for Sean’s stocky figure. What she did see pleased her far more: Mrs. Healey, stylish in an elegant gray wool suit, coming their way between her father and another, heavyset man. The man was walking with his chin up so that he was looking down at everything. Her father, his tweed hat at a jaunty tilt, was smiling at something Mrs. Healey had just said. That made Catriona feel even better. Maybe this would be a good show, and Teasle’d bring a big price. Cornanagh needed a bit of luck today.

  “David, this is Catriona,” Selina Healey said. “Catriona, this is Mr. Healey.”

  He gave a brief smile, looking anywhere but at her. “My sympathies, Catriona, on your terrible loss.”

  Catriona murmured something polite and felt obliged to curtsey.

  “I told Mr. Healey how very grateful we all are for Selina’s help over the last few days,” her father said, placing a gentling hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

  “Very grateful,” Catriona murmured.

  “The least I could do,” Selina said, smiling reassuringly at her.

  “Well, now, Selina, Carradyne, I’ve an appointment.” David Healey glanced at the very expensive gold watch on his wrist as if to prove that he had to leave. “This damned bank strike! Hope you prepared for it, Carradyne?” When her father nodded solemnly, he plowed right on. “Calm heads are needed, sensible compromises. Could go on for months. Obstinate bastards. Ruin the country. Well, I must be off. Keep an eye on her, Carradyne.” He favored them all with a quick smile before he leaned down to kiss his wife’s cheek—just the way her mother had always kissed her father in public, Catriona thought.

  Selina turned to them and brightened as he strode off. “Oh, you’ve got the Prince looking splendid, Catriona, Mick.”

  “I caught Artie leaving the cafe, Mick, and sent him to help Philip,” her father said. “There’ve been two people inquiring about Teasle.”

  “Teasle looks marvelous today with all the show polish. Not that he’s a patch on the Prince.” She winked at Catriona, then dropped her voice. “Ah, and here is young Sean, the sheep to the slaughter.”

  “Selina!” Michael said.

  She reorganized her expression but winked again at Catriona. “Oh, Lord, will you look at the delegation?”

  They all turned and saw the gaggle of fashionably dressed adults that followed Sean. Catriona made herself as invisible as possible to one side of Mrs. Healey. Mr. and Mrs. Doherty, whom she knew, the grandparents, and three business gentlemen beamed and looked about them as they proceeded down the aisle. There were loud guffaws as the entire party had to wait for a fractious pony to be led out.

  “Trina, as soon as I’ve taken Sean to walk the course with me,” her father said in a low voice, “take the Prince to the practice ring and work him in. Got your hard hat?” She nodded, for she was dressed properly in jods and boots and a white shirt, wearing her new anorak. Her father wouldn’t permit jeans even if she was only work-riding the Prince. Then the Doherty contingent was upon them.

  Catriona had to endure yet another spate of condolences and Sean offering her his moist and fleshy hand to shake, muttering something about being so sorry for her.

  “Well, and how’s the Prince today, Carradyne?” Mr. Doherty said, rubbing his hands together. “Going to make us all proud, eh, Sean?”

  Catriona wished she could like Mr. Doherty because he always paid the livery bills on time, but he had an alarmingly florid face and thick fingers like sausages. He looked stuffed into his tweed jacket. His wife was indulging in light conversation with one of the businessmen. He looked as if he were afraid a horse would drop something on him, and Catriona sort of wished that one would.

  “As you see,” Michael Carradyne gestured toward the pony, who was ducking his head, trying, Catriona thought, to get his tongue over the bit. The dropped nose band Mick had just tightened made that impossible.

  “He’s so elegant,” Mrs. Doherty said. “That should impress the judges.”

  Her father gave Mrs. Doherty a reassuring smile, forbearing to mention it was performance that mattered.

  “Sean is number twelve, and they’ll be jumping in numerical order. Sean, we’ll be off to walk the course. This way, Bob, Aisling, gentlemen.” Thus her father began to shepherd the group out of the stable block.

  Giving the others a head start, Catriona and Mick then led the pony down, one on either side of his head. He went quietly enough.

  There was by now a respectable number of spectators strolling about the Show Grounds. Catriona could see her father’s tall figure, Sean and Mrs. Healey beside him, as they made their way to the pocket entrance of the Jumping Enclosure. Then Mick was giving her a leg up, and she could feel the tension in the pony.

  “Nice and easy, Cat. Don’t let him get flustered. Sean’ll do that right enough.” Mick always sounded disgusted just before a competition: his way of warding off evil. Once in the practice ring, she began to trot Prince quietly around the outside track, sparing a glance for the other ponies. She recognized some of the northern riders now, and they were really the ones Sean must beat. The Prince was behaving, Artie’s lunging had helped settle him. She indicated she wanted to take the jump next and trotted him up to the crossed poles, gave with her hands as he jumped it, then let him canter on a few strides afterward before bringing him back to the trot again.

  Someone came out to raise the top pole, but the next jumper rolled it off. His rider gave him what-for, but Catriona thought he’d dropped the contact two strides out, so what else did he expect?

  The clock on the tower was a tick away from ten. Teasle’s class was about to start, too, in Ring One, and Philip would be warming him up.

  She put the Prince back into a trot and then, in her turn, took him neatly over the fence, changing the rein and coming back over the fence the other way. Then she saw her father and Sean, just the pair of them at the rails. She reined the pony in and nodded to Mick to open the gate for her.

  “He’s grand and easy today, Sean. Artie lunged turn good this morning. You’ll do just fine,” she said.

  Sean swallowed, jerked at his right sleeve where his number was tied, then took the reins she offered him.

  “Catriona’s right, Sean, you’ll do just fine. Those fences are just like the ones you’ve been jumping all spring on the Ride.” Her father gave him a buffet on the shoulder and held the Prince’s head as Sean mounted.

  Catriona was not the only one to see the pony prick his ears forward at the change of riders. Please, Prince, she thought, give Sean a break for once.

  “Just trot him around, Sean, and then in your own time jump the practice fence,” her father said.

  “Isn’t it pretty big?”

  “No bigger than the one you were jumping Saturday. All the open space here makes everything seem bigger than it is. Just pretend you’re jumping down the alley.”

  As Sean nudged the Prince forward, Catriona noticed Mick’s raised eyes and her father’s almost imperceptible shake of his head behind the lad’s back.

  “Captain”—Artie was beside them, pointing toward Ring One, where the horses were now filing in—“them men
want to know more about Teasle.”

  “The Italians?”

  “Well, they’re foreigners. Phil says would you come. And your brothers is here, too.”

  “Damn!” Her father looked at Sean, trotting collectedly around the practice ring.

  “Sure, go on, Captain,” Mick said. “They’re only up to number six. Catie’ll beckon you when we’re called.”

  Her father went off with Artie, and Catriona crossed her fingers for Teasle. She saw her uncles over at Ring One, leaning on the rails by Mrs. Healey and her cousins to watch Teasle’s class.

  Oops, the Prince was bucking. She heard Mick’s swift intake of breath and held her own, but, for a miracle, Sean managed. He wasn’t really such a bad rider, she thought; all he lacked was self-confidence.

  Then the steward was calling number twelve, and Sean looked about him with frantic indecision. Mick gestured for her to go fetch her father and went to the Prince’s head, walking beside the pony into the pocket, to be ready for his turn to jump.

  When she found him, her father excused himself to the Italians. They looked very prosperous, festooned with binoculars and cameras, and she also thought they were horsemen, the way they were focusing their attention on horse bodies and legs rather than on riders.

  She and her father got to the pocket in time to see Sean trotting the Prince into the ring. Catriona stole a look at the intense concentration on her father’s face. She felt the same way.

  Sean did remember to salute the judges, though the nervous bob of his head was far too quick to be proper. He remembered to canter the Prince in a wide settling circle until the starting bell. He seemed to remember the course with no hesitation, looking on to the next fence each time he landed. He even managed to check the pony as they came round to the treble, and he didn’t chuck him in the mouth once as they came down the final stretch. It was then Catriona realized Sean had a death grip on the pony’s mane. And his eyes were closed.

  Her father moved forward as the steward flung the gate open, and the pony dived for a familiar face.

  “You did very well, Sean, very well indeed, a good clear round,” her father said, clapping the Prince on the neck in approval. “Good lad.” Catriona wasn’t sure if her father meant the pony or the boy.

  Then Sean opened his eyes, his face white.

  “Down you get now.”

  “I gotta go. Where can I go?” The last word was slightly anguished, and her father, one hand about Sean’s shoulders, guided him quickly out of the pocket.

  Mick ran the stirrups up and threw the sheet over the pony, who was still dancing about with excitement. “Walk him, wouldja, Cat? I’ll just pop round and see how it’s going for Philip with your father occupied so.”

  Catriona walked the Prince, patting his neck and telling him what a grand fellow he was to take Sean about so cleverly, and he was to do it again. Mick returned, grinning broadly.

  “Them Italian characters don’t look at any other horse. I watched ’em good. Now, up you get on Prince and back into the practice ring. If he starts to charge, collect him. You know how he tends to flatten over fences at speed.”

  By the time Mick signaled her to bring the Prince out, her father was again in deep conversation with the Italians.

  Philip was just being pulled up in second position when Mick signalled her to bring the Prince out. Sean, waiting in the pocket, still looked awfully white.

  “Sean, that was such a great round. I knew you could do it. Go in there and show ’em all!” She grinned up at him.

  “You’ll do just great, Sean,” Mick added.

  “I don’t see the captain.” Sean glanced wildly about him.

  “He’s coming, Sean, he’s coming, but you have to go in now,” Mick said, and gave the Prince a whack on the rump. The pony spurted forward, leaving his rider behind in the saddle, and then they were in the Enclosure once again.

  Catriona wrung her hands together as the Prince charged past the starting line; beside her Mick was groaning. She wasn’t sure what happened then because she could only see Sean’s back and the Prince’s high-held head as they went over the jumps. Sean must be glued to the reins, chucking the pony in the mouth over every obstacle. Then the pony came across the arena for the treble, and she could see that she was right. But the Prince was jumping, and he wasn’t going to let a little thing like a paralyzed rider stop him. Sean did remember to steer a bit, enough to keep the Prince in the proper direction. Otherwise the pony did it all. He clattered back into the pocket, looking exceedingly pleased with himself.

  “You did it, Sean, you did it.” Catriona was jumping with relief and delight, slapping the Prince’s neck as Mick hauled him to a stop. “I’m so proud of you, Sean.”

  “Open your eyes,” Mick growled, and Sean unsquinched his face enough to peer about him.

  “What happened?”

  “Another clear round, that’s what happened!”

  “Shit!” Sean said in a half wail, finally dropping the reins and clapping his hands over his face.

  Mick clouted him on the knee. “No need for language, boy.”

  “Oh, shit!” Sean said much more softly as Mick led him and the pony to the right of the pocket gate, behind the huge number board. Catriona followed. Sean slipped out of the saddle and was promptly sick in the corner.

  Mick was utterly disgusted, but Catriona glared at him so fiercely that he didn’t make any comment. Mick threw the sheet over the pony, keeping him between Sean and any observers, but most of the pocket’s occupants were far too interested in ponies jumping in the Enclosure to notice them. Catriona heard the cheers and the applause and saw Brian McConnell come cantering back into the pocket, a huge grin on his face.

  “Can I get you something, Sean?” she asked. He was still leaning against the wall, his shoulders hunched. Then he heaved again, and she looked away. “Everyone is so proud of you. Two clear rounds, that’s the very best you and the Prince have ever done.”

  Sean’s reply was to vomit again, and she could see that he was shuddering violently.

  “Mick,” she said softly, pointing to the retching boy. Mick mouthed words, the sort he wouldn’t ever say out loud, and looked urgently over his shoulder as yet another pony returned to the pocket.

  Then the announcer informed the audience that there were seven clear second rounds, and the next one would be against the clock. He listed the fences involved in the jump-off and added that the final jump would be the wall, now at five feet two inches. Would the first contestant please enter?

  “Christ, what’ll we do?” Mick demanded, regarding the shaking boy. “He couldn’t even hang on.” Suddenly Mick looked very hard at Catriona. The next moment, he had circled the pony in by Sean. “By God, you’re tall enough. Quick. Take his jacket off. A mercy you’ve jods and boots on. Here. Stuff this in your front.” Mick thrust a wadded stable rubber at her. “You’re much thinner than he is.”

  Catriona had long been accustomed to obeying Mick, particularly Mick giving crisp and unequivocal orders. Sean had not soiled his hacking jacket. She wrenched his jacket off and threw her wind cheater over his shoulders. The stable rubber took up some of the slack in the front of the jacket, and when she buttoned it, it fit well enough. Just then number twelve was called. Mick whipped off the sheet, swirling it over Sean, lifted her up into the saddle, and again walloped the Prince on the rump.

  Catriona moved forward with the pony, past the gate steward at such a clip he hadn’t a chance to notice the change in riders, and then into the arena. She remembered to pause and bow, remembered also to make it a nervous bob of her head, and then she circled the pony, frantically trying to recall the fences named for the jump-off. Fortunately the discarded ones had flags across them. At the sound of the bell, she aimed the Prince at the starting line and dug in her heels.

  It was exhilarating to be astride the willing Prince, with a good springy turf under his hooves, the sun warm on her back, and all the space in the world to ride. Then the Prince
was charging. She let him, knowing this round was for speed, and that she had him well in hand. The elements of the double were separated by two strides. She was glad she had watched the course being built. Then into the turn, and she and the pony were almost horizontal as she steered him around. His hooves scattered as he gained impulsion for the spread of the oxer. Then she lined him up for the triple, one stride and then two, and the pony galloped for the last three fences and the wall. It did look big! She had time to straighten him, and then they were up and over.

  Catriona didn’t stop him as they scattered back into the pocket, though she managed to avoid a collision with the pony and rider waiting to enter and still head the Prince to the corner where Mick waited, shielding a sick boy.

  As if they had practiced the maneuver a hundred times, Mick spread the sheet over the Prince while Catriona, simultaneously hauling the stable rubber out of her shirtfront, slid from the saddle to the ground. She had her wind cheater on and was draping Sean’s jacket over his shoulders when her father jogged up to them.

  “I couldn’t leave right away,” he apologized, looking from Mick to Catriona. “I heard the time, Sean, great . . . . What’s the matter?”

  “He charged over here, Daddy, and only just made it to the wall,” Catriona said, brandishing the stable rubber because she suddenly realized that the hard hat had sweated up her forehead. Fortunately her father was so concerned about Sean that he didn’t notice.

  “Sean, that was a great round! Great. Excellent time. You’ll be placed. I know it. We’re all proud of you!”

  Sean groaned and rolled his eyes, still shuddering.

  “Catriona, go get some water. Easy there, lad. I’ve sicked up myself a time or two. Excitement, that’s all. And you did great!” she heard her father saying as she scooted off on her errand.

  When she got back, Sean was looking far less green. He was walking between the two men. Mick had a very odd expression on his face, and he kept his arm about the boy. To keep him from blurting out the truth, Catriona was sure. Then the last contestant had jumped, and the announcer gave the results. Anne Lowry on Popcorn had the fastest time, but—and here Catriona could not suppress her whoop of delight—Sean Doherty on Ballymore Prince was second. In fact, she didn’t hear the rest of the line-up, she was cheering so loudly.