The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  Catriona gulped, having recalled the strange behavior of her cousin Owen. She wanted to say yes but didn’t dare.

  “Didn’t your mother tell you anything? About conception and stuff?” Patricia was becoming concerned. “I mean, you are having periods, aren’t you?” Catriona nodded, for this was an occurrence she couldn’t very well keep secret as she was living in the same room as Patricia. “Well, didn’t your mother tell you anything then?”

  “I read the book my sister gave me. She and Auntie Eithne, even Bridie, made a fuss about . . . ”

  “How you could now be fruitful and multiply?”

  “Really, Pat!”

  “Well, do you know that you can get pregnant now? Did they tell you that?” When Catriona shook her head, Patricia drew herself up to her full height and gestured imperiously.

  “Sit down, Cat. I consider it my duty as your elder to inform you—and don’t worry about me getting it all wrong. We had a whole term of sex education in my school, and my facts are not lost in religious babble and superstitious mumbo-jumbo . . . .” And with considerable alacrity, Patricia proceeded to lecture her fascinated cousin on the fundamentals of biology and procreation.

  “It may be rude to say so,” she concluded fifteen minutes later, “but I think the Irish way of bringing up kids is pretty damned silly. No wonder they have to advertise homes for pregnant girls in the paper. It’s dangerous to be ignorant. Plain dangerous. I’m glad I’m American. Now, have I shocked you totally out of your tiny mind, Cat?”

  Catriona heard the concern in her cousin’s voice and managed a reassuring grin. “I don’t think so. But I suppose I’d’ve learned when I got married.”

  “It’s too late by then. Too late.”

  “But you’re supposed to be . . . chaste”—Catriona could not quite manage to use the term “virgin” as easily as her uninhibited cousin—“when you get married.”

  “Chased, yea,” Patricia replied, grinning mischievously. “Look, Cat, do yourself a favor. Stop thinking Catholic about sex. Think sensible, and you won’t get into trouble. Because there’ll come a time when your body’s going to respond to some guy, and you’ll want to go the whole way. And if you’re all seized up in your head about being virgin, and saving yourself for your husband, you might miss the best things in life.” Then, as if she sensed that she had dwelt on the topic long enough, Patricia announced that she was going to see if there was enough hot water for her to have a bath.

  Catriona was intensely grateful for the respite and pretended to be asleep when Patricia returned from her bath. She had quite enough to think about; Patricia’s explanation kept going round and round in her head, and it was some time before sleep finally overtook her.

  Fortunately they were so busy during the day schooling the ponies for the Mount Armstrong show that there was no time for another “heart to heart” conversation; at night, Patricia usually fell asleep the moment she hit the upper mattress.

  The Dohertys had yielded to Michael Carradyne’s persuasions, so Patricia was to show Ballymore Prince while Sean was disabled. Michael had given Patricia some intensive training and was well pleased with her willingness and determination, and especially her good nature when the Prince planted her during the jumping lessons.

  “She’s a bit hey-go-mad, isn’t she?” Selina remarked after one particularly difficult morning. The Prince had dropped Patricia no fewer than ten times in the jump alley. Each time the girl had bounced to her feet, dusted herself off, and swung back up on her mount.

  “Contact, Pat, remember your contact,” Michael had shouted encouragingly.

  “With the ground?” Pat had quipped back, shortening her reins and repositioning herself in the saddle. “I’ve had more than enough of contact!”

  But at last she managed to jump the entire alley without a run-out or a fall. She was justifiably pleased with herself and quite gratified by Michael’s “Well done, Pat.”

  Suddenly it was Friday, and time to make sure all was ready for the show the next day. As the Mount Armstrong show had many classes that qualified the winners for the August Horse Show, it was an important event. It was especially important for Catriona, since this was her first real competition (she couldn’t count that chance ride at the Spring Show, even in her most private thoughts). And, of course, all of it was “to die for” exciting to Patricia. Among the adults, Selina was leading Charlie as a three-year-old likely to make a small hunter, Philip was to ride Emmett in the middle-weight hunter, and Michael and Mick were showing Tulip’s various foals and their dams. Even Owen had to help, with so many animals to be led. The big lumbering horse lorry would have to be used as well as the two-horse box, and Barry and Mick tinkered with machinery all through the day, checking the wiring and the partitions.

  June 29th dawned clear and bright with a light breeze, and though Patricia thought it absolutely incredible that the sun was halfway up the heavens at a mere five o’clock, she set to work with a will to groom and plait the Prince and then two of the brood mares. She was neat and quick, and it was easy to believe that she had prepared Standard Breds for American shows.

  At seven, with most of the horses groomed and plaited, Bridie served them a huge breakfast, for they weren’t to muddle their insides with “chips and sausages made of who knew what offal” at the show grounds. By seven-thirty she had breakfasted them, provided each with a packed lunch and Thermoses of coffee and tea, and seen them out the door.

  Loading took a little longer than anticipated because young Tulip’s Son refused to follow Frolic and finally had to be carried into the lorry by Mick and Barry. Then one of the yearlings turned obstinate and had to be wound up the ramp by means of a lunge line tucked about his rump. But time had been allowed for unexpected hitches, and they were ready to roll out of the yard by quarter to nine.

  Michael Carradyne led, his Austin pulling the horsebox containing Emmett and Charlie, Philip as his passenger; then came Mick, driving the lorry with Artie and Owen beside him, while Selina brought up the rear in her car with the two girls.

  They met little traffic on the back roads through Tallaght to the Naas dual carriageway and reached the show grounds by ten o’clock, just as the stewards had organized some semblance of order from the early morning chaos. After some minor confusion about parking, they were bumping across the field to set down among the horse vans.

  The 12.2s were the first of the jumping classes to be held in the pony ring, so Michael Carradyne immediately sent the girls down to the entries caravan to register and collect their numbers. Then they were to stay by ring A until either he or Selina came to get them. That was easier said than done, Catriona discovered, with her ebullient cousin in a perfect frenzy of curiosity. By the time she had managed to haul Pat to the ringside, both her father and Selina Healey were there, trying anxiously to spot the wayward girls.

  “I just had to see everything, Uncle Mihall. This is the grooviest place in the world!”

  “Groovy it may be, Patricia, but when you’re riding for me, you obey my instructions. I’m certain Catriona conveyed that message to you?”

  “Yes, but she’s been to these places before. I never have.”

  “You may never again, either, Patricia Carradyne, if you do not follow orders.” He paused until Patricia assumed a properly penitent expression, then placed one hand on his niece’s shoulder, giving her a little shake. “Now, I had a word with the course builder, and it’s essentially the same, except in height, for all the ponies today. So study it well. Trina, when the second round of the l2.2s begins, you warm Conker up. We’ll be busy with the in-hand classes, so it’s up to you girls to be on time for your own. Is that understood?” Both girls nodded solemnly.

  “Will we have time to see Selina and Charlie?” Catriona asked.

  The Tannoy blared out an almost indistinguishable announcement about mare and foal classes.

  “Just listen!” Michael set off for the trailer at a run, with Selina beside him. “It’s Frolic’s t
urn,” he called back over his shoulder, and Catriona waved good luck.

  Several minutes later she saw her father and Owen leading Frolic and Tulip’s Son toward their ring and dragged Patricia away from the 12.2 competition. They found seating on a spare bale of hay at the ring’s edge.

  Tulip’s Son had shed most of his foal fuzz by now, and his very dark brown coat was almost black in the sunlight, gleaming with health and good grooming. He was certainly behaving himself with Owen holding the lead and even assumed a drum horse stance, thrusting his hind legs back from his sturdy little body, his brush of a tail flicking at the flies and his ears constantly wigwagging. Catriona watched him avidly, for his good manners were the result of her patient work, and she felt maternally proud of him.

  But the class was large and the judging process nowhere near as entertaining for Patricia as the 12.2 jumping. She began to entreat Catriona to return to the pony ring. Knowing that she had better not let her cousin wander around without her, Catriona reluctantly left before Frolic and Tulip’s Son had been put through their paces for the judges.

  However, it was Patricia who first saw the men leading the mare and foal back to the horsebox. She tore shrieking across the fields in her pleasure at seeing gaudy first-prize rosette ribbons streaming from the head collars of Frolic and Tulip’s Son. Catriona followed after her, her face red with embarrassment, wondering if there was any way she could divorce herself from her cousin.

  “Don’t shush me, Cat! Aren’t you proud, too?”

  “Of course I am! But you don’t go screaming around horses or carrying on like that because we’ve won. It just isn’t done in Ireland.”

  “Too much isn’t done in Ireland from all I see,” Patricia said with considerable heat.

  “Then why did you bother to come?”

  “I was invited—by your father. Oh, fer Gawd’s sake, Cat, what’s got into you? Oh, all right, then. I’ll behave like a well-brought-up Irish girl. But”—she waggled her finger in Catriona’s face, a smile beginning to tug at her mouth—“only because it upsets you when I come on loud American . . . and only for today!”

  Then the second round for the 12.2s began. Following instructions, the two girls hurried back to the lorry to collect Conker. Michael was not there, having gone to watch Emmett’s performance in the middle-weight hunter class. Mick watched with a critical eye while the two girls tacked Conker up and Catriona redid a loosened plait.

  “Your dad knows you’re fifth to go, Cat, so he’ll be there,” Mick said while she mounted. “Work him in in that field above the practice jump, nice and easy. Just like you was at home an all.” Mick sent her off with an affectionate slap to the pony’s neck.

  “I’m so excited, Cat,” Patricia said, trotting along beside Conker. Her eyes were shining, and her face glowed with anticipation. “Oh, this is a marvelous day! We’re going to come home just loaded with firsts!”

  Catriona sincerely hoped so and only wished she had half her cousin’s self-confidence. Then, as she bent Conker around her left leg toward the practice field, where other l3.2s were being worked in before their competition, things suddenly fell into perspective: Conker, though his pricked ears indicated his excitement, was instantly obedient to her leg aid. He was too professional a pony to let her down today. Thus reassured, Catriona dismissed her qualms; after all, she could only do her best.

  Conker worked well for her at trot and canter and popped neatly over the practice fence, even when someone’s father put it up to the four-foot mark. She and Conker flew over it, but the next rider crashed into it, and it wasn’t put up as high again. Then it was time to walk the course with her father. The first round was the same height as the final one for the 12.2s and a snap for a pony like Conker. She was fifth to go, and the round was over before she knew it: an ecstatic Patricia awaited them outside the pocket entrance, creating as if they’d already won.

  Cornanagh certainly had.

  “Selina got a first with Charlie,” Patricia told her excitedly, “and your brother a first with Emmett.—The judges thought him a really top-quality animal. Owen’s in the ring now with one of the yearlings and your father with the other. Mick says the judges are having a helluva time making up their minds.”

  23

  IT was a long wait between the first and second rounds, but Patricia remained uncharacteristically well behaved as the two girls watched the other competitors. At last the Tannoy announced that twenty-two clear rounds were to go forward. If the next round failed to provide a clear winner, there would be a third one against the clock. Catriona began to understand just how badly one’s stomach could roil in such circumstances and had more sympathy for Sean Doherty. She was much relieved when Selina and her father appeared at the ringside.

  “You’re the second to go in this round, Trina,” her father told her. “I’m sorry we missed the first one.” He gave her a proud smile and squeezed her hand. “C’mon, up you go and give him a couple of pops over the practice fence.”

  As if she could read the anxiety in Catriona’s eyes, Selina Healey walked over and patted her knee. “You and Conker are a team, Trina, remember that!” she said, her voice low. “A great team!”

  Catriona’s tension eased miraculously, and, reassured, she urged Conker forward. In his turn, Conker cleared the fence effortlessly, and the two were back at the pocket in no time, waiting for their number to be called. The first contestant of the second round flew out of the ring so close to Conker that Catriona felt the wind of his passing. That speed had cost him four faults.

  When the steward called her number, Catriona trotted Conker into the rings.

  From the moment the bell sounded until she pulled him up outside again, Catriona concentrated only on the next fence or combination to be jumped. And Conker carried her fluidly over one obstacle after another. He wasn’t at all like the Prince had been in the RDS; he was calm and listened to her the entire time.

  “You did great, Cat, just great!” cried Patricia when it was over, slapping Conker’s neck enthusiastically.

  “We haven’t won yet, you know.”

  “But you’re that much closer!” Pat was undaunted. “And look, that bay’s just clobbered himself! One more competitor gone.”

  “Pat!” Michael said, fixing his niece with such a stern eye that she subsided. “Walk him now, Trina. Don’t let him stiffen up. You’re doing just fine.”

  “I told you you were a great team,” Selina said, smiling up at Catriona and giving Conker’s ears an affectionate pull.

  As the round went on, with more riders coming to grief, Catriona found that concentrating on Pat’s babbling curiosity kept her from worrying too much about the final speed round.

  “Now, Pat, it’s time to warm up the Prince,” Michael announced, turning to his niece. “He gets excited with all the other horses and riders around, so listen to Mick and do exactly what he tells you. Don’t think you’ve learned everything you need to know about riding ponies.

  “Uncle Mihall, I’m wounded to the quick,” Pat replied, laying a hand across her chest and bowing her head in dismay. “And you told me only yesterday that I’m a vast improvement on Sean in the saddle.”

  As Michael stared in surprise, Selina laughed. “Pat, you are a complete hand! Go, get the pony, but listen to Mick! We all remember the Prince shedding Sean in that field.”

  Patricia rolled her eyes in agreement and scurried off.

  “You never know what she’ll do or say next, do you?” Michael remarked.

  “No, and that’s half the fun of her, isn’t it?” Watching her hurry away, Selina asked anxiously, “Those fences aren’t going to be too much for her, are they? She hasn’t done any competition jumping before.”

  “They’re no higher than the jump alley, and she’s gotten down that without coming a cropper.”

  Catriona caught the slightest note of doubt in her father’s voice and sighed, for Pat’s sake this time. Then she saw her cousin on Ballymore Prince, with Mick at his hea
d, walking to the practice field. The Prince was fidgety, but Patricia was sitting deep in the saddle and seemed totally unconcerned by his antics. She really had improved, thanks to hours on the lunge line and going without stirrups.

  “Trina!” Her father’s voice alerted her. “Nine clear rounds, and you’re the first against the clock.” He squeezed her knee encouragingly. “Move him on, but don’t lose your rhythm. And watch the planks. They’re the bogey fence at speed. The wind can almost knock them out of the cups.”

  At that moment the steward beckoned her to enter, and Catriona kneed Conker forward. The pony seemed to sense her urgency and entered at the canter, light in her hands but bouncing forward. Then the bell rang, and Conker knew what that meant as well as she did. They took the first fence before she was aware that they had. Rhythm, rhythm, she kept telling herself as they maneuvered at speed around the course. Conker never lost his impulsion, flowing as he surged up and over each fence, and then they were flying out of the ring with scattered clapping to tell her that she’d done well.

  “That’s a good time, Trina,” her father said, holding up his stopwatch.

  “Trina, I was never as good on Conker as you are!” Selina said, all smiles. “You seemed to ooze around the course like the pro you are!”

  “I could have made a few more seconds if we’d taken the turn tighter between the treble and the oxer . . . .”

  “Don’t analyze it all now,” Selina said, grinning at Michael. “You were clear, in a good time, and no one could fault the jumping.”

  “Yes, it was a very good round, Catriona,” her father said, “considering this is your first real competition against the clock.”