The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Catriona is not the right age for that class, Pat,” Michael replied firmly.

  “So who’d know?”

  “I would. That sort of subterfuge may be practiced in the States, but it’s not the way I conduct affairs at Cornanagh.”

  Eithne noticed that Catriona was unable to finish her gateau, although the girl had eaten a very hearty tea. As Catriona was quiet by nature, and Patricia talkative, not even Mick noticed that she was silent as they readied horses, ponies, and tack for the two-day Galloping Green show.

  They pulled out of the yard at nine-thirty in the morning, since the Galloping Green venue was a scant fifteen miles away, just beyond White’s Cross on the main Dublin road. Once again the lorry as well as the two-horse box were needed, for the two ponies had their jumping competitions, and mares and foals would be judged this first day of the show.

  When they arrived, the mares and foals had to be unloaded first: Lady Madeline had a bucking fit and narrowly missed her foal, who was white-eyed with apprehension and trembling nervously. It took the combined efforts of Mick and Artie to calm the little filly down while Michael lunged the fidgets out of the mare. Then they had to rub the sweat marks dry and get her settled.

  Catriona was pleased to see that Tulip’s Son walked placidly down the ramp, although he stared about him with pricked ears and an occasional high snort. “Like a crown prince surveying his realm,” Patricia said in approval. Placid as always, Frolic paced beside him.

  “Pat, Trina,” Michael called, and the two girls trotted over to him. “I want you girls to go over to the entries caravan, get your numbers, and have a look at the course. At least this show is starting on time, and the l2.2s are already jumping. And Pat, I expect you to behave yourself. The ground here is rock hard. No bounding about, no charging fences, spare the ponies. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Don’t forget,” Catriona muttered as her father went off.

  “Oh, Gawd!” Patricia turned on her cousin with a scowl. “I’ll take it from him, but not from you, cousin dear—Miss Perfect, who always does exactly what she’s told!”

  With that scathing retort, Patricia turned on her heel and strode off toward the entries caravan. Catriona stared after her, then walked slowly back into the horsebox and threw her arms around Conker’s neck. The Prince extended his neck toward her, rubbing his nose against her arm to offer consolation. Conker stood without moving, lending her the support she craved.

  Patricia couldn’t know just how deeply her snide accusation had cut, coming right after another disturbing revelation. For Catriona had a worry chasing around and around in her head since last night. What would happen if her father ever found out that she had ridden the Prince’s speed round? Her mind revolved unceasingly around this agonizing question and emerged each time with two wounding truths: she had done something her father would deem unforgiveable; and she was not the meek and obedient girl Patricia thought her.

  The horsebox was hot and stuffy, but its odors gave Catriona an odd sense of safety. The noise of a show swirled outside from every direction, horses whinnied and kicked, dogs yapped, grooms cursed, lorry engines rumbled . . . and suddenly her name, anxiously called in Patricia’s clear loud voice, cut through the nearer sounds. Then she heard Mick’s voice raised in query.

  “It’s where she’s likely to be,” she heard him say, as he grew closer. Giving herself a good shake and Conker a final pat, she opened the door.

  Mick had his hand raised to the door handle, and Patricia, two pasteboard numbers trailing their ties in her hand, looked surprised.

  “How long have you been there?” Mick demanded.

  “Not long,” Catriona said. “I heard some kicking and thought it might be the Prince. You know how he can be sometimes.”

  Patricia gave her a long hard stare. “I thought you’d at least stand in line with me at the entries’ caravan. I couldn’t imagine where you’d got to.”

  Mick gave a snort. “Where else but with the ponies!” He turned and beckoned to Artie, who trotted over. “Now, no time to waste. Artie, get in with Cat and take the Prince. I’m to lunge him to see if that won’t settle him. Pat, make yourself useful and get me the lunge line from the lorry. Artie can help Cat tack Conker.”

  Once the Prince and Conker had been led down the horsebox ramp, Catriona really didn’t have time to fret herself. She got Conker saddled while Artie did up the plait that had come loose and oiled his hooves. Pat went off with Mick to lunge the Prince, who kept up an urgent whinnying at being parted from his stablemate. Conker’s ear twitched, but he didn’t reply.

  “You’re too well mannered, so you are,” Catriona whispered to him.

  When she was in the saddle, Conker between her legs, it was easier to forget everything but the job at hand. If she did exceedingly well on Conker, maybe her father would be able to forgive what she had done on the Prince, if only . . .

  Then she saw her father leading Frolic and Tulip’s Son back, the large red first rosettes fluttering from their headstalls. The colt, his near-black coat gleaming in the sun, continued to behave like a visiting princeling, contriving to look as if he were walking an inch above the rough meadow grass. Michael Carradyne was grinning.

  “Hop off Conker, Trina, and help me load these two! You should have seen this little fellow! He’s the consummate ham. Just like his sire!” He gave the colt a congratulatory slap.

  Catriona obediently secured Conker to the lorry with a spare lead rope and then held mare and foal while her father opened their partitioned space in the lorry. Frolic, tail swishing, ambled placidly up the ramp and into the stall. Tulip’s Son, however, was not eager to be penned up again and hauled back on the lead rope, nearly pulling Catriona off her feet.

  “Don’t let him go, Trina!” her father said in a low but urgent voice.

  “There now, who’s a silly boy?” Catriona said soothingly, going hand over hand up the taut lead rope. The colt regarded her down his aristocratic nose with white-rimmed eyes and flaring nostrils. “You’ll be thirsty, and wanting a bit of lunch now, won’t you? And you with such a pretty ribbon.” She had reached his head now and gently touched his velvety nose. She blew into his nostrils, and all of a sudden he relaxed his opposition.

  “Take the ribbon off, Trina. That may be spooking him, blowing across his face.”

  She removed it, talking all the time and stroking his neck and shoulder. She looped the lead rope properly, with a double twist of the end around her left hand, and took a firm hold on the cheekpiece of the leather head collar.

  “Now, up we go. C’mon, fella. Mother wants you.”

  She felt the resistance and gave the barest of tugs, while he snorted, his left eye rolling white to see her.

  “You’re some tulip, you are! Walk on.”

  As if he’d been waiting for exactly that command, Tulip’s Son set his dainty hooves on the ramp and scampered up beside her. With the smoothness of long practice, she unclipped the lead and slid out of the stall while her father closed it securely, sighing with relief.

  “You handle him with a great deal more expertise than Owen did. I think I’ll have you show him with me from now on,” he said. “Better get going. The 12.2 class was just about over. I’m waiting for Phil and Owen, but I’ll see you later.”

  The 13.2 course wasn’t difficult, not even tricky, since this was not a qualifier: not one of the twelve fences could cause either Conker or the Prince a bit of bother. But the ground was rock hard, ruts baked into the surface. A hoof placed wrong, and a pony could stumble on landing. Catriona fervently hoped that Pat would obey her father. The concussion would be brutal, and it just wouldn’t do to have the Prince laid up with bruised soles or sore legs.

  There weren’t as many Northern entries to this show, but there were hordes of girls and boys her age and herds of ponies of all shapes and abilities entered in the 13.2 jumping competition. She and Conker, the twenty-fifth pair in the event, were only the third to go clea
r. Then, as Patricia put it, things began to pick up, and more clear rounds were achieved. All in all, it took two hours before every first-round contestant had had a chance.

  There were a mere eighteen entries in the second round and only six fences, each four inches higher now but spaced to make awkward turns in the final speed round. Catriona and Conker were once again the third double clear.

  “Well, someone else has to go first, so you’ll know what speed you have to beat,” Patricia said with some satisfaction.

  Catriona kept her eyes on the other competitors, trying to decide which pony looked speedy and agile enough to cut seconds around impossible corners. She had decided where she and Conker could make up a few seconds.

  Then she was in the ring again, making her bow to the judges and cantering Conker in a circle until the bell sounded. She felt Conker’s impulsion build as she turned him for the start. She dug her heels into him as soon as they were past the electric eye of the timer, and he responded with such a surge that he took off a long way from the first fence of rails; but he lost no time in the air, answering her pull on the reins to land already turning on his off fore. He made the next turn on his haunches, forefeet suspended briefly before he plunged forward. She could feel the jolt of the ground under them as he took the first element of the double, two strides and then out again. Instantly she angled him toward the wall, and they flew out across it. Once again Conker came down hard enough to rattle her teeth, but she kicked him on—the faster they went now, the sooner it was over.

  She had only to angle him slightly to the left to put him in line with the rustic; over that, and then the barrels. Once again Conker seemed to suspend himself a moment over the jump, and then he was scampering for the finish. She heard Patricia’s cowboy yell and felt like answering it. She almost did when the announcer gave her time as 23.4 seconds, a full two seconds under the best so far.

  And this time, she won. If only Selina were there with her father, she thought how pleased she’d be, watching Conker’s sedate lap of victory. Then, as she reined him back to a trot, she caught her breath, acutely aware of the unevenness in his stride. She pulled him up as soon as she could and dismounted. Holding her breath, she picked up the foot he had favored, the off-fore pierced by glass on the day she had not opened her door to her mother. She choked back tears of remorse as she felt her father’s presence.

  “I’d say it might just be the hard ground, Trina,” he said, tapping the hoof with his pocketknife. The pony did not react to the test. “Walk him out.”

  She did, and he walked sound, but when she trotted him back she felt the same hint of unevenness.

  “What’s wrong?” Pat demanded.

  “Probably nothing. But remember it when you’re riding the Prince,” Michael advised. “Are you on the board yet?”

  “Yeah, I’m nineteenth to go, and we got here early, too.”

  “Let’s load Conker in the lorry, Trina. Then, when the yearling class is over, Mick will drive him back and stand him in the stream a while.”

  As it happened, both Cornanagh vehicles pulled out of the show grounds at the same time. Patricia misinterpreted her uncle’s directions and forced the Prince to go slow. Struggling all the while to get his head, the pony racked up a total of fifteen faults before Patricia realized her error and allowed him to finish the course without interference.

  “These things happen,” Michael commented philosophically when she drew up beside him, red-faced and anxious. “The perils of competing. You’ll do better next week, Pat. Off you go now, and load him up. Then we’ll be off.”

  As Michael watched Patricia walk the sweating pony up the hill to the horsebox, it struck him that her unflagging exuberance might be having a bad effect on Catriona. The girl certainly hadn’t been herself today, despite her faultless performance on Conker.

  Eyes narrowed thoughtfully, he walked away to join Philip and Owen, who were showing the yearlings for him since he’d had to be on hand for Patricia’s class.

  26

  THE next day Conker exhibited no further unevenness, but to be on the safe side, he was kept in. Catriona gave him a thorough grooming, an attention he always enjoyed.

  Michael called the girls over when he was ready to leave with the horses to be shown that day. “Now, Patricia, I’ll want you to take Annie . . . .

  “Can we hack out?” Patricia asked eagerly.

  “On the Ride only. That little horse must be worked very, very carefully, d’you understand me?”

  “Yessir!”

  Michael cleared his throat. “And Trina, I want you to school the Prince for me.”

  “Oh, Gawd!” Patricia looked down. “I really goofed yesterday, didn’t I?”

  “As well you realize it.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze to take the sting out of the reprimand. “Two laps at the working trot, Trina, and then I want you to take him up the jump alley, calm, controlled. I’ll be back before Mrs. Comyn arrives at five.”

  “Good luck, Daddy, Pip,” Catriona called as her father hauled himself beside Philip in the lorry cab.

  “C’mon, Cat,” Patricia urged when they’d gone. “It’s going to be hot today. And those flies are unbelievable! Let’s ride now before they all wake up.”

  To Catriona’s intense relief, Pat was fairly quiet when they were riding. Of course, she really enjoyed riding Annie, which was obvious by the kindness in her hands and voice. Annie’s ears flicked back and forth, and she seemed to respond as quickly to voice commands as to seat and legs. Someone had schooled her well. The Prince, however, needed restraint today as much as Annie needed encouragement, and Catriona had her hands full throughout the hack.

  Bridie had announced at breakfast that she wasn’t cooking any big dinner just for three women—there was plenty to pick from in the fridge. However, she was still in the kitchen when Catriona and Patricia got back from their ride. Scrumptious odors wafted out the open window. They could also hear the old cook muttering under her breath, so they quietly went to change their clothes and attend late Sunday Mass.

  Bridie was gone when they returned, but they found a plate of sandwiches and a warning that they weren’t to go rooting about the kitchen in her absence.

  “She’s baked up a storm for Mrs. Comyn,” Patricia said, sniffing appreciatively.

  Catriona nodded, hopefully interpreting Bridie’s preparations as a good sign as far as Mrs. Comyn’s visit was concerned.

  Patricia decided to write a letter to her parents in the lounge, so Catriona had her room to herself. She took out her sketch of the Tulip and her father. She wanted to have it finished, and framed, as her birthday present for him. If it turned out well.

  Taking out her drawing pencils and eraser, she began to make a few judicious corrections. She was rather pleased with the Tulip’s graciously inclined head, the pricked ears—the Tulip had had lovely ears, just like his son did—the arch of the proud full neck. But she hadn’t quite the same skill with human bodies. Her father’s shoulder looked . . . well, misshapen somehow. With a frown of concentration, Catriona went to work.

  Twenty minutes before five, the lorry turned into the yard, triumphantly sporting three red and two blue ribbons above the windscreen. Sybil pulled into the courtyard not three minutes later while her father was rattling off quick orders to Mick, Philip, and Owen before he dashed up for a quick shower and change.

  He was just coming down the stairs when he heard Tory’s frantic barking and saw a brown vintage Morris Minor pull into the courtyard. Sybil came out quickly to control Tory, and Michael also noticed the flick of the kitchen curtain that meant Bridie had had a look, too. Then Eithne joined Sybil to usher the woman into the house, and he met her in the hall, guiding her to the drawing room.

  Mrs. Comyn seemed far more at ease than he felt. She took in the room, and the view out the front windows, with one shrewd, appraising glance, then accepted the Victorian chair Michael held for her. There was nothing obsequious in her manner, despite what Eithne had told
him of her reduced circumstances. She wore a neat gray dress, white cotton gloves, beige stockings with gray leather pumps, and a straw hat trimmed with a gray ribbon. She’d been a handsome woman when she was younger: she had smooth skin, a direct gaze in her gray eyes, and a generous mouth. Her hair was more white than gray, cut short but not exactly what he’d call styled. He couldn’t judge her age.

  “You do realize, Captain Carradyne,” she began, “that I have no references to offer you, never having been employed in any capacity before.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, and she spoke with an educated accent.

  “Mrs. Comyn was, however, often the chairman of several administrative committees within the ICA, Michael,” Eithne said with a nervous smile. “And Rathderry House is larger than Cornanagh and so beautifully appointed.”

  Mrs. Comyn inclined her head graciously at the compliment. “What duties would be required, Captain?” she asked.

  “Actually, Mrs. Comyn, what we need is someone to take over complete management of the house,” Sybil said, giving her father a reassuring grin. “My aunt has her own home to care for, and while she’s been marvelous at turning to, it’s not really fair to impose on her good nature. If you’re accustomed to running a big house, it’d just be more of the same. Dad may be a tyrant in the yard and the menage, but as long as he’s got hot meals, a clean bed, and an orderly house, I’ve never heard him complain.”

  “We have someone to do the heavy cleaning and laundry,” Eithne added, “and, of course, Bridie—Mrs. Doolin, that is— does the cooking.

  “Does Mrs. Doolin do the marketing?” Mrs. Comyn asked.

  “Not anymore,” Sybil replied. “She was never safe behind the wheel of a car, and anyway, Mother preferred to do the shopping. Would you mind?”

  “I venture to suggest that it would be wiser to follow established routines, and I would naturally discuss menus with Mrs. Doolin or . . . ” She turned politely to Michael.

  “Oh, Dad’ll eat anything, Mrs. Comyn, that won’t eat him.”