Fortune's Lead (14 page)

I remembered his annoyance at my arrival, and set my teeth. He had had the nerve to look on
me
as a grasping opportunist. His reasons for thinking so were abundantly clear.

A moment’s reflection brought an uneasy train of thought and quite a number of doubts. Nevertheless, I went to bed feeling resolute on one point: I couldn’t abandon Essie to a fate which included Kevin. And furthermore, it was time someone showed Mr. Kevin Thurlanger that he couldn’t always have things his own way.

CHAPTER VI

Caution dictated that I should be civil to Kevin while Henry was present: according to Essie, the marriage between the two cousins was her father’s idea. I couldn’t believe that Henry would force Essie into something which was repugnant to her—and yet, remembering the stubbornness which lay behind his charm, and the logic of the whole idea, it did seem likely that he had the link in mind. The thought that he might also have an alternative in mind was flustering, and prevented me from doing what I felt would annoy Kevin most—playing up to Henry, and even flirting with him. I wasn’t sure I knew how to flirt, since Robert would have frowned on the impropriety of such behaviour and I had, I knew bitterly, taken cues from Robert for far too many years; so it was just as well that there were other considerations to be thought of besides planning revenge on Kevin.

Kevin chose this moment to start being a great deal more pleasant to me. If I hadn’t been given an insight into his motives, I might have thought he had decided to accept me and show a friendly spirit: I might even have concluded that he was setting out to repair the damage of his original insulting behaviour. As it was, I decided he was either playing a subtle game, or felt satisfied with his manoeuvre in setting up Michael as my apparent boy-friend. I would have gone down to attempt an apology to Michael for the embarrassment of the situation—after all, we really didn’t know each other all that well—if it hadn’t been for the fact that my wrist still prevented me from driving. I found myself thinking about Michael with a certain warmth: he was pleasant and uncomplicated. If it hadn’t been for Kevin, I thought grimly, I
might
even have liked the thought of starting up a friendship with him. As it was, I was left with the unfortunate feeling that Michael might think
I
had been the one to give the wrong impression, so I would be forced to avoid him. I brooded on ways to annoy Kevin—but conscience prevented me from dallying an extra length of time in our joint bathroom, in case he might be in a hurry to get to a case at the hospital. It was self-preservation rather than conscience which made me reject another idea to occur to me—that of disconcerting Kevin by flirting with him, rather than Henry, in response to his newly amiable behaviour. I decided moodily that (a) I wasn’t Rosalind, and (b) Kevin was conceited enough to think I meant it—and, even if he didn’t, it only took one surreptitious glance at him to make me feel that I might bite off more than I could chew.

The point-to-point made a further illustration that I wasn’t Rosalind. Rosalind, plain on ground level, looked both graceful and competent on horseback. Henry had decided—with some resignation—that being sociable required him not only to attend the point-to-point but to make an event out of it by providing well-filled picnic baskets from which a group of Essie’s friends were invited to partake lunch. Ganner drove Henry and myself the fifteen miles to the course in Henry’s Bentley, after supervising the loading of Cora, Fiddlestick and Thunder into horse-boxes: Phil Mott, Essie and Kevin travelled with the horses. It seemed most of the county attended this particular event, and there had been much talk at the cocktail party about whether the ground would be too hard, or too wet, and who might be expected to win what. I had never been to a point-to-point before, but as far as I could gather the object was racing, jumping, and raising funds for the Hunt. It was definitely not an occasion for frightening anyone’s horse by wearing my shocking-pink suit—though I decided that was unfair when shortly after we arrived the air was split by the shattering noise of hunting horns (enough to frighten anyone) and the Master of the Hunt was to be seen in his scarlet (hunting pink) coat. He looked impressive, even though on closer inspection he turned out to be no one more glamorous that Mr. Laidlaw, Mamie’s father, who had exchanged five minutes of morosely monosyllabic conversation with me the week before.

It was cold, with a rawness in the air. It had been feared that frost might make the ground dangerously hard, but the weather had spared that and provided a damp wind instead. Henry gave a theatrical shiver and announced that choosing to spend an English winter’s day in the open air was a madness in which he didn’t wish to participate: if anybody wanted to find him, he would be in the car drinking gin. He gave me one of his wickedest grins with the statement, but apparently meant it, since he climbed back inside the car without more ado. I wondered if I should stay with him, but be waved me away, saying with resignation that everyone should experience the lunatic habits of the English upper classes once. For himself, he could see more than he wished to see from where he was. I grinned at him, and moved to a spot where I could look round without, I hoped, getting underfoot. There were horses everywhere, which should have been an unnerving prospect. Slightly to my surprise, I found my experiences with Jimbo had made me a little less frightened, rather than more—though the sight of Kevin’s Thunder looking blackly beautiful but distinctly restive reminded me to be cautious of the wilder-looking beasts. Phil Mott was holding Thunder—with some difficulty—while Thunder’s owner stood a little further off looking up to hold a smiling conversation with a girl on a bay horse. It was then that I recognized Rosalind—and felt a stab of envy at the grace with which she sat her horse. The excessive neatness of her riding clothes suited her, too, making her look far more elegant than the unbecomingly frilled garment she had worn at the cocktail party would have led one to expect.

Everyone except me looked thoroughly at home in the company of horses. I began to wish that I had Bess and Royal with me, to make me look more countrified, but they had been left behind at Thurlanger. I admired the pack of hounds as they came past me—their white, black and tan coats gleaming, eyes bright and eager. Their tour of the ground was a kind of opening ceremony. I wandered on, noticing several faces I had met the previous week amongst the groups standing chatting beside cars or horse-boxes. James Tetley caught sight of me and gave me a tentative smile, politely: I reflected with a little amusement that today he would find Essie had thoroughly reverted to type. I had already seen her, coping with a nervous Cora, and looking completely in her element.

I paused beside a roped-off area where children and younger teenagers were about to start an unofficial showing of their control of their mounts—and spotted Rosalind again. She seemed to be in charge, which as a teacher of the art of riding was natural, but I moved on again with the firm feeling that I could do without having to admire the talents of Kevin’s girl-friend. Instead I made for a point where I could see the preparations for the first race—and across an empty area of field I suddenly caught sight of Michael. He was alone, looking rather handsome in well-cut tweeds, his black hair ruffled a little by the wind. I thought of joining him, remembered with annoyance that I had better not give him the impression I was seeking him out, and took care to make for the opposite side of the hurdles marking the start. Someone standing near me was explaining the course to someone else, so I listened in unashamedly, and tried to work out which of the distant fields was being referred to as the turning point where the riders would swing round to make for home. There were already a number of people getting into position for the starting gun, on horses of varied sizes, shapes and colours. Their riders were almost as varied—a solid-looking farmer; a slight, white-faced boy who looked delicately thin but whose hold on a savage-looking chestnut horse showed a whippet-like strength; an untidy young man who dressed like a gypsy but spoke like a lord: a man whose weatherbeaten face and experienced eyes reminded me a little of Ganner. I watched them all, trying to look like a student of form, and decided that a heavy piebald had too much carthorse in him for speed, and that the white-faced boy would probably come off his chestnut eventually, strength or no strength. They were lining up—and then they were off, making for a brush fence, and then for the flag which marked the first hedge to be jumped on their way out into the country.

It was quite some time later when I remembered that I had better go back to Henry and the car. There was a fascination in trying to pick out, through the field glasses Henry had equipped me with, what the horses and riders were doing out there across the fields, and in guessing who would emerge as leader as they came back into full view. I had seen Essie ride a much shorter course on Fiddlestick—she came in third—and after Essie had given me a grin and a wave at the end of her race, I had been drawn into conversation by the man on whose explanation of the course I had eavesdropped. Obligingly, he told me who was who, and what the difficulties of the course were, and which riders would qualify for other races in the afternoon. When a glance at my watch and the sight of other people munching sandwiches reminded me that I ought to rejoin the Thurlanger party, he walked me back to the Bentley and paused to exchange a few remarks with Henry before going off to his own family picnic. Henry I found on his most cynical form—though he did admit to having ventured from the car long enough to lay a bet with an acquaintance on the outcome of one of the races—but when Essie arrived with the group of young people who had been invited to picnic with us he made a visible effort to play the charming host, even listening with apparent equanimity as she described Fiddlestick’s gallant behaviour when faced with a ditch rather wider than he’d expected. To Kevin he gave an amiable congratulation on having won his qualifying race—and just managed not to look resigned when he caught sight of Rosalind, who had, inevitably, appeared in Kevin’s wake.

Someone more unexpected had appeared with Essie’s group: Michael Chace. I cast a darkling look at Kevin, wishing he wouldn’t spoil my day by making me wonder if he was up to his tricks again—but caught him at the same moment glance questioningly at me, as if he too was surprised by Michael’s presence. I looked away quickly, and a second later heard Essie saying casually to her father that she’d brought Michael along because there was plenty to eat, wasn’t there? Michael gave me a pleasant smile but kept his distance from me—which might have been simply due to the fact that he was being buttonholed by Poppy Tetley—and I busied myself looking efficient and handing out food and drink. I was struggling with the lid of a Thermos when a well-shaped hand came down over my shoulder and obligingly unscrewed the sticking thread. As he handed the flask back to me, Kevin said pleasantly,

‘You seem to be enjoying yourself. I saw Glyn Damon explaining the course to you—I told him to keep an eye out for you.’

‘Oh, d-did you?’

‘Are your teeth chattering? Picnicking in midwinter
is
a peculiar habit, I suppose,’ Kevin said, ignoring the fact that my stammer was due to surprise rather than cold. ‘If Henry keeps out of the way—and I hope he will—you might like to join up with the Damons while the rest of us are racing. They’ve their babes with them, so Patty—Glyn’s wife—has to stick close to the car, but they’ve parked with a reasonable view.’

‘It’s kind of you to organize my time,’ I said as sweetly as I could—with his remark about Henry keeping out of the way jarring on me. ‘But I’m sure your friends won’t want to be bothered with me—’

‘Don’t be waspish. What
have
I said now? How’s the wrist, by the way? And that’s not,’ he added hastily, ‘a taunt, if you’re about to think it is!’

‘It’s much better, thank you.’

‘If you want to learn to ride, I’ll teach you, if you like.’

I glanced up at him, startled, but there wasn’t any mockery in his gaze. After a second I decided not to be taken in, and enquired challengingly, ‘Changing your tactics, or bent on murder? It must be one or the other!’

‘Must it?’ He studied me, grinned, shook his head, and added, ‘You have a most unforgiving nature, Charlotte! All right, ask Rosalind to teach you to ride, she’s—’

‘I already know she runs a riding school, thank you. Henry seems to be the only Thurlanger who believes anyone can exist off a horse. And if he wants to keep out of the way, as you put it, I expect I’ll stay with him, since it would be a pleasure as well as being polite!’

I saw him frown, but whatever he seemed about to say was interrupted by Essie’s calling out to him to arbitrate on the height of a particular fence. He left me abruptly, and walked across to answer her, leaving me to feel I had come out rather the worse from the encounter: if anyone had been listening they would have thought he was merely being civil while I must have sounded both prim and cross. However, I reminded myself of the calculation behind that handsome face—and wondered suspiciously whether he would make an attempt to send Michael, among the group around Essie, over to talk to me. He didn’t; but Rosalind sought me out a moment later, apparently of her own volition, and we had a rather stilted conversation during which she explained to me all over again what a point-to-point was for, and told me with sweet condescension that I must be feeling very strange and out of things, but if I didn’t understand anything I must ask her. It was quite a relief when the picnic began to break up, the riders going off to get ready for the next event, or to check that their horses were being properly looked after. Michael came limping over to thank Henry for letting him join the picnic, and exchanged a few pleasant words with me, but didn’t stay because Poppy Tetley was waiting for him: she seemed to be rather determinedly annexing him.

Having said I was going to stay with Henry, I did; but he elected to come and watch some of the racing, partly because Kevin was riding again. He seemed at times quite fond of Kevin, even if at others he deliberately provoked him or described him in uncomplimentary terms. From a vantage point, I was able to observe what a striking combination Kevin and the huge black Thunder made as they hurtled over the jumps with the horse under faultless control—though for all their combined skill they came second, this time, to the white-faced boy I had noticed earlier. (His name, I had been told, was Peter Raglan, and I’d been wrong about the likelihood of his coming off his wild-looking chestnut: he rode like a demon). We saw Essie in another ladies’ race, in which she didn’t distinguish herself because Cora took exception to something and ran off the course; and Rosalind gave us a prim wave as she trotted by after finishing—not amongst the leaders, but managing to look very competent and with not a hair out of place. After a while Henry declared his intention of returning to the car, but pressed me to stay where I was, so I did—fascinated almost against my will by the excitement of the races, the beauty and courage of the horses, and the exhilaration of cold air on my face while the beasts thundered by steaming and sweating and throwing up clods of dark earth from the now well-trampled field.