A Three Day Event (2 page)

Never mind, there was a lot to be said for being a big fish, something she could never be here in England, where eventers were falling over themselves, and the sport was glutted with breeders, coaches and sales agents.

Of course it would be sad to leave her father. He was struggling to accept Mummy’s death only six months before. It would have been so perfect if Mummy had lived, so she could leave them both entirely without guilt. For there would have been no guilt at all in leaving Mummy, beautiful, distant, cold, cold Mummy. Better that she hadn’t been there for the accident. Not for the usual reason, not because of the distress a mother would normally feel for a child in pain. No, better not to have had to face up to her amused indifference.

Would it be sad to leave Fig in spite of everything? She could not sort out her feelings yet. Fig was courageous on a horse, but not in friendship. Fig had said it himself. …
just your average rider…
and she had accepted long ago this odd juxtaposition of character in the people she knew most intimately. In general riders were not nice people. In fact, she did not exempt herself from this general rule.

So she could not be surprised at Fig’s facile re–creation of events. But she could be forearmed in future. There was no point in burning her bridges, either. As a Royal Appendage, Fig could indeed be useful to her at a distance. They might very well do business together some day across the Atlantic. So there would be no recriminatory letters, no wearing of sackcloth.

She had learned a valuable lesson. From now on
she
would be in control of her relationships. And she did not think she would want to be close to another human being for a very long time. Nor would she ever again leave it to a stable lad to determine her fate.

Setting the crutches under her arms, she lurched slowly towards the house. She would take her tablets, make herself a pot of tea, and pull out her father’s well–thumbed atlas. She hadn’t a clue as to what Saint Armand, Quebec was like to live in. But it had a beautiful cross–country course, which she remembered from the televised games, when all of England and a good part of the rest of the world had watched the Queen watch her daughter fail to finish her cross–country phase of the Olympic Three Day Event. How awful to ‘crash and burn’ in front of so many people. She shuddered. Thank God she would never have to worry about that again.

CHAPTER ONE

March, 1992, Ottawa

M
eetings of the Canadian Federation of Equestrian
Sport (C–FES) were held in rooms of escalating charm and comfort, according to their designated importance in the roster of annual competitions. Today’s committee had been assigned the best venue, the fading, but still elegant boardroom. Once it had been the parlour of Sir Lionel Creech–founding Chairman of C–FES–who, heirless and a lifelong devotee of horse sport, had bequeathed his magnificent Ottawa mansion overlooking the Rideau Canal to the Federation.

Stuart Jessop, executive director of C–FES, smoothed his already neatly slicked–back hair and surveyed the burnished oval with an inner flutter of nervous apprehension. Some, but not all, of the committee members were installing themselves at the table, pulling out notes and reading glasses, chatting, pouring coffee from the large sideboard urn, and settling themselves in for what had been forecast as a longish agenda.

Thea Ankstrom, naturally, had arrived spot on time and was sitting halfway down the table, materials neatly arranged, her composed, sphinx–like expression directed at nothing and everything. The politically neutral end seat facing the chairman–in case alliances took on logistical form–had been quietly appropriated by Denise Girandoux, chairman of Quebec region (
Fédération Equestre/Région du Québec)
. Denise was a tall, modish brunette with a pleasant, straightforward manner belying a deep political savvy accumulated over years of collaboration with her anglophone peers. She smiled a polite general greeting and immersed herself in the papers before her.

Tottering slowly towards the table Barbara Lumb cradled her coffee cup and saucer in both arthritic hands. She descended heavily and gratefully into the chair beside Thea. Fairly deaf now and reputedly scattier than ever, she was one of Stuart’s “Biddy Brigade,” and Marion Smy, now noisily approaching the chairman’s place, was another. As Marion and Barbara greeted each other with loud and hearty yelps of friendship and excitement–these meetings provoked intense animation in both of them–Marion set down her files and fussed over the pile of documents that pointed to her indispensability and importance in the forthcoming discussions.

Bill Sutherland, liaison to the
Fédération Equestre Internationale
and general reference on all matters technical and regulatory, slipped quietly into place beside Denise. Lightly caressing his nondescript tie, crossing his legs and settling his impartial face into the requisite air of attentiveness, he set his mind free to wander where it would for the next three hours. If there were a question that required his encyclopedic knowledge of technical minutiae, he would be called upon. Otherwise he had no interest in this particular competition. His thoughts roamed onto World Championship and Olympian planes of regulatory challenge.

“Where is Bridget, Marion?” Barbara demanded. “ Is she coming up with Roch and the other man?”

“Oh, my dear, didn’t I
tell
you!” Marion’s feigned shock at her lapse did not conceal the triumph due the bearer of interesting bad news. “Bridget’s father died rather suddenly last week. Actually, I was there in Saint Armand when she got the news. It was a shock. There we all were in the restaurant. She had a message to call England, and she used the payphone there, so she got the bad news right there in front of us. Poor thing. She was quite overcome. She had to leave for England and she’ll be there for a bit settling up the estate. But she’ll be back well in time to prepare the course and look after the Three–Day end of the show.”

“Such a lovely girl!” Barbara exclaimed loudly to the room. “And
very well connected,
you know.
Best friends with Viscount Fairclough
! Lucky to have her!” she concluded aggressively, although no one had implied that they weren’t. Then, thinking things through a bit, she brayed, “That makes rather a lot of tragedies this year, doesn’t it, Marion. Your Gordon, of course, and now Bridget’s father and, oh dear, poor Thea’s–”

“
Please!
Please, Barbara, I’d rather–really, I’d just as soon you didn’t”–Thea’s voice trembled slightly and she faltered a second, then pointedly changed the subject in her normal voice, with its rich, musical timbre–“I’m really not at all sure that Bridget can pull it off on her own. She knows what she wants done, but she’s not the most organized person or the best at delegation. Apparently she actually forgot to order ice last summer at her own Three–Day in Saint Armand, and if one of the rider’s mothers hadn’t dashed out to the gas station and bought out their whole supply, the vet box would have been a disaster area. She wants supervision.”

“Careless on regulatory issues. Works too close to a deadline. Not a good thing in my opinion,” offered Bill Sutherland with an air of shedding largesse to the needy.

“Which is why we are so happy that you’ve agreed to be project manager, Thea dear,” Marion burbled warmly. “Between your computer and your genius for organization, we know we can have total confidence, and we are
particularly
thankful under the circumstances. One would imagine that Bridget would be the last person you’d ever want to
see
again, let alone help–”

“Marion, can we please keep to the issues at hand. I know you mean well, but”–

“Oh very well. I’m sure I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Thea. Some people appreciate sympathy and others don’t. That’s what makes horse racing, isn’t it?” She smiled brightly at the aptness of her analogy, and Thea busied herself making notes, an angry spot of colour high on her cheeks the only sign of discomposure.

There were two very important members still to come. Marion held her wristwatch up ostentatiously and commented, loudly, in the peculiarly carrying tone of women who are in the habit of conversing at ringside over the competing sounds of a busy horse show, “You
might
think that the owner and general manager of a stable where a
major
event is going to take place would make an effort to appear at the plenary planning committee on time!” She then frowned, sniffed and shuffled papers in what she assumed was the manner of a much put–upon CEO of a large corporation.

Jessop sighed and ran his finger round the inside of a too–tight collar. He wished that Ronald March, the president of C–FES, had been able to attend. The blizzard in Calgary had been a piece of hard luck. Without his authoritative presence to subdue her, Marion would be almost impossible to channel. Stuart would do his diplomatic best, of course, but a staff person could only impose himself so far; Marion was in her ‘confrontational’ mode, and it was clearly going to be rough sledding.

Glumly he considered how he might have passed her over for the chairmanship. There really had been no option. First of all, she had paid her dues in the Young Riders category for more years than anyone could remember. She was
owed
the chairmanship, which was how things worked amongst the volunteers in equestrian sport. Then there was the sympathy factor over the death of her husband, Gordon, longtime president of the Don Valley Hunt Club, where this competition had been supposed to take place.

When the club went suddenly bankrupt, and Gordon Smy’s role in the mismanagement fiasco leading up to it had been revealed…well, it was almost a blessing that he’d not had to face the consequences. And of course, Jessop wryly reflected, everyone in the sport, instead of using the debacle as a case study to make sure it never happened again, blamed the economy, heartless banks, sinister outside influences, and plain bad luck. Anything but censure one of their own, not this set, Jessop thought. Just rally round, circle the wagons and–

The sound of feet striding briskly down the hall broke off his reverie and the desultory chatter of the other members. Roch Laurin and Hy Jacobson entered the room murmuring apologetic explanations concerning construction tie–ups on the Champlain bridge and an accident on Highway 417 as they flung off their coats and took their places, Roch heading instinctively down to Denise’s end, as far from authority as he could get, Hy unconsciously choosing a chair as close to the head of the table as possible, where he felt quite at home.

The meeting began. Marion had agreed to allow Stuart a preamble in which he would introduce Hy Jacobsen to the membership–everyone else knew each other intimately–and speak about the goals the Federation hoped to accomplish in the competition.

“Good morning, everyone, and–er–thank you, Marion, for giving me this opportunity to formally inaugurate the All–Canada Young Rider Championships Committee.

“As we all know, the All–Canada games, if I may so designate them, as they are in every way but level of difficulty a model of the Olympic equestrian games, will take place throughout the fourth week of June at
Le Centre Equestre de L’Estrie–
” he nodded somewhat obsequiously in Hy Jacobson’s direction–“thanks to the timely and very generous offer of Mr. Hyman Jacobson to make use of his site. The games were in jeopardy and would have been cancelled without this intervention. I am sure we are all most grateful…”

As Jessop continued to pour out the Federation’s gratitude, Hy settled back and watched his fellow members’ reactions to this pretty speech. Marion Smy, whom he had met when she came down to Saint Armand for a site inspection with Jessop last week, did not look the tiniest bit grateful, as far as Hy could see. She looked downright pissed off, in fact, that the show which was supposed to have been in her back yard was now in his.

Marion was a possible future thorn in his side, that at least had been Hy’s first strong impression back in Saint Armand. And there was something laughable about her too–long (horsy, no other word came to mind) face, brassy, crimped hair and superannuated felinity. He couldn’t take seriously a woman so heavily made up at–he guessed mid–60s–who dressed in figure–hugging clothes cut and designed for a former size and decade.

The older woman beside Marion, Barbara Lumb, he guessed, her face screwed up in concentration, was obviously straining to hear. The yellowish streaks in her unkempt aureole of white hair reminded Hy of childish jokes about eating yellow snow. She looked very anxious, as if Jessop were about to announce the abolition of horse sport in Canada. She, too, did not look grateful.

Nobody did, nor did he expect them to. The committee process was a universal phenomenon. Hy had served on enough community projects to know the routine intimately. This was one of those little bonding formalities that were meant to put people into the mood for work on a common undertaking. It was the right thing to do, and everyone was waiting patiently for it to be over.

The woman at the end was very pretty. He admired her high colour and expert grooming. Her suit was a light wool gabardine in a rich fuschia–a Simon Chang, he’d bet. Good taste. She didn’t stint herself on quality. Hy liked that in a woman.

The beautiful suit turned Hy’s thoughts to his new wife, Manon–he was only a year into a happy second marriage–and he smiled inwardly thinking of how difficult it still was for her to shop for expensive, elegant clothes. He had to go with her, drag her past
La Baie
and Eaton and into Holt Renfrew, or to the more interesting shops on Laurier Avenue, and then he had to physically stop her hand from reaching for the price tag before trying something on. Usually she let him choose. His taste was impeccable. And in spite of his teasing, he was delighted with her reluctance to acknowledge that she was now a wealthy woman.

His glance slid over a bored–looking, featureless man and settled on the enigmatic loveliness of the woman sitting across the table. She had dipped into her briefcase for a tube of hand cream, and as Jessop hit his stride with the glowing history of horse sport in Canada, and the noble work of C–FES in furthering its glorious purposes, she began slowly and rhythmically to stroke and massage the cream into her long, sensitive–looking fingers, an activity Hy found both fascinating and unaccountably disturbing.

She was a few years older than him, he reckoned, fifty–plus. Her hair, a soft brown lightly threaded with silver, was drawn back into a low–lying ponytail, which suited her oval face and madonna–like features. Her gray eyes radiated quiet intelligence, not unlike his sister Ruthie’s, he thought. But no, on second thought, Ruthie’s eyes were darker, more textured, like much–used pewter. All her feelings were open to the world’s inspection. This woman’s eyes were light and steely, giving nothing away. This woman was veiled in some way from those around her. She sat very straight, like a job applicant or like a good schoolgirl raised by nuns. There was certainly something–perhaps not religious–but otherworldly about her–perhaps the expression of complete detachment, neither sad nor happy, neither interested nor bored….

“…and I have not gone on at this length merely to sing the Federation’s praises, but in order to counterbalance the climate of suspicion and the negative public exposure to which our sport has been subjected recently, and whose effects have no doubt dampened all our spirits. If you’ll all look through your kits, you will find reprints of several articles that have appeared over the course of the last six months in
The Financial Gazette
.”

Everyone dutifully brought the reprints to the top of their folders. A bold headline read: LILIES THAT C–FES–TER… The article that followed was familiar to all of them. It was an investigative account of equestrian sport from the vantage point of litigants pursuing prominent professionals in cases of alleged fraud, both civil and criminal, involving corrupt veterinarians, venal trainers and mercenary coaches, all preying on their gullible, usually very young, clients in order to palm off underachieving or unsound horses, often at exorbitant prices.

A second reprint, an op–ed piece entitled ONCE NOBLE SPORT NEEDS MUCKING–OUT, chronicled the woes of the entire horse industry, citing C–FES as a logjam of “old,
really
old boys and girls whose purpose in life seems to be shielding their own professionals from censure or sanctions, even when they have been judged guilty in the Superior Courts of Ontario and Quebec.”