The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

  JEANETTE

  BAKER

  Table of Contents

  Begin Reading

  Connecticut ● New York ● Colorado

  Table of Contents

  The Lavender Field

  Copyright Notices

  Other Books by Jeanette Baker

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTERS

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Epilogue

  Copyright Notices

  JEANETTE BAKER

  The Lavender Field

  Copyright © 2006, 2012 by Jeanette Baker

  Int’l ISBN: 978-1-62071-003-6

  ISBN: 1-62071-003-X

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic means is forbidden unless written permission has been received from the publisher

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  For information address:

  Author & Company, LLC

  P.O. Box 291

  Cheshire, CT 06410-9998

  This eBook was designed by iLN™

  and manufactured in the United States of America.

  Other Books by

  JEANETTE BAKER

  Chesapeake Tide

  Chesapeake Summer

  This Irish House

  The Delaney Woman

  A Delicate Finish

  Witch Woman

  To learn more about Jeanette and

  all of her books please visit:

  www.JeanetteBaker.com

  Acknowledgements

  A very special thank-you to Janet Gardner and her gorgeous warmblood, Prime Suspect, for inviting me to The Dressage Center to view a competition. Although I changed a few details, I used this beautiful center in the heart of Moorpark’s horse country as the setting for my story.

  Also, thank you to Steve Kipper and Vladimer Tom Valter at the Jdon Andalusian Farms in Somis, California, for answering every question I could think of, and then some. The weather and the scenery couldn’t have been more perfect.

  The story of Alois Podhajsky’s valiant rescue of the Lipizzan stallions with the help of the United States Army’s 2nd Cavalry, under orders from General George S. Patton and carried out under the direct command of Colonel Charles H. Reed, is well- documented, so much so that Walt Disney was inspired to make a movie of the subject. These are truly gallant horses. That part is fact.

  The fiction begins with Franz Kohnle bringing a strain of Lipizzaners to America, and with the hypothetical Navicular Disease. The man never existed and the disease has never, as far as I know, afflicted any of the Spanish Riding School’s famous Lipizzaners.

  As always, my appreciation for my agent, Loretta Barrett, at Barrett Books grows with every book.

  CHAPTERS

  Prologue

  Vienna, Austria, the Spanish Riding School

  Seated behind the balustrade, Dr. Werner Pohl, sixty-nine years old, director of the Spanish Riding School, tall and spare as a riding crop, fixes his penetrating gaze on the lead horse in the arena. It is dress rehearsal and he is watching the final movement of the haute école. Adolphus, one of the finest stallions ever bred at the Piber Stud, moves with quiet pride, neck arched, hooves spurning the raked sand. His rider, uniformed in the rust- colored livery of the bygone Hapsburgs, sits still as stone, back straight, hands firm, eyes intent on the fluid perfection of his performance. Seven horses follow. The violins of Bizet’s L’Arlésienne Suite play sweetly in the background.

  Pohl watches the superb precision of the stallion’s movements and his heart thuds with relief. So far, everything has gone perfectly. Perhaps he is mistaken and the limp he noticed earlier never happened. More than likely it is a figment of his imagination, a result of too little sleep and the demands of an exhausting schedule. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

  Pleased that he has nothing negative to report, he is about to turn away when something catches his eye, a movement, flawed, out of place, definitely unrehearsed, so quickly recovered that it seems as if it never happened. But it has. This time there is no doubt. Once again, his star stallion, Adolphus, shortens his stride, stumbles and is pulled back by his rider.

  Leaning back against the red velvet balustrade, Werner Pohl closes his eyes. Pain, searing and complete, consumes him. Another one down. How many more to follow? It is a rhetorical question. He is a trainer, an instructor, not a veterinarian or a breeder. He will consult with Heinz Lundgren at the Piber Stud.

  Piber, a nine-hundred-year-old village fifteen miles from the hub of Graz, has been home to the Stud since the end of World War I. Lundgren, a slight man in jodhpurs and wire-rimmed glasses, manages a staff who provides for approximately one hundred and fifty Lipizzaners.

  Pohl finds him in the pasture surrounded by mares and their foals. They are nuzzling his pockets, hoping for carrots or lumps of sugar. He waves Lundgren to the road, waiting impatiently until he climbs through the fence and stands beside him. Pohl doesn’t mince words. “Adolphus has symptoms. This is disastrous. Something must be done.”

  Lundgren leans against the fence and whistles through his teeth. “Are you sure?”

  “If you mean has he been diagnosed, no. But he stumbles. His gait is unsure. He rests with his weight on the toe.”

  “How many is that now?”

  “All of them, Heinz, every stallion over twelve years.”

  Lundgren looks at the ground. Werner Pohl is a legend when it comes to training and showing Lipizzaners. He can feel the older man’s pain. “What can I do to help you, Dr. Pohl?”

  “We must make this stop. We must infuse new blood. We cannot train a stallion for eight years and have him ruined before his prime.”

  “New blood is possible,” Lundgren says slowly, “but it will take time. We don’t know if the problem is inherited, or if it is due to conformation.”

  “Both are the results of inbreeding.”

  Lundgren frowns. “I wish I had an immediate solution. But these are Lipizzaners. Of course they are inbred.”

  “We’ve eliminated the ram head. We can eliminate the caudal heel.”

  “The ram head was eliminated by selection within the race,” Lundgren reminds him patiently. They have been down this road before. “It is a visible characteristic. Caudal heel doesn’t show up for years. Where will we find trained Lipizzaners, ten years and older, who haven’t been a part of our breeding program?”

  Both men are silent. Each knows what the other is thinking.

  Pohl breaks the silence. He speaks grimly. “We have been very patient with Franz’s son. I think it is time to remove the gloves.”

  “We should leave politics to the diplomats,” suggests Lundgren. “Perhaps the ambassador can be enlisted.”

  Pohl grins. “I’
ve heard that California is lovely in the spring. Don’t you trust me, Heinz?”

  Heinz Lundgren fights his rising panic. Before the First World War, every court in Europe had it’s classic riding school. Now there is only one. The reputation of the Spanish Riding School must be maintained. This is a matter of the utmost delicacy. Pohl can be arrogant and gruff. He is a horsemaster, not a politician. Deciding it is worth the risk to stick his neck out, he speaks. “The ambassador will serve us well, Dr. Pohl. You are needed in Vienna.”

  One

  Lexington, Kentucky

  Whitney Benedict, only child and sole heir to Whitney Downs, Boone and Pryor Benedict’s Thoroughbred farm, reread her notes and frowned. The involuntary gesture formed a small vee in the space between her eyebrows. It was her third perusal of the draft she’d composed and she was committing it to memory. She always read her drafts three times, the first for content, the second for changes and the third to edit the changes. It was a habit she’d picked up in law school and kept throughout her twelve years of practice. Not much escaped a third read. Not much escaped Whitney.

  Carefully she aligned her pencil with the other two on her desk so that the erasers faced up and the points down. Then she stacked her papers, all nine sheets, neatly on top of one another and placed them in the righthand drawer of her desk. She had exactly four minutes before her meeting with Everett Sloane, senior partner of Barnaby & Sloane, and Robert Kincaid, United States senator and chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee. She would put those minutes to good use.

  Leaving her desk, she strode purposefully across the gleaming hardwood to her private bathroom, soaped her hands for precisely fifteen seconds before rinsing and drying them, sprayed mouthwash on her tongue, massaged her gums and reapplied her lipstick. Her hair, a sophisticated twist at the back of her head, her suit— navy, severe, expensive—and her immaculate pumps needed no adjustment. They were flawless.

  It was time. She was ready. Smiling at her secretary, she walked toward the boardroom, her heels clicking sharply on the priceless cherrywood floors. Her gait was confident, her expression serene. What would follow was a challenge she’d prepared for. Whitney welcomed challenges.

  Everett Sloane was seated behind his enormous desk. The senator faced the window. Both men rose when she entered the room. Robert Kincaid looked at Whitney and his jaw dropped. She pretended not to notice, but behind her cool smile, annoyance curled into life.

  “My, my,” the senator said in the good ol’ boy voice that won him the state of Kentucky in the last election. “Are you sure a pretty thing like you is old enough to practice law?”

  Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Whitney’s expression change. “I’ll give it my best shot,” she said smoothly, taking the chair across from him. “Please, sit down, gentlemen.”

  The two men resumed their seats. “Whitney’s specialty is international law,” Everett Sloane explained. “She’s the best there is. If she can’t get the job done, no one can.”

  Kincaid rubbed his fleshy hands together. “Well, then. What’s the plan?”

  “The plan,” Whitney replied smoothly, “is to remind Mr. Mendoza that not only will he become a millionaire many times over, he’ll also be contributing to a timeless legacy.”

  “What if that doesn’t work?”

  Whitney allowed a small, superior smile. “It will.”

  “He didn’t rise to the bait before,” Kincaid said slowly. “What’s different now?”

  Whitney’s eyes met those of her colleague. She shook her head slightly.

  Everett Sloane leaned forward. “We’re not at liberty to say, Bob. It’s a matter of confidentiality. You’ll have to trust Whitney on this one. If she says Mendoza will take the money, he will.”

  “Hell, I say we just confiscate the damn horses,” said Kincaid. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

  Sloane stood and walked around his desk to the fully equipped bar. “Care for a splash, Bob?”

  The senator grinned. “If it’s bourbon, I won’t say no.”

  “Whitney?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got a few more hours to put in after this.” She nodded at Robert Kincaid. ‘To answer your question, Senator, the Lipizzaners belong to Mr. Mendoza. He is their legal owner. The last of the stock brought over by Franz Kohnle died long ago. Gabriel Mendoza is under no obligation to sell his horses. The ball is in his court. I’d like to proceed cautiously.”

  “Whose side are you on, young lady?”

  No one on the receiving end of her charming smile would have guessed that it was calculated. “The winning side, Senator. That is the point, isn’t it?”

  Robert Kincaid sampled his bourbon and sighed.

  “Mighty good, Everett, mighty good.” He turned his piercing gaze on Whitney. “If Everett chooses his employees the way he chooses his liquor, I’m sold.”

  “Whitney is a partner, Bob,” Sloane reminded him gently, “not an employee.”

  “I don’t care if she’s Sherman’s granddaughter, as long as she brings us those horses. I need all the positive strokes I can get, if you know what I mean.” He shifted his eyes to the senior partner. “Do we understand each other?”

  “We do.”

  Kincaid drained his glass and stood. “Well, then, I’ll be on my way. Keep in touch, Everett. I’ll expect updates.”

  “You’ll have them.”

  Whitney watched him leave. “So much for southern gentlemen.”

  Everett chuckled. “He’s one who still believes a woman’s place is in the home.”

  “He’s insufferable.”

  “He’s not the issue. I don’t have to tell you what it means to the firm to do this one right. I’m sorry about your vacation, Whitney, but I meant what I said to Kincaid. You’re the best we’ve got. We’re counting on you.”

  She stood. “You won’t be sorry.

  “Has Mendoza gotten back to you?”

  “We have an appointment on Tuesday.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Whitney closed the door behind her. Luck had nothing to do with it. Luck wasn’t reliable. Hard work, research and the right price were her preferred negotiating tools. They hadn’t let her down yet.

  Whitney Downs Thoroughbred Farm

  When, precisely, did Whitney turn difficult? I think back, recalling her formative years, and still it escapes me. I’m her mother. I should have seen the signs. Not in my wildest dreams would I have believed my agreeable child would grow up to be the cause of such frustration.

  Pryor Benedict dispassionately studied the words she had written only yesterday on the first page of her journal. It was one of those lovely leather-bound ones with the gilt edges, the kind only the best stationery stores offered. Pryor didn’t believe in using a computer. There was something about the process of actually forming the letters with a black fountain pen and watching the words take shape on thick, cream-colored paper. In her opinion, people used computers far too much. What was wrong with handwriting or books, for heaven’s sake? What could be more satisfying than curling up on the couch, turning pages at one’s own pace, lingering over a particularly fine passage?

  Seated on a spindle chair in front of the eighteenth- century secretary that had originally belonged to one of her ancestors, she stared out the window into the blue twilight. Fireflies seeking refuge from a sudden burst of blood-warm rain swam around the smeared gold light of the porch lamps. They were early this year. She loved watching them flit about, awed by the amazing resilience of the little bugs whose lives were spent over the course of a single day. They were indigenous to Kentucky, to home, just as much as the sight of spring foals munching on summer bluegrass, their legs so long and delicate and bone-thin that it didn’t seem possible they could hold their own velvety weight.

  Pryor was proud to admit that she was a homebody. Her heart never failed to lurch when, after a day of shopping or volunteering at one of her endless charities, she turned down the long, dirt-packed road bordered wit
h white rail fences and lined with ancient oaks that led first to the house, then to the barns of Whitney Downs. The Thoroughbred stud farm had been her family’s lifeblood for more than a hundred years, ever since the first Whitney crossed the Kentucky state line, smelled the loamy dark earth, rich with lime and carpeted with blue-tinted grass, and dreamed of raising horses.

  Pryor didn’t consider herself a horsewoman. Not that she was afraid of horses. No Whitney had ever been afraid of them. Growing up, and in the early years of her marriage to Boone, she spent most of her time helping out in the barns. She still rode, of course. There was nothing like an hour or so in the saddle every day to keep a woman lean-hipped and flat-bellied. But ever since middle age had crept up on her, she no longer had any interest in mucking around the stables, even those that housed Thoroughbreds valued in the millions. She wanted time to relax a bit, lunch with friends, take up golf and spoil her grandchildren, if only Whitney would come up to scratch.

  Pryor had put off beginning her memoirs for quite some time now. There was no need for haste. She was only fifty-eight and of sound mind and body. But she’d always believed that one shouldn’t delay something important until the final moment. When better to start a journal than when one had something to say? And Pryor certainly had something to say, although she would rather eat dirt than voice the words she had just written about her much loved daughter. There was no point in hurting the girl’s feelings. After all, Whitney didn’t work at being difficult. But it didn’t seem quite fair to Pryor that her only daughter, a child who’d never caused anyone even a hint of trouble from conception through her eighteenth birthday, should have turned out the way she had. No. It simply wasn’t fair.

  Once again, she read the words she’d written. The sentiment was true, but the tone wasn’t completely accurate. She made it sound as if Whitney was a failure or something close to it. Pryor prided herself on accuracy. No one in her right mind would consider Whitney Benedict a failure. Disappointment was a better word. That was it. Whitney had disappointed her, and not for the first time. It was a condition that occurred with more regularity than it should have, considering the fairly typical circumstances of her upbringing. She’d been such a biddable little girl, so sunny and sweet-tempered, with her Alice in Wonderland looks and gracious manners. If only she hadn’t been gifted with such a remarkable intelligence quotient.