Fortune's Lead

by Barbara Perkins

  It was quite some time later when I remembered that I had better go back to Henry and the car. There was a fascination in trying to pick out, through the field glasses Henry had equipped me with, what the horses and riders were doing out there across the fields, and in guessing who would emerge as leader as they came back into full view. I had seen Essie ride a much shorter course on Fiddlestick—she came in third—and after Essie had given me a grin and a wave at the end of her race, I had been drawn into conversation by the man on whose explanation of the course I had eavesdropped. Obligingly, he told me who was who, and what the difficulties of the course were, and which riders would qualify for other races in the afternoon. When a glance at my watch and the sight of other people munching sandwiches reminded me that I ought to rejoin the Thurlanger party, he walked me back to the Bentley and paused to exchange a few remarks with Henry before going off to his own family picnic. Henry I found on his most cynical form—though he did admit to having ventured from the car long enough to lay a bet with an acquaintance on the outcome of one of the races—but when Essie arrived with the group of young people who had been invited to picnic with us he made a visible effort to play the charming host, even listening with apparent equanimity as she described Fiddlestick’s gallant behaviour when faced with a ditch rather wider than he’d expected. To Kevin he gave an amiable congratulation on having won his qualifying race—and just managed not to look resigned when he caught sight of Rosalind, who had, inevitably, appeared in Kevin’s wake.

  Someone more unexpected had appeared with Essie’s group: Michael Chace. I cast a darkling look at Kevin, wishing he wouldn’t spoil my day by making me wonder if he was up to his tricks again—but caught him at the same moment glance questioningly at me, as if he too was surprised by Michael’s presence. I looked away quickly, and a second later heard Essie saying casually to her father that she’d brought Michael along because there was plenty to eat, wasn’t there? Michael gave me a pleasant smile but kept his distance from me—which might have been simply due to the fact that he was being buttonholed by Poppy Tetley—and I busied myself looking efficient and handing out food and drink. I was struggling with the lid of a Thermos when a well-shaped hand came down over my shoulder and obligingly unscrewed the sticking thread. As he handed the flask back to me, Kevin said pleasantly,

  ‘You seem to be enjoying yourself. I saw Glyn Damon explaining the course to you—I told him to keep an eye out for you.’

  ‘Oh, d-did you?’

  ‘Are your teeth chattering? Picnicking in midwinter is a peculiar habit, I suppose,’ Kevin said, ignoring the fact that my stammer was due to surprise rather than cold. ‘If Henry keeps out of the way—and I hope he will—you might like to join up with the Damons while the rest of us are racing. They’ve their babes with them, so Patty—Glyn’s wife—has to stick close to the car, but they’ve parked with a reasonable view.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to organize my time,’ I said as sweetly as I could—with his remark about Henry keeping out of the way jarring on me. ‘But I’m sure your friends won’t want to be bothered with me—’

  ‘Don’t be waspish. What have I said now? How’s the wrist, by the way? And that’s not,’ he added hastily, ‘a taunt, if you’re about to think it is!’

  ‘It’s much better, thank you.’

  ‘If you want to learn to ride, I’ll teach you, if you like.’

  I glanced up at him, startled, but there wasn’t any mockery in his gaze. After a second I decided not to be taken in, and enquired challengingly, ‘Changing your tactics, or bent on murder? It must be one or the other!’

  ‘Must it?’ He studied me, grinned, shook his head, and added, ‘You have a most unforgiving nature, Charlotte! All right, ask Rosalind to teach you to ride, she’s—’

  ‘I already know she runs a riding school, thank you. Henry seems to be the only Thurlanger who believes anyone can exist off a horse. And if he wants to keep out of the way, as you put it, I expect I’ll stay with him, since it would be a pleasure as well as being polite!’

  I saw him frown, but whatever he seemed about to say was interrupted by Essie’s calling out to him to arbitrate on the height of a particular fence. He left me abruptly, and walked across to answer her, leaving me to feel I had come out rather the worse from the encounter: if anyone had been listening they would have thought he was merely being civil while I must have sounded both prim and cross. However, I reminded myself of the calculation behind that handsome face—and wondered suspiciously whether he would make an attempt to send Michael, among the group around Essie, over to talk to me. He didn’t; but Rosalind sought me out a moment later, apparently of her own volition, and we had a rather stilted conversation during which she explained to me all over again what a point-to-point was for, and told me with sweet condescension that I must be feeling very strange and out of things, but if I didn’t understand anything I must ask her. It was quite a relief when the picnic began to break up, the riders going off to get ready for the next event, or to check that their horses were being properly looked after. Michael came limping over to thank Henry for letting him join the picnic, and exchanged a few pleasant words with me, but didn’t stay because Poppy Tetley was waiting for him: she seemed to be rather determinedly annexing him.

  Having said I was going to stay with Henry, I did; but he elected to come and watch some of the racing, partly because Kevin was riding again. He seemed at times quite fond of Kevin, even if at others he deliberately provoked him or described him in uncomplimentary terms. From a vantage point, I was able to observe what a striking combination Kevin and the huge black Thunder made as they hurtled over the jumps with the horse under faultless control—though for all their combined skill they came second, this time, to the white-faced boy I had noticed earlier. (His name, I had been told, was Peter Raglan, and I’d been wrong about the likelihood of his coming off his wild-looking chestnut: he rode like a demon). We saw Essie in another ladies’ race, in which she didn’t distinguish herself because Cora took exception to something and ran off the course; and Rosalind gave us a prim wave as she trotted by after finishing—not amongst the leaders, but managing to look very competent and with not a hair out of place. After a while Henry declared his intention of returning to the car, but pressed me to stay where I was, so I did—fascinated almost against my will by the excitement of the races, the beauty and courage of the horses, and the exhilaration of cold air on my face while the beasts thundered by steaming and sweating and throwing up clods of dark earth from the now well-trampled field.

  It seemed almost no time before the climax of the afternoon was announced—the Winners’ Race, for those men with the best scores so far. I had been joined by Glyn Damon again—an amiable man, even if he was a friend of Kevin’s—and for this final race Essie joined us too, with James Tetley in tow, together with Mamie Laidlaw and a couple of other young people. Both Kevin , and Peter Raglan were amongst the filial contestants, and public opinion had it that one or other of them would win. From a cheering start, after the riders swung away into the country all the watchers made for positions where what was happening could be sighted, in glimpses, through field-glasses. The end of the course was a series of jumps in the field where the race had begun, and there were yells of encouragement as the leaders came back into view—Peter Raglan, low over his horse’s neck, with Kevin only a few yards behind him. Thunder seemed to be gaining—then he faltered—then he came up again, edging alongside the chestnut, jumping neck and neck, lengthening his stride ... We were all screaming encouragement as they came round to take the final fence and then the run in to the winning post. The black and the chestnut were well matched, but young Raglan’s beast, I heard someone say on a sharply indrawn breath, didn’t have so much weight to carry ... And then Thunder and his rider made a final effort, and passed the post a neck ahead in a fantastically close finish after the long course, so that there were cheers all round as the sweating beasts were pulled up. Everyone found their voices ag
ain after the breath-consuming shouting, to laugh and clap each other on the back and say that it had been a marvellous race.

  My throat was sore from yelling Kevin on—a fact which I suddenly realized with surprise—and Essie was leaping up and down with glee. ‘One up for Ballyneelan!’ she shouted triumphantly, ‘That blessed Thunder—’ and she darted away, diving through the crowd towards where Kevin and Peter Raglan were leaning across to shake each other by the hand. Glyn Damon grinned at me and began to say something as other riders came galloping in for their rather later finish, to a few sporadic cheers; but I was watching Essie as she darted across to join a congratulating group round the winners. Kevin was laughing as she elbowed her way close to him in the melee—and then suddenly he wasn’t, as there was a warning shout and Peter Raglan’s chestnut swung round in a fit of irritation at being crowded. I saw Kevin try to catch Essie out of the way while other people scattered, and I saw—with horror—the chestnut, fighting, lash out with a hoof which caught Essie a glancing blow on the shoulder. Kevin was having his work cut out to control his own horse, and Peter Raglan had got the chestnut away into a clear space now—but Essie was on the ground ...

  Glyn Damon reached her before I did—he must have moved while I was still frozen with shock—and as I came down beside Essie she was struggling to rise and being restrained. It was obvious that Glyn Damon knew what he was doing—and as Kevin arrived after flinging Thunder’s bridle to someone to hold, I realized abruptly that the two men knew each other so well because both were doctors. I found myself put firmly out of the way before I could protest. Essie was saying, forcibly, that she was all right—but she was as white as a ghost, and in obvious pain. People were crowding round: someone called out that the St. John Ambulance people were on their way, from their emergency post in one corner of the field. I opened my mouth to offer help—but was cut off curtly by Kevin, telling me over his shoulder to go and tell Henry what had happened but reassure him that Essie wasn’t badly hurt: there was no need for an ambulance, but if we could drive the car out and bring it closer, it would be a good idea. Since two doctors, and by now a St. John nurse, made any other help I could give superfluous, I went off quickly to do as I was told—hearing as I went Kevin telling Essie with cousinly candour that she had only herself to blame, and should have known better. It was a little unfair, but a memory of the look on his face told that his sharpness came from a genuine worry.

  Henry was even more concerned, and with him too it came out in irritation: he was looking pinched with cold and unlike his usual self when I arrived at the car so that I felt guilty for having left him for so long, and when I had told him about the accident with as much reassurance I could muster, he said snappishly that something like this was bound to happen. My wrist, though still bandaged, was hardly paining me now, and as Ganner wasn’t anywhere to be seen I took a gingerly control of the Bentley and edged it across the muddy field as near as I could get to the accident area. Henry went on ahead, on foot, and I hadn’t moved far (having to hoot people out of the way as I went) when I saw him coming back, talking crossly, with Kevin who was carrying Essie carefully in his arms. Her shoulder had been immobilized in a sling and she was looking pale, but cheerful—to my extreme relief. As they came up, I saw Kevin give as anxious a look at his uncle as he did to the girl in his arms—worried perhaps about the shock—and then, with well-wishers around (who included Glyn Damon, and Rosalind who was plainly trying to be helpful but causing Henry more irritation than ever) Kevin was taking charge of loading Essie into the car, and giving me curt instructions. He would drive; I would sit by Essie and try to see she didn’t get jolted; we would go to the hospital, and then I was to drive Henry home. Over Essie’s protest he said sharply that if she did as she was told he would bring her home later: he didn’t intend her to clutter up a hospital bed.

  ‘But what’s going to happen to the horses—’

  ‘Ganner and Phil can manage them, and the Laidlaws offered a groom to drive the second horse-box. Stop fussing.’ Kevin, having got us arranged to his satisfaction, took over the Bentley and called a thanks to Glyn as we began to drive off.

  ‘You won, anyway,’ Essie said irrepressibly. ‘Can’t beat Ballyneelan breeding! You should have seen it, Pa—’

  ‘He was spared seeing you make an idiot of yourself instead of keeping out from underfoot, anyway,’ Kevin said unkindly, but I saw him give Henry, in the front seat beside him, another anxious glance. A moment later he asked for the second rug from the back—for Henry, not for Essie—making me notice that Henry still had the pinched look. I wondered suddenly whether there was something I hadn’t been warned about—such as Henry, perhaps, having a history of heart trouble ... though he hadn’t shown any previous signs of it, and my trained eye would probably have noticed if he had.

  I had to stand for Kevin behaving as if I couldn’t be expected to know anything or be useful when we arrived at the Cottage Hospital (my first sight of it: it looked modern and well run despite its small size) and after he had spared a moment or two to make sure I could drive the Bentley home, Henry and I took off again for Thurlanger House. Henry was exhibiting signs of bad temper which increased when I asked him as casually as possible whether he was feeling all right, so we had a silent drive—something I was quite glad of, since the Bentley was larger and more powerful than anything I had driven before. When we got in, he became more amiable: Mrs. Mott produced hot tea, looked shocked to hear of Essie’s accident, and went off to put hot water bottles in her bed ready for her return. I was feeling somewhat limp myself after the excitement and then the accident, but Kevin had seemed worried about Henry, so I was—though he seemed to be returning now to his usual form. He made several mischievous remarks about his neighbours and their horsy habits, and told me, twinkling reproachfully, that I had spent the day showing signs of catching horse fever. I retaliated by pointing out that he himself took an interest in racing; but he said professional flat-racing was quite different. He then asked me rather thoughtfully about Michael Chace, almost as if he was anxious to see if Michael really was a close friend of mine or not—which made me feel flustered again, so that I was quite glad when we both retired to our own rooms.

  Essie had a broken collar-bone. It was a light break, though with considerable bruising, and by the next morning she was up and about. She was also complaining: it would ruin the hunting season. The arrival of an invitation to an evening party at the Laidlaws’ did nothing to mollify her: she said, crossly, that if she couldn’t ride she certainly couldn’t go to parties. We had twenty-four hours of her complaints—and then something else happened to put a damper on things. Henry went down with bronchitis, and I discovered from Kevin that this was something which should have been watched for: a tendency towards bronchitis was one reason why Henry often spent his winters abroad. I enquired, acidly, why nobody had suggested I watched for it, then—and received a look from Kevin which reminded me of all the deep-water relationships around Thurlanger House. Resentfully, I remembered that he and I were in a state of enmity. It wasn’t improved by his assumption that I would know nothing about bronchitis (though he couldn’t in fact have known that I did) and his brusque assertion that Mrs. Mott could look after Henry quite satisfactorily. It was annoying to recall that I had been stupid enough to wear my voice out yelling encouragement of his win only three days ago.

  I did go in to see Henry, daily, as soon as he began to improve. He too waved away any suggestion that I might be of use in looking after him: he was quite used to this wretched condition, he told me, and I wasn’t to bother my head about it. A local general practitioner came in to see him and advised him to stay in bed for the time being, and then not to venture out until the weather improved—it was both damp and cold. I sat with Henry when he wanted company—he seemed to enjoy mine—and spent the rest of my time trying to amuse Essie, though she was gloomily determined to be unamused. Finally, in desperation, I took her down to see Michael, thinking that since they wer
e both incapacitated and unable to ride they could grumble together. He had rung up to ask how she was—and with Essie at her most defiant, keeping her away from her father seemed a good idea. Michael seemed delighted—and willing to try to charm Essie out of the sulks—and it also occurred to me that throwing Essie into the company of a personable young man might show her, and her family, that she didn’t have to consider herself solely Kevin’s property at some undefined future date. (James Tetley had also rung up—several times). Since Kevin had taken to looking narrowly at me every time he heard how much time I spent with Henry, I felt fully justified in pursuing my campaign.

  I had too much time on my hands, and it depressed me. I found myself longing for a hospital job: I even contemplated asking for part-time work at the Cottage Hospital—except that Kevin was there, which effectively put that idea out of the question. I had an unexpected invitation to supper with the Damons—but I didn’t feel that I ought to go out while Henry was ill, so I refused, rather regretfully, and had to remind myself staunchly that first, they were friends of Kevin’s and therefore probably party to some plot or other, and second, it would be difficult to spend an evening in medical company without giving away that I was a nurse. There was little for me to do at Thurlanger House, except be told to go away and amuse myself, and Essie seemed to have decided that Michael was congenial company: he had his plaster off now and had found a car from somewhere or other, so he took to driving her about. I wondered a little guiltily whether I ought to be allowing it—though short of going to Henry I had little or no authority—but as far as I could gather they were meeting other young people rather than being alone together, and anyway Michael was hardly an undesirable type. Besides, Essie was even showing signs of tidying herself up a little—small signs, but noteworthy.