HartsLove

by K. M. Grant

  It took quite something to surprise Mrs Snipper, but she was genuinely surprised about the dresses. It was she who made the children put them on, the twins surreptitiously swapping when they were given the wrong one. ‘Should we show Pa?’ asked Columbine, loving the swish of the blue.

  ‘No, dearie,’ said Mrs Snipper at once. ‘Don’t do that.’ As each girl took her dress off, she hung the dress up.

  In the early evening, their spirits very low, the four drifted down to the Resting Place and it was there that Arthur Rose found them. Rose, who had been lying on the flat stone, blinked as the shadow of his cob fell over her. She sat up at once.

  ‘Hello,’ Arthur said, dismounting. ‘Don’t move.’ He loosed his cob to graze.

  ‘The One’s gone,’ Rose said. She knew she was blushing and wished she would not.

  ‘Yes,’ said Arthur easily.

  ‘We haven’t heard anything.’

  ‘No. That doesn’t matter. It’s not The One I’ve come for. It’s you – I mean, you all,’ he added hastily.

  ‘We’re not animals and we’re not ill,’ said Clover or Columbine.

  ‘Of course not!’ Arthur Rose said. ‘I’ve come to ask if you want to go to the Derby.’

  A second’s pause. ‘Of course we want to go,’ said Clover or Columbine uncertainly.

  ‘Then we’ll go together.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you want to go?’

  ‘Of course we want to go, only it costs money and Aunt Barbara didn’t send any, only dresses and boots.’

  Arthur did not seek an explanation about Aunt Barbara or the dresses and boots. ‘So we can all go together.’

  ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘Of course I mean it!’ He flashed them a bashful smile.

  At once, the twins seized Arthur’s hands and began to dance him around the chestnut tree. ‘The Derby! The Derby! We’re going to the Derby!’ they chanted. Arthur could not help laughing, though he was nervous that Rose would find him silly. He extricated himself.

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but we can’t go.’ Rose rose, squinting a little in the sun.

  ‘Rose, Rose,’ Arthur said, tucking her arm under his and walking her round the chestnut tree. ‘Remember the day The One was sound again?’ She nodded. ‘Well, I promised Daisy then that I’d be at Epsom and I’m not going to break that promise.’ He gave her a very direct look. ‘I can go alone, but I think it’s important that you’re there too because I think she’s going to be . . .’

  ‘Disappointed?’

  ‘Distraught,’ Arthur said because it was time for truth. ‘I don’t think she has any idea what The One’s up against. She’s going to need her sisters around her. For her sake, let me take you all with me.’

  ‘Garth’s there already.’

  He looked into her eyes. ‘Garth’s not her sisters,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Then we’ll set off tomorrow on the train.’

  ‘But where will we stay?’ Rose had to ask. ‘How will we –’

  ‘Leave all that to me,’ Arthur said gently. ‘It will be my pleasure.’ He would not allow her to ask any more. Instead, he walked her back to the flat stone, recaught his cob and mounted. ‘I’ll be in the courtyard at eight o’clock.’ He pressed his legs into the cob’s sides.

  ‘No,’ called Rose suddenly. He turned. ‘I mean, don’t come to the courtyard. We’ll meet you at the stables.’

  He understood at once. She did not want their father to see them going. ‘To the stables,’ he said. ‘I’ll not be late.’

  Columbine and Clover ran back to the castle. Rose and Lily followed. They first spoke to Mrs Snipper, then took down their dresses and tried on their boots before packing them away with Garth’s and Daisy’s clothes. In the morning, though they had not asked her, Mrs Snipper pushed a hamper of food over to the yard in a wheelbarrow.

  Arthur arrived half an hour early in a hired trap. Everything and everybody was quickly settled. Arthur picked up the reins. Rose leaned out, suddenly uneasy. ‘What will you tell Pa, Mrs Snips? I should have said something.’

  ‘Indeed You Shouldn’t,’ said Mrs Snipper. ‘You Look After Yourselves, That Horse, Master Garth and Miss Daisy. Leave Your Father to Me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure as the Nose on My Face.’ Mrs Snipper waited until the trap was through the arch before she wiped the Nose on her Face on her apron. She missed the old days. She missed Lady de Granville. She missed her son. Now she would miss the children. She leaned for a moment against the castle wall. ‘Hey Ho,’ she said, before picking up Lily’s birdcage and going back to the kitchen to prepare a breakfast she knew Charles would not eat.

  22

  Garth had not hidden himself back at the Newmarket stables. Skelton was not pleased to see him, but at least Garth supported him as he argued with Daisy the morning after the Two Thousand Guineas.

  ‘We’re going home,’ Daisy said.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Skelton rasped. ‘This is the moment we’ve – you’ve been waiting for. If the horse can be runner-up in the Guineas wearing heavy shoes, imagine what he’ll do when we get to Epsom and we put the racing plates on. Everything’s arranged.’

  Daisy did not seem to hear.

  ‘Daisy!’ said Garth, disconcerted. ‘You can’t take him home now!’

  ‘We’re going home.’

  ‘No,’ said Skelton and Garth together.

  Daisy pursed her lips and began to pack The One’s brushes.

  ‘Daisy!’ Garth put his hand on her arm. ‘Didn’t you hear me before? You won’t have to worry about whips if I ride.’

  Skelton knew he and Garth should stick together, but this was too much. ‘Come off it, Master Garth. You can’t even sit on the horse – on any horse. You certainly can’t ride The One in the Derby.’

  ‘I’m going to ride him,’ Garth said with some spirit, ‘and I’m going to ride him better than that toothless streak of vomit you employed. Look what he’s done!’ He gestured at The One’s welts.

  Skelton barely glanced over. ‘Blame me for those, eh? Well, tell me this: who didn’t teach the horse to start? Who’s treated it like a domestic pet? Who can’t even get himself into the saddle? If you want to win the Derby, sonny, you’ve got to do a bit more than quiver.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Daisy. ‘We’re leaving right now.’

  Skelton put his hand across the doorway. ‘Now, look here. I thought the idea was to win, so I did what I had to do, and at my own expense. If your idea was to come last, you should have said so.’

  ‘He whipped him!’ said Daisy without any expression. ‘He whipped him!’

  ‘For the love of Christ! Did you want the horse to be laughed off the track? Grint brought him home second!’ Skelton was livid. To have his plans ruined when they were so close to fruition! He wanted to kill Garth and shake all Daisy’s teeth out. ‘The horse knows how to win better than you do. What a shame. What a crying shame for him and for Hartslove.’

  ‘We are going to the Derby,’ Garth said.

  ‘Not according to Miss Daisy, Master Garth,’ Skelton sneered.

  ‘We are, and I am going to ride. I swear it.’

  Skelton’s laugh was harsh. ‘For the love of God. Then we really might as well go home. With you on board, the horse couldn’t win a donkey derby.’

  ‘Daisy!’ cried Garth. ‘You believe I can do it, don’t you? Please, Daisy! You must tell him!’

  Skelton began to throw the brushes into the basket. ‘It’s over then. I agree with you, Miss Daisy. No point in taking the horse to Epsom to be ridden by coward.’

  Daisy was torn in two. She pressed close to The One. She could not bear this. Garth was not a coward – or only about riding. But she could not let Garth think she agreed with Skelton. She could not. She wanted to shout at them both to leave her and The One alone. She could not do that either. Instead she found herself saying, ‘Garth can do it. It’s Garth or nobod
y.’ She twisted her horsehair bracelet. She slumped.

  Skelton slammed the basket down. ‘To think I’ve tried to help you. To think I’ve paid the entry.’

  ‘You go home,’ Daisy said to him wearily. ‘Garth and I will pay you back the fifty sovereigns after the race.’

  ‘Will you just! And how, pray, will you pay for all the other expenses?’

  ‘That’s our business.’

  Skelton left them. This was impossible. Garth could not ride the horse at Epsom. He paced about, dreaming up a thousand plans, from kidnapping Garth, to injuring him, to pulling him off at the start of the Derby and whizzing another jockey on in his place. All these plans were hopeless. Skelton had to accept that if Garth did not ride the horse, the horse would not run, and if the horse did not run, there was no possibility at all of Skelton owning Hartslove. And the horse could win. After his Guineas performance, there could be no doubt about that. But only with the right jockey, riding under Skelton’s instructions. Skelton sat on a milk pail and began to refocus. He sat for a long time before his eyes widened. What a fool he was! The answer was staring straight at him. There were many sorts of courage, and like father, like son! The boy could probably manage to ride in the Derby if his veins were filled with something a bit sparkier than his own blood. Brandy, for instance. Brandy had put Charles entirely under Skelton’s thumb; surely it would do the same for Garth.

  He got up and walked about again. They had eighteen days until the Derby. Much could be done with brandy in eighteen days, and on the day of the race itself, a jockey filled with brandy would do many things a sober jockey would never consider. Skelton made a quick decision. He would go back to Daisy and apologise. He would say that he had been precipitate. He would say that despite his reservations, she was in charge of the horse. He would not be friendly to Garth. That would be too obvious. He would, though, through the silent offering of the bottle, become as crucial to the boy as he was to his father. It was not an ideal plan but it could work, and the more Skelton thought about it, the more he liked it. ‘You’re a genius,’ he told himself as he walked back to The One’s stall, ‘and one day the whole world will know it.’ When he apologised to Daisy, he felt he almost meant it.

  23

  They arrived at Epsom fifteen days before the Derby. The One’s welts were healing though they were not forgotten: Grint had known just how to strike for maximum hurt and minimum lasting physical injury. Skelton found good stables in the town and decent rooms for Garth and Daisy. ‘If Master Garth can get himself into the saddle, he’ll need to keep his strength up.’ He did not stint on the malice: he felt barbed comments would lower Garth’s suspicions.

  Despite Skelton’s apology and help, Daisy could not like him any better, and to avoid him she took the horse on to the downs very early and waited for Garth to find her. She was dreading it, but he was less white than she expected. She did not look at him again. Instead, she concentrated on keeping her voice low and even. She had no idea what to say so she spoke about the weather and the state of the ground, all the while hoping that The One did not look too powerful and eager beside her.

  Garth, for his part, noticed how thin Daisy had got and how her face was stamped with worry. She’s only twelve, he thought. It’s not fair. He was very aware of the effort Daisy had to make to keep her voice so easy. He tried not to keep looking at the empty saddle or to acknowledge the fear in his mouth or to think of The One’s long, strong neck soon to be stretched out in front of him. He tried and, for the first time in his life, he succeeded, because today he had a weapon he was not going to share with Daisy. At the bottom of his stomach a warmth was beginning to spread. Soon it would surge through his veins, rush up his spine and into the back of his head. Garth did not just hope the rush would come; he knew it would come because before he had set out across the downs, he had drunk a third of a bottle of brandy.

  It was not the first drink Garth had had since the Two Thousand Guineas. He had found the bottle in the pocket of his coat after Skelton had apologised to Daisy. It was clearly some kind of peace offering and, as such, Garth had been inclined to smash it in Skelton’s face. Instead, though he knew he should not, Garth had taken one sip, then another. It tasted better than he remembered. He had corked the bottle and enjoyed the small fiery buzz. Skelton probably thought he would drink the lot and disgrace himself. Well, he would show him. He was not like his father. He could take the stuff or leave it. He had taken only a few more sips, just enough to make him feel like the boy who flipped on the ruins, the boy who rode the Cannibal, the boy who could shoot a pistol at his own head. Just enough to make him feel like the boy who could ride a Derby winner.

  Skelton had grinned when he saw the seal broken. Moneyless Garth could not purchase the drink himself. He would rely on Skelton for the next bottle, and the next one after that. All Skelton had to do was keep him topped up. This morning, Garth had a bottle safely tucked into his coat. The thought made him warm inside.

  When she could not justify walking any further, Daisy made The One halt. ‘All right, Garth?’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I think this is a good place.’

  Garth threw off his coat and hesitated only momentarily. The rush came just in time. He vaulted on, fumbling his feet into the stirrups and gathering up the reins. He would pretend he was a centaur: that The One was part of himself as he seemed to be part of Daisy. The horse moved. Garth grabbed a piece of mane. ‘Woah, woah,’ shushed Daisy. The horse did not want to woah. He began to walk. Daisy waited for the inevitable – for Garth to jump off. Garth did not. He sat a little straighter. The One walked a little faster. Garth grabbed more mane. The horse was huge. His strides were huge. The downs were huge. There would be no stopping him if he set off. Daisy glanced up. Garth’s face was set. ‘He wants to trot,’ Daisy said. ‘I can’t keep up if he trots.’

  Garth swallowed. Deep in his bowels, the brandy swirled. Garth concentrated on the swirl. ‘Let go, then,’ he said. ‘Let go now.’

  Daisy let go. The One trotted smartly away. Garth swayed and lurched. The grass was miles below. The One’s neck was miles long. The reins were just ribbons against the horse’s strength. He closed his eyes. No – that was bad. He opened them. The One was slowing, returning to Daisy. He halted. Daisy could hardly believe it. A smile flickered across her face. Garth beamed down. Suddenly, she was beaming back.

  ‘I’ve done it!’ Garth said.

  Daisy’s hands were trembling. ‘You’ve done it!’ she echoed. ‘You’ve really done it!’

  ‘I can do it again.’ It was half an hour before Garth vaulted off and handed the horse to Daisy. He returned to his coat, took a surreptitious swig, then got on again. This time, he cantered. Skelton watched for a few moments more. When he heard Garth laugh, he linked his thumbs behind his braces and swaggered back to the yard.

  Over the following week, Daisy could not hide her astonishment. This was Garth as she dreamed he would be. For three consecutive mornings he trotted away, and though he did not exactly push forward into canter, when The One did canter, Garth crouched lightly in the saddle, no longer grabbing at either the reins or the mane. On the fourth day, finding his jockey agreeable and the turf springy, The One stretched out a little, and when a rabbit started from a hawthorn bush, he shied. Daisy gasped. Garth was unmoved. Not so The One, who launched off at full tilt. Daisy thought she might cry when she saw Garth rising in his stirrups like a professional and The One’s ears prick, his stride strong and relaxed. Both horse and rider were enjoying themselves. Everything was possible again.

  After the gallop, Garth tumbled off, flushed and unusually garrulous, laughing and dancing about. Daisy laughed too, putting this miracle down to the heady mix of determination and adrenalin. They walked back to the stables, The One snorting and prancing like a true racehorse. ‘You make the perfect team, just perfect,’ Daisy said, addressing both Garth and The One. She loved Garth’s theatrical bow.

  Seven days before the race, the real truth hit Daisy like
a hammer blow. She was standing on a small hump of stones, where, conveniently, she had found her crutches, and she was holding a cloth in the air for the second time. They had been trying to regularise The One’s starting technique by making him automatically launch forward after the count of three. This morning, they had had three successful and two unsuccessful attempts. It was after the fourth success that Daisy realised she was looking at something horribly familiar, namely that the smile plastered all over Garth’s face was not actually Garth’s smile at all: it was their father’s brandy-smile. At first she thought she must be mistaken. Garth would not be such a fool. But deep in her heart she knew there was no mistake. She was stunned, then furious with herself at her blindness. She could see it all now. Of course Garth could never have managed to ride The One on his own. She could not believe she had ever believed it. Feeling like a sneak, she riffled through Garth’s belongings when he was washing under the pump. He had not hidden the bottle – it was his third – very well. When he returned, he paled. ‘What are you doing, going through my things?’

  ‘Who gave this to you?’ Daisy held the bottle up.

  ‘None of your business,’ Garth said, snatching it back.

  ‘Oh, Garth,’ said Daisy, all the joy of the past days seeping out through her toes.

  Garth was unrepentant. ‘Look, it’s not as if I need it. It just makes me ride better. Don’t you see that?’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But nothing.’

  ‘You’ll end up like Pa!’ Daisy said flatly.

  Garth’s face darkened. ‘Rubbish. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Pa thinks he does too.’

  ‘Well, he’s wrong and I’m right.’ Garth scowled as though she was his enemy. ‘I’m riding well. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

  ‘Not like this.’

  ‘You mean you’d prefer Grint to ride The One?’

  ‘Of course not! Don’t twist things. I wanted to take The One home.’