Tyringham Park (18 page)

“It was Lady Blackshaw,” the older girl leaned over to say in a whisper so that Waldron couldn’t hear.

“It was Edwina!” Freddie called across to Waldron. “Your wife!”

“I know who she is.”

“Was she badly hurt?” Freddie asked the others.

“It didn’t look good. She was unconscious and her feet were facing the wrong direction,” the same girl whispered. “They took her away just a minute ago.”

“Her feet were facing the wrong direction!” Freddie shouted to Waldron.

“She won’t like that!” he yelled back.

“They’ve just taken her away, whoever ‘they’ are. Get yourself over here so I don’t have to act like a parrot!”

Letchworth, an older brother of the three young people, had ridden off to get help from the soldiers in the army barracks, the girl further explained. The hope was they would have an available
lorry that could be used to transport Her Ladyship to the hospital in Cork. He must have raised the alarm somewhere along the way as a number of tenant farmers and their sons had turned up out of
nowhere and had just left, transporting her ladyship on a makeshift stretcher to walk the four miles to the road in the hope of meeting up with the military lorry if one turned up, and if one
didn’t they intended to walk the twenty miles, taking it in turns to bear the stretcher, all the way to the city. Letchworth was also looking to borrow some type of a firearm so that he could
put Mandrake out of his misery as soon as he returned.

“Won’t be needed,” said Freddie. “Lord Waldron has one on his person.”

Sleet continued to fall and daylight was nearly gone.

Beatrice, wiping her mouth and looking distraught, joined the group. Despite approaching quietly, she startled Mandrake, who stepped backwards and faltered before putting his weight on his three
sound legs, letting the broken one rest lightly on the ground. She hoped she wasn’t going to be sick again.

“Hold him there, Freddie,” Waldron commanded.

Freddie had ridden off a short distance to relieve himself and didn’t hear. The two girls turned their faces away, and stayed where they were. The boy, aged about seven, hung his head.

“I’ll hold him if you like,” said Beatrice, “but I think it would be better if we all stayed still. He’s not likely to move if you don’t make any sudden
movements.”

“I don’t need to be told what to do by a woman, Beatrice, and especially not by you,” Waldron said, checking the revolver’s ammunition. “Have you any idea who
you’re talking to? A champion horseman and a crack shot in the cavalry of the British Army for thirty years, that’s who.”

“Wait for Freddie. He’ll be back in a second.”

“Are you insinuating I’m not up to the job? Interfering woman, did you take in a word I said?” He began to dismount. “I’ll do it myself.”

He took his left foot out of the stirrup too soon and swung his right leg too energetically over the saddle, and lost his balance before he hit the ground. The revolver flew out of his hand and
landed in the grass. The three young people ducked. Beatrice braced herself waiting for a shot, but there wasn’t one. She went over to help up the idiot, as she was calling him under her
breath. Mandrake had taken two steps back in reaction to the disturbance, and the broken bone now showed at a more acute angle than it had done earlier.

To stabilise herself, Beatrice held on to Brigadier’s mane so that Waldron wouldn’t pull her down when she gave him her hand. He made a few false starts before he was able to attain
an upright position. Beatrice was tempted to use the revolver herself but from ingrained deference put it back into his muddy hand, then moved behind him out of the line of fire.

A large shape appeared at her shoulder.

“What’s happened to Charlotte?” It was Manus, dismounting from Neseen, his father’s farm horse.

“Nothing. Charlotte’s fine. Lady Blackshaw was riding Mandrake. It was –”

There was a loud bang and an echo. One of the young girls screamed.

Manus had been unaware of Waldron’s preparations as the old soldier’s back had been turned towards him.

A stream of blood was pouring from one of Mandrake’s nostrils. There was a hole in the edge of his blaze, about six inches below the left eye. Those who were watching thought the gelding
looked puzzled and sad, shaking his head and quivering. He lurched when he took a step sideways.

Manus flew at Waldron, wrested the firearm from his hand and shoved him out of the way. Waldron rocked backwards, muttering that he wasn’t going to let a servant treat him like that and
there was going to be hell to pay before the day was out. Everyone ignored him.

By now Manus was weeping, but no one could tell as he was dripping wet and hatless, his hair sodden and plastered over his forehead.

He spoke softly to Mandrake, and Beatrice thought she heard him say “Goodbye, dear friend.” Mandrake didn’t move when Manus approached him and rested the revolver between the
eyes, watching him directly while he aimed it. The hand Manus used to push the hair from his own eyes, and then shield them from the sleet while he took aim with the other, was visibly shaking. He
fired, making no mistake, and stayed in that position while Mandrake, motionless for a second, still looking directly at his stable master while he took the hit, dropped down and then rolled on his
side, accompanied by the sound of sighing, his broken leg the last to rest on the ground.

Both young girls sobbed aloud.

Manus returned the revolver to Waldron.

“You haven’t heard the last of this by a long shot,” said Waldron, swaying and holding on to Brigadier for support. “And you can keep your trap shut about this, Beatrice.
And you lot as well,” he directed at the young people.

“Won’t say a word,” said the older girl, who couldn’t wait to get back to the house to tell her friends what a fool Waldron had made of himself.

Freddie returned, leading his mount. “Job done, I see,” he said, looking at the fallen Mandrake and ignoring Manus whom he identified by his clothing as a stable hand.
“Didn’t notice the nettles and got caught in a bunch of them and couldn’t find any dock leaves.” He helped Waldron remount, and tentatively remounted himself.

“Will we ever get to Rafferty’s with all these blasted interruptions?” asked Waldron, secure in the saddle, deliberately turning Brigadier’s rear end towards Beatrice and
Manus before riding off with a show of bravado.

Beatrice took Manus’s shivering hands in hers. “Don’t worry about Waldron,” she said.

“I’m not worried about him.”

“I’ll make sure you don’t lose your position at the stables because of this. I have influence.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but at the moment I’m not concerned about His Lordship.”

“But I am.” Let the drunken popinjay better occupy himself showing some concern for his wife and leave Manus alone, Beatrice thought with contempt.

Manus retrieved Lucifer from where Beatrice had tethered him a distance away and, while the young girl held the horse’s head, helped Beatrice back onto her side-saddle.

She wanted to get to the house as quickly as possible, not only to tell Charlotte what had happened and to be there to comfort her, but also to reassure Bertie, who must be worried about her by
now. Manus signalled that he would stay on.

She joined the three young people and set off in a sad procession back to the house. Looking over her shoulder as she left, she saw through the sleet the silhouette of Manus against the last
light of day bending over the fallen Mandrake.

Miss East looked up from replacing an empty platter with a full one to see Les picking his way through the crowd. This was most odd – it was unlikely he had ever been in
the front hall of the house in his life. He was searching every face intently, apparently unaware of the inappropriateness of his being there. Who was he searching for? Perhaps one of the horses
was playing up or injured and he was looking for the owner. That must be it.

Please God, don’t let it be me.

When he finally located her and approached, she felt her legs go weak and wished there was somewhere to sit down.

“Is it Charlotte?”

“It is. She’s not hurt but she’s ran off. I tried to catch her. She’s in a real bad state. I’m blaming myself for letting her go.”

They headed for the door.

“I blame myself,” Les repeated. “I just couldn’t say no to her.”

Everyone was having last drinks before going upstairs to change, when there was a disturbance at the door. Bertie saw his wife enter the hall and with an undignified cry pushed
people out of the way to reach her side.

“There’s been a bad accident,” Beatrice announced. “It’s Edwina.”

Someone was heard to say in a low voice, “Thank God it wasn’t Beatrice.” Answered by, “You can say that again. There’s been enough bad luck in that family
already.” Followed by, “Not to mention the Blackshaws. How unlucky are they?”

Another asked, “How is she?”

“Difficult to say. She’s in good hands. On her way to the hospital. Young Letchworth was the hero of the hour. Had a lorry waiting on the main road and four soldiers ready to take
over by the time the helpers carried her there.”

Sighs of relief and sounds almost like applause came from the crowd, and Frobisher Letchworth’s parents felt pride in their son for doing the right thing.

“Where’s Waldron?” asked an army subordinate, who had ridden in this hunt for the first time. “He must be worried sick.”

“Hardly. He’s at Rafferty’s. You won’t get any sense out of him tonight,” said one of the guests.

“And you won’t get much any other time either,” someone else whispered back.

“
Shhhh!
”

“Does anyone know where Charlotte is?” Beatrice asked.

No one had seen her arrive back.

“One of the stable lads came and fetched the housekeeper a while ago and they went off looking worried. I’d ask her. She’d be the one most likely to know.”

“How’s Sandstorm?” asked someone from the crowd that had by now encircled Beatrice.

“Edwina wasn’t riding Sandstorm,” said another voice. “She was on Mandrake.”

“That’s odd. Why wasn’t she riding Sandstorm?” said another.

“How’s Mandrake then, Beatrice?” Silence. “I was only asking. No need to look at me like that.”

“That’s what I have to see Charlotte about – I promised Manus I’d speak to her myself. Mandrake had to be shot.”

The crowd gasped in unison, and there were cries of disbelief and pity from sections of it.

Beatrice was finding it difficult to speak. “Worse still, Manus had to do it. After Waldron made a mess of it.” More sounds of disbelief, this time punctuated with disapproval.
“I must go and find Charlotte and break the news to her. If anyone sees her before I do, please don’t say anything until I see her.” She disappeared back into the outside darkness
in a flurry of sleet that was turning to snow.

Miss East and Les finally found Charlotte in the old nursery curled up in Victoria’s cot, sucking the satin trimming of a red blanket and staring straight ahead into the
darkness.

Les lifted her out and crouched beside Miss East, who had sunk to the floor. He cradled the child in his arms.

“Was there an accident?” Miss East asked gently, making a guess.

Charlotte nodded, then flung herself into Miss East’s arms, burying her face in her neck.

“There, there,” said Miss East. “You’re all right and that’s the main thing. Now let’s get you downstairs . . . there, there, don’t take on so . . .
let’s get you out of these wet clothes and find you something nice to eat and warm you up and we’ll find out what has happened. It might not be as bad as you think.”

The look she gave Les over Charlotte’s head was filled with alarm and contradicted the reassurances she was giving.

Beatrice didn’t involve the servants in the search – she wanted to tell Charlotte herself in as gentle a way as she could to minimise shock. She was fond of the
plain, charmless child with the good seat and sensitive hands who wanted above all to be a champion rider to win her mother’s approval, a blameless child whose day of triumph had been wrecked
by a jealous mother who would never approve of her, and a drunken father who couldn’t shoot straight.

The hot steamy kitchen with servants skidding on the tiles revealed no familiar figure sitting in the corner.

Holly, keeping guard in the new nursery beside Miss East’s rooms on the ground floor, was reluctant to open the door until she knew who it was who was knocking. Edwina had given strict
instructions that Harcourt was not to leave the nursery that night – she was afraid that Waldron, full of pride at producing a son and heir at last, would command Harcourt be brought in to be
displayed to the guests, and in his drunken enthusiasm pick up the baby before anyone could prevent him, raise him high and drop him on the hard floor. So vividly had Edwina outlined the
nightmarish sequence of events to her that Holly was taking no chances. No, she hadn’t seen Charlotte since this morning. Was everything all right?

“I just want to discuss the hunt with her,” said Beatrice, moving off.

Habit, rather than logic, propelled her to the corridor leading to the original nursery, and along its full length she saw Charlotte in between Miss East and Les, coming towards her.

In that moment before she would shatter Charlotte’s young life, she wondered which would be harder for Charlotte to bear – her mother’s accident or the death of Mandrake?

“Have you been to see Manus yet?” Miss East asked.

Charlotte hung her head and said “No” in a small voice. She hadn’t seen him since the day before the hunt weeks earlier.

“He keeps asking for you and wants to see you. He’s very sad at the moment.”

Charlotte made no response.

“Time is running out. You’ll be back to school soon.”

Her return had been delayed until she regained her voice after the accident.

“Now off you go. Your father wants to see you. He said eleven o’clock and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

This was the first time Charlotte had been summoned for a serious talk with her father. She expected him to blame her for Edwina’s accident and pour scorn on her for being such an
incompetent rider. He would probably punish her by beating her, or telling her she could never ride again, or send her to live with the gypsies or the orphans, or have her locked up in gaol.