by Joan Wolf
Tracy felt his eyes touch her as if they had made actual physical contact. “I should be delighted if you would call me Tracy,” she said as lightly as she could.
“Thank you.” Why did his voice send such shivers along her nerves? “And you must call me Harry.”
“Very well,” Tracy said. “Harry.”
For the briefest of moments they looked at each other, and something trembled in the air. Then Meg said, “Where are you going to put the horses, Harry? Have them live outside until you can rebuild?”
Ned placed a cup of coffee in front of his employer, and Harry drank half of it in one gulp. Then, “I can’t do that,” he replied. “The horses would survive just fine, but the owners will pull them out of training at Silverbridge before the end of the week if they don’t have a stall.”
Tracy said, “Rent the portable stalls they use at shows and put them in the indoor riding arena.”
“That’s a great idea,” Meg said with enthusiasm.
“Yes, it is,” Ned replied more slowly.
Apparently it was an idea that had also occurred to Harry. “It’s a temporary solution, and I’ll see about getting the stalls, but I am going to have to demonstrate that I am actively rebuilding the stable if I am to expect people to send their horses to me.” He thrust his hand through his already-disordered hair. “The stable will have to be finished before winter.”
His mouth was grim.
“Surely you have insurance,” Tracy said.
A brief nod was his only response.
They all jumped as the knocker on Ned’s front door sounded. He went to answer it and came back accompanied by one of the fire officers, who asked Harry, “May I speak to you privately, my lord?”
They went into the living room while Tracy, Meg, and Ned sat in tense silence in the kitchen, wondering what was being said.
When Harry rejoined them he was alone. He resumed his seat at the table and looked bleakly at the faces gathered around him. “The fire department thinks the fire was set,” he said. “They found an empty can of kerosene in the rubble.”
Tracy was suddenly terribly afraid.
“Couldn’t it have been there for some other reason?” she asked quickly. “I know that at home we often used a kerosene heater in the barn when the farrier came.”
“I never let kerosene within a hundred yards of my stable,” Harry returned.
Ned’s thin face looked strained. “Thank God for that monitor you had installed in my bedroom. The sound of the horses whinnying woke me up, but by the time I got to the stable the fire was already raging. If all of the stalls didn’t have outside doors, the horses would have been incinerated.”
“Thank God, indeed,” Hanry said. “And thank you, Ned. You were magnificent.”
His words were quiet, but Ned’s face flushed a bright red.
Meg was chewing on her hair. “Who would want to set fire to the stables? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I can’t answer that question, Meggie,” Harry replied wearily. He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Thanks for the coffee, Ned.” He glanced at the clock that hung on Ned’s wall and looked at his sister. “If we hurry, we can still make church.”
“Not me,” she said positively. “I’m exhausted, and I’m going back to bed.”
“All right.” Tracy noticed that he didn’t pressure her as he had pressured Tony. “I’m going, however. I seem to have a lot to pray about.”
“I’ll come with you, if I may,” Tracy said.
He looked dubious. “It’s already eight o’clock. Can you be ready by eight-thirty?”
Tracy looked down at her mud-splattered pajamas and fleece robe, which was anchored by a tie that had pieces of straw sticking off it. Her running shoes were also muddy, as were her sockless feet. “Sure,” she said.
Meg said a little hesitantly, “Perhaps you’re right, Harry. I suppose we do have some things to pray about.”
He reached out to put an arm around his sister’s frail shoulders. “Thanks, brat. You were a big help tonight.” Her thin face lit to beauty.
“I wonder where Tony is?” Meg asked, as they went down the stairs from Ned’s apartment. “I know he sleeps like the dead, but those fire engines made a lot of noise.”
“He’s used to the racket of London,” Harry said.
But Tracy, who had heard Tony’s words to Mauley about finding a way to get Harry to change his mind about the golf course, was terribly afraid there might be another reason for Tony’s absence.
Harry ’s car was a Mercedes, but unlike the one that Gail had driven the day before, his was nine years old. He sat behind the driver’s seat watching as his three passengers walked down the path from the house, although he looked at only one of them.
She was incredibly beautiful in a navy blue sheath dress that came just to the middle of her knees. Her matching shoes were high enough to be fashionable but not so high that they would look out of place in a country church. Her magnificent hair was still damp from the shower, and her deep blue eyes were like gemstones in the perfect setting of her face.
With considerable effort, he dragged his eyes away from her in order to get out of the car and open the door on the passenger side. She shot him a look as she slid past him and into the car.
It’s not just me, he thought. She feels it, too.
Tony, who looked as if he had just stepped out of a tailor’s shop on Savile Row, got into the backseat after Meg. “I just heard about the fire,” he said soberly. “God, Harry, I am so sorry.”
“No one was hurt,” Harry returned expressionlessly. “We must be grateful for that.”
“That stable was your pride and joy.” Tony leaned forward to lay a brief hand on the shoulder of his brother’s gray suit. “What rotten luck.”
Harry, who had spent some of the happiest moments of his life in the Silverbridge stable, merely nodded, and said, “Yes.”
“Would you mind very much going out by the tradesman’s entrance?” Tracy asked. “A photographer who has been stalking me is parked outside the main gate.”
“Stalking you?” Harry said sharply as he turned onto the road that led to the smaller gate.
“I call it that,” she replied. “There seems to be nothing I can do about it, however. I did get a court order demanding that he keep a certain number of feet away from me, but he still follows me and photographs me. It’s infuriating.”
“The price of fame,” Tony murmured.
“It’s outrageous,” Harry said with heartfelt sympathy. “Freedom of the press is all very well, but there should be some protection of personal privacy as well.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Tracy said. “But, in America, public figures don’t seem to be entitled to any privacy at all. As I have discovered, to my sorrow.”
The tradesman’s exit was clear, and Harry turned the car in the direction of All Saints Church. He drove for a short time, then, from the backseat, he heard Meg say to Tony, “We could have used your help last night. I can’t believe you slept through all that noise.”
“I didn’t hear a thing,” he said apologetically. “I had a headache last night, and I took some pills, and they always knock me out. I’m sorry.”
“We managed without you,” Harry returned as he pulled into the driveway of the parish church.
“We’re fifteen minutes early,” Tony complained. “Honestly, Harry, you’re just like Papa, insisting that one arrive at church before everyone else.”
Tracy swung her long, slim legs out of the car, and Harry could not help looking at them. “Your father sounds exactly like my father,” she said. “He always herded us off to church eons before mass started. And if you were still combing your hair or something, he would invariably reply, ‘When you get to the Pearly Gates, I hope Saint Peter doesn’t say to you, “I’m too busy combing my hair right now to let you in. You’ll have to step below.” ’ ” Her laugh was like the ringing of deep-toned bells. “Of course, there was no answer to tha
t.”
Harry picked up on the mention of mass. “Are you Roman Catholic?”
“Yes. But I’m quite sure the Lord won’t mind if I attend a Church of England service.”
“All Saints is so High Church, it’s probably more Catholic than most of the churches you go to,” Tony said ironically.
They walked toward the front door of the familiar stone building, where for centuries the Oliver family had been baptized, married, and buried. “The church was built in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries,” Harry said to Tracy, who was walking by his side. “It’s been the parish church for Silverbridge forever.”
“Good morning, my lord.” An elderly man was standing by the front door of the church, and he beamed as Harry came abreast of him.
“Good morning, Matthew,” Harry replied. “How is your arthritis today?”
“None so bad, my lord, none so bad,” the man replied.
Harry noticed that Matthew, who worked as the church’s handyman, was staring at Tracy as if he had just seen a vision. She smiled at him, and said, “Good morning.”
“Good morning, miss,” he croaked.
“Perhaps it’s a good thing that we did come early,” Tony remarked from behind. “If we had to parade Tracy down the aisle when the church was full, we’d cause an uproar.”
Tracy didn’t even make a polite attempt to disavow Tony’s statement. She’s a bloody movie star, for God’s sake, Harry thought. I mustn’t let myself forget that.
He spoke to a few more people who were gathered in the vestibule, exchanging news about crops and weather, then they entered the main part of the church. Beside him he heard Tracy catch her breath.
Harry had always felt a strong connection to his parish church, and today he thought it was looking its best. The morning light streaming in through every window fell on Georgian woodwork, patched and bleached from years of use. The flagstones underfoot had been worn to unevenness by centuries of worshipers, and the paneled box pews in the front boasted their original hinges and locks. The pew that had belonged to his family for generations was directly below the splendid three-decker pulpit, and along the walls were memorials to various of his ancestors.
The church was already a quarter full, and all of the people dressed in their Sunday best gazed with fascination at Harry and his entourage as they walked past. He stood aside to let first Tony, then Meg, then Tracy enter the pew. He followed, closing the pew door and lifting somber eyes to the cross that was raised behind the altar. Please, dear God, he prayed, let me be able to afford to rebuild the stable.
He sat back, shut his eyes, and tried to let the peace of the church dispel the anxiety that had had his stomach twisted into a knot all morning.
All of Harry’s childhood associations with All Saints had been positive. His first lessons had been given to him by the old rector, Dr. Warren, who had been like a second father to him. When his parents had sent him to Eton, he had fought against leaving the safety of the rectory library and Dr. Warren’s gentle goodness. He had been packed off to school, of course, like every other English boy of Ms class, but it was Dr. Warren’s compassionate morality that had stayed with him over the years.
Always remember, Harry, that the ends don’t justify the means. He could almost hear Dr. Warren’s precise scholarly voice speaking those words in his mind. The greatest evil happens when men convince themselves that any behavior is acceptable as long as the end is desirable. That is never true.
The somber words of the fire officer he had talked to earlier sounded in his mind: “I am very much afraid that the fire was deliberately set, my lord. There are signs that kerosene was used.”
What kind of ends would justify burning a stable and perhaps incinerating ten innocent horses?
Money or revenge, he thought. Those were the main motives for arson.
Since he couldn’t think of anyone who would want revenge against him, the answer had to be money. Could Mauley have set the fire as a way of forcing him to sell?
I am not selling my land, he thought with grim determination. I have just put a fortune into repairing cottages and buying new machinery and more cattle. I understand land. I can make money out of farming. I am not selling it off to be a golf course.
The organ in the back of the church sounded a sonorous, attention-getting chord, and the choirmaster announced the opening hymn. Everyone stood, the organ began to play, and Harry, along with the choir and the rest of the congregation, lifted his voice in the familiar words of praise. Then, from beside him, he heard a clear soprano voice join with his deeper baritone.
He felt strangely comforted to know that she was there.
13
When Tracy and the church party returned to Silverbridge, they found a striking young woman having coffee in the kitchen by herself. “My God, Harry,” the visitor said, as he, Tracy, and Tony entered looking for some breakfast. “I’ve just been down to the stables. What a horror. Thank God you got all the horses out.”
“We were very fortunate,” Harry agreed. “Tracy, I’d like you to meet Gwen Mauley. Gwen, this is Tracy Collins.”
Gwen’s slanting green eyes regarded Tracy with a look that was not precisely welcoming. Robin Mauley’s stunning daughter had short black hair, high slashing cheekbones, and a pointed chin. She looks like a cat, Tracy thought as she said politely, “So nice to meet you.”
“How do you do,” Gwen responded imperiously.
The spaniels had got off the sofa the moment that Harry entered and now they followed him as he crossed to the almost-full coffeepot. “Thanks for making the coffee, Gwen,” he said as he poured a cup. He lifted it and turned to face Tracy. “Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you very much.”
He brought her the cup, and said, “Sit down. You must be starving. I’ll scramble some eggs.”
As Tracy took her seat, Gwen said suspiciously, “Did you go to church with Harry?”
Tracy lifted her brows to indicate her surprise at the tone of the other woman’s voice, and said coolly, “Why, yes, I did.”
Tony said, “We all went, Gwennie, dear. You know how patriarchal Harry can be about the things he considers his baronial duty. The peasants expect to see the lord of the manor at church and so, if you’re staying in Harry’s house, you get carted along as well.”
Gwen snapped, “Tracy Collins isn’t staying in this house.”
Tracy frowned slightly and wondered what exactly was the nature of the relationship between Gwen and Harry.
Tony said innocently, “Oh didn’t you know? Tracy has been staying with us ever since the Wiltshire Arms burned down.”
Gwen’s eyes opened wide. “The Wiltshire Arms burned down? Good God. Is everything around here going up in flames?”
“I hope not,” Harry said. “Coffee, Tony? Do you want a refill, Gwen?”
Both said yes, and after Harry had poured the coffee he went to the refrigerator and removed a bowl of eggs. The dogs followed at his feet, tails wagging hopefully.
“Are you really going to cook?” Gwen asked in surprise. “Where is Mrs. Wilson?”
“Sunday is her day off,” he replied, “and yes, I am going to cook. I don’t cook many things, but I do very good scrambled eggs. Now, who wants some?”
“I do,” Tracy said immediately. “Do you have bread? Shall I make toast to go with the eggs?”
“A splendid idea,” he replied. “The bread is in the bread box—over there.”
Tracy’s high heels clicked on the wood floor as she crossed to the bread box. Gwen remarked acidly and audibly to Tony, “She certainly seems to be making herself at home.”
Tracy’s back stiffened, and her eyes narrowed, always a dangerous sign.
Tony prudently changed the subject. “Harry didn’t tell me you were coming today.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Gwen replied. “But the house party I was at was a perfect bore, so I left a day early.” She turned her head to flash a smile at Harry. “I couldn’t wait another mome
nt to see what you thought of Dylan. Do you think he’ll make a Grand Prix horse?”
“I have no doubt that, provided he stays sound, he will be a marvelous Grand Prix horse,” Harry returned. He was scrambling eggs briskly with a fork. “He has incredible talent and, what is equally important, he likes to work. However did you manage to acquire such a gem?”
“An American rider had him, and you know the Americans. They all want big German warmbloods to ride.” Gwen said this as calmly as if she herself had never ridden a warmblood. “I thought he had terrific gaits, so I made her an offer and she took it.”
“You can’t ride him like a warmblood,” Harry warned. “You do realize that?”
“I think I know how to ride a horse by now, Harry,” she said imperiously.
“Well, I think he’s a great horse, a once-in-a-lifetime horse,” Harry said as he poured the egg mixture into a pan. “You’re very lucky, Gwen.”
Gwen put her elbows on the table and cradled her pointed chin in her hands. “Yes, well what are you going to do with my once-in-a-lifetime horse now that your stable has burned down? I certainly don’t want him living in a paddock.”
Harry was now scrambling the eggs. “I am going to put up temporary stalls in the indoor riding school. The horses can stay there until I get the stable rebuilt.”
Gwen’s jet-black brows drew together. “I suppose that will be all right—as long as it’s not for too long.”
“The toast is ready,” Tracy said as she lifted the bread out of the oven. “Shall I butter it while it’s hot?”
“Do I detect a little hint?” Tony asked gravely.
She gave him a quick look and laughed. “You most certainly do. Like most Americans, I don’t enjoy stone-cold toast—which is the way you English always seem to serve it.”
“Go ahead and butter it,” Harry said, “but before you do, let me have a slice for the dogs.”
Tracy handed him one, which he broke in half and gave to the eager spaniels sitting at his feet Next he gave Tony a commanding stare, and said, “Get out some plates, will you?”