HartsLove (11 page)

‘Let her.'

‘If the horse kills her, I'll not share responsibility.'

‘Of course he won't kill me.' Daisy snatched at the saddle.

Skelton knew better than to tussle for it. He crossed his arms. ‘Go on then,' he said. ‘Show us how it's done.'

Rose stood by her father as Daisy moved closer to the horse and began to croon. ‘Rose,' Charles said. ‘I can't –'

‘Just watch, Pa. Just watch.'

Daisy hardly saw her father. She was concentrating only on The One. ‘Shall we show them?' she asked the horse. ‘Shall we?'

The One's eyes flicked back and forth from Daisy to the saddle to Skelton, but Daisy knew he could hear her. She untied him and moved to the mounting block. Dropping the rope, she climbed on to the block, slid the saddle on to his back, then climbed down. She spoke to the horse with her hands, stroking his ears, then his neck, then his withers, and finally running her palms over the saddle flaps to his stomach. Skelton was right: the horse was ticklish. Nevertheless, very slowly and with complete confidence, Daisy took the girth and fastened the buckle loosely. The One's skin puckered at the feel of the leather and he curved his neck to see what she was doing. He shifted, but the saddle was secure. Prodded by Rose, Charles approached the horse and rubbed his nose. ‘That was something, wasn't it, Skelton?' he said.

‘It was, Sir Charles,' Skelton said. His expression was unfathomable.

‘And the horse didn't try to kill her.'

‘No, Sir Charles, but then he's standing still. It may be different once he moves.'

Daisy threw Skelton a look and began to walk around the yard. The One walked quite calmly beside her until they passed the barn door. A sharp breeze rattled it and a tile clattered down, smashing on the cobbles. Even an old horse would have taken fright, and The One was so young. Throwing up his head, he whipped the rope out of Daisy's hands and set off at a canter. At once, the stirrups, which Daisy had not thought to secure, slid down their leathers and punched him in the ribs. The One's ears flew back at this unexpected belting and he crashed round the yard and out of the gate towards the Resting Place, the rope dangling. In vain, Daisy called for him to stop. Charles and Skelton ran out after him.

With the saddle on his back and the grass beneath his feet, The One galloped round the Resting Place until, shaking his head against the slapping of the rope, he set sail for the river. At the start of the trees, he hesitated, skidded round and galloped along the fence. The straight line invited; the stirrups clanged; and when he heard the distant whistle of a train, he opened his shoulders and galloped. It took about a minute for Charles, Skelton and Daisy to stop their pursuit and to stand, their jaws
dropping. The One was no longer galloping the thundering mad gallop of fear; he seemed to have forgotten about that. Instead he had made a discovery: that if he allowed his hindquarters to thrust and his legs to skim, he could gallop faster than the wind. He stretched out. He was enjoying himself. ‘My God!' breathed Charles. The One had no intention of stopping and took no notice of the wicked rope snaking round those fragile front legs. Yet, inevitably, as the ground rose, the rope caught under one flashing front hoof and The One's flight came to an ungainly and violent halt as he catapulted right over. Charles howled. Skelton yelled. Daisy's teeth clamped her tongue.

Charles ran down as the horse rose. The One was gasping, the breath knocked out of him, but there was no white bone sticking through the skin and no blood. When the horse had stopped gasping, Charles asked him to walk. He walked. He asked him to trot. He trotted. The horse was not happy but he seemed unhurt. ‘No harm, none at all,' Charles said, ‘and did you see the speed? My God, this animal's a miracle. I've seldom seen anything like that, and he's not even trained yet!'

Daisy unclamped her tongue. ‘Is he really all right?'

‘Right as rain.'

‘Thank God!' whispered Daisy.

Rose was pleased about the horse, but better still, Charles no longer looked like a dead man. A glimmer of
a sparkle had returned. Even if The One did not win the Derby, he was to be thanked for that.

‘What do you think, Skelton?' Charles was excited.

‘A good horse, certainly,' Skelton said. He was breathing almost as quickly as The One. ‘A very good horse indeed.'

They returned to the yard, Skelton deferring to Daisy in a way Daisy found both unsettling and gratifying. The One had certainly lifted everybody's mood. She fussed over the horse for the rest of the afternoon, and Skelton left them quite alone. Only after Daisy had gone back to the castle did he pull on his boots and slip into the stable. The One was lying down. ‘No need to rise, laddie,' Skelton said. The horse rose anyway. Skelton made no move towards him, just stood for a while, making his calculations. The horse shook himself. Skelton stepped to the side, then, without warning, he rocked forward, then back, then forward, then back again, and when he was ready, he kicked The One's offside knee with vicious, carefully controlled force. The horse grunted and his leg shuddered. Skelton waited until the leg had stopped quivering before inspecting his footwork. The knee was unmarked but already beginning to swell. ‘Perfectly judged, Mr Skelton,' the groom said to himself. He closed the stable door behind him. The horse's ears were flat back. Skelton laughed softly. ‘It must be rotten being a horse,' he said, with no sympathy at all.

Breakfast had barely begun when Skelton appeared, sorry to inform Charles and his children that – such a pity,
such
a pity – though all seemed to have been well, it was now clear that the horse had damaged himself during the previous day's escapade. ‘I didn't like to say anything with Miss Daisy being such a genius with horses,' Skelton said, manufacturing just the right amount of regret, ‘and she couldn't have been expected to hold on when he shied in the yard, her being a girl, and, well, you know –' he gestured at her crutches – ‘but a dangling rope's the most dangerous thing in the world, particularly for a racehorse. If only – oh well, that doesn't matter now. What's done's done, but I thought I'd better tell you at once.' He shook his head in the ghastly silence. ‘I've had the hosepipe on the knee already, but I think it'll take more than cold water. As I say, such a pity, when we had such high hopes.'

Knives and forks, suspended in mid-air, dropped on to
plates. Charles was white. ‘But he's The One,' he said. ‘We saw him.'

‘He
was
The One, sir,' Skelton corrected.

Daisy was on her feet. ‘It's not true,' she cried. ‘It can't be true. He was fine all afternoon. He was fine when I left him.'

Skelton bowed his head. ‘I'm sorry, miss.'

‘He was fine, I tell you.'

‘He
looked
fine, miss,' Skelton said, ‘but you see, when you've been around horses as long as I have, you'll know that injuries don't always show up at once.'

Daisy wracked her brains, trying to remember. She could see The One galloping; she saw the rope dangling; she saw him trip. The back of her neck froze. ‘Oh God,' she said. ‘What have I done?'

‘It's not your fault, Daisy,' Rose said quickly. ‘Accidents happen with horses.' Her lips were set.

‘I'm going to have a look,' Daisy said, searching in vain for her crutches.

In the event, they all went to look. Skelton had left The One tied up in the yard. The rope was unnecessary since by now the horse could hardly move. He seemed puzzled by the fat bulge on his once shapely leg and sniffed it with pained amazement. It was, he knew, in some way associated with Skelton and he jibbed hard every time the groom approached him. ‘He doesn't like me because I've had the hosepipe on him,' Skelton said, patting the horse on the
neck. ‘But without cold water, believe me, it would be worse for him.' There were puddles everywhere. The hosepipe lay coiled under the tap.

Daisy was completely dazed. There was the knee. There was no mistaking the injury. She, who had set herself up as The One's friend, The One's trainer even, had caused his racing life to end before it had even begun. ‘It's a pity the ice house has fallen into disrepair,' she heard Skelton tell Rose. ‘We could do with ice now.' Rose, standing with Lily, with Garth hovering and Clover and Columbine standing mute together, could only nod.

Charles, like Daisy, was too stunned to speak. To have fate conspire against him like this – again – just when he really had resolved to turn his own and his children's lives around! It was intolerable! It was iniquitous! Why was he so punished? He lurched round and staggered into Skelton's house. He would have a glass. He would have a bottle. He would drink a case. Truly, drink was the only security left to him.

Rose and Lily moved closer to the horse's head. His long ears flopped. His eyes were mournful. ‘Can't something be done?' Lily had never really thought of the race except as a kind of dream. It was the horse's pain she was unable to bear.

‘He needs more than Skelton's hosepipe. He needs a vet,' Garth said, bending down.

‘We can't pay a vet,' said Daisy flatly. She did not know
what to do with herself. ‘I'd sell myself if I was worth anything.'

‘Arthur Rose would come if Rose asked,' said Clover or Columbine, trying to be helpful.

‘It would be quite wrong to ask,' Rose countered sharply. ‘It would be taking complete advantage.'

‘But you could,' Clover or Columbine persisted. ‘I mean, surely if The One was dying, if he was lying on the ground groaning, if he had a gaping wound and his blood was gushing . . .'

Daisy gave a hiccupping sob.

‘Stop it! Stop it!' cried Lily, the white canary that had lately joined her doves fluttering in her hands. ‘Don't say such things!'

The twins looked at each other. Nothing they suggested was ever right.

‘Skelton said cold water was the best cure,' said Rose, scowling at them. ‘Come on, Daisy. We'll help you. Turn on the hosepipe.' Rose felt it important that Daisy should be doing something, not just staring. She pulled her up and gave her a push. Daisy was dumb as she limped to the tap, and it was Rose who held the pipe against The One's leg as the colt first tried to back away from the gush, and then, hobbled by his lameness and appreciating the coolness of the water, stood miserably still. ‘That's good, isn't it?' Rose said to him, trying not to mind that her feet were soaking. ‘Look, Daisy. This really does help.'

Daisy took the hosepipe from her. She still could not speak. Eventually, Rose turned off the tap. ‘I think that's enough for now. Let's get him back into his stable,' she said. Moving The One was a struggle. He did not want to put any weight on his leg, and huffed and puffed his dismay. Afterwards, Daisy, having silently tidied the straw and touched the horse's nose in mute apology, stumbled in tears to the Resting Place. Ignoring the cold, she lay face down on the flat stone. Rose, lingering on the drawbridge, watched her sister's shaking shoulders for a while, then spun on her heel, went inside and fetched her bonnet.

Inside Skelton's house, Charles was slumped at the kitchen table. He had thrown off his coat and his legs were spread, the soles of his boots flapping where they had worn through. Skelton flicked a speck of dust from his own boots, then brought out a bottle and a glass. ‘Here,' he said.

Charles watched him tip out a generous measure. ‘Every time I try to stop with this stuff, something makes it impossible,' he complained, half to Skelton and half to himself. ‘It's as if there's a conspiracy against me. There
is
a conspiracy against me.' He downed the tot and held out the glass. Skelton poured another and one for himself at the same time. ‘A restorative,' he said. Charles downed the second glass before Skelton had taken so much as a sip. ‘I can't drink all your brandy,' Charles said, drinking a third glass a little more slowly.

‘Don't you worry about me,' Skelton said silkily. Then he simply waited. After the fourth tot, Charles began to talk. He tried to speak of Gryffed; he failed. He tried to speak of Hartslove; he failed. After a fifth tot, he gave up trying to speak of home. Instead, he spoke of the war in the Crimea; of the maggot-ridden wounded and the worm-ridden dead; of the stench of fear and the foolishness of bravery. ‘Why was I not killed, Skelton?' he asked again and again. ‘So many others were – better men than me.' Skelton lost count of the number of times Charles reached for the bottle. ‘A man in my regiment had his head blown off and I came through with barely a scratch. How, Skelton? Was I a coward? Did I always keep myself out of danger? Do you know what I dream every night?' Skelton shook his head. ‘I dream that I'm running away whilst my men are being mown down like poppies.' He leaned unsteadily forward. ‘Did I run away?' He seemed to think that Skelton might know the answer. When no answer came, he supplied one himself. ‘If I didn't, how come they died and I'm back here? Tell me that.' He picked up the bottle. Nearly empty.

Skelton swirled his brandy around. ‘Who knows why anything turns out as it does,' he said, and, getting up, he produced another bottle, uncorked it and threw the cork away. He pushed the bottle towards Charles, who filled his glass almost to the top. Skelton pretended to top up his own glass also. ‘The war must have been terrible,' he said, leaving his glass on the table. ‘Tell me more.'

Words tumbled out, at first surprisingly clearly, but half an hour later less so, and half an hour later still Charles's speech was slurred to a continuous mumble and his eyes were so red and bleary he could hardly see through them.

Watching every tiny change, Skelton finally raised his glass. Now was the time. ‘To dashed hopes,' he said.

‘Dashed hopes?'

‘The One,' Skelton said. ‘He could have made everything better.'