She focused, talking through the course with her more experienced colleagues.
An Olympic team rider set a tight time that would be tough to best. The next three attempted to beat him with fast and wild rounds but dropped poles. The only ones that jumped clear were slower.
Carly was second from last to go, right after the former double European three-day-event Champion, who proved how she could hold her own in show-jumping. Her smooth, confident clear took the lead as Carly, adrenaline pumping, entered the arena.
“Go for it, Vix. You can still do it,” said Beth, putting friendship before the bet.
She heard her mother’s reminder echoing in her head, “Relax, and it’ll happen. Torc can do it if you don’t chase her; just let her flow.”
She rechecked her course, knowing one tight turn remained that nobody had tried. With Torc in a rhythmical collected canter, the energy flowed as they flew round. Knowing the mare’s ability, she went for the tight turn after the second parallel, risking a sharp angle into the first part of the double. But they were clear, then over the last and through the finish. The whoops of delight from the crowd made her realise she had done it. She’d taken the lead. Her heart was pumping even faster as she returned to the collecting ring. But she couldn’t relax yet, as Gilles was the last one to tackle the course, with all the advantages learnt from watching others fail or go clear.
He studied the fences, checking his route before he went for his winning attempt. He shaved even more off the corners than Carly, and as he cleared the parallel at the end of the arena, he went for the turn like she had. Heart thumping, her breath quickened, yet time slowed. He could have made it, but his stallion slid, clipping the first part of the double. The fastest round, but four faults.
Carly beamed from ear to ear.
Beth, who was holding Guinness, said, “Thought you weren’t bothered about impressing that guy, so what happened?”
“I don’t like losing, especially when some guy thinks he can bribe me with a meal, that’s all. He’s so not my type. Call me crazy, but we’re leaving.”
SEVEN
A smile from Armand was never going to salve his friend’s wounded pride, but Gilles had the strength to say, “Maudit, she’s awesome. Not surprising—she’s one hundred percent a showjumper—look at those guys congratulating her. Plus, I suspect that flag means she jumped for Britain as a Young Rider.”
“Which means she’s good at this game, so we’re done. She won’t want to be a working pupil for an eventer. Forget her, please,” said Armand.
He hoped Gilles would stop letting passion rule his judgement, an irrational approach to choosing an employee. Finding a head groom was important, but surely they were not this desperate.
Why not Carly? What am I scared of? Is it my failure to protect Odette Fédon? I can’t handle another fatality, and yet there’s no danger.
“Loup, she’s a chick okay but that’s not my reason. Guys are good too, even you’re okay, but well, we need the best, male or female. Someone as perfect as....” Gilles closed his eyes and swallowed the name.
Armand nodded, unable to say her name either. He could not express his real emotions, as they were churned up. For him, nobody could ever replace Odette.
“Don’t undermine my decisions, Loup. I’m not giving Carly up that easily. She’s the one I want as my head groom and working pupil. She is now a real challenge, and I’m sure she wants me.”
“Perhaps, except you lost the bet. It’s over.”
“No way. I’ll even offer her the Witch to ride. She liked her and –”
“Finish it, now. You had a deal. She lives hundreds of kilometres from Fenburgh, and she’s a showjumper. Find someone on the eventing circuit that knows the sport.”
Armand smiled as Lina appeared from the horse lines.
“Vamos, we’ve a long drive home. Congratulate Carly and say goodbye, rápido.”
However, as they approached Carly, the photojournalist came up to her, wielding a notebook and pen.
“Can I have a quick word please?”
“Well, okay, but I’ll have to leave shortly, as I’ve horses to muck out and feed at home,” replied Carly.
“Thanks. I’ll be quick. I’m Fay, and I write for a regional magazine. That was a fantastic performance. Where are you from?”
Armand and Lina were unsure about staying, but Gilles waved them onto a bench within earshot.
“Oh, I live a mile up the road at Hazelmead, a livery yard, well, sort of a farm.”
“How long have you had Sylvan Torc?”
“My parents bred her fifteen years ago, on their farm. She was fab today. She always knows what I want before I ask. Got a real mature head, but flies round like a youngster.”
The Open had now started, and Carly started watching, dividing her attention between the interview and the competition.
“So, she’s got a lot more wins in her. What are you aiming her for, second round Foxhunters?”
“Well, I suppose she’s proved she’s ready, but I’ll only showjump her between events once the season starts next month. I won’t be able to fit many runs in around work.”
“And I thought she was a bloody showjumper,” said Gilles pointing at Armand, “and you encouraged me to think that. Sacre, why haven’t I seen her before?”
“Silencio, then you might find out,” said Lina.
Fay stared at Carly then said, “Uh, how long have you evented? We’ve talked before, haven’t we?”
“Yes, nearly six years ago, when I was in the Young Rider team at the Europeans.”
“Sorry I haven’t covered your results since. Been tied up riding myself as well. I just do this part time.”
“Not much money in horses, either. You didn’t miss anything to write about, as my other rides were only so-so or filled with amateurish rider mistakes that kept us out of the prize-money. Torc’s been off with an injured hoof and having a foal, and I moved to my new job at Hazelmead.”
“No time for competitions then?”
“Well, last year I did two three-day events and managed to finish fifth at Bramham and sixteenth at Blenheim. My dressage lets us down, so I’ve been concentrating on the flat work. It’s my weak phase.”
“I could sort that out,” said Gilles, his voice making Carly glance over.
“So where are you aiming Torc? Badminton?”
Carly shook her head, “I did some senior winter training but soon realised Badminton’s beyond us.” She paused as the final rider’s effortless but fast clear round won the Open class. “Torc’s fantastic and owes me nothing. If it wasn’t for her injury, we might have gone. Without a top horse, Badminton's just a dream.”
“But you’ll do some other three-day?”
“She might cope with the three star at Bramham again, maybe the ‘Under Twenty-Five’ section.”
“Remind me, how old are you?”
“I’ll be twenty-six in March.”
Armand shivered at the revelation. The same age as Odette. Gilles can't take her. The burden will be too much. Who will protect her? I can't. Twenty-six is too young to die. He closed his eyes and prayed he could fight off another assault. Focusing on the distracting words, he let them banish his dangerous thoughts.
This reaction is illogical. This interview is just about horses.
Fay finished scribbling and put a hand on her head. Glancing over at the Open prize giving for her next interviewee, she said, “One final thing, am I right that your parents train you?”
“Mum did, but...” the tears flowed as Carly continued, “she died two years ago, a stupid accident. Dad still… supports me, when he can.”
“I’m so sorry.” The journalist put a comforting arm around her.
Armand’s concern went out to Carly, and yet he couldn’t help her. Death was too close to him already, a part of his past that he could never bury. Each time he ran away, something emerged to re-awaken the nightmare memories.
Anyway, she was braver tha
n him. She had faced up to her loss and was fighting back, rebuilding her shattered life. Under those tears, he recognised fire and strength, and knew he was wrong to doubt her abilities.
Fay handed Carly a clean tissue, then said, “Be strong, you’ll keep winning. I just hope we talk again soon, thanks.”
As the journalist hurried over to the winner of the Open, Carly turned to the Fenburgh team and said, “Sorry guys, guess you want to say goodbye. That was so embarrassing. Challenging enough being interviewed, without then bursting into tears.”
“I’m the one who needs to apologise,” said Gilles, putting his arm around her waist as if comforting her. “That was ace jumping. Glad an eventer won. Wish I’d known about your situation. I’m gutted for you and want to help–”
“It’s not that rough. Anyway, you’re the one having problems!”
Gilles furrowed his brow and gaped.
How much does she know about Fenburgh? Armand pulled back from suspicion and smiled, impressed by her gutsy style as she added, “Perhaps I should be giving you jumping lessons.”
“Agreed, but I can offer you a job as my event groom in our competition yard. I’ve plenty of horses that would benefit from your touch, and I can provide a better wage than you’re probably getting—in fact, way higher, plus better hours and the best accommodation for you and your horses.”
The silence and Carly’s purposeful pace, as she walked out towards the horseboxes prompted Gilles to stride after her, continuing his desperate sell. “And I’ll throw in those flat lessons you need, as my working pupil. Perhaps share the ride on the Wit... on my mare.”
She stopped and turned. “Hang on. I was just joking around. I’ve commitments and friends, so I’m fine, honest.”
Armand wondered if Gilles would be as slick in closing this deal as the covert horse-trading earlier.
“We need more of the feminine touch,” Gilles said, then noticed Lina, fingers tapping her face, “on the riding front. The science is all down to Lina, but you’re perfect for the team.”
Armand nodded his agreement, realising Carly could be the ideal successor to Odette. If her CV was as impressive as her practical credentials, she would be perfect as the head groom.
My paranoia has made me apprehensive about Carly, but she’s the one. I mustn’t compare her to Odette, even if Carly keeps Gilles from focusing on the horses.
Carly shook her head. “I’m real flattered guys, but it’s not so simple. I need to make this decision in my own time. There’s too much at stake. I’ll let you know later this week, but I’m not promising anything. So, if you give it to someone else—well, I’ll see you around at some event perhaps.”
Gilles reached out and took her hand. “Look, here’s my card. Give it some thought. I’m sure you won’t get a better offer.”
EIGHT
The dead-end job, or the tainted dream? The dilemma plagued her all day, along with Gilles’s grinning face. If just the liveries had guided her, then she would have called him before midday. A chance of a lifetime, they persisted in saying; the guy with the money to realise any dream. A tempting grooming position on a stud that boasted superb facilities and a good team, including great rides. Plus, Gilles was offering an incredible wage with a home for her and her horses. But she wasn’t willing to pay his price—his hands groping her and his lips straying from her cheeks.
The moon failed to melt the darkness, and she was exhausted from work and the mental turmoil. She thought she had made her decision, but why was she apprehensive? She was tempted to close her eyes, but she staggered up and gazed out through the bungalow’s open curtains at the woods behind. Hunting owls flickered like ghosts in the moonlight, their quavering hoots spurring her to prioritise her aching body.
A while later, she was sitting at the kitchen table with Guinness curled up asleep at her feet, his appetite sated. Injecting her third dose of insulin and eating some reheated beef stew had given her the final lift. She was tempted to join Guinness, with another pre-dawn start ahead, but she had to do at least some of the accounts before succumbing. Grabbing a glass of water and some bananas, she went to the desk that doubled as the yard office. Amidst the copies of ‘Eventing’ and ‘Horse & Hound’ magazines, she cleared a space by putting some books—including her well-thumbed Pippa Funnell and Lucinda Green biographies—back into the bookcase.
Guinness padded over and laid his head on her leg, hoping she would give in to sleep. Bed was tempting, but not until she’d finished some office work. She glanced at the photos above the fireplace, remembering Marguerite, supporting her through long days. They were memories not to indulge in, but to give her encouragement and strength. At their heart, the hard lesson in living and rising above her diabetes, the condition her mother too often ignored. Her mother's recklessness had invited tragedy. Marguerite could have avoided the heart attack, if only she had stuck to the regime prescribed for her diabetes and related hypertension.
“I need to feed the mares in the river pasture,” was Marguerite’s twice-daily cue in any weather, and her final words, after asking Carly, “Have you checked your sugar levels?”
Why not her own? Her mother had put horses before her health and her family. Was that why her father Peter buried himself in his work? Did building designs offer an escape from horses?
Carly held back the tears and switched on the desktop, then waited while it struggled awake. She prioritised the bills to settle by the due date and dealt with them, but Gilles’s face slipped back into her mind.
She coaxed the computer online and searched for Boissard, the word throwing up a dozen options. As she scanned the search results, Carly dismissed the ones offering information on the 16th-century antiquary and poet. She went straight to Gilles’s eventing results, which were mixed, although with enough success to put him in the Top 100 of the World Eventing Rider rankings. No three-day-event wins, but even some of the best had missed out there.
Standing up and stretching, she forced away the sleep that pressed at her eyes. She had to make the decision. Looking at her computer, she saw a link that echoed something Gilles had said—Boissard Chimique, the family firm's website showed where the money was, but Gilles did not seem connected to the business. Perhaps he was a minor relation living in the fallout of their success, and not the rich kid he played at being.
However, a link tucked away like an afterthought, gestured at the family playing with horses—Boissard Équestre. The stud site had the usual detailed and impressive pedigrees, plus photos of sires, dams, and foals in white-railed paddocks. Everything he had expounded; except for the menu button at the side saying GMO Feed & Fertility. It triggered something as her past reared up and threw her off.
She drank all her water and ate a banana, unsure whether she should delve more. The past was reason enough to stop.
However, it could be pure coincidence. She went into the kitchen. Cool water from the tap splashed the sink and her tired face, revitalising her. She drank, then refilled her glass before returning to her desktop. Succumbing to curiosity, she clicked on the GMO link.
As if reluctant to destroy the dream job offer, the web page emerged line by teasing line. The feed regime using GM rice bran was familiar from her college work. Even now, the industry-revolutionising claims challenged her beliefs that there were safer, more natural alternatives.
She forced herself to read more. For at least ten years, Du Noroît Stud in Canada had fed their horses on a diet supplemented with oil from genetically modified rice bran. The aim was to enhance the oil’s natural steroidal effects without causing any side effects. By the stud’s figures, it had increased the number of successful inseminations, indicated by photos of the brood mares with their progeny.
The youngstock appeared promising, but the parents were nothing special, lacking the lean muscle mass and overall body condition that the feed promised. Her college research had shown that the significant side effects included loss of appetite and increased stress and agitation.
However, scanning the shelves, she saw a maroon folder, her old college project on ‘Comparative Analysis of Feed Production Regimes’. She removed it, blushing at the tutor’s pencilled ‘A++ Excellent work—provocative’ on the cover. Eyes closed, she wanted to relive the first time she read the words then punched the air. Enough now to sink into the sofa so Guinness could lick her.
As she flicked through the pages, it felt strange that Gilles’s family was involved in GMO feed. Synchronicity, her mother would have said. Carly wondered if the studs had completed their trials or whether the results had forced a change of regime.
When she saw Gilles again, she could ask him about the results; to get a sort of closure on the project. College had been great and had taught her so much, but the project had challenged everything she believed, fanning her commitment to the organic approach and her opposition to GM. Despite the unproven claims that GM was the future, non-GM stabilised rice bran was now an accepted equine supplement. Organic was still the way forward in her line of thinking.
The Du Noroît link was enough to reassure her that re-awakening the past now was crazy. No job was worth that, even if it paid well. No way was she taking the grooming job, however amazing the opportunity. Getting back into the heart of the sport was not a sensible reason to accept the job. Gilles would be a dangerous distraction, or even frustrate her real priorities.
The last banana and the rest of the water fuelled her struggling mind, and she hibernated the computer. Guinness was relieved when she switched off the office light and trudged down the corridor to her bedroom, the workday and the dilemma driving her exhaustion. Although, she still had enough energy to fold her clothes. What would the morning bring?
Spiral of Hooves Page 4
