“Surely,” Candida answered hesitatingly, “that would not be right. Mama always said that ladies should never accept money from a gentleman, or even presents, unless she was engaged to him.”
Mrs. Clinton said nothing and Candida went on,
“Perhaps I shall be fortunate and fall in love with someone who will be able to afford to give me presents. It would be lovely not to have to worry about the future and know I could keep Pegasus as well as other horses.”
She was silent for a moment. Then, in a voice that was strangely moving, she said, clasping her hands together,
“Oh, Mrs. Clinton, you do think that Major Hooper will keep his promise and not sell Pegasus? He did tell me so.”
“I feel sure Major Hooper will keep his promise if that is what he told you,” Mrs. Clinton said and quickly changed the subject, making Candida add up the housekeeping books for the week.
“Never trust your servants,” Mrs. Clinton said as she handed them to Candida. “However loyal they appear, however honest they may seem, keep tight reins over the accounts, otherwise you will find that your debts are out of all proportion to what you have consumed.”
Obediently Candida totted up the accounts for the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker and the grocer. When she came to the wine-seller’s account, she looked at it in astonishment.
‘How can Mrs. Clinton have consumed so much champagne?’ she wondered, but felt it would show an impertinent curiosity to ask questions.
‘It must be all those friends,’ she thought, ‘who drop in every evening.’
By the time they arrived she was banished to her bedroom at the top of the house. Her room, however, was at the front and sometimes she would go to the window and look down on the street and see the smart carriages with their restless horses and liveried grooms waiting outside.
‘Of course,’ she told herself, ‘as Mrs. Clinton is a widow she must find it lonely unless she entertains.’
Strangely enough none of the callers seemed to stay to dinner. They came and they went, then others arrived. At first Candida thought it was only gentlemen who came to pay their respects to Mrs. Clinton, but then she saw ladies stepping out of hired carnages, resplendent in huge gowns with jewels round their necks and in their hair.
She often wished that she could get a closer glimpse of them, but they went straight into the house and usually, after a short wait, they would come out again, this time with a gentleman as an escort and drive away in his waiting carriage.
Candida wondered why they did not arrive together. But she was far too shy to question Mrs. Clinton, who seemed at times to withdraw into a silent reserve that Candida found quite awe-inspiring.
What surprised her more than anything were the riding habits that Mrs. Clinton was having made for her by a habit-maker who, she was told, held the Royal Warrant. He certainly knew his job and she thought at first glance that she had never known anything suit her so well.
Mrs. Clinton had, however, insisted on her waist being even smaller and tighter and the material moulded over her breasts until Candida felt a little anxious in case it should seem indecent. Because her habit was in a way for Pegasus, she paid more attention and took more interest in its fittings than in any of the others. What surprised her most was the choice of material.
When she had finished dressing this morning to ride in Hyde Park for the first time, she stared at herself in the mirror. She felt shy and embarrassed. Could this really be as Mrs. Clinton meant her to look? And what would her mother have said? The reflection that stared back at her showed someone quite different from the girl she thought of as herself.
She had not liked to seem ungrateful to Mrs. Clinton by voicing her doubts, but, after Major Hooper had helped her into the saddle and arranged her full skirt over her shiny new boots, she said to him in a low voice,
“Do you think I look all right?”
He looked up at the anxious little face and answered,
“You look very lovely.”
“This habit and my hat – they make me feel shy,” Candida whispered.
Major Hooper had already learnt how to deal with Candida. He might prefer horses to women, but he knew how to handle both.
“You show off Pegasus to perfection,” he said. “There is nothing like an elegant rider to draw attention to a magnificent horse.”
His words had exactly the effect he desired. He saw Candida’s chin go up, her shoulders straighten and she smiled at him confidently as they set off at a trot towards the Park.
In Hyde Park the crowds at the Achilles statue had been gathering for over an hour. No one quite knew why the ‘Pretty Horse-Breakers’ – and more particularly the Queen of them, Catherine Walters, known to everyone as ‘Skittles’ – had captured the interest and the attention of the general public, but the crowds who waited to see her were increasing day by day.
There was no doubt that she set the fashion not only amongst the other members of her profession, but also amongst the aristocratic ladies of the fashionable world who copied her in every possible way.
If she wore a pork-pie hat, they wore a pork-pie hat. If her paletot was made by Poole, their paletots were made by Poole. If she rode, they searched the livery stables and Tattersalls for horses to rival hers.
When she took to driving a pair of handsome brown ponies, the horse-dealers were being offered five or six hundred guineas for a pair of ponies, as well bred and as high stepping as those driven by Skittles.
No one knew how she would appear every day in the Park, but expectation was raised to its highest pitch as the ‘Pretty Horse-Breakers’ congregated at the Achilles statue. They were all of them exquisitely dressed and well mounted, each one vying with the other to look a little different. There were azure blue and emerald green habits, crimson and coral ones, brown and black and every ‘Pretty Horse-Breaker’ tried to have a more intoxicating and amusing hat than her friends.
Some wore orthodox cylindrical beavers with the fashionable flowing veil, others had roguish little ‘wide awakes’ or perky cocked cavaliers’ hats with floating plumes while the Society ladies passing by in their Victorias and broughams looked for what fashion hints they could find in these dazzling creatures they despised hut often envied.
The crowd, sitting on the grass or standing around staring with open mouths, was this morning waiting for one person and one person only.
“There she is!” a woman exclaimed and every head turned, only to be disappointed when they saw it was not their favourite Skittles but a Duchess, to them unimportant or some conventional Marchioness.
“I wonders if she’ll ride or drive this mornin’?” a man in a cloth cap remarked in a cockney accent.
The heads were turned yet again as a graceful figure driving a pair of greys passed by in the direction of Rotten Row.
Then suddenly there was silence.
Even the ‘Pretty Horse-Breakers’, chatting with their escorts and laughing a little too loudly or pouting seductively, seemed to grow still. From the direction of Stanhope Gate a horse and rider appeared who must be Skittles.
“Here she is!” a woman cried in an almost hysterical voice.
The rider was mounted on an enormous pitch-black stallion without a single mark of white on him. His coat was polished until it shone like a dark mirror, his mane and tail were meticulously combed and he had an air of majesty about him, which made those in the crowd who appreciated good horseflesh draw in their breath appreciatively.
But it was the rider the crowd was looking at and which also drew the eyes of the ‘Pretty Horse-Breakers’. She was very small and seemed far too fragile to control such an enormous beast. At very first sight though, they could not see her face very clearly, she gave an appearance of fragile grace and beauty, besides being almost sensational in her appearance.
The unknown, whoever she might be, wore a white riding habit, something no one else had dared to wear in the past – white and as chaste as a lily. Cut to perfection and held i
n the front by a black pearl button, it showed the delicate, almost immature curves of the rider’s young body and was finished at the neck by a tiny ruffle of expensive lace.
As she drew nearer they saw her face – the translucent skin, the soft, rosebud-tinted mouth, the large, rather frightened eyes veiled by dark lashes. While under the black top hat, with its floating transparent white veil, there was a chignon that filled all the other women with an almost insuppressible envy.
Never had there been hair of such a colour, pale gold run through with little flames of gold!
There was almost silence as Candida reached the Achilles statue, the crowd staring at her wide-eyed.
She suddenly felt apprehensive, her fingers in their long black gloves tightening on the reins.
“Ride straight on,” Major Hooper said almost beneath his breath.
She obeyed him, looking ahead and passing the gay and glittering crowd who all suddenly seemed to be open-mouthed like surprised goldfish. As she moved away in the direction of the Row the burble broke out.
“Who is she?”
“Where has she come from?”
“Why have we never seen her before?”
“What is her name?”
“Where has the Major found that?” Lais asked Lord Manville who was watching, like the rest, the great horse with its tiny rider.
“That is a very fine animal,” Lord Manville replied.
“Don’t forget to speak to Hooper about Firefly,” Lais begged. “That is the horse I want and you promised you would buy me the one I wanted.”
“I won’t forget,” Lord Manville said automatically and then on impulse he tightened his reins and gave his horse a flick with the whip. “I will speak to him now.”
He trotted off in Candida’s wake and caught up with Major Hooper before they were halfway down Rotten Row.
“That’s a good horse you have there, Hooper,” he said in a slightly condescending tone.
“I thought he would meet with your Lordship’s approval,” Major Hooper replied, raising his hat.
“What are you asking?” Lord Manville enquired.
“He’s not for sale, my Lord.”
“Not for sale!”
Candida had brought Pegasus almost to a walk. The two men were a little behind her, but she could hear every word that was said.
“That is unlike you, Hooper,” Lord Manville continued. “I have never known you not be prepared to sell at the right price.”
“This is different, my Lord. A condition is attached to the sale.”
“Indeed?” Lord Manville raised his eyebrows. “And what may that be?”
“I don’t think this is the right place to discuss such matters, my Lord,” Major Hooper answered and his tone was so respectful that it somehow took the rebuke out of his words.
Lord Manville was not pleased.
“Really, Hooper, you are being extraordinarily evasive,” he protested.
At that moment Candida urged Pegasus into a trot.
Major Hooper raised his hat.
“I’m sorry, my Lord,” he said and was gone before Lord Manville could say anything else.
It was at that moment a voice he most disliked said,
“Who is the fair Traviata? Have you discovered her name, Manville?”
Lord Manville turned his head to see Sir Tresham Foxleigh, a neighbour of his in the country and a gentleman for whom he had a profound contempt. Sir Tresham was excessively rich, he also possessed an unsavoury reputation and was considered an outsider at most of the Clubs in St. James’s Street.
“I was interested in the horse,” Lord Manville said in an offhand manner.
“A wonderful combination,” Sir Tresham exclaimed, his eyes a little narrowed, his mouth twisted in an unpleasant smile as he watched Candida’s progress down. “I hope, Manville, we are not to be rivals in this field as in so many others.”
“I hope not indeed,” Lord Manville replied and, turning his horse, rode back towards the Achilles statue.
Lais was waiting for him, looking particularly alluring in a new habit of deep crimson velvet frogged with black braid. Her eyes were alight with interest as Lord Manville reached her side.
“You asked him about Firefly?” she enquired.
“I will do so later,” Lord Manville replied.
“But you spoke to him?” Lais insisted.
“There was not time to discuss business,” Lord Manville explained.
Lais shrugged her shoulders. The ‘Pretty Horse-Breakers’ were dispersing. It was obvious that Skittles, unpredictably, was not paying a visit to her adoring satellites this morning.
The crowd was also moving away. They were all asking, ‘who is the unknown rider?’ Her appearance had certainly captured their imagination. Lord Manville heard their comments as he rode away in Lais’s wake.
‘Damn it,’ he told himself and he was as curious as they were. ‘Where the dickens could Hooper have found such a horse and indeed such a rider?’
One thing he could not forget. When he had asked the Major the price of the horse, the girl in white had turned her head and looked round. There had been an expression of desperate anxiety on her face that was quite unmistakable.
Then, when Major Hooper had said that the horse was not for sale, the expression had changed rapidly. It had been one of almost joyful relief. Lord Manville could find no other words to describe it.
In that brief moment, so brief that it had been but the turn of a head, it seemed to him that the unknown rider was so lovely that he could only fancy that his first impression of her being very young and fragile had been mistaken.
Her skin must owe its perfection to artifice and yet it seemed impossible that artifice could produce the liquid beauty of her eyes or that strange, unusual, tantalising colour of her hair. There was no dye in existence that could be responsible for that.
But why had she been hidden up till now? If she already had a protector, Hooper would not have been with her. No, he was showing her off, Lord Manville was certain of that and he had done it extremely cleverly. It had been brilliant stagecraft, of which no one who knew Hooper would have believed him capable.
He was not that type of man – he was dedicated to the sale of horses and the ‘Pretty Horse-Breakers’, who had made his stables the most popular and notorious in town were, but an adjunct to his sales. There was something behind all this, Lord Manville decided, and then his thoughts were interrupted by Lais.
“You will go and see Hooper?” she asked. “I know you have offered me the horses in your stables, but it is Firefly I want. You understand how one sets one’s heart on a certain horse. I have ridden him once or twice and he suits me. That is all I can say – he suits me.”
“I will certainly go and talk to Hooper about the animal,” Lord Manville promised, feeling in some inexpressible way that he was glad of an excuse to visit the livery stable.
“This afternoon?” Lais asked hopefully.
“Perhaps,” Lord Manville replied and she had to be content with that.
Nevertheless it was with an intense curiosity that Lord Manville could not repress that he drove to Hooper’s stable early that evening. He deliberately waited until he thought the ‘Pretty Horse-Breakers’ would have taken back their mounts and Hopper was likely to be alone.
He found him, as expected, going round the stalls, inspecting the horses and seeing that they were properly fed. He was not a man who would leave such jobs to his Head Groom, however able.
He was not surprised to see Lord Manville, elegantly dressed and almost incredibly handsome, drive his tandem into the stableyard.
He had known that he might expect him and that the fish was rising to the bait. His Lordship’s groom, with his cocked top hat, jumped down and ran to the horses’ heads. Lord Manville sauntered across the cobbles to where Major Hooper was waiting.
“Evening, Hooper. I hear you have a horse named Firefly for sale.”
Major Hooper’s eyes twinkled for
a moment.
Then he said respectfully, raising his hat,
“Good evening, my Lord. Yes indeed, come and have a look at him.”
Firefly was in his stable and, as they walked towards it, Major Hooper could not help remembering Candida’s fury when she had seen the condition in which the horse had been returned. She had just arrived for her morning ride at five-thirty and was greeting Major Hooper when the Head Groom had come up to them.
“I forgot to tell you, sir,” he said to the Major, “that Firefly was returned last night.”
“Back again!” the Major smiled “Is that the second or third time?”
“I’ve a feelin’ it’s the fourth, sir,” the groom replied. “She must be makin’ a small fortune out of that animal.”
“Is he all right?” Major Hooper asked.
“His left flank has been over-spurred, sir, I’d like you to have a look at it.”
Major Hooper turned abruptly towards Firefly’s stall. Candida followed him wondering. The woman called Lais who had ridden him that first night when she had watched from the gallery seemed so keen that her gentleman friend should buy the horse.
Candida could not understand why he should have been sent back to the stables. And what did Major Hooper and the groom mean by saying that this was the third or fourth time Firefly had been returned?
They reached the stall and Candida saw the spur-gall that Lais’s spur had inflicted. The horse was also in a highly nervous state, fidgeting from side to side.
“Whoa, boy,” the Head Groom said, holding Firefly’s head while the Major bent down to look at the flank.
“Best get it poulticed,” he said.
“That’s what I thought sir, but I wanted you to see ’im first.”
“How could she treat a horse in such a manner?” Candida burst out, feeling it impossible to suppress her indignation any longer.
The Major looked up at her in surprise.
“She?” he questioned.
“I saw a lady riding Firefly the first evening I was here,” Candida confessed. “I did not tell you about it because I knew you did not want me to see anyone. They did not notice me. I was in the gallery watching her take him over the jumps in the riding school. And the gentleman she was with promised to buy him for her. She seemed so keen and anxious to have Firefly, why did she use her spur on him in this terrible manner?”
The Pretty Horse-Breakers Page 7