Edward had seen very little of Allard, and as he had no transport of his own he was dependent on his newly acquired friends sending their chauffeurs to collect him. He had made no move on any of his prey, but he was lining them up in his mind, and Lady Summercorn was high on his list.
Walking into the kitchen, Edward found the back door wide open. He could see the Judge and Harriet kicking off their riding boots. The Judge was arguing with Harriet about which packs were the best in the country. ‘I would say without a doubt, Brocklesby. But one has to look at knees and ankles . . . On the other hand – let me speak, Harriet, shut up – I would say that the Belvoir’s are beautiful animals . . .’
Harriet wrinkled her nose and said something inaudible. Her father turned on her, pointing at her with his crop. ‘Remember that time with old man Burton? This gel, Edward, only hallooed, shouting that she’d seen a fox. I galloped up on – what was I riding then, dear? Oh, never mind – anyway, Edward, I get up to the gel and she’s hysterical, jumping up and down in the saddle, and I said, what on earth did you halloo for?’
Harriet muttered that she was sure Edward wasn’t interested in something she had done when she was eight years old. The Judge roared with laughter and carried on with his tale, regardless. ‘“A fox, Daddy, it was a fox, and he was so dirty and covered in mud . . .” Mud be buggered, I said, what on earth did you halloo everyone out for? A mangy fox, the hounds won’t run to that.’
Harriet flew into a rage, shouting that she was sick and tired of her father always bringing up that old, motheaten story. Edward turned to the Judge. ‘What is a mangy fox, sir?’ He knew immediately that he should have kept his mouth shut.
The judge gave a snort. ‘Good God, doesn’t this chap Allard’s lumbered us with hunt? Doesn’t he know what a mangy fox is? Well, he won’t be out with us, that’s for sure! Now, dearest, coffee please, and I’ll have a nap.’
Harriet looked at Edward’s embarrassed face and moved round the kitchen table to sit next to him, resting her chin on her hands. ‘A mangy fox, Edward, is one not worth hunting. The hounds can’t pick up the scent – the gamekeepers are usually sent out to shoot them, if they can find them.’
Buster, who had been dozing in a corner, stood up and padded out, delivering a raspberry as he went that echoed around the kitchen. Harriet closed the door and leaned on it, smiling sweetly at Edward. She trailed her hand along the backs of the chairs as she returned to his side. ‘You can’t ride, can you? Oh, don’t fib, I know you can’t.’
Edward felt himself blushing. He coughed and said no, actually, he didn’t ride. Of course, his family had horses, but he had never had the inclination to learn. Harriet turned with a devilish grin and giggled, and Edward smiled back. She knew he was lying. He leaned back in his chair and admitted that he was, in fact, scared of horses. He almost told her about running to the docks to see if his father was working, and how the mounted police had pushed the desperate workers back, but he managed to stop himself. He remembered Alex holding out a lump of sugar to one of the horses and getting a sharp kick from the policeman . . . He was miles away, wrapped in his memories, when Harriet called him back to the present. ‘Well, I can teach you if you like. I ride every morning, and I would be happy to teach you, what do you say? It’s all very simple, really, most important thing is that you convey to your horse exactly what you want him to do, they know when they have someone unsure of themselves on their backs. You must always judge the speed that’ll carry you over the jumps, you mustn’t lose confidence because the horse will know. The most crucial moment is the last few strides . . . you listening? Edward?’
Edward shrugged, saying that he doubted he could learn fast enough to take jumps, and she slipped her arms round his neck and promised him he would. She smelt of fresh air and horses, and he couldn’t help but give her a quick, light kiss on the cheek. She galloped off to the door like an unruly animal – she never seemed to walk, but loped, her arms swinging. She banged open the door, winked and told him she would wake him at five-thirty.
She was true to her word, and early the next morning Edward felt himself being shaken. He started and sprang up, and Harriet flung herself down on the edge of his bed to give him his instructions, waggling her crop in front of his nose. If he didn’t have boots, he would find rows of them at the side of the kitchen door, and he should put on a warm sweater and a vest. She would meet him at the stables.
Edward had no jodhpurs, so he tucked his trousers into the tops of the boots and went to the stables. She was saddling up a very frisky mount, while the stableboy held the reins of the enormous gelding. ‘He looks more frightening than he is. He’s Ma’s nag, and he’s a big softie. Stan, help Mr Edward up, show him how to put his feet into the stirrups and not to fall arse over tit. I’ll just have to get Kentucky out, he’s very jumpy this morning.’
Edward didn’t want her to leave him. He was terrified and had great difficulty mounting. The stableboy hitched him up three times before he was in the saddle. He then took for ever to adjust the stirrup length to suit Edward. Harriet came cantering back, clattering on the cobbles. She took Edward’s reins and walked his horse back through the archway towards an open field. Edward held on tight, leaning forward. The ground looked very far away and he was sweating with nerves.
Harriet’s patience and encouragement were endearing, and by nine o’clock he was feeling more secure. She never pushed him too fast or too soon, making him walk round and round the field until he felt comfortable on the mount. She made him grip with his knees, and instructed him to get to know the horse, talk to him and encourage the animal as much as she was encouraging him.
‘He’s got no balls, but that doesn’t make him a dunce. He’s a sharp old boy and he likes attention, bit like Pop – maybe Ma had him gelded.’
The following morning Edward felt as if he had a tea trolley between his legs, his body was so stiff, and he almost called it off. But Harriet was there, waiting for him, at five-thirty. This time they trotted, and Edward at first bounced all over the horse’s back until she pulled him in and, sitting astride her own horse, demonstrated the proper rhythm. It took a while, but then it came to him and he was trotting round and round the field, delighted with himself. By the end of the third day’s lesson he was cantering and galloping. He no longer needed Harriet to wake him up, he was up and dressed and waiting at the stables for her. He learned to saddle up, how to groom, and Harriet insisted that he must know everything, including how to muck out. There was a way to do it, a correct way, and to do it any other way meant he would be immediately spotted for a ‘townie’.
More than anything he remembered, Edward looked forward to his morning rides. He was so keen that he asked if Harriet would also ride with him in the afternoons. She grinned and said he would soon be ready to take the jumps if he went on at this pace, but after lunch she was ready and waiting.
‘Tomorrow, Edward, want to go across country with me? We can take a picnic and really have a good ride over to the woods. They’re about eight miles to the north, give you an idea about cross-country riding.’
Edward shaded his eyes, smiled at her and agreed, then heeled his horse into a gallop. Harriet watched him and yelled at the top of her voice.
‘Your bum! Sit, sit on the horse!’
The house was getting ‘a thorough clean’ in preparation for the arrival of guests. Edna Simpson’s efforts at flower arranging with sticks and dusty willows appeared all over the house. Invitations began to arrive for the season’s social events, and were lined up on the mantelpiece with the Christmas cards, to be discussed at breakfast. Edward read them all but knew no one. But titles abounded.
‘We’ve cracked it, Ma, look at this invite, all your Red Cross activities have paid off.’
Mrs Simpson turned it over and beamed, then placed the crested invitation in the centre of the row of cards, stood back to admire it. ‘Daddy will be pleased, this’ll be the first season we’ve had a royal invite . . . Fred! Someone get F
red.’
While Edward drank his tea at the table he listened to the instructions for the Judge’s formal attire to be taken out of mothballs. Mrs Simpson sang, off key, but cheerfully so. Then the rumble of the plumbing rattled down the array of pipes and she charged out. ‘Allard, get the hammer and hit the bathroom pipes, Daddy’s overrun the bath again. The place will be flooded.’
Harriet appeared with a straw bag slung over her shoulder, impatient to be off for their picnic. She looked at the mantel and picked up the invitation, turned it over. ‘I say, we’re really in with the in crowd this season. Pa will be pleased, we’ve been trying to crack this set for years . . . you almost ready?’
Edward downed his tea and took a sneaky look at the invitation crested with the small gold crown on his way out. The Judge appeared, clutching a large hammer, looked over Edward’s shoulder and grunted. He went through to the scullery, from whence loud clanking and banging noises issued as he belted the pipes. Allard strode in holding two white envelopes. He tossed one on the table, telling Edward it was for him, end-of-term results, and opened the other with a marmalade-covered knife, at the same time enquiring how the riding was coming along. The knife left a thick ridge of marmalade on his envelope and he sat down to read the contents. ‘You want any washing done, chuck it in the laundry basket in my bathroom, and leave your DJ out for pressing – looks like we’ve got quite a social time ahead of us. ’Bout time things picked up, getting bored out of my mind . . . oh, shit, shit, shit.’
Edward opened his results and flushed a deep red, looked at Allard, who was turning his pages over and over in a fury. ‘How did you do, old chap?’
Edward shrugged and pocketed the papers. Allard seemed relieved, said he had just scraped through, or rather crawled. ‘Old boy’ll have a fit, I’ll have to have a private chat with Ma, see if she can get me some extra tuition next term . . . What did you get?’
Sighing, Edward told him that he would more than likely have to do the same thing, and Allard patted his shoulder, asking him to keep mum about the results. He would find the right time to discuss it with his father.
Edward had got a first in everything – a remarkable achievement. There was even an added footnote of personal congratulations from Emmott himself. As he strode out to the stables, Edward whistled, did a small hop and skip, and patted the precious exam results in his pocket. The horses were being groomed, the stables mucked out, the tack being brought out to be cleaned and polished. Harriet was waiting impatiently, with the two horses already saddled. ‘You took your time – come on or Pa will make me stay to help out here, there’s a lot to be done . . . you look very chipper . . . No! Wrong foot, how many times do I have to tell you to mount the other way round, idiot!’
They trotted out of the stables into watery sunshine. It had rained heavily in the night, but now the clouds were high and far apart.
‘Right, let’s go. Follow me – we cut across the road and head through the fields, then it’s a free ride for about six miles with some good jumps . . . By the way, don’t you have a hacking jacket? You really should get one, you know – look like a dreadful townie in that thing you’ve got on.’
They galloped across the fields and Harriet took the jump with ease, but when Edward heeled his horse forward it pulled up short, and Edward was pitched over its neck to land in a muddy ditch. Harriet’s head appeared against the bright sky and yelled down at him that he was a stupid bugger, what had she told him? ‘If you don’t pace him, how in God’s name is he going to jump? Now go back and try again.’
Edward picked himself up and remounted, trotted back again for about twenty yards and took the jump. Harriet, waiting on the other side, gave him the thumbs up and cantered on. She was going at full gallop when her horse pulled up short and she rolled to one side, slipping off the saddle. Edward joined her and looked down at her as she lay on the ground with one foot in the stirrup. ‘Having problems, old thing?’
Harriet wrenched a thistle bush out of the ground and held it up as a warning. ‘Most horses hate thistles and will veer away from them, so be warned.’ She was up and giving chase to Edward, the straw bag bouncing on her back as she passed him. ‘See the gate ahead? When you’re on a hunt, if the pack veers off giving you a leading position, never take a gate, always open it, remember that even if the horses can jump it, the hounds might not and you’ll be given hell if they start ripping their bodies trying to get through hedges. Keep on a straight line now, head towards that thicket and then we go into the woods – be good exercise, see how you cope with trees and branches.’
Edward was enjoying the damp morning air and the sun. He was also elated, the prized results burning in his pocket. He overtook Harriet and looked back, laughing, and she came to his side as they pulled their mounts in and headed for the thicket. ‘You hardly ever laugh, you know that?’ Her red hair bobbing and shining in the sun, cheeks flushed, sweat dripping down the back of her shirt, Harriet swiped at the branches with her crop, looking back and urging Edward on. She shouted to him to make sure his mount had a clear path at all times, horses don’t like being whacked in the face by branches any more than their riders.
The bushes grew thicker and they slowed to a walk, finally emerging into a clearing. It seemed darker, and they looked up between the trees to the sky. Black clouds had gathered above them, and Harriet cried, ‘Oh pisspots, it’s going to rain.’ They mounted and trotted up a small bank towards a wood.
‘Keep on talking to him, tell him he’s doing well, he’s getting to know you now . . . we’ll head for the woods, I’m taking you to the special place I know where we can shelter.’
Edward patted the neck of his sweating horse and whispered ‘good boy’ and ‘good chap’. Harriet disappeared into the woods about eight yards ahead of him, and he thrashed at the branches with his crop.
The sky grew darker and a cold wind began to chill them. Fierce rain lashed down, and the ground quickly became slithery with mud as the horses picked their way over the uneven grass.
‘We’ll have to get off, walk the rest of the way, it’s too dangerous. The stream up ahead must have burst its banks. You okay? Just lead him on.’
Within a matter of minutes Edward was soaked to the skin. He pulled at the horse’s reins and followed Harriet, twice losing his footing, the mud oozing around his boots. ‘Harriet, Harriet, we should go back . . .’
She was way up ahead, dragging her horse beside her, and she pointed off to the left. ‘Just a few yards . . .’
The tiny chapel was dilapidated, the roof had partly fallen in and one wall was crumbling. In the old arched doorway two heavy oak doors hung off their hinges. Harriet tethered her horse to some branches and nuzzled him. ‘Get his saddle off and take it inside.’
Edward obeyed, wiping his face as the rain was blinding him, and pulled his horse towards the arch to give him some shelter. Heaving off the saddle, he carried it into the chapel.
Inside, it was a mass of fallen debris and overturned pews, and the font was cracked in two. The stained glass window was shattered, broken glass littered the small stone altar.
Harriet’s voice echoed as she pulled off her boots, rubbing her cold feet. She sat on a pew and turned to grin at him. ‘This is my secret place, you like it? Used to come here when I was little – course, it wasn’t all tumbled down then. I was christened here, it belongs to the family. Some of my father’s family are buried here. His father was a curate, not that he likes to broadcast that too much.’
Edward removed his soaking jacket, rubbed his wet hair and sat in a pew opposite Harriet. She shook her hair and unwound the ribbon that held it at the nape of her neck. She grinned at him. ‘You hungry? Open up the bag, I’m starved.’
She wandered around the chapel as Edward unloaded the picnic, telling him that her father had always kept his origins quiet. Being a judge he liked everyone to think he was somebody, but really he was just a vicar’s son. The family had bought the old manor house, they didn’t inherit it. �
�I think Pa married the old lady for her cash. I mean, have you seen some of the old photographs of her when she was young? Frightfully ugly, but he was quite good-looking.’
Throwing herself down beside him she searched the contents of the bag, opened a neat packet of sandwiches and munched hungrily, still shaking the water out of her hair.
‘I didn’t know you had such long hair.’
Harriet told him she had cut the fringe herself, and if she’d had long enough she would have cut the back as well, but the needlework teacher had taken the scissors away. ‘Shall we light a fire? I’m frozen, we could light one on the altar, it wouldn’t be sacrilegious, I mean nobody uses this place now.’
Edward shrugged his shoulders and began picking up dry sticks from the floor of the chapel.
Edna Simpson’s sister and her family, the Van der Burges, arrived to find no member of the family there to greet them. They sat in the warm spot in the house – the kitchen, Sylvia still wearing her mink coat. She surveyed the cards and invitations, assuring her husband they were going to have a pleasant festive season.
‘I should ruddy well hope so, after the trek down here. Why they don’t get rid of this place, God only knows. It’s rundown, freezing, and the roof looks as if it leaks. I’d say you needed to spend ten to fifteen thousand on the place before it’d be habitable . . . Social ruddy climbers, this place must be breaking the Judge. He’ll no doubt touch me for money, as usual.’
Richard snapped that perhaps they kept the Hall because they liked it. Not everyone was as obsessed with money as his father was.
‘You ought to know about that, Richard, never having earned a brass farthing – yet you manage to spend more in one week than a man earns in a year of hard labour! If all Eton taught you was to play goddamned backgammon, then I for one wish I’d never sent you there.’
The Talisman Page 19