HartsLove

by K. M. Grant

  ‘Pa won’t miss him. He’ll be drunk,’ Garth said, swaggering round the hall, still sparkling with the adrenalin rush. He pretended to dance with the Furious Boy.

  Rose stamped her foot. All she could see was Garth lying bloodied and broken on the flagstones. The joy of Arthur was gone. She hated Garth for that. ‘Put the Cannibal back right now,’ she ordered again.

  Lily was staring up at the top of the banister, curled high above. ‘How did you dare?’ she whispered, her cheeks ghost-white. ‘You could have been smashed to smithereens.’

  ‘I dared, and I did it,’ Garth said, whirling Lily round. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m fine, Lily. Really.’

  The clock chimed six. Daisy appeared. ‘I’m going to the stables to hose The One’s knee again,’ she said, glancing at the Cannibal. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Garth. ‘Don’t worry, Rose. I don’t have to do it again.’

  To his surprise, Rose was crying. ‘Why did you have to do it at all?’ she sobbed. ‘If something happened to you, Garth, I couldn’t bear it.’

  Garth stopped dancing. It had never before struck him that Rose cared.

  Daisy, still unsure exactly what had occurred, discovered her crutches under the Furious Boy’s arms and was already out of the front door. Rose steadied herself and followed with the others. ‘I’ll put the Cannibal back,’ Garth called after them. ‘I’ll catch you up.’

  When they had gone, he dragged the heavy skin back up the stairs. It took a little time, and when he’d deposited it in the proper place, he sat for a moment on the bear’s hairy back and relived the madness. He could feel the sweat growing clammy on his forehead. Nothing could be more frightening than what I’ve just done, he thought exultantly to himself. Nothing. Yet a little voice still nagged. Nothing, of course, except riding a horse. You’d still not dare to do that. ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ Garth cried. ‘What does riding a horse matter when I’ve ridden the Cannibal?’ He ran to the stables and the voice diminished, though however hard he tried to ignore it, it refused to vanish entirely.

  13

  Arthur Rose’s cob was standing patiently in the Hartslove yard before seven o’clock the following morning. It was barely light, but already the young vet’s nimble hands were soothing and flattening The One’s knee with liniments and cooling lotions. Rose, Lily, Daisy, Clover and Columbine formed a silent audience. ‘You’re his nurse, Miss Daisy,’ Arthur said. ‘I know you’ll do everything that’s needed.’ Daisy gave a wan smile as Arthur issued instructions and waited for Skelton, who hovered, to object. However, instead of blustering or skulking, the groom listened carefully. He seemed as anxious as Daisy that the horse should recover, and although The One clearly disliked Skelton, Daisy was grateful. She could not do everything alone.

  Arthur fiddled with his cob’s reins, preparing to leave. Finally, he screwed up his courage. ‘Any buyers for the castle?’

  The children exchanged glances. ‘Not at the moment, and perhaps never. Perhaps The One’ll recover and win his race. Then the “for sale” sign can go,’ Rose said in determined tones.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Rose,’ whispered Daisy.

  ‘I’m not being silly,’ Rose said. ‘It’s possible, isn’t it, Arthur – I mean, Mr Rose?’

  Arthur fiddled with his reins some more. ‘It’s possible,’ he said, and tried to smile. In truth, the prospect, however unlikely, filled him with gloom. If the de Granville fortunes changed for whatever reason, Rose would go to London. She would have wealthy suitors. There would be a society wedding. Arthur might get an invitation, but he would not be the bridegroom. ‘I hope everything works out for you,’ he said in the more formal tones he used for other clients.

  Rose, hearing nothing but the hopeful beating of her heart, gave him a brilliant smile, and Arthur captured it and treasured it as you treasure something that will not be yours for long.

  Daisy, who could not stop apologising to The One for having been the cause of his misfortune, packed the lotions into a basket. ‘I don’t think Mr Snaffler knows that Mr Rose has been here,’ she said to Skelton. Skelton tapped his nose conspiratorially.

  The One himself was confused. His knee still hurt, but since it now smelt of liniment rather than of himself, he viewed his whole leg as an odd, rather inconvenient appendage. When he tried to walk, he was very surprised to find that it came with him. ‘We’ll put down extra straw,’ Skelton said after Arthur had gone.

  ‘How can we get extra?’ Daisy burst out. She knew the straw merchant would not bring more without money.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, missy,’ Skelton said. ‘Old Skelton will sort it out.’

  And sort it out he did, as well as doing more than his share of tending, hosing and bandaging over the following fortnight. It was only when, after three weeks, the knee was still not right that he grew impatient, and one morning Daisy found him actually berating the horse for still being lame. Skelton jumped when he realised Daisy was listening. ‘Just telling him to try harder,’ he said with an oily smile. After that, he was more careful.

  By Arthur’s sixth or seventh visit the knee was still stiff. ‘It’s no good, is it?’ Daisy said. ‘He’s ruined.’ She was done crying. The One had forgiven her, but she would never forgive herself.

  ‘He’s not ruined,’ Arthur said. ‘I think he’ll mend.’

  A flash in Daisy’s eyes. Then gloom again. She could not say that she did not believe Arthur without being rude, so she just said, ‘Never in time, though.’

  ‘When’s his first race?’ Arthur shook up a new lotion he had brought.

  ‘We were going to run him first in the Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket. That would be his Derby trial. It’s on May the eleventh,’ Daisy said. ‘That would have given him time to travel to Epsom and recover before the Derby itself on the twenty-ninth.’

  Arthur straightened. ‘And we’re now at the end of February.’ He stood back in contemplation. ‘You know,’ he said, with some puzzlement, ‘in injury terms, The One’s really been quite fortunate.’

  ‘Fortunate?’ Daisy was shocked.

  ‘I don’t mean fortunate to be injured,’ said Arthur hastily, ‘just that the injury itself is an almost textbook case of being bad enough to lame but not bad enough for any long-term harm. If he had to be injured, this one has been pretty well judged.’ He felt the knee again. ‘It is a puzzle as to how he did it.’

  ‘I let him go.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . He stopped. Conjecture was not helping. He gazed at Daisy quite straight. ‘Miss Daisy, when I say that the horse could be fit, I’m not saying it to make you feel better. I know I’m still in the middle of my training, but that’s my professional opinion.’

  Had Daisy looked at Skelton at that moment, she would have seen his thick features shiver with relief, for although Charles’s contract was watertight and safe, he had begun to wonder whether his blow to The One’s knee had been as brilliantly calculated as he imagined. But Daisy was glued to Arthur’s face. She was trying to believe him. And there was something else. ‘It’s not just a question of getting him fit,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s a question of breaking him in. I know he’s three, but nobody’s ever ridden him. Even if we could ride him tomorrow, there’s too little time.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat and stroked The One’s ears. ‘So thank you for what you’re doing, but I really think it’s impossible.’

  ‘Nothing’s impossible,’ came Garth’s voice. He had been sitting on the stable roof, as he often did when Arthur came, watching Daisy’s face. He could not bear to see her so low. He vaulted lightly down and landed on his hands. ‘When do you think he’ll be better?’

  Arthur pursed his lips. ‘Another fortnight?’ he suggested. ‘We’ll know for certain by then.’ Despite herself, hope sparked in Daisy’s eyes. ‘I’m not saying that he will be better,’ Arthur said, suddenly nervous of his own judgement. ‘I’m just saying that you shouldn’t give up.’

  Garth lowered hi
s feet to the ground and wiped his hands on his shirt. ‘If he was better in a fortnight, you’d still have time, Daisy,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Arthur, bolstered by Garth’s optimism. ‘Are you going to ride him?’ he asked Garth. Daisy bit her lip. She did not dare look at Garth. How could Arthur know about her brother’s terrors?

  Because he was looking at the horse, Arthur noticed nothing and pressed on. ‘You’re perfect, Master Garth! Light and agile, plus by Derby Day you’d know the horse inside out. There couldn’t be a better jockey.’ Garth curved backwards to hide his face. Arthur walked round The One with mounting excitement. ‘Of course, it’s not often done, a complete amateur riding in such important races as the Two Thousand Guineas and the Derby, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. No reason at all.’

  He looked round. Garth had vanished. ‘Oh!’ Arthur frowned. ‘Did I say something wrong, Miss Daisy? If I did, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Daisy said.

  Arthur gathered up his things. ‘Don’t give up hope.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Daisy said. When Arthur had gone, she hoped Garth would come back but he did not. She straightened the horse’s rug and rubbed her nose against his neck. She loved the smell of him. ‘Shall we hope?’ she asked him. ‘Shall we really?’ He snuffled softly. It could have been yes. It could have been no. She saw he had rubbed some of his tail hairs off on a splinter. She collected the hairs and made herself a bracelet. ‘A red circle of hope,’ she murmured. The One was more interested in his hay.

  As soon as Daisy returned to the castle, she went to Garth’s room. He would not answer her knock. Tentatively, she tried the door. It was locked. Daisy twisted her bracelet and called his name. She wanted to tell him – tell him what? That he need not even think of riding The One? How exactly would that help? She realised she was glad he had not answered. She went away.

  Garth heard her go. He was slouched on the floor, the delight of the Cannibal ride stripped away. Arthur’s words, so kindly meant, had set off the nagging voice again, and this time Garth could not silence it. The air-ballets amidst the ruins were nothing. The flipping over the battlements was nothing. The Cannibal ride was nothing, nothing, nothing. None of these things was worth anything if he could not conquer the one fear he could not face. He would never be able to ride a horse. He could hear his own voice in chorus with the nagging voice. You coward. Coward. Coward. Coward. Coward.

  He felt under his bed until his fingers curled around something smooth and cool. Despite what he had told Daisy, he had not thrown his father’s pistol into the moat. It had killed Gryffed, yet he had found he wanted to hold it, to keep it. He could not understand why. Perhaps it was because it was his father’s. Perhaps it was the weapon itself: the weight; the cold barrel; the intricate mechanism that doled out death with a bang and a puff. He drew it out and balanced it in his hand. He knew there was a bullet left in it. He did not know whether the safety catch was on or off. He pressed the stock against his cheek. What if the horse did recover? If it did, he could neither ride it nor say he could not ride it. Both were impossible. He doubted even Daisy knew the full extent of his fear, and his acrobatics meant that the others, who never thought about it, actually reckoned him brave. They would despise him if it ever became clear that he could not do the one thing they really needed him to do, and for no other reason than he was scared to death. He stared unblinking at the gun. Only when he was sure that Daisy was not waiting in the passage did he slink out of his room. Furtively, he climbed the spiral stair and opened the door to the roof. He shivered and made his way to the ruins.

  Snipe was mending the roof above Lily’s room with lead he had stolen from a church guttering – not from Father Nameless’s church, of course, but from a church in the town whose vicar set snares which Snipe regularly emptied. He froze when Garth appeared. Snipe did not wish to know others’ business and did not wish others to know his. He could, however, sense something about Garth that made him leave his work and follow him.

  Garth stood for a long time on the very edge of the ruins. He was quite calm. More than calm. He was pleased – happy even – because what he was about to do made the flipping and the Cannibal ride pale into insignificance, which was precisely the point. If he could do what he intended to do, then at last everything would be different. Even riding would seem easy. He breathed slowly and made himself go through all the stages. It was cheating to do things blind. First, he would focus on the Resting Place. Second, he would place the barrel of the gun against his forehead. Third, he would pull the trigger. If the bullet was in the firing chamber, a hole would be punched through his head. He would fall but he would not know it because he would be dead. If the bullet was not in the firing chamber, he would never be frightened of anything again.

  He focused. He put the barrel to his forehead. He frowned just once. He pulled the trigger. He never saw Snipe springing forward as the gun went off. He did hear a crack. He did see smoke billow out. He never saw the bullet bury itself in the lead of the north-west wing. When Garth realised he was still standing, he dropped the gun. Then he dropped to his knees. He was not just shaking. He was not just dizzy. He was actually rattling: bones, teeth, brain, nails, even the hairs on his head. Not an atom of him was still, or perhaps everything was still and it was the world that was shaking. Whatever. He had done it. He had actually done it. He had held a primed gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. He did not ask himself what had happened after. All he knew was that he had held the gun steady and that the glow beginning to rise from his toes was a hundred times more powerful than the glow from flipping over the ruins, a thousand times more powerful than the glow from the bottle of his father’s brandy, and a million times more powerful than the glow from the Cannibal. He really did feel ready for anything. He picked up the gun, held it to the sky, then hurled it as hard as he could into the bottom of the moat.

  Daisy was unsure about many things, but as she hosed The One’s knee the following day, of one thing she was absolutely certain: though she loved Garth dearly and never wanted to crush his dreams, in the unlikely event that The One did get better in time, Garth could not ride him. If The One made it to the racetrack, Garth could not spoil his chances. She concentrated hard on the hosing, not wanting anything to show in her face. Garth was walking round the yard in a crab, much to The One’s amusement. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, and Daisy blushed, ‘but it’ll be fine. I rode inside the Cannibal down the spiral stair. If I can do that, I can do anything.’ He would never, ever tell her about the gun.

  ‘That was different, Garth.’

  ‘How different?’

  ‘You know how different. The Cannibal’s a dead bear, not a living horse,’ said Daisy shortly. She turned the hose off, cleaned a bone comb and began to tidy up The One’s mane. The One tossed his head as she teased out the long tangles.

  ‘You weren’t there, Daisy,’ Garth said. ‘Really, I rode the Cannibal to test myself, and I passed the test. Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘I believe you,’ Daisy said, tugging at the ripples, ‘but –’

  She was all prepared for Garth to lose his temper. Instead he put his hands on her shoulders and made her face him. ‘I can do this,’ he said in a tone half grave, half pleading. ‘I can.’

  It was impossible to turn him down. And anyway, Daisy thought glumly, it probably didn’t matter. The One would most likely never run, so Garth would never ride. It was not much comfort, but it was all she had.

  Rose was also glum. She did want The One to get better – of course she did – but his recovery would be the end of her meeting Arthur at the Hartslove gates, as she had taken to doing, and walking with him along the track over the moor. When he had first found her waiting, Arthur tried to thank her for the food he regularly found on his kitchen table. Rose denied any knowledge, but she knew Arthur did not believe her. They made a curious couple, often walking without talking, as though they knew each other to
o well for words. Nor, when they parted, did Arthur kiss her. Rose was at first disappointed by this. Yet as she watched Arthur’s cob’s tail swing away, she felt that within the space left by Arthur’s restraint, her love was growing stronger. When Arthur told her that it should be clear in another week whether or not The One was sound, her heart sank.

  The week was filled with hosing and very gentle walking. Though Daisy tried to suppress her hopes – and refused to think about Garth – hope would spring up, particularly as The One’s leg began to look normal again. Towards the end of the week, she even put on the saddle and did up the girth. The One stood like a rock. Daisy had taught him well.

  Skelton was busy too. He showed Daisy how, through vigorous massaging of neck and haunch, she could begin to build the muscles The One would need if he was to run his fastest. At first Daisy was nervous, but The One seemed to enjoy her attentions, and when she finished, particularly if Skelton was nearby, the horse would edge so close to her that you could not fit a piece of paper between them. ‘You’re a very forgiving The One,’ Daisy murmured to him, pressing her cheek to his. Skelton smiled secretly.

  Garth came to the stables every day, half hoping for a relapse. Though he knew Daisy preferred to be on her own, she was welcoming. So much was unspoken between them that for the first time they were awkward with each other.

  The weather turned. For two days there was no frost, and with all the grooming The One’s winter coat loosened and his colour deepened into molten copper. Only when Daisy tried to thin his mane, forelock and tail did he object, thrusting his gawky head high and curling his top lip in disgust until Garth devised a tumbling and juggling routine that the horse followed, goggle-eyed, whilst Daisy tugged and pulled. At last his mane flowed down his neck in a smooth wave instead of sprouting like a wire brush, and his tail, always too long and full for elegance, no longer trailed after him like a hedge full of birds’ nests, though he still did not look much like a racehorse.