HartsLove

by K. M. Grant

  Daisy gazed at the saddle. She could hardly believe she had sat in it. She buried her head in The One’s shoulder. After a while, she took the rope and picked up her crutches. Underneath them was a jar marked Lilypetal Jelly. She opened it, smelled it and showed it to The One. He wanted to eat it. She shook her head. ‘It’s not for you,’ she said. ‘It’s another present for Lily.’ She put the lid back on. ‘It must have been the ghost who loves her that’s just helped me.’ She would not doubt it for a second. ‘Thank you!’ she whispered. Carrying the jar carefully back up the field, she hid it under the lip of the drawbridge.

  At the stables, she found Skelton up a ladder. ‘Master Garth manage this time, did he, then, missy?’ Skelton asked. He was certain of another failed day. Now Daisy would beg for his help, and he had his answer all prepared.

  ‘The One’s been ridden,’ Daisy said without a smile.

  Skelton drew a sharp breath and narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, he’s backed.’

  ‘But I saw Master Garth going up to the castle,’ Skelton burst out. ‘I saw him.’ Daisy took the horse into the stable. Skelton came down the ladder and followed her in. Daisy must be lying. He could not let this go on any longer. His whole future depended on that horse. It was getting harder to be cautious. He gripped his hands together. ‘So Master Garth’ll gallop him this week? Time’s not on our side.’ He could not stop his voice rising slightly.

  ‘I know that,’ Daisy agreed. She had no idea how she and The One would gallop, but she would not discuss it with Skelton. She took up the curry comb.

  Angry, the groom pressed her more. She did not answer. Eventually he went up to the loft and began forking the hay. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the horse galloping along the fence the day he had escaped. The speed! It was extraordinary! The horse had a chance, a real chance. He stabbed his pitchfork deep. And every day, because of these stupid, stubborn children, the chance was diminishing. Yet they would not thwart him. He stabbed his pitchfork deeper. This time next year he would have his own horses in these stables, his own carriage in the empty coach-house and somebody else to do the whitewashing. He threw the pitchfork down and clamped his pipe between his teeth. He knew he must be calm. ‘Remember,’ he told himself sternly, ‘the girl wants the horse to win as much as you do.’ He stamped on a spider. ‘She’ll come for help in the end. Of course she will. She’ll have no choice.’ He kicked at the hay. Yes, she would come to him. He must just be patient. He put his pipe away, picked up the pitchfork and glanced out of the loft door. From up here, he could see the Hartslove pennant gently slapping the flagpole. He began to imagine what pennant he would fly when he was lord of this manor. A brilliant idea struck him. He would appropriate the de Granville flag and fly it as his own. Sir Charles would not like that. None of them would. He ran his eye over the castle’s silhouette. Actually, once he owned the place, perhaps he would not live in it. Perhaps he would sell it as an institution. He spat. Perhaps he would sell it as a school for bad boys, the kind of school in which he had grown up and whose scars he still bore on the backs of his legs. It would be sweet revenge to be the benefactor, enthroned in the big chair on speech days with the boys forced to bow and thank him for their torture. He’d be The One then. Oh yes. He’d be The One, and he would never let anybody forget it.

  15

  Lily received the lily-petal jelly with a gentle exclamation of delight. ‘Why, thank you,’ she said to Daisy. ‘Did Mrs Snips make it?’

  ‘No,’ Daisy said. ‘I found it on the flat stone. It’s another present from – well, you know, whoever.’ She said nothing about riding The One. The very thought would have frightened Lily into a fit.

  She left Lily still exclaiming and went to the tower bedroom to find Garth. He had not found the gun, which was unsurprising since it had been removed from the moat and was now tucked safely under the chestnut tree wrapped in Snipe’s spare smock. Garth’s door was not locked. He was sitting on his bed not juggling, not doing acrobatics, not even staring at a book. Daisy had never seen Garth doing nothing before. She faltered. She did not know how to say what she had to say without hurting him, but she steeled herself to do it. She had to. The whispering crusader might not come again tomorrow and she could not manage alone.

  ‘I’ve been on him,’ she blurted out.

  If Garth had been still before, he was stiller now. Daisy ran her hobbling run over to him and took his hands. ‘Oh, Garth!’ she exclaimed, and she could not stop her joy spilling out. ‘It was strange to be up there again. I was so frightened that I kept my eyes shut the whole time. I just so wanted to do it. I –’ His face closed tighter and tighter. ‘Garth,’ she implored. ‘Garth, listen. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to ride. I can do the riding whilst we’re here, and we’ll find a jockey for the race. There’ll be plenty looking for a ride. But you need to help me. You’ve got to help me. I can’t do it by myself again. I can’t manage without you.’

  Garth removed his hands. Daisy, crippled Daisy, despite her callipers, was telling him that she had, without any help, ridden an unbroken three-year-old racehorse, and enjoyed it. It never occurred to him to disbelieve her. The feat seemed impossible, yet Daisy never lied. He spoke in a voice both distant and dismal. ‘If you’ve managed perfectly well by yourself today, you’ll manage tomorrow. Or ask Skelton.’

  ‘I wasn’t by myself today,’ Daisy said. ‘The crusaders helped me.’

  He frowned. ‘They’ll help you tomorrow.’

  ‘They might not come back tomorrow and I don’t want to ask Skelton. I want you.’

  Garth hunched against her.

  Daisy saw how things were and refused to accept them. She climbed on to the bed and for the first time in her life forced Garth to be close to her and forced him to listen. When he pushed her away, she pulled him back; when he tried to stop his ears, she forced his arms down, and all the while she kept talking, talking, talking, telling him how it had been to move without crutches and to lose the weight of her callipers. She avoided mentioning The One by name, knowing that would only make Garth feel worse, if feeling worse were possible. She spoke only of herself and her feelings. ‘I was high up, Garth, high up. And I was free, like you’re free on the ruins. I could feel the wind! Don’t pull away. Don’t block your ears. I know you understand. I know you do.’ It was impossible for Garth to ignore her without physically throwing her out. Some of The One’s hair was stuck to her callipers. The sight of it made him want to hit something. And still Daisy talked as though she would never stop. ‘I was so light and I’m usually so heavy. I could go anywhere.’ She never let up, not for a minute, describing the amazement, the wonder and the sheer, heart-stopping exhilaration of being her full self again. It was harder and harder for Garth to remain aloof. This was Daisy talking: Daisy, who had never scoffed at him; Daisy, who bore her lameness without complaining; Daisy, who had come to him because she needed him.

  Finally, she ran out of words. ‘So will you help me?’ she asked. Everything hung on his answer, yet still Garth did not speak. Slowly, she moved away from him. Nothing. Slowly, she levered herself off the bed. Nothing. She stopped by the door. Nothing. She stopped in the passage. Nothing. Nothing. She made her way to her own room.

  Garth did not appear in the dining room that evening. He did not appear at breakfast. It was not until Daisy took The One to the Resting Place that she got her answer: Garth was waiting. The look on Daisy’s face stayed with him until the day he died.

  The One was in frisky mood, and Garth, nervous for his sister, quickly grew irritated. ‘Stand, stand!’ He wondered, briefly, if Daisy had dreamed what she said had happened yesterday. ‘Just stand. Stand!’ he ordered again and again through gritted teeth. Despite his hard-won determination to help, it was still humiliating watching Daisy perched precariously on the tombstone and trying to hook her toe into the stirrup. She, however, although her face was red and her hair sticking up, was unfussed. ‘Shhhh! Shhhh!’ sh
e said, trying to soothe both Garth and The One. ‘This stupid skirt! If only I could wear proper breeches.’

  ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t try again today.’ Garth wanted this to be over. ‘Stand! Why can’t you STAND?!’ He held the reins more tightly. The One was too big. He was too strong. What was Daisy thinking? What was he thinking?

  ‘Bring him round again.’

  Reluctantly, he obeyed and with a scuffle and some mumbled cursing Daisy was at last slumped over the saddle, her leg hitched over, scrambling about untangling her skirts and settling herself. The One did not wait for these niceties. He began to swing away. Garth, jogging to keep up, was almost as terrified for Daisy as he would have been for himself. This was madness! If she was thrown, it would be his fault. He should never have agreed to help. ‘Isn’t this enough?’ he said after a minute. He wanted her off the horse.

  The One jinked. Daisy gave a small gasp and seized a big chunk of mane. It would have been utterly intolerable for Garth had Daisy’s eyes not been alight with wonder. He could not resent that. He could not destroy it. ‘It’s so extraordinary, Garth. I’m walking faster than you!’ The One’s neck was a thick red line in front of her. ‘Let the rope out,’ she said.

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, really, Garth. I’ll be all right. Let the rope out.’

  Most unwillingly, Garth began to pay out the rope. The One walked faster until he came to the end of the tether. He jerked to a halt. Tentatively, Daisy picked up the reins. An ear flicked back. She knew she should do something with her legs, but they were not used to being held at this angle and she could not move them. She could, though, tense a muscle. That would have to be enough; that and her voice. ‘Walk on,’ she said. The One walked, though whether in answer to her instruction or because he felt like it she could not tell. She tensed her muscles again. Perhaps she could trot. The horse shot forward. Daisy banged down hard on his back. He baulked, grunted and shot forward again. Daisy was pitched on to The One’s neck, then almost out of the saddle.

  ‘Woah! Woah!’ cried Garth, still hanging on to the rope. The One fought the rope and trotted faster. Daisy bumped faster. The horse’s hooves jarred. Daisy’s bones jarred. The horse gathered himself together. ‘He’s going to buck,’ cried Garth. ‘Oh God! Daisy!’ She would fall now, and he could do nothing to help her.

  The One did not buck. He broke into a canter so long and free that the rough sea became a perfect swell. The horse’s hooves no longer jarred. Daisy’s bones settled. She scarcely left the saddle at all. With Garth still hanging on to the end of the rope, The One described three perfect circles around him before bringing himself to a very respectable halt.

  Garth quickly approached. ‘Get off now,’ he begged. ‘It’s enough for now. More than enough.’

  ‘I want to ride by myself, Garth.’ Daisy was beaming.

  ‘I can’t let you,’ Garth said. ‘It’s too dangerous. You know it is. It’s years since you rode by yourself. You’ll have forgotten how.’

  ‘Who taught you to tumble?’ Daisy asked. ‘Who taught you to juggle? Who taught you to balance in the Cannibal down those wicked stairs?’

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t have . . . I don’t have –’

  ‘You don’t have callipers?’ Daisy was no longer beaming. She spoke quite directly. ‘Is that what you were going to say?’ She did not seem like Daisy any more. She seemed, he thought, like a crusader herself. ‘Undo the rope, Garth. I can manage.’

  He swallowed. He undid the rope.

  Daisy did not gallop off. She made The One circle, start and stop, trot for a moment or two, then walk again. And Garth saw what Daisy meant. Though she sat awkwardly and her legs did not touch his sides, she and The One flowed into each other in a way Garth never had with any horse, not even before he was frightened. Whatever the horse chose, Daisy chose too. They trusted each other. Garth waited for a wash of resentment or self-pity to engulf him. Neither did. As he watched Daisy, to his relief and surprise, he was instead overcome by a great sense of pride.

  At the top of the field, Skelton’s eyes were on stalks as his fists clenched. It was not right. The cripple! What was she thinking? Yet as he watched, he could not deny that the horse was moving well. He unclenched his fists. The girl could not do any harm. In fact, she might even do some good. He went back to the stables, whistling.

  Daisy worked on The One for the next fortnight, with Garth helping to get her on and off. The horse never threw Daisy – that never seemed to cross his mind. However, not everything went smoothly. Although the horse occasionally cantered when instructed, pulled up on command and sometimes turned in the right direction, mostly he did as he pleased. Since, in the main, what The One wanted to do Daisy wanted to do, this lack of discipline did not worry Daisy unduly. Sitting astride, the stretching shoulders in front, the powerhouse of muscle behind, the red mane and tail billowing in the spring gusts, she felt like a queen. The only thing she would not allow was a full gallop. This was partly because she was still nervous of the injured leg and partly because although her confidence grew every day, she knew she would not be able to rise and balance in the stirrups as a full gallop required. The horse seemed to recognise this. He never took off, although sorely tempted.

  For a while Daisy wondered if, after seeing her ride without mishap, Garth might volunteer to try again and this time succeed. She knew she should welcome this, encourage it even. Yet she dreaded it. She loved her new role. In the event, she need not have worried. Garth never volunteered, and when he suggested that they should leave the Resting Place and go on to the moor, this was not because he wanted to try to ride again without Skelton seeing, it was because he could no longer bear Skelton seeing her ride instead of himself.

  Skelton’s relief at the horse being ridden did not last long. Daisy was neither galloping the horse nor teaching him how to start under orders, and the horse could not win without doing both. He came to the moor and tried to ingratiate himself, but his help was always refused. What could he do? Only what he was doing already: watching, cursing, grinding his teeth and keeping Charles well topped up with brandy.

  16

  With slightly better weather came more prospective buyers. Twice, The One’s training was interrupted by three hauntings in one day. The hauntings could not be abandoned, however, because in his hopeless state the children knew their father would accept any offer at all. Ingenuity was stretched past breaking point and the strengthening sun did not help, casting the castle in a lovely glow and bathing the hall statues in gold. Even the Furious Boy seemed to lose his venom as he basked in the warmth. Still, Mrs Snipper visibly and Snipe invisibly did all they could to spook and terrify. Once, Snipe let dozens of white ferrets loose. Another time, he unleashed a tide of human skulls down the Dead Girl’s passage. Yet these feats took some organisation and could not keep being repeated. The sisters got fed up with the silent ghost trick, and Rose, deprived of the company of Arthur, did not always play her part to perfection.

  One day, late in the afternoon, a large carriage turned in. The wistful prettiness of Lily, wandering over the grass, along with the grand rustiness of the gates and the gaping potholes encouraged the father. He did not see the lurking Snipe.

  Over the years, Jonas Entwhistle had made something of a study of drive gates and wistful daughters, and the combination at Hartslove set his antennae humming. Here, undoubtedly, was a household in deep financial distress. The fine house he was hoping to find at the end of the potholed drive would be cheap. He insisted on giving Lily a lift, and when she refused manhandled her into the carriage. You could learn a lot from wistful girls, even on a short journey up a drive.

  Snipe was outraged. Those creatures! To lay their hands on Miss Lily! The lice on his head prickled. His secret fingers itched to punish.

  The intruders were in raptures when they saw the castle, less for its melancholy beauty than because of the envy that a castle, a drawbridge and a m
oat would evoke amongst their acquaintance. The father swelled visibly as his horses swept under the archway, whilst his wife, squat as a chicken in her fringes and tassles, was already imagining invitations reading ‘Mrs Jonas Entwhistle, At Home, Hartslove Castle’. When the carriage drew to a halt, the Entwhistle children – two girls and a boy – descended in a squabblesome gaggle that their father observed with pride. His brood! Lily, pale as a moonbeam, descended last. Snipe never took his eyes from her.

  Not bothering with the door pull, the intruders piled into the hall and exclaimed loudly at the statues. The cacophony brought all the children and Mrs Snipper, running. ‘Ah!’ declared Jonas Entwhistle, slapping a naked nymph appreciatively on her marble behind and hanging his hat on the Furious Boy’s arm. ‘We’ve seen the notice. You’re for sale, righty righty?’ He addressed the nymph, laughing at his own comedy and thrust a ham-hand at Charles, who had shuffled into the hall, his hair rough and his shirt open. ‘Jonas Entwhistle’s the name. Wife’s Mrs Entwhistle; girls are Lilith and Merle. Son’s Robert but we call him Robin.’ He slapped his generous thigh. ‘Robin Hood, see! Just the castle for him.’ He roared with laughter. ‘We’ll take ourselves round.’ He barged through the hall and up the stairs. His family delayed only to scoff at the statues before following him, voices blaring and jangling.

  In the face of this blundering invasion, it was impossible to conduct a haunting. The intruders crashed carelessly into their mother’s room and barged into Garth’s. Worse, they bounced on Daisy’s bed, making the cobweb quiver to breaking point. It was less a house viewing than a medieval bombardment. Garth longed for the pistol, most especially when Robin, grinning, stamped back into the hall pretending to fire a musket and, in his clumsiness, knocked over the Furious Boy, who bounced and rolled until, with a loud crack, the marble arm on which Mr Entwhistle had rudely hung his hat broke off. Garth felt a personal stab of pain. He picked the arm up. ‘You moron!’ he spat through gritted teeth. ‘You fat, stupid moron!’