by Joan Wolf
When they came in, Gail was sitting on the sofa, tapping away on her laptop. Tracy introduced the two young women, then sat at her dressing table to take off her makeup.
She listened to the two girls talking behind her and compared their backgrounds. Gail had been born in Puerto Rico and brought to New York when she was two. Her parents had struggled to put her through Catholic schools, and after high school she had taken a secretarial course at Katharine Gibbs. She had been working at NBC when Tracy met her and offered her a job. She was smart, funny, extremely competent, and intensely loyal. Tracy considered her a friend.
Meg had been brought up in the palatial surroundings of Silverbridge, yet it was Gail, the kid from Spanish Harlem, who had self-confidence.
“What a great job you have,” Meg was saying. “How does one go about getting a job like yours?”
“I did a secretarial course after high school, Lady Margaret,” Gail replied with cool politeness.
“A secretarial course? But that sounds like such a bore.”
“It is necessary to acquire certain skills in order to find a job like this, Lady Margaret.” Gail’s voice sounded even cooler than before.
Tracy actually felt a pang of pity for Meg and swung around on her chair. “Have you finished high school, Meg?”
Meg began to pick at her sweater. “We don’t call it high school here. And I still have a year to go. I’ll probably go back in the autumn.”
“So you’re not going to school now?” Gail asked.
Meg stood up. “Enough about bloody school! Are you sure you want me to go with you to dinner, Tracy? If you don’t, I’ll understand perfectly.” Spots of color stained her too-prominent cheekbones, and she was twisting her hands together.
Tracy said, “Of course I want you to come. All I have to do is get into my jeans and we can go.”
There was a screen at the end of the camper, and Tracy went behind it to change. Gail hung the Regency-style dress carefully on a portable rack, and then the three young women headed for the caterer’s truck, where the second sitting of dinner was being served.
The sun was still out, but there was a distinct chill in the air, and Tracy was glad of her wool sweater. She collected her filled plate from one of the caterer’s assistants and walked to one of the two dining buses parked nearby.
Twenty or so people were gathered around the table inside, and a loud chorus of greetings went up as Tracy came in. Elsie Anway, who was playing Tracy’s maid in the film, called Tracy’s name and gestured to the two empty seats next to her. Gail took a single seat between two electricians, and Tracy led Meg to the chairs next to Elsie. Before she sat down, she announced, “Listen up, everybody. This is Lady Margaret Oliver. Her brother owns this place. She’s having dinner with us, so behave yourselves.”
Laughter came from all around.
Meg’s cheeks were flushed with color and her eyes were bright as she took her seat between Tracy and Elsie. She had consented to accept a bowl of soup from the caterers and placed it carefully on the table.
“This is quite some place your brother has here,” Elsie said amiably.
“Thank you,” Meg replied. “It’s so super getting a chance to watch you film.”
Liza Moran, who was seated a little way down the table, said, “Is Lord Silverbridge interested in filming, Lady Margaret?”
“I don’t think so,” Meg replied cautiously.
“You ought to get him to come along to the set one of these days,” Liza said. “I think he would find it enjoyable.”
“Harry is very busy.” It was the first time Tracy had heard that note of aristocratic reserve from Meg.
Conversation flowed easily around the table, and Meg listened with obvious fascination and did not eat her soup. Tracy suspected that the girl was anorexic, which perhaps accounted for her being out of school.
Elsie also noticed Meg’s lack of appetite and said in a motherly way, “Don’t you care for the soup, Lady Margaret? I’m sure the caterers have something you would enjoy.”
“The food is fine,” Meg replied with a trace of annoyance. “Don’t worry about me, I never eat much.”
Tracy was finishing her coffee when a horse van came into sight through the windows of the bus. It veered off the main drive shortly after it emerged from the trees, and she asked Meg, “Is that the way to the stables?”
“Yes.” Meg had been listening to the banter between two of the audio men, but she turned her attention to Tracy. “That’s probably Gwen Mauley’s horse. She’s sending him for training with Harry.”
“Mauley,” Tracy repeated thoughtfully. “I’ve heard that name before.”
“Gwen’s father is Robin Mauley, the big real estate pooh-bah.”
“Oh, yes. I saw him at the hotel the other evening.”
“Gwen rides dressage, and she has been training with Harry for six months.” Meg’s eyes sparked, and she added disapprovingly, “Personally, I think she’s more interested in Harry’s title than she is in his teaching.”
The electricians sitting around Gail got to their feet, prepared to go back to work. Tracy caught her secretary’s eye and motioned very faintly with her head. Elsie said, “There’s cake for dessert.”
“None for me, thanks,” Tracy said. Gail was moving toward the bus door, and Tracy stood up. “I want to go home and put my feet up. I’m tired.”
Meg gave her a hopeful look. “Will I see you tomorrow, Tracy?”
Tracy considered her expression, then said, “Come and watch me film.”
“I’ll do that,” Meg replied, and for a moment her flashing smile made her seem as pretty as she would be if she were not so painfully thin.
Meg remained at the table until everyone had finished, watching her soup congeal in front of her and listening to the crew joke around. When she finally returned to the house, she found her eldest brother in the kitchen, microwaving the dinner Mrs. Wilson, the daily woman from the village, had left for him. His two Springer spaniels were eating out of large china bowls and didn’t even look up when she came in.
“You should have eaten off the catering truck, Harry,” she said as she went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of diet soda. Two large windows, which were set above eye level, let the dying light into the room. “I did. They have buses fitted up as dining rooms. It was super.”
Henry Oliver, fifteenth Earl of Silverbridge, poured himself a beer and sat down at a large scrubbed oak table. “What did you eat?” he asked casually.
“I had some soup.”
He frowned.
The microwave beeped. “I’ll get it,” Meg said, and lifted the plate out, peeled off the plastic wrap that covered it, and put it in front of her brother. He began to eat hungrily.
Meg leaned against the old but immaculately clean sink. “I met Tracy Collins. She’s super nice. And she’s even more beautiful than she looks in her films.”
Lord Silverbridge took another bite of chipped beef. “Would you like some of this, Meggie? It’s quite decent.”
She opened a cabinet and took out a glass. “No thanks, I ate with the movie people.”
Behind her back, her brother closed his eyes.
Meg measured out a half a glass of soda and turned to face him. “Was that Gwen Mauley’s horse I saw coming in an hour or so ago?”
“It was.” He took a swallow of beer and produced a grin. “And he’s even more beautiful than he looks in his films.”
Meg giggled, then took a tiny sip of soda. “It’s good to see you smile.”
He shrugged wearily. “There hasn’t been much reason to smile so far this year, Meggie.”
“I know. But landing this film was a good thing, wasn’t it?”
“It will put on a new roof, at least.” He finished the chipped beef and took another swallow of beer.
Meg brought her soda to the table and sat across from her brother. “This house is such an albatross. If you sold off some of the land, Harry, it would make life so much easie
r. Mr. Mauley’s offer is tremendously generous. You’re not likely to get a better one.”
“We have been through this before, Meg, and I am not selling off my land to some developer,” he replied evenly. “The Olivers have been at Silverbridge for four centuries. This land is in my charge, and I will do everything humanly possible to keep it.”
Meg looked at his set face and prudently did not reply.
One of the spaniels had already finished dinner and gone to lie on the old corduroy sofa that stood under one of the high windows. Now the second one finished and ambled over to the sofa to join her brother.
Harry got up and carried his plate and beer glass to the sink, where he left them for the housekeeper to deal with in the morning. “I’m going upstairs.”
“I’ll go with you.” Meg followed him, leaving her virtually untouched soda on the table.
The kitchen they had been using was the original and was located in the rustic, or half basement, of the house. The apartment where they lived was upstairs, and brother and sister had to climb two flights of the narrow back stairs that had once been used by servants, to access it.
Their father, the fourteenth earl, had had the apartment built in the west wing when it became prohibitively expensive to live in the original rooms. A sitting room, called the morning room, a drawing room and six bedrooms had been closed off from the rest of the house, and central heating had been installed.
Brother and sister made themselves comfortable in the morning room, which was at the top of the stairs. Three chintz-covered sofas, a number of comfortable- looking chairs, a television set placed incongruously in an eighteenth-century cabinet, two white wood fireplaces, an oil portrait of two teenage boys, and a collection of watercolors depicting the Silverbridge gardens were the room’s main furnishings. The rug that covered the center of the polished wood floor matched the orange in the chintz fabric that covered the three sofas. The drapes on the tall windows were of simple yellow silk.
“So is this horse of Gwen’s any good?” Meg said from her usual place upon one of the sofas.
A small black cat had leaped into Harry’s lap the moment he sat down in his usual wing chair. She purred loudly as he stroked her. “He’s extremely talented.”
“As talented as Pendleton?” Pendleton was the horse Harry had ridden at the Olympics in Sydney.
“I haven’t ridden him yet, so I can’t say, but his natural gaits are wonderful.”
“He’s a Thoroughbred, right?”
He nodded.
“And Gwen wants to ride him?”
They looked at each other. Both knew that Gwen did fine with a big warmblood who took a lot of pushing and pulling, but she did not deal as well with a more sensitive, hot-blooded horse.
Harry said, “I’m charging her double my usual fee. And there’s rot in the east wing.”
“Uh,” Meg said. “And you like Thoroughbreds.”
He grinned. “True.” He glanced at his watch. “Time for the news. Then I’m going to let the dogs out and go to bed.”
“I’ll get the telly,” Meg said. “I wouldn’t want you to disturb Ebony.”
A louder purr came from the silky pile of black fur on Harry’s lap.
5
During the following three days, Meg followed Tracy around the set like a chick that has imprinted. “I never get a chance to talk to you,” Jon complained, as he and Tracy stood together waiting for a light to be set. “We work from sunup to sundown, and any free time you have is monopolized by that girl.”
“She does seem to have adopted me,” Tracy agreed. She had draped a blue wool sweater over her shoulders to keep warm while she waited and was sipping a cup of tea.
He looked around the set. “Where is she now? She’s always here.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Why isn’t she in school? She looks young enough.”
“I think she has an eating disorder,” Tracy returned gravely. “Haven’t you noticed? She’s nothing but skin and bones.”
“That’s how all the young girls look these days.”
“This is different. I’ve watched her, and she doesn’t eat.” A slight frown creased Tracy’s brow. “She should be in some sort of treatment.”
“Well, I fail to see why you should feel obliged to baby-sit her,” Jon said.
“She just seems so fragile somehow. I don’t want to reject her and perhaps make her problem worse.”
At this point Greg, the assistant director, came up to them and said. “We’re ready to go.”
A costume assistant came running up to take Tracy’s sweater and teacup, and Tracy went to take her place.
They shot the scene five times and broke for lunch. Jon was needed for the afternoon, but Tracy’s next scene wasn’t until the following day. Her intention was to go back to the Wiltshire Arms, but when she came out of her camper dressed in brown wool slacks and an oatmeal-colored sweater set, she found Meg waiting for her.
All Tracy wanted was to have a peaceful lunch by herself. So she said pleasantly but firmly, “I’m going back to the hotel, Meg. They don’t need me this afternoon.”
Meg smiled timidly. “I know. I was just wondering if you’d care to come with me to see the stables. You said you used to ride, and my brother has some wonderful horses.”
Tracy paused. She had honored Lord Silverbridge’s request that movie personnel stay away from the stables, but she had definitely been disappointed not to see the horses. She had kept a horse at home for years before she went to college, and she still rode whenever she got the chance.
If Meg invites me, then it will be all right, she thought, and replied, “I’d like that very much.”
Five minutes later, she and Meg were following a footpath that led from the side garden, which was filled with a gorgeous profusion of roses, into the lovely plantation of lime trees that served to screen the stables from the house. Stopping as the stable area first came into view, Tracy took in the splendid sight of stone stable, grassy paddocks, outdoor riding ring, and an unidentifiable building built of the same stone as the stable. Horses were grazing in the paddocks, the May sun shining on the healthy dapples of their glossy coats. A single horse and rider were working in the outdoor ring.
A picture came into her mind of her and Scotty loading Portia into the trailer, she dressed in her show coat, breeches, and boots. It was the summer of Scotty’s senior year and her junior year in high school. She did not yet have her license and he had driven the truck to most of the horse shows she competed in. They had fought companionably the whole time they were in the truck over what kind of music to put on the radio.
Meg took her hand and gave it a tug, like a very young child. “Come along. Harry is schooling Dylan, Gwen Mauley’s horse. Let’s go and watch.”
Tracy came back to the present and accompanied Meg across an expanse of grass to the outdoor ring, which was enclosed by a five-foot, wooden-rail fence. Inside, a horse was cantering rhythmically on a twenty-meter circle. Meg led Tracy to the wooden bench on the outside perimeter of the fence, where two spaniels were snoozing in the sunshine. They stood up as the young women approached, and one of them went up to Meg, tail wagging.
“Say hello to Marshal and Millie,” Meg said as she stroked a canine head. “It’s okay. You can pet them. They’re very friendly.”
Tracy said, “Hi there, puppies. Aren’t you pretty?” She squatted to pet them with the assurance of one who knows dogs, and the tails wagged faster. “Are they Springer spaniels?” she asked Meg.
“Yes. Brother and sister. They belong to Harry. They follow him everywhere.”
Tracy lifted her head and for the first time looked at the horseman in the ring.
He was not wearing a hat, and his tawny hair shone like a bronze helmet in the brilliant spring sun. He sat deeply into the horse, directly over the animal’s center of balance, so that they almost looked like one creature, not two. His eyes were focused between the horse’s ears, his gloved hand
s held the reins in a soft, sure grip, and his booted legs hung long and reassuring against the horse’s sides. He was utterly intent on what he was doing and never glanced their way.
Tracy looked at him and everything inside of her went still. Time seemed to stop.
She had no idea how long it was before Meg’s voice came floating to her ears. “Harry is in love with this horse.”
With a supreme effort of will, she made herself look from the man to the horse. It was a tall, bay Thoroughbred gelding, with long elegant legs and small delicate ears. Those ears were tilted back as he cantered, and his whole expression proclaimed that he was as concentrated on his rider as his rider was on him.
“He’s beautiful,” Tracy said a little breathlessly.
The man in the ring said, “Come along, boy. Just a little more.” The rider didn’t appear to do anything but, as Tracy watched, the horse’s canter became rounder, fuller, bigger. The rider smiled as he followed the horse’s motion, gave the horse’s neck a pat, and said, “You see? I told you you could do it.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Tracy sat in silence, watching the man work with the animal as delicately and respectfully as a gifted nursery school teacher would work with a four-year-old. When the lesson was finally over, and the rider leaned forward to enthusiastically pat and praise his pupil, the expression on the equine face was so full of pride that Tracy had to smile.
The rider dismounted and reached in his pocket for a sugar cube. A man wearing jeans and paddock boots came out of the nearby stable and stepped into the ring. The dogs got up and trotted toward their master.
“That’s Ned Martin,” Meg said. “He’s in charge of the stables after Harry.” She got to her feet. “Come along and I’ll introduce you.”
Once again Tracy felt that strange stillness as she followed Meg across the sand ring. What is this? she thought with a mixture of impatience, bewilderment and trepidation. Why do I have this crazy feeling that I am walking toward my fate?
She heard Ned Martin say, “I’ll see to him, Harry,” as he led the horse away in the direction of the barn. Then Meg and Tracy had reached their destination.