The Pretty Horse-Breakers

by Barbara Cartland

  Mrs. Clinton walked into the room and looked around her.

  “I see you have been getting on with the packing,” she said. “That is splendid. I am sorry you have been perturbed by Sir Tresham. He had been drinking, of course, and when he has had a few glasses of wine he talks the most utter nonsense. I hope he did not upset you.”

  “I was frightened,” Candida explained. “He wanted to kiss me.”

  “How disgracefully he must have behaved,” Mrs. Clinton said sympathetically. “But he gets like that, it is because he is such a lonely man. His wife became a chronic invalid soon after they were married and so he has never had any children. One cannot help being sorry for him. And as I said, when he has been drinking, he really does not know what he is doing. Tomorrow he will not remember what he said to you or, for that matter, if you even exist.”

  “Are you sure?” Candida asked.

  “I have known Sir Tresham for years,” Mrs. Clinton answered. “Now, don’t think about it anymore. I gave him a good talking down for calling at this door, when I am unlikely to be at home. I gather that he had seen you in the Park and got it into his head that he admired you very much. Did he offer you anything?”

  “He talked about giving me a house and horses,” Candida said. “I could not understand what he meant.”

  “He didn’t mean anything,” Mrs. Clinton told her soothingly. “He’s a very very rich man and he is always throwing his money away on all sorts of people. Why I heard only the other day that he gave a ten pound note to a crossing-sweeper. The man nearly fell dead from the shock. But that is Sir Tresham, very unpredictable, but a kindly soul at heart.”

  Candida laughed.

  “I quite understand,” she said. “It was silly of me to be frightened, but he would not let me go to the door and, when he wanted to kiss me, I thought how repulsive he was.”

  “You are quite right, he is,” Mrs. Clinton agreed, “but I suppose I am used to him as an old acquaintance. Don’t think about him again, it is very unlikely your paths will cross. Next time I see him I am sure he will have forgotten that you ever existed. As I said, that is what he is like when he has had a few drinks.”

  “I-I understand,” Candida said. “I suppose I have not had much experience with men, so I don’t know – how to handle them.”

  “You will learn,” Mrs. Clinton prophesied. “And now, dear, try and finish off your packing. There are all the bonnets to be put into the boxes and they need special care.”

  “I know,” Candida agreed, “but do you think I could go round to the livery stables later this evening when everyone has gone? I want to see that Pegasus is all right.”

  Mrs. Clinton, who had walked towards the door, paused a moment.

  “I don’t think there is any point in your doing that,” she said. “I met Major Hooper just now and he told me that Lord Manville’s groom had just left with Pegasus. He is on his way to Manville Park and you will see him tomorrow.”

  She saw the expression on Candida’s face and went from the room quickly.

  ‘God knows what will happen to that child,’ she said to herself beneath her breath as she went downstairs. ‘I ought not to have taken her in the first place.’

  Chapter Six

  At exactly ten-thirty Lord Manville drew up outside Mrs. Clinton’s house. He was driving a d’Orsay curricle with a groom behind and a hood, which could be used if the weather was wet.

  The sunshine was gleaming on the silver-crested harness of the magnificent pair of chestnuts and on the high polish of his Lordship’s hat. The brass accoutrements of the curricle were shining as if they were mirrors.

  Mrs. Clinton, who had been peeping between the curtains of the morning room to watch for his arrival, remarked,

  “I have never seen such an elegant turn-out. No girl could fail to be thrilled by being fetched in such style.”

  “Is he really here?” Candida asked in a low voice.

  Her lips felt dry and her fingers trembled a little.

  Mrs. Clinton turned from the window to look at her.

  “Don’t be so nervous, child,” she said soothingly. “You look very charming and his Lordship will think so, I promise you that. Now remember all I have told you and you will find that everything will be done to make you happy.”

  “I will try and remember,” Candida answered.

  The door of the room opened and Mrs. Clinton looked up expectantly. It was only John who stood there.

  “His Lordship’s compliments, ma’am, and, as his horses are restless, he would be obliged if Miss Candida would join him outside.”

  Mrs. Clinton pressed her lips together. She was well aware of the reason for Lord Manville’s sudden solicitude for his horses, he had entered her house once and he did not wish to do so again.

  However, what did it matter? She had achieved her ends, she had what she wanted.

  “Come along then, Candida,” she said with a forced smile. “You must make your curtsey on the pavement because there is no going against a man who is fidgeting about his horses.”

  As she stepped slowly down the steps in the wake of Mrs. Clinton’s crinoline, Candida felt unable to raise her eyes to look at Lord Manville. She had had no more than a fleeting impression of him in the Park when he had spoken to Major Hooper and she could not describe later whether the man she had seen as she had turned her head was dark or fair, thin or fat.

  She knew that whatever he was like, he now held her destiny in his hands and try as she would she could not force herself to look up at him.

  “Good morning, my Lord,” she heard Mrs. Clinton say.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Clinton,” a deep resonant voice replied. “I must crave your apologies for not leaving my horses to a groom, but they are a spirited pair and I would be away as soon as possible.”

  “I quite understand, my Lord,” Mrs. Clinton said soothingly. “And now, may I present Miss Candida Walcott? Candida, this is Lord Manville.”

  As Candida rose from a curtsey, she looked up and found herself staring into Lord Manville’s eyes. There was something curious, at the same time critical, in his expression and then it seemed to her that as they looked at each other something passed between them.

  It was an experience so transitory, gone almost before she realised it had happened, so that she felt she must have imagined it. Then her eyes dropped again as Lord Manville, steadying his horses, said,

  “It is delightful to meet you, Miss Walcott. I hope you have no objection to riding in an open vehicle.”

  “No indeed,” Candida answered shyly.

  “Goodbye, my dear,” Mrs. Clinton said, when, as Candida would have turned towards her to clasp her hand or kiss her cheek, she turned and walked back into the house.

  Candida looked after her in perplexity.

  “Let me help you, miss,” John said respectfully at her side.

  He helped her spring up into the curricle, arranged the skirts of her gown and put a light rug over her knees, tucking it in round her small feet.

  “Thank you, John,” Candida said gently, “and thank you for all you have done for me. I am afraid I have no money, otherwise I would have given you some.”

  She spoke in a low voice but Lord Manville overheard.

  “No money?” he queried. “That is something I must remedy, of course.”

  He put his hand into his vest pocket.

  “Do you wish to give him one guinea or two?” he enquired.

  He held them out on his gloved hand. Candida, looking down at the shining coins, felt a sudden dislike of taking them from him. The words rose to her lips to refuse, but she realised that it was John who would suffer because of the instinctive scruple which told her that she should not take money from a gentleman.

  “It is kind of you,” she said in a shy voice, “and perhaps you would be gracious enough to give the money to John yourself.”

  Lord Manville raised his eyebrows, but he said loudly to John, who was standing back on the pavement,


  “Here, my man, this is for your trouble.”

  A golden guinea flashed through the air and John caught it deftly.

  “Thank you, my Lord,” he grinned.

  Lord Manville tightened the reins, flicked the chestnuts with his whip, the groom ran to the back of the curricle and they were off, moving, Candida noticed with delight, with a smoothness and a rhythm which could only be achieved by a really experienced driver.

  As they turned North, Candida said shyly,

  “Thank you for giving John the money.”

  “I should have thought of it myself,” Lord Manville replied and added, “what did he do that you were so grateful for? Did he bring you billets-doux from your many beaux?”

  Candida shook her head.

  “I have no beaux,” she answered.

  Lord Manville, intent on his horses, smiled a little cynically.

  ‘So that is to be her line, is it?’ he thought to himself. ‘Well, it’s in keeping with her appearance – a young unsophisticated maiden!’

  He only hoped that she would keep to the role, as it would suit his plans if she played the part well. At the same time she was not likely to deceive anyone as experienced as himself. He had seen all the pretences and play-acting of the ‘Pretty Horse-Breakers’. They were usually as efficient at this as they were at their riding and no man could ask more.

  One thing that pleased him, he had not been mistaken in his impression of Candida. She was as elegant and attractive off a horse as on one. For one moment, as she had come down the steps following that scheming harridan, Mrs. Clinton, he thought with quite unusual sentimentality that she looked like a rosebud.

  Mrs. Clinton had, in fact chosen Candida’s gown with care. It was very pale pink, with a crinoline skirt tucked and frilled in a material that Madame Elisa had sworn had come from Paris. With it Candida wore a tight-fitting little coat ending at the waist, which was made of just a slightly darker shade of pink and fastened with tiny buttons reaching to the neck.

  Her bonnet was of pink straw, simply trimmed and the only contrasting note of colour was provided by the satin ribbons that tied round her chin. They were of forget-me-not blue and seemed to accentuate the fairness of her skin and the burning gold of her hair.

  They had journeyed for some way before Lord Manville spoke again and then he noticed that Candida was bending forward to peer at the horses.

  “What do you think of my pair?” he asked.

  “They are magnificent,” Candida answered, “and I have never seen such a perfect match. Are they twins?”

  “No,” Lord Manville replied, “there is a year between them. Naturally they are both from the same dam and sired by the same stallion.”

  “It is very unusual to achieve such a match,” Candida said. “Pegasus’s dam, so I understand, has never had another foal that is entirely black.”

  “He is certainly a very splendid piece of horseflesh,” Lord Manville commented. “Have you ridden him for long?”

  “I have had him since he was a foal,” Candida answered.

  Lord Manville looked surprised. He thought Pegasus had been one of Hooper’s finds and that he had been clever enough, with Mrs. Clinton’s help, to discover a girl who would show the horse off to advantage.

  However, by this time they were out of London, but, as the roads were still somewhat crowded, he was fully occupied in tooling his horses in and out of the traffic until they were clear of loaded drays, family landaus and tradesmen’s carts.

  The Royal Mail came speeding towards them, four horses full out at the gallop, a guard blowing his horn. It was filled with passengers and piled high with luggage.

  “It’s overloaded!” Candida said almost as if she was speaking to herself. “It’s wrong that they should treat the horses so badly.”

  Lord Manville looked at her in surprise.

  “Most people complain that the mail does not travel quickly enough.”

  “They don’t have to pull it,” Candida replied. “Do you know that those horses only have a life of three years? After that they are broken in wind and for some there is nothing left but the knacker’s yard.”

  She spoke with such feeling in her voice that Lord Manville said,

  “I can see that you have a real feeling for horses. And I agree with you, the long-distance coaches are often shamefully overloaded.”

  “And the new short-distance omnibuses that carry nearly ten passengers,” Candida cried. “Why do you not do something about them? Someone like yourself who sits in the House of Lords could raise such matters and perhaps force an Act of Parliament to be passed to protect the animals that cannot speak for themselves.”

  “I can see you are a reformer,” Lord Manville said drily.

  Candida felt the colour flush in her cheeks and she remembered too late that Mrs. Clinton had spoken to her most earnestly before she left.

  “Remember,” she said, “that a woman’s job is to look attractive and be entertaining. Whatever Lord Manville asks of you, Candida, you must agree, if you want to stay with your horse. If you are difficult or if you make scenes, there is no doubt at all that he will send you away. Gentlemen dislike scenes more than anything else and they dislike women who do not do what is asked of them. Try to be accommodating, my dear, it will make life much easier for you.”

  “I will try,” Candida promised, wondering in what way she would be asked to accommodate Lord Manville.

  “Things are not always what we expect,” Mrs. Clinton went on, not looking at Candida but fidgeting with the morning paper that was beside her on the breakfast table.

  “But I don’t know what to expect,” Candida complained.

  “In which case you will undoubtedly be surprised at many things,” Mrs. Clinton replied, “and that is why I am begging you, Candida, for your own good, to do what you are asked to do with the minimum amount of fuss.”

  “Why should I make a fuss?” Candida enquired.

  “Oh, some women like to prove their importance,” Mrs. Clinton said quickly, “others have very preconceived ideas of what they expect of life. Many are just thoroughly tiresome.”

  “I will try and make you proud of me,” Candida smiled. “You must not think I am not grateful, for indeed I am. You have done so much, taught me so many things, given me all these wonderful clothes. No one could have been kinder, even if you had been a relation.”

  She had a momentary feeling that Mrs. Clinton was embarrassed and she could not think why. Then she thought that perhaps she was the type of person who did not want to be thanked for her generosity.

  “You have been a very good pupil,” Mrs. Clinton said. “But do remember what I have told you, Candida. It’s not going to be easy for you to adjust yourself to the Society into which you are now moving. Just remember what I have said – gentlemen want to be amused!”

  Now, as the ground sped away beneath the horses’ hooves and the sunshine gleamed in her eyes, Candida chided herself for being so foolish.

  ‘I must try to be amusing,’ she said to herself, and wondered how one could be amusing with someone she had never met before and she knew nothing about, save that he was a good judge of a horse.

  ‘We must talk about horses,’ she thought, ‘at least there we shall be on common ground. But I must not force my opinions on him.’

  It was some miles later that Lord Manville spoke again.

  “You have a very unusual name for a girl,” he said.

  “Voltaire was one of my father’s favourite authors,” Candida replied.

  “And what do you think about it?” he asked, referring to her name.

  “I find him very stimulating,” she replied, speaking of the author. “It is extraordinary, though, to realise what a commotion he caused in France. Now we are quite used to people being outspoken.”

  “I did not know there was a translation of Candide,” Lord Manville said.

  “I don’t think there is,” Candida replied. “I have never heard of one.”
/>   Lord Manville’s eyebrows went up again.

  So she had read the book in the original French. He had heard that many of the ‘Pretty Horse-Breakers’ were supposed to be well educated, but perhaps in his acquaintance with them he had been unfortunate. Most of the ones in which he had taken any interest had many attributes, but education was not one of them.

  The ones to whom he had extended his patronage were usually more like Skittles – exquisite to look at, expert on horseback, but with a Rabelaisian manner of speech. Skittles’ oaths and profanity were the rage amongst the young bloods and many of the ‘Pretty Horse-Breakers’ copied her. Lais was perhaps one of the exceptions.

  She did not swear often, but she had a sharp wit that Lord Manville found most entertaining and she made no pretence about being ready to bestow her favours to the highest bidder, whoever he might be.

  Lais was a relief and a relaxation after the turbulent emotions he had experienced in the company of my Lady Brompton.

  ‘Never again!’ he told himself. ‘No more entanglements, no more surreptitious assignations, no more clandestine rendezvous, no more journeying about dark passages in the middle of the night!’

  He was free – free to enjoy himself if he wished and all he asked for his comfort and his delectation was a ‘Pretty Horse-Breaker’ who would please his eye with her equestrian prowess and grace his bed with the same sophisticated expertise.

  One good point about this pretty little thing he had picked up was that she did not chatter. He disliked chattering women, because the Lord knew they had very little to say without making a great noise about saying it.

  They journeyed quite a number of miles before Lord Manville spoke again.

  “We will lunch at Beaconsfield. We should be there about noon. And we will have only about an hour’s journey to Manville after the meal.”

  “Do we change horses?” Candida asked.

  “No,” he answered. “My groom will give them a rest and they will carry us as far as Manville Park, although actually I have my own change of horses on most of the main roads out of London.”

  Candida looked surprised.

  “Is that not rather extravagant?” she enquired.