by Celia Hayes
“Can’t picture any,” Dolph said, but he had his revolver in the bottom of his valise, just in case.
The cabman looked askance at him, clad in rough work clothes, kerchief knotted around his neck rather than a collar and tie, carrying a single valise with a heavy travel blanket strapped on top of it.
“Where to, squire?” the cabman asked. He would have been less respectful, but Dolph had first tossed him a couple of large coins.
Dolph answered, “Take me to the railway station, for any trains going west.”
“Waterloo Bridge Station?”
“That’ll do,” Dolph agreed. “Just someplace to the west, someplace out of here.”
“Bristol’s in the west, squire—will that suit?”
“Anyplace.” He tossed his valise into the cab and climbed in.
“Well, look out for the funeral trains, then.” The cabman laughed coarsely. “You don’t want to be put on the coffin-car, do you? They run the funeral trains to Brookwood out of there.”
“I’ll pay double, if you don’t talk to me,” Dolph said, and thereafter the cabman maintained a rather miffed silence.
He bought a ticket to Bristol, but got out at Reading and, finding a livery stable, rented a dog cart and a single horse. The liveryman looked at him strange, though, when he insisted on inspecting every available horse before making his choice. The best of the lot was a small beast, trained to harness. Dolph did not even wish anything to do with English saddles, upon which you were apparently expected to perch with your knees up around your ears.
“I’ll be back in a week,” Dolph told him, “and if not—I’ll leave a deposit on the nag and cart. If you don’t see us again, consider him sold to me.” The liveryman protested, but only as a matter of form.
Winter in England seemed no colder than winters in the hills around the Becker place. He went north, towards Abington and the start of the Downs. English Jack had once said something about that place, when they had been spinning yarns around the campfire; English Jack had talked of a horse carved into a chalk hillside and a stone smithy nearby, where an invisible smith would shoe a horse if payment was left along with the beast. He said it was an empty land, the Downs, a line of chalk hills where you could look out at the land below, all quilt-patched with fields and little towns, stitched together with white roads. But up on the Downs, underneath the sky, the wind blew so hard it fair forced the grass to curl over and take cover in the ground again. Aye, Dolph wanted to see a place like that.
An old road, an old trail threaded its way across the chalk uplands, the oldest road in England, so Jack said. Dolph thought he would rather spend a week in the open there, than another day in London, breathing the air under that murky sky and listening to the incessant city din. No, give him the empty sky and quiet fields and hills. Reading was just place where that impulse overwhelmed him.
Dolph felt better almost at once, as soon as he and his horse were out and alone, away from cobblestone streets, away from red-brick buildings darkened with soot, away from city voices, city noise. The air blew sweet, clean and cold. This was a fair land, even winter-blasted and with trees bare and shapely under the sky, adorned by frost in the morning that left every leaf edge glittering with ice. At the reins of the dog cart, he meandered north along narrow lanes lined with thick hedges, overhung with trees, guided more by instinct and the sight of the glittering stars than by the signposts at crossroads or at the village greens. Darkness seemed to come in late afternoon, now that it was winter. That vaguely offended him—it didn’t seem quite right, that it should be pitch-dark so early. He chose to spend most nights in villages, wherever there was an inn or a pub with a small room to rent for the night, spending the long evening in a corner of the public room, sitting in a corner with a tankard of ale and watching the regular habitués. He didn’t like to talk much; the country-folk spoke in accents almost impenetrable to his ears. His own excited too many comments and questions, questions about who he was and what business he had in coming to wherever it was; a situation which also vaguely offended him. Where he came from, it was considered unpardonably rude to ask anything beyond what a man volunteered about himself. As English Jack himself once observed patiently, “It is not the done thing, old chap.” But English Jack’s countrymen asked question after question, and Dolph found it very wearying. After a couple of evenings, he found it expedient to speak German and pretend that he only had a little English, just to ensure that he was left alone. There were foreigners and then there were foreigners; one sort didn’t have to answer so damn many rude questions.
On the fifth day of his self-claimed holiday, he drove into a small village near to Abington. It was midmorning and he found it already overrun with horsemen milling about in the high street in front of the inn. He reined in, tying his horse to a handy set of iron railings. The horses and some dogs fascinated him as always, but Dolph was not nearly so interested by the people, save for noting that they all seemed considerably overdressed for a morning in the saddle. It looked to have been a hard morning even so; the horses’ legs were splashed with mud and some of the men’s tight red coats were rather the worse for wear.
The dogs were corralled together by two men wielding long whips. They barked in an excited chorus, hounds of all the same breed if the colors were anything to go by: white with black or dark brown spots, a seething mass of backs and wagging tails. Dolph realized they had been out hunting, hunting for foxes and probably without any result. From the half-heard talk, they were pausing in the village before going out to quarter the woods on the other side. It seemed to him to be a very inefficient way to go about hunting foxes. But still, Dolph leaned his back against the railings and watched the scene with great interest. Presently he noticed three other dogs, dogs that did not go with the pack but seemed to trail after one of the red-coated men; huge dogs with rough grey coats. Dolph whistled in astonishment to himself; the smallest was the size of a pony. When one of them wandered out from its orbit around the hunters, Dolph whistled softly and wooingly to it.
The dog’s head lifted and turned towards him with dark intelligent eyes. He whistled again and held out his hand, and the dog came obediently and nudged trustingly at it.
“Why you lovely fellow,” Dolph said in wonder, for when the grey dog lifted his head, it came up nearly to the middle of Dolph’s chest. He stroked its ears. The dog seemed to gather itself together, and in a single swift movement it had its forepaws on Dolph’s shoulders and began licking his face most affectionately.
“Luath!” shouted a nearby commanding male voice. “I say—down, boy!” The dog abruptly dropped to the ground; its eyes swam with a mixture of guilt and affection. The commanding voice belonged to a big man in a red coat with brass buttons. “I do apologize for Luath,” the huntsman continued. “No manners at all, I’m afraid.”
“No matter,” Dolph answered; his hand found the dog’s shaggy head again, caressing as it pressed its head against his hip and looked adoringly at him. “I don’t mind—I like dogs. And this one is a lot of dog to like. What sort is he?”
Luath’s companions joined him, shouldering in to beg for a caress as well, with their great tails waving like plume-grass fronds in a light breeze. Their master slid down from his own horse. Dolph read some mild astonishment in his face. He guessed that most strangers would have been nervous about being backed up against an iron fence by three huge dogs. Not with these boys, though. Dolph could read their great shaggy bodies and their dark eyes; there was nothing in them but curiosity and affection.
“Irish wolfhound,” answered their master. He extended a hand over the dogs’ backs, shaking Dolph’s with a firm grip. “Lindsay-Groves. Behave yourself, you beggars!” The dogs instantly sat down on their haunches, still looking at Dolph with friendly interest. With their owner now on the ground, they seemed disposed to spread some of their affections in his direction.
“Rudolph Becker.”
“Ah.” Lindsay-Groves was about Onkel Hansi’s a
ge, a short snub-nosed man with a ruddy face. He squinted thoughtfully at Dolph, seeming to see him for the first time. “Not from around here, then?”
“No.” And then because Lindsay-Groves had not pressed any farther than that, Dolph reasoned that such good manners deserved some kind of explanation. “M’ uncle and I have property in Texas. We came to England to look for good blood-stock, cattle and horses both.”
“Ah.” Lindsay-Groves’s face lit up with interest. “See anything here you fancy?” He gestured expansively at the horses. “Some damned good blood-lines in the Hunt.”
Dolph shook his head. “Good stamina among your hunters for an all-out chase, I guess. But we work cattle from horseback—what we need is brains and agility.”
“More like a polo pony.” Lindsay-Groves nodded in perfect understanding. They leaned against the railings in pleasurable amity, scratching the dogs’ heads. “I see—right tool for the right job. I know all about that, y’see. Build bridges, m’self.”
Presently Dolph ventured, “One of the other big ranch-owners—Captain King at the Santa Gertrudis—he’s bred a very good line. Quarterhorses, they call them. Run a quarter-mile race, dead on. But he’s been at it for thirty years, more or less.”
“Head start?” Lindsay-Groves ventured, sympathetically. Dolph nodded. It looked as if the Hunt was gathering itself together for another round. The hounds spilled out into the street, yapping in chorus. One of the red-coated men blew a horn, in a series of short notes.
“I wouldn’t mind one of these fellows, though,” he added, ruffling Luath’s shaggy grey ears.
Lindsay-Groves looked positively jovial. “I’ve a bitch that just whelped a litter of pups by him—you should come up to the Hall this afternoon and see them.”
“I’d like that,” Dolph answered.
Lindsay-Groves clapped him on the shoulder. “Four o’clock then, shall we say? Anyone here will tell you the way.” He whistled to his three wolfhounds and swung up into his saddle. “I take it you’re staying here? Good—they set a decent enough table, but look out for the landlord’s cider! Goes down like water, but first thing you know you’re lying under a hedge singing love songs to the stars overhead.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Dolph answered. He watched the man clatter away, with the three wolfhounds loping after him. He was followed by two young men in plainer jackets and a young woman in a black riding habit, draped gracefully over her side saddle. Dolph shook his head pityingly at the sight. One might as well sit sideways on one of Daddy Hurst’s flapjacks than ride like that; but any woman who did must have a hell of a seat. He rather thought the woman was Lindsay-Groves’ daughter; she had the same round face and snub nose.
On the whole, Dolph had more interest in Lindsay-Groves’ dogs than the girl. Dogs like those were definitely worth staying overnight in this village for, even though he could have traveled on for another five or six miles.
“The Hall?” the landlord looked at him with no little curiosity when he asked for directions. “Go along the wide road past the church and on a little way to the lodge gates. Can’t mistake it, sir—it’s the largest house around.”
Dolph thought little of that; back in Texas he lived in the largest house around, but it wasn’t really all that large. Onkel Hansi’s house in San Antonio, now that was large. That was what he unconsciously expected of Lindsay-Groves’ residence, even though the gate lodge was about the size of Opa’s house in Friedrichsburg. He drove along a fine graveled road, in which the dog cart’s wheels crunched pleasantly, through parkland so subtly arranged that the house itself came as a surprise. It seemed as if the trees parted, and there was a mellow golden stone pile with pillars across the front and a lake that reflected it like a mirror. Dolph drew rein and whistled softly, wondering how many people lived in a place like that and why on earth they didn’t rattle around like a peas in a gourd.
There seemed to be no one about; although with a house that big there could be a whole cavalry company knocking around inside, spare mounts and supply wagons and all. Dolph made a good guess at what must be the front door and pulled at a metal ring next to the door. Deep within the house he heard a faint chime. He waited patiently, the horse and cart waiting with equal patience but considerable less interest at his back. The door opened, and a very superior gentleman in a black frock coat looked down his nose at Dolph.
“I was told to come see a man about a dog,” Dolph ventured. He was not terribly surprised by the condescension or the barely concealed sneer that he was met with. He had, in fact, gotten in a lot of quiet fun over the summer, by appearing to be an ordinary laborer. The way that people’s faces changed at the moment when Dolph paid for something in gold or large notes provided him with a lot of amusement. Dolph detested snobs and people who lorded it over others.
“Tradesmen and servants go around to the back,” the very superior gentleman drawled. “To the kennels, the stables and the servant’s entrance.”
Dolph shrugged. “Very well. Tell Mr. Lindsay-Groves that I’m here, then.” he said.
The very superior gentleman looked as if he had bitten into something bad-tasting, and answered, “I will inform his lordship.” The door closed with a little more than necessary force, as Dolph raised an eyebrow. A lordship, eh?
“Well, he didn’t have his lordship suit on this morning,” he observed to the closed door. Really, if it weren’t for the dogs, he would hardly have bothered.
He returned to the dog cart and followed the graveled drive, which wound around to the side of the house. There was a terrace there, edged with a balustrade and urns big enough to boil a whole cow in. Farther along, a wide gateway led into a ramble of lower buildings and yards. From here, the Hall looked a bit more jumbled, with oddments of wings and lower rooflines sticking out. That must be the stables, he thought—windows with the shutters standing open, and horses looking out into a cobbled yard.
He drove through the gateway; there were two people and another horse there, a horse whose head hung down with exhaustion, or maybe pain—it favored its off foreleg and stood with the hoof barely touching the ground.
A groom held its bridle, and was saying anxiously, “I don’t know rightly what Mr. Arkwright will want to do, Miss Isobel.”
Dolph cleared his throat. The other person was the young lady he had noticed that morning, but now she appeared much less modish and considerably disheveled. She had lost her hat. Her hair, light brown and the color of coffee-sugar, hung half loosened around her shoulders. She looked as if she had been pulled backwards through a particularly thorny hedge, her habit was richly splashed with mud, and there were blood-oozing scratches on her cheek.
“I was invited to come and look at the puppies,” Dolph ventured, as both the groom and Miss Isobel turned to look in his direction.
Miss Isobel distractedly combed her loose hair back from her face with her fingers. “Oh, dear—the American gentleman. I saw you with Fa this morning. I’m afraid they’re still out—they picked up a good scent and it was view-halloo and away. Fa and the others should be almost to Harwell by now!” She seemed almost tearful with disappointment.
Dolph ventured, “I’m Rudolph Becker, but everyone calls me Dolph. What happened to you that you’re not almost to Harwell, Miss?”
“Isobel,” she sniffed, “Isobel Lindsay-Groves. Actually, it’s Lady Isobel, but I don’t care much for that. A ditch happened to me, a ditch on the far side of a hedge, and poor Thistle tried his best, but he landed short . . .And our head groom, Mr. Arkwright, is off taking the spare horses to meet the Hunt.”
“Ah,” Dolph said, as if he understood. Not that he did, exactly, but acting as if he did seemed to make Isobel fell better. She was a sturdy, square-shouldered girl; not in the least a slender and ethereal lady of fashion, for all that she was cruelly corseted and stuffed into clothes that did not suit her at all. Her eyes were the only beauty in her round and snub-nosed face; hazel and surrounded with thick lashes. “I do know a bit about
horses, if you would like me to look at your poor old Thistle.”
“Would you?” Isobel breathed, and looked at him mistily. Oddly enough, it made Dolph feel very much like a knight errant. “I’d be so grateful. Fa bought him for me for my eighteenth birthday.”
Sighing, Dolph tied up the reins to the dog cart, and jumped down to look at poor old Thistle’s leg. Isobel hovered anxiously.
“Miss Isobel,” he said, as he leaned into Thistle’s shoulder, “if you took a tumble yourself, shouldn’t you . . . .”
“Not until I am assured that Thistle is all right.” Isobel laughed, an oddly strangled laugh, before stating firmly, “And I came to no lasting harm, which is more than I can say of my riding habit. Mama will be distraught—which is as good a reason to remain here as any that I can think of.”
Another Mama like Auntie Liesel, Dolph thought—given to endless worries and megrims. He didn’t blame Miss Isobel in the least for taking refuge in the stable.
“It looks like you landed in some nice soft mud,” Dolph observed, and to Thistle he added, “All right, boy . . .let me have it. There you go.” He lifted up the horse’s hock, and felt along the bone and tendons with gentle fingers. “Umm. Feels like he’s torn a tendon. Not much you can do, except let him rest. A hot bran poultice might make him feel it a bit less.” He let Thistle put his leg down, and straightened up to face Isobel’s trusting hazel regard. “I don’t know that he’ll be much good for jumping and all that, after this. You’ll want to go gently for a couple of months, until it heals.”
“At least it’s nothing broken.” Isobel beamed with honest relief. “Thank you, thank you so much, Mr. Becker. I adore Thistle—he was a bribe to me, you should know. Fa promised me a horse of my very own if I should behave myself for the Season.”
“The Season?” Dolph asked, having only a vague notion of what that might mean. It sounded horrendous, if an apparently sensible and honest person like Isobel had to be bribed into participating.