Necessary Evil (5 page)

I have a particularly sharp memory of the
early morning run on that Wednesday in May. It was a clear, unseasonably cool
day, and my breath came out in gusts of condensation as I pushed along the
riding trail. As I rounded the corner and headed back to the farmhouse, it
loomed before me in clear relief against the foggy early morning, a solid,
squat Colonial salt-house with additions marring its otherwise pure look.

I remember pausing at the gate that
separates the horse farmyard from the main yard, chilled with sweat and hungry.
The house was quiet, dark windows accenting the dark blue paint that, yet
again, needed new coat.

It’s an antiquarian’s dream, our house.
Built in the 1600s, it had stood through the revolutions, wars, and climate
changes of America’s rambunctious history, housing generation after generation
of stalwart Chases. They were the archetype - in my opinion at least - of the
original settlers: hardworking, quiet, civic-minded, and stubborn.

I loved the house. I loved it for more
than just the sentimental memories of a happy childhood spent within its secure
four walls. I loved the ideas it represented, its history, up to Alexander
Chase. Of course, I loved the people who lived in it when I was child: my aunt
and uncle had done the bulk of raising me, and I thought of them as more my
parents than my real ones.

My biggest regret has always been that my
name is Warwick. As a child, I’d write “Chase” on my kindergarten school
papers, and argue with my teacher about the legality of it. When she sent me
home with a note to my guardians, I begged Uncle Michael to change my name.

I’ll never forget the look on his face as
he answered, “Would if I could, Maddie. I would if I could.”

He probably would have. My aunt and uncle
loved children, yet were never able to have any of their own. If it wasn’t for
me, they probably would have adopted one, but they never did and now they had
no one to carry on their own legacy.

No one, that is, but me. I suppose that’s
why I was so bound and determined to keep the farm open and working. I wasn’t a
Chase, so even if I did have children, they wouldn’t have the name. The farm
was my uncle’s one legacy, and I had appointed myself guardian of it.

Vowing to preserve something is one thing.
Bringing it about is quite another. I’d always known that Susanna and Michael
Chase were not very interested in money, but I’d never known how close they
played everything. Every month was a long, knock-down drag-out fight between
me, the checkbook, and the bank, and the struggle was starting to tell on me.
Even I could see that. My hobbies and interests had dwindled to almost nothing,
my back was constantly stiff from both the burden and the broken mattress I
couldn’t afford to replace. A line had etched itself on my face, my romantic
prospects (excepting, perhaps, the long-shot Joe Tremonti) were practically
null, and my hands had grown calloused with time and work. Despite my best
efforts, my manners had grown
more brusque
, almost
rude.

Relinquishing the fight was not an option.
Aunt Susanna deserved to keep her home and the Chase family legacy, tarnished
though it was. Besides, I hadn’t run out of ideas yet.

That morning in particular, I remember
standing in its shadow, looking up at the familiar lines, thinking,
It’s
not over yet. I promise, Uncle Michael, I
won’t give up.

Even as I said it, dread crept around the
edges of my heart. I don’t really believe in premonitions; but if I did, I
would say that I knew, even then, that the fight was about to take a turn for
the worse.

That Wednesday was one of the longest days
of my life.

It started off normally enough. Aunt
Susanna was in her room preparing for an exercise class with Darlene, and I,
home from work, had my usual routine of stable mucking, bill paying, lessons,
and teaching.

The bad news started right after she left.
I was checking my emails and discovered one from the New Hampshire Board of
Historical Properties, once again turning down my application for Historical
Property status. It was a serious blow. Having them assume the financial
responsibility for the buildings would have eased our struggle considerably,
and perhaps even have given Aunt Susanna the freedom to do something else with
her time and income, like get a winter place in Florida, maybe, or visit her
sisters in the Carolinas.

The board’s refusal changed nothing, aside
from dashing my hopes again. I would have handled the disappointment much
better if I hadn’t also spotted the mortgage statement on the stack of
yesterday’s bills. I’d only just finished paying the minimum on our credit
cards, and our checking account didn’t have enough to cover this as well.

Thankfully, I had lessons to give, getting
me out of that office. But watching little girls in pink helmets going in
endless circles on the back of a shuffling pony only depressed me. They seemed
oddly emblematic of my life. The concentration on their faces, the almost
panicked way the new riders gripped the reins with their hands rather than the
saddle with their knees struck a chord in me. I spend too much time in my head
anyway; but sometimes, I wondered if I wasn’t doing the same in my own life:
riding in tethered circles with bad form.

Mrs. Fontaine’s daughter, Alice, had a
lesson that day, which didn’t help my state of mind.

While Alice was a nice little girl with a
smile so sweet it could give you cavities, her mother was a nervous, pushy sort
who liked to speak her mind. She was unhappy with me because, after a year of
lessons, her daughter still wasn’t jumping. I had tried to explain to her that
jumping was only for the more experienced, that it was perfectly normal for it
to take two years or so before a rider was ready. Mrs. Fontaine was not unlike
other parents when she insisted that Alice was especially talented, and could
be trained at a faster pace than the others.

I knew better. Alice was a gentle girl
with a level head, but she was not a natural equestrian. If anything, she
needed more time, not less.

I never said that, of course, but my watered-down
explanations were enough to upset Mrs. Fontaine. Unable to override me, she
would instead try to undermine me with veiled threats.

“The Shoepflin Farm a few towns over
offers more competitive training for girls Alice’s age,” she’d say. Or, “It’s a
long drive to here from Andover. I keep thinking we should go someplace
closer.”

I’d become used to over-anxious mothers
and their badgering techniques, and I was determined that I would not let her
upset me. The farm had a vested financial interest in keeping the Fontaine’s
business: not only did Alice take her lessons here, but Mrs. Fontaine’s sister
boarded two horses with us. If Mrs. Fontaine left, no doubt she’d take her
sister with her.

Alice had her lessons at six p.m., after
her piano lessons. They always arrived dressed in full gear, on time, expecting
Alice’s favorite pony - Red Rider - to be ready. Normally, we insisted that the
rider prepare the pony, but as Mrs. Fontaine was nervous around horses and
Alice was still so little, we waived this in their case.

At 5:45, I was heading to the barn to
prepare Red Rider when I met Lindsay coming in the opposite direction. She was
looking very cheerful.

“I’ve got the Hendersons at six,” she
said. “Do you mind if I take Missy out for a run before I go home?”

“Be my guest,” I answered. “She could use
the exercise. I’ve got one more lesson, then a long, leisurely night of
balancing budgets to look forward to.”

“You’ve got the Fontaine’s tonight, right?
Gosh, am I glad tonight is your turn in rotation.”

“Why?”

“Red Rider threw his shoe. You’ll have to
use Greybeard, and you know how he loves little Alice’s crop.”

“Oh, terrific!” I exclaimed. “I’m going to
have to keep them on the lunge line. Mrs. Fontaine will love that. I’ll get the
lecture about holding her daughter back. You wouldn’t want to trade, would
you?”

“Not on your life. I’ll take the Henderson
girl any day of the week.”

She hurried off, and I glumly went into
the barn to check on Red Rider and saddle up Greybeard.

As predicted, Mrs. Fontaine was not at all
pleased. She was even more upset when she learned that we weren’t going to be
using the indoor ring.

“Why not?” she asked, practically pouting
as I opened the door to let Alice lead her dark charge out into the yard.

“It’s in use at the moment,” I lied. It
actually needed to be cleaned and the sand re-spread to make a smooth riding
surface. It should have been done a week ago, but both Lindsay and I had been
too busy to tend to it.

I wasn’t about to admit as much to Mrs.
Fontaine. The truth would have only made her more upset.

“We’ve used it before with other people in
it,” she pointed out. “Why is today different?”

“We’re using Greybeard today and he isn’t
as comfortable around other horses,” I said hastily, and instantly wished I’d
said anything else.

Mrs. Fontaine’s eyes grew wide with shock.
I skipped ahead to help Alice lead her horse.

It was a lovely night. The sun was low in
the sky, blinding us as we headed for the west fields, where the training
paddocks were. I hadn’t given much thought to which paddock we would use, but
as the first two had jumping equipment set up in them, I decided that we’d use
the far ring, instead of the usual outdoor training ring.

Alice was in her usual good mood, as
unflappable as her mother was anxious. Dressed in immaculate riding garb,
complete with shiny boots and a short crop, she crooned and rubbed Greybeard’s
nose as we walked along. I watched her, wishing that current child safety
policies didn’t make it absolutely imperative that a parent be present at these
lessons.

Mrs. Fontaine would be much happier at
home,
I
reasoned.
As it is, she’s going to be catching up in a second to pester me.
I should have stayed in veterinary school.

Sure enough, Mrs. Fontaine soon caught up
with us, her fashion boots clumping unsteadily on the trail, her eyes flashing
behind long lashes.

“Do you mean to say that my daughter is on
an
unsafe
horse?” she sputtered.

“Absolutely not. Greybeard is as gentle
and nice as Red Rider. But we’re, uh, training horses in the ring tonight and
they’re unsteady. Red Rider is older and wouldn’t be bothered, but Greybeard is
a young guy. He’s absolutely lovely, really.”

I went ahead to open the paddock gate.
Alice, unmoved by her mother’s unhappiness, led the pony in and up to the
mounting stool. I stepped inside and was about to latch the gate behind me when
Mrs. Fontaine caught my hand in a steel grip.

Prepared as I was for her temper, I was
caught off guard by the unmasked anger in her eyes.

“Have you checked it first?” she hissed.

“Checked what?” Admittedly, my tone was
snappy.

“The ground – have you checked it for
holes?”

I stared at her. Lindsay and I had been
finding evidence of treasure hunters with increasing regularity, but we’d been
careful to keep it from the parents and students. The only rider who might have
known would be Karen Guinta, who’d come across a hole a week ago, but I
convinced her that it was there as part of a surveying project. So how did Mrs.
Fontaine know? Had she found one? How could I ask without admitting to the
danger?

Then Mrs. Fontaine went on. “I don’t want
an accident to happen to my daughter like it happened to Michael. I insist that
you inspect the grounds before she rides.”

I could hardly see for the anger. It took
every ounce of restraint for me not to tell her off properly.

As I took a breath, I thought,
All
this time and no progress. I still lose it
whenever someone mentions his name.

“It was inspected, Mrs. Fontaine,” I said,
carefully, politely, but she would have to be blind not to have seen the smoke
pouring out of my ears. “Lindsay, used this paddock only this morning. And we
haven’t been bothered by trespassers in quite some time, just so you know.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard. Karen Guinta
saw one of those prospecting holes only the other day.”

Darn it. So Karen hadn’t bought my story.

“Karen Guinta said that?” I asked sharply.
“What else did she say?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Charlie White
told me about it. He called to ask me if I’d seen anything suspicious on your
farm.
He
thinks that you’re still being bothered by treasure hunters.”

I sighed. Of course, Charlie White was
behind this. A wannabe journalist who edited an online rag by the name of
New
Hampshire News Now
, he was always looking for something sensational, a
trick to pull off in the relatively tame Granite State. He’d been all over my
uncle’s death, writing opinion pieces and conducting interviews until finally
even Aunt Susanna told him off. When the Beaumont letter was published, his
coverage was brief and uninterested, partially because there was another,
bigger story in Franklin. I’d thought we were finished with Charlie White, but
it seemed that the story was not as dead as I’d thought.

I was still mulling this over when Mrs.
Fontaine said, “I won’t have my daughter riding on dangerous ground.”

“We check all the paddocks every morning,”
I said automatically. “There aren’t any treasure hunters on the property.
Professor Maddox’s discovery put an end to that.”

“That’s not what I heard…”

“I can’t help the rumors, Mrs. Fontaine,”
I cut her off. “I can only tell you the truth.”

I might have added,
Or
a part of the truth.

Mrs. Fontaine’s green eyes flashed at me.
“Well,” she hissed. “The truth of the matter is, I’ve been uneasy bringing
Alice here. My sister likes you, but I’ve seen nothing to convince me that
you’re any better than any other instructor, even though you charge like you’ve
trained a triple-crown winner. I can’t see that it’s worth it, frankly. You may
love horses, but you don’t seem to have any discernable talent. You certainly
aren’t anywhere close to the reputation that your uncle had, and I’m not even
sure that his reputation wasn’t grossly overrated…”

That did it. I broke her monologue by
smashing my hand against the rough, wooden rail. She jumped as though I’d hit
her - which, frankly, had been my first instinct.

“Mrs. Fon
taine
,” I snapped. “If
you’ve got nothing better to do than insult me and my family, you can take your
contract and your daughter and walk out right now.”

She stared at me, and I stared back.

“Mom? Miss Warwick?”

Alice sounded frightened, and it takes a
lot to snap that little girl out of herself.

The silence stretched long enough for
regret to start infringing on my self-assurance. Mrs. Fontaine looked at me
with disbelief mingled with caution. Then she stepped back, still smoldering,
but nodding for me to go on. I took in her stance, her set jaw, the way she
angrily fingered her phone, and I thought,
I’ve lost it. I’ve lost their
account. We’ll go under. I’ve lost.

Yet, even then, I knew that if she’d said
one more word about Uncle Michael, I would have verbally leveled her.

Just when all seemed lost, a cheery voice
sounded from down the path.

“Hey, Alice! Mind if we join you?”

Lindsay approached with the Henderson girl
jauntily astride the roan thoroughbred, her grandmother following at a
distance. Beaming with confidence, my assistant looked like she had come to
save the day.

Then, she did.

“Good grief, Mrs. Fontaine! Where
did
you
get those boots? Please tell me that they make a cheap knock-off, because I
totally need a pair.”

To my shock, Mrs. Fontaine flushed with
pleasure and said something about a sale. Lindsay continued to gush, then
admired Alice’s outfit - and in short order, she had Mrs. Fontaine laughing
with Henderson’s grandmother. She introduced the two girls to each other and
had the pair of them working companionably in the ring, Alice on the lunge line
while Henderson rode in circles around her.

I stood in the middle of the ring, holding
the line, aware that the sudden peace was as fragile as the first ice over
Walden Pond. Mrs. Fontaine’s glances in my direction were enough to tell me
that I was not in her good graces yet. For the sake of her daughter, and
probably Lindsay, she stayed civil up until the party broke up in the barn. The
Hendersons walked the roan back to his stall, Lindsay went into the tack room
to clean the saddle, and we were alone.