by Tessa Arlen
She need not have worried about the temperament of the horse she was given to ride. Lady Ryderwood was hardly the most athletic of women and her horses were calm and well trained. The dark bay, saddled and waiting for her, was a gentlemanly gelding kept for the sole purpose of providing a mount for any friend of Lady Ryderwood to accompany her early-morning rides.
Sir Francis Ryderwood must have had considerable clout with the Household Cavalry after his heroic participation in the Boer War, for his wife had miraculously secured stabling at the Knightsbridge Barracks for the year. Both horses were gleaming with health and the sort of grooming that could be achieved only by cavalry discipline: the tack was immaculate, bits and stirrup irons gleamed, and Clementine was reassured by the friendly young lance corporal of the Blues who helped them up onto their horses. And then off they went out into a bright winter sun, still low on the horizon, and turned left onto South Carriage Drive.
“What a wonderful idea, Lady Ryderwood, it’s a perfect morning for a ride.” Clementine relaxed as they walked their horses up the wide tree-lined avenue that led from Hyde Park corner toward Serpentine Road.
“How is Bellman for you, Lady Montfort? He’s a nice steady boy, but I can tell he is quite ready for a little run.”
“Then when Bellman and I have had an opportunity to get to know each other, let’s give him one.” Clementine leaned forward and smoothed her gloved hand down the arch of the gelding’s neck.
“I haven’t been out much in the past week,” Lady Ryderwood continued. “But the trooper at the barracks is happy to exercise the horses, so they are not too skittish. Life in London can sometimes be demanding, and an early-morning ride stops me from feeling seedy when I have been spending too much time in drawing rooms and theatres.”
Clementine noticed that Lady Ryderwood rode much as she had expected: she sat well on her horse, did not fidget, and had quiet hands, but she was certainly a passenger on a pretty little mare as delicate and beautifully mannered as her rider. Someone has spent a lot of time training these animals, thought Clementine, and has done a good job of it indeed.
“Did you ride much in Ibiza?” she asked.
“Yes, we did. My husband lived for his horses, he chose and trained both of these sweet-tempered beasts; I just accompanied him on short rambles. This little girl,” she leaned forward and patted her mare’s neck affectionately, “is part Connemara and a wonderful jumper, but I am afraid I am not an awfully courageous horsewoman.”
“You were not lonely for society in Ibiza?” Clementine thought the cultured Lady Ryderwood far more suited to town life than to an outdoor life in the Mediterranean.
“I had my music, and my teacher would come and spend weeks with us in the summer. He found it restful after the fast pace of Milan.” She must mean her voice teacher, thought Clementine.
“I was so disappointed that we only had one song from you the other evening, but that one was quite beautiful, you have a wonderful voice.”
“Thank you.” This was gravely said, without any trace of conceit or false modesty. “I wanted to sing professionally when I was younger, but of course it was out of the question, and then I met my husband…”
They rode on for a few moments in silence, the only sound was birdsong and the distant hum of traffic. We could be in any country-house park, thought Clementine, as she watched a fat gray squirrel drop its acorn and run for a tree at their approach.
“Lord Montfort told me of Captain Wildman-Lushington’s terrible accident the other day,” said Lady Ryderwood. Clementine knew it was unusual for her husband to pass on this kind of information to someone he barely knew. This indication that he already considered Lady Ryderwood to be “one of us” did not surprise her; Lady Ryderwood’s unaffected manners and quiet dignity would appeal as much to her husband as they did to her.
“We heard the news quite quickly because our son is thinking of joining the Royal Navy Air Service. I am horrified that such a wonderfully bright and promising young man could have died so tragically.” The murder of Sir Reginald had not moved Clementine quite as much as the loss of the younger man’s life, she realized, and went on, more to herself than to her friend, “Flying is such an awfully dangerous business, but Harry’s enthusiasm knows no bounds ever since he spent a summer with his friend Tom Sopwith, who designs and makes these wretched contraptions.”
“It is the way of young men, to take risks.” Lady Ryderwood made this statement quite matter-of-factly. “It is in their nature.”
“Yes of course, but I don’t understand the merit of flight. We already move at breakneck speed in our motorcars and trains. Flying seems to me an impractical and quite useless innovation.” She turned to look at the young woman riding beside her. “They never seem to be able to get the wretched things down safely, once they have achieved the business of being up there.”
“I have no children, but it must be troubling to believe one’s child is in danger.”
Clementine looked ahead. She was not sure she wanted to discuss her fears with someone she had known only a couple of weeks, and she rarely brought up her concerns with Harry’s flying to her close friends.
“Have you ever been up, Lady Montfort?”
Clementine was so startled by this unusual suggestion that she blurted, “No, nor do I ever want to,” far more sharply than she intended.
“Neither have I, but I understand it to be the most wonderful experience to fly over the country toward far horizons and view our world from above; godlike, almost. Unimaginably exciting to see the edge of a city as you fly towards it and moments later look down on its rooftops and buildings, and watch people moving below you in the streets. I can’t imagine anything more joyous.”
Clementine was about to harrumph, but her natural consideration stopped her. She had never allowed herself to play with the idea of flight as joyful. She had been far too busy thinking the worst, since that was what was reported in newspapers.
“I never for one moment imagined that it would be a particularly pleasing experience. I find it hard to look out from the top of a tall building, it makes me dizzy and fearful.” She loathed high places, they filled her with anxiety.
“Yes, I am the same way” Veda Ryderwood agreed. “But I understand that flying is a different sensation altogether; there is an absence of vertigo because the aeroplane is one with the air, you see. It must be such a freeing experience.” This last was said in a quiet voice, and there was sadness here, Clementine realized.
Poor thing, she thought, finding herself widowed so unexpectedly and so young has made changes in her life that must be hard to adjust to. It occurred to Clementine that perhaps Harry’s love of flight made him feel less hemmed in by expected duty to a large estate in an age when it was more of a burden than the pleasure it had been for his forebears.
“I think my son might love that most about flying,” she said. “Liberation from the must-dos of life, and the burdens of our earthbound existence, I had not thought of it that way.” She turned in her saddle and found Lady Ryderwood ambling along on her horse and smiling at her with such kind understanding that it was almost too close, too intimate for her.
“Canter?” she asked, and then a little later, when the horses politely responded with a restrained push forward, she glanced back to see that Lady Ryderwood had fallen behind and had returned to a more gentle pace. Clementine urged the gelding to pick up the pace, knowing Bellman needed the exercise. She galloped on to the end of the drive, turned, and came back to find her friend decorously trotting up the track toward her. She waved her hand as she drew alongside Clementine.
“Well, Bellman thoroughly enjoyed that. I think he believes he has just won the Derby!” Lady Ryderwood exclaimed. “You ride well, Lady Montfort; I wish I had so secure a seat.”
They rode toward the barracks in silence. Clementine’s gallop had soothed her fretful mind and she relaxed in the loveliness of the morning. As they came down toward Hyde Park Corner they saw that other rider
s were now out, all trotting or walking their horses in the correct way of riding in the Row; only occasionally would a pair break into a sedate canter. She called out a good-morning to a few acquaintances. She waved to Lady Marchmaine, who was out with her two daughters on their ponies, and confirmed a luncheon engagement for next week with another old friend. And on they went.
Clementine looked across at the young woman riding next to her. Her face showed nothing as she gazed tranquilly ahead, but perhaps sensing that she might have intruded, she turned her head and caught Clementine’s eye.
“I hope I did not offend you, Lady Montfort, about the flying I mean. I would be furious with myself if I had.”
Clementine hastily assured her that she was not upset. Privately, she had been initially irritated at what she felt was rather an intrusion, but Lady Ryderwood had sought only to pose an understandable reason for her son’s daredevil interests.
“I am grateful to you; it had never occurred to me to think of flying as an enjoyable experience. Great heavens,” she said, laughing, “you might even talk me into going up.”
“If you decide to do that, please let me know and I will come with you. After all, if your son is actively involved at Sopwith, you have all the opportunity in the world!” And they both laughed as their horses pushed forward into an eager trot back to their stables and oats. Clementine decided that she was pleased indeed to have met this young woman.
They returned to the Knightsbridge Barracks as a splendid dark-bay stallion was being led out of the covered riding arena toward the stalls where Lady Ryderwood’s horses were kept. He was superbly muscled and had a strong, arched neck and large eyes bright with intelligence. He had obviously been put through his paces by the young cavalry officer who was leading him, as the veins were standing out on his glossy skin, but he was barely winded, unlike the young man perspiring at his side and almost running to keep up with him.
“What a beautiful animal.” Clementine quickly got out of the way, as the horse was dancing sideways on the spot, nostrils flared, hooves striking the cobbles, filling the courtyard with his immense size. He was being led with a stud chain across his nose but was still trying to throw his head in the air as a prelude to a full rear, and the young officer leading him had to jerk smartly downward on the lead rein.
“Whoa there, Lochinvar, behave yourself.” The officer’s voice was firm and the horse steadied and dropped his head. Sensing that he had settled, Clementine walked forward, lifted her hands, and cupped them below the horse’s chin. The horse immediately lowered his massive head and snorted fiercely into her palms, searching for a treat. “What is he?” She was enchanted by his size and power and, now that he was calm, by the gentleness of his lips searching in her hands.
The young officer looked over at Lady Ryderwood, who said nothing, so he answered, “He’s a Hanoverian: intelligent, strong, hardworking, and lovely to look at. He was a good boy today, I think you’ll be pleased with him.” He looked over at Lady Ryderwood, who nodded and moved to one side, indicating with her hand that he should continue on. As Clementine watched the horse and its rider walk on, she thought there was something superbly majestic about the horse’s gait, as he moved forward effortlessly and with incredible lightness for his size.
“Your horse, Lady Ryderwood? What a beauty!” The mettlesome animal seemed not to fit with this dainty little creature standing there holding the reins of her docile gray mare, this walker and trotter of placid, perfectly trained horses, who might find the courage to follow the hunt at a sedate pace when she came down to join them at Iyntwood.
“Lochi belonged to my husband; he was a two-year-old when he bought him. He is a superbly athletic animal, but he has an opinion as you can see. I’m lucky the young officer enjoys riding him, as he is far too much horse for me. I should let him go, but I can’t bring myself to sell him. Francis loved him so much.” She turned to the stable lad and handed over the reins of her mare.
How sad that would be, thought Clementine. I would never let Ralph’s horses go to someone else. “I hope you don’t sell him, Lady Ryderwood, he is quite splendid, and thank you for inviting me to ride with you. I needed to blow away the cobwebs, after the terrible thing that happened at Hermione’s party.” Lady Ryderwood hesitated, and then with a slight frown on her face said, “It was quite a tragedy, Lady Montfort. I have been quite unable to sleep since that evening. What an awful business … and how particularly distressing for you to have been the one to…” She shook her head, finding herself unable to continue.
“Yes, I am still struggling to make sense of it…” Clementine was careful not to rush to a question. “The whole evening has become so confused in my memory. All that hubbub with Marigold’s dress, I remember talking to you about the opera house, do you remember if…”
“Ah yes, I do remember, and then Sir Henry arrived and we talked about hunting. I was so delighted when Lord Montfort invited me to Iyntwood for your Boxing Day hunt, the other evening. Mr. Churchill says the Wingley hunt takes in some wonderful country. Perhaps I will see the Churchills there when I visit?” Clementine, who had been ready with another question about the Marigold Meriwether moment, almost laughed at the idea of her husband welcoming Winston to join his beloved hunt on Boxing Day, and was spared having to answer her by Herne opening the door of motorcar.
“Can I drive you somewhere, Lady Ryderwood? Perhaps we can drop you at your house?” she said quickly, before there was any more regrettable talk about Mr. Churchill swanning down to Iyntwood to join Lord Montfort for a few days in the country.
“Thank you, Lady Montfort, how very kind of you.” And then when they were settled in the back of the Daimler, Lady Ryderwood laid a gentle hand on her arm and said, “I can’t imagine how frightful it was for you, Lady Montfort, finding the poor man like that. I admire your composure. Mr. Churchill told me that Inspector Hillary is one of Scotland Yard’s ablest men—one of their top men in fact. He fully expects everything will be sewn up by the end of the week, especially if we cooperate by not discussing what happened.” Leaving Clementine with no possible opportunity to ask any further questions.
One of Scotland’s Yard’s top men? thought Clementine rather bleakly. Yes, that is exactly what we were told last time.
Chapter Nineteen
Mrs. Jackson’s morning had started with a surprise. She was awakened by a light tap on her door, when the second housemaid arrived with her morning cup of tea. As she struggled to wakefulness—it was seven o’clock and time she was dressed—she reached for a bracing cup of tea to help her focus. And there on the tray was a letter.
She recognized the distinctive writing in the address immediately, as it had adorned countless notes to her ladyship with lists of plantings for the sunken garden at Iyntwood. But it was the last thing in the world she expected to see on the envelope lying innocuously on her breakfast tray, and the sight of it did more to stir her senses than her first sip of strong Darjeeling. She felt herself blush with delighted disbelief that Mr. Stafford had written to her, and then, circumspect as always, she gave herself a moment to collect her thoughts and govern her reactions, and in that time found she was almost reluctant to open the letter.
Mrs. Jackson did not believe in racing into friendships of any kind. Her acquaintance with Mr. Stafford had been a long time in growing from its initial polite exchange on flowers for the house. It had reached the stage, this summer, of an occasional “dropping in” at Mr. Stafford’s cottage in the village, always at his invitation, to admire the vivid array of plantings he toiled over in his back garden. Ernest Stafford was a sociable man; he was well thought of in the village and on the estate, highly regarded by Lord Montfort, respected and referred to by her ladyship, and positively revered by Mr. Thrower and his battalion of undergardeners. With all this popularity it was sometimes puzzling that he purposefully sought her company, she thought, as she regarded his unopened letter with mounting apprehension.
She turned the envelope over in
her hands as if hoping to divine its contents without actually having to read them. Annoyed with herself for being a ninny about a little thing like a letter, she picked up her butter knife and slid it through the top of the envelope and pulled out the half sheet that it contained, a piece of drawing paper from the pad Mr. Stafford carried at all times to make quick sketches of his garden-design ideas. She transferred her annoyance from herself to Mr. Stafford. Why didn’t he use proper letter paper, for heaven’s sake?
Dear Mrs. Jackson,
Mr. Hollyoak told me that you had been called up to Montfort House and I hope you are enjoying city life as a change from the bitter northeasterlies we have had here for the past two days. [A conventional enough beginning, a weather report was always acceptable in an opening paragraph; she breathed a little easier.]
I am up to London on Monday the 6th inst. to visit David Prain at Kew. I don’t know if you have visited the gardens at Kew, but I thought you might enjoy the Palm House and the Waterlily House, both lovely spots on a winter’s day.
Please drop me a line and let me know if this is something you would enjoy. I can easily meet you at 11 o’clock at Kew Bridge Railway Station (there are plenty of trains leaving from Waterloo but the 10:35 will have you there by 11). Perhaps we might even have time for a chop at the Lamb and Flag before our visit to the gardens.
Yrs. Respect’lly
Ernest Stafford
The sixth? That would be the day after the charity event; she would certainly be free to accept—if she chose to do so. But would it be a good idea? She was still a little unsure about Mr. Stafford, for he had a way of being perhaps a bit too outright at times. Not that she didn’t appreciate his open and informal ways, now that she was used to them. She was almost resolved to reply immediately, to thank him and say no. But something made her put the letter carefully back in its envelope and set it inside the book she was reading. She would think it over and then decide. It did not do to rush things.