“I never thought of that!” Alita exclaimed. “But I think I understand. It is rather like sharpening your teeth on a rusk when you are a baby and, when you are older, praying frantically for what you need and – wondering if your prayers will be answered.”
She spoke as if she was working out for herself what he was thinking.
“Exactly,” he replied. “And that is why, not having had to fight for the big things in life, I fight for the trivialities in a manner that I admit to myself is sometimes over-dramatic.”
Alita laughed.
“You are very honest.”
“That at least costs nothing.”
They rode for a few minutes in silence.
Then he asked,
“Are you very poor?”
“I own nothing – except Flamingo.”
“Why?”
“My father and mother are – dead.”
“You were better off when they were alive?”
“Yes.”
The words seemed to be dragged from her.
Then, because she had no wish to discuss herself any further, she deliberately touched Flamingo in a way that made him prance about so that she drew a little ahead of Clint Wilbur and it was impossible to speak intimately.
When he joined her again, she had the strange feeling that he realised what she had done.
As if he respected her reticence, they talked of other things as they crossed the border between the two estates and rode for a short while until they saw Marshfield House ahead of them.
It was an enormous magnificent Georgian mansion, built about 1750, in an architectural style that Alita had always admired.
At the same time, it was awe-inspiring to realise that it belonged to one man and a bachelor at that!
Impulsively, without choosing her words, she said,
“You will have to marry – and have at least a dozen children!”
“Are you deciding my future, Miss Blair?” he enquired.
“Actually I was thinking of the house rather than you.”
“Well, that is a change at any rate!”
“Are you always being – exhorted to marry?”
“It is one of the suggestions that is never very far from any woman’s thoughts,” he answered. “They find a bachelor provocative and I have yet to meet one of your sex who is not eternally scheming as to how I can be forced up the aisle.”
Alita laughed and he added,
“Let me tell you, Miss Blair, once and for all, that I am allergic to orange blossoms and I am extremely happy as I am.”
Alita could not help thinking that this would be a blow for her uncle and Hermione, but aloud she said,
“Then the only thing I can suggest is that you turn half the house into an orphanage and the other half can become a Convent!”
“I asked you here to advise me on the stables,” Clint Wilbur said. “Unless you intend to house some of the horses in the ballroom and others in the salon and the library – ”
“Not the library!” Alita interposed. “They might eat the books!”
“I forgot you were interested in reading,” he said. “I am prepared to concede the library, especially if you wish to borrow the volumes it contains.”
Alita’s eyes sparkled for a moment and then she told herself that he did not really mean it. He was only being polite and the invitation was just part of the badinage they were enjoying with each other.
They went nearer to the house and, as the stables came into sight, she said,
“Before we go any farther perhaps you had better tell me exactly what you want me to do.”
“Wait until you see the stables and judge for yourself,” Clint Wilbur replied.
She thought it was strange that he should rely on her and not on himself, but, when finally they reached the stables and dismounted, she understood.
She had never looked closely at the stables at Marshfield House with the idea of using them.
She had ridden over two or three times with Sam when the house was empty to decide if any of the horses that were for sale were what they required for breeding.
They had in fact been very inferior to anything that was at The Castle and during their visits Alita had concerned herself only with the animals and not with the conditions they were stabled in.
Now she saw at a glance what was wrong.
The stables had been designed as an artistic adjunct of the house itself. The architect had concentrated on the exterior effect and could not have known anything about horses.
The stalls were too small and too dark and, although there was plenty of space, the idea had obviously been to provide stabling for an enormous number of animals without worrying as to whether they were comfortable or not.
Walking round, Alita forgot everything except that the horses she had cared for and loved were to live here in the future.
“Well?” Clint Wilbur asked after she had been silent for a long time.
“It is going to cost you a lot of money,” she replied apprehensively, almost as if she was speaking to her uncle.
Then she remembered how rich Clint Wilbur was reputed to be.
“I want you to tell Mr. Durrant what you recommend,” he said.
She had been so intent on what she was doing that Alita had not realised that they had been joined by a middle-aged man who looked, she thought, exactly how she would have expected an architect to look.
She shook hands with the newcomer and said,
“If you remove the partitions between the stalls and allow half as much again for each stall, they will be the right size.”
Mr. Durrant made a note on the pad he carried in his hand.
“And the mangers are in the wrong place and too low,” Alita went on. “It would be far better to buy a different sort – ”
She talked on for perhaps ten minutes while Mr. Durrant made notes and Clint Wilbur said nothing.
She wanted new windows at the back of the stables and those that were already there made larger. She suggested that the water should be pumped in a different manner and the number of improvements mounted item by item.
Finally, when she had finished, she looked apologetically at Clint Wilbur.
“I am afraid it is – rather a lot,” she said nervously.
“See that it is done as quickly as possible,” Clint Wilbur remarked to Mr. Durrant in a tone of authority.
“Very good, sir. Shall I take some men off the orangery and see to this first?”
“You cannot double the number of your workmen?”
“I could,” Mr. Durrant said a little tentatively, “but – ”
“Then do so!” Clint Wilbur commanded.
He walked away and Alita moved beside him.
After a moment she said,
“I cannot help feeling that you are rather like Marlborough or the Duke of Wellington going into battle.”
“It’s a battle to get these people to understand that I want everything done now, at once,” he replied.
“The English don’t work like that. They like to take things slowly and steadily.”
“Then I have a surprise coming to them,” he said. “When I want something, I want it yesterday!”
Alita laughed again.
Then she asked,
“Shall we talk about the – prices you are – prepared to pay for our horses?”
“We can do that in the house,” Clint Wilbur suggested. “There is something else I want to show you.”
They entered the house by a side door and she expected him to turn left, which would have led them to the centre of the great mansion. But he walked in the other direction along a wide passageway that ended in two huge double doors.
Clint Wilbur opened them and they walked into what was the most enormous room that Alita had ever seen.
“What do you think this was built for?” he asked.
She looked round.
The room was octagonal in shape, very wide and filled with seats. There was a
gallery that would also hold a large number of people and a stage at the far end.
The windows were all high up near the roof and she realised that the whole room was an addition to the house and not part of the original design.
“It must be a theatre – ” she began, looking in a puzzled way at the seats.
Clint Wilbur did not speak and then after a moment she said in a different voice,
“I suppose you know it would make the most magnificent riding school?”
She saw by the expression on his face that that was exactly what he had been expecting her to say.
“You thought of that too!” she exclaimed.
“It had occurred to me.”
“But you must see for yourself how easy it would be to clear out all these chairs and have a door where the stage is for the horses to come in from outside. The balcony could hold the spectators and you could install six or seven jumps.”
Alita spoke in an excited manner.
She remembered that she had seen a riding school a long time ago in London.
She had only been ten at the time and had been with her father in Hyde Park.
They had met a friend of his, who had said,
“I am just off to see Skittles break in a new horse. Why not come with me, Harry? Watching that woman is more exciting than seeing a dozen pretty dancers perform at Covent Garden.”
“I agree with you,” Alita’s father had said, “but – ”
He had hesitated and looked at her.
“It will do the child good,” his friend replied without him asking the question. “If she is going to be a horsewoman, she had better start by seeing the best!”
They had gone to a riding school that was somewhere in Belgravia and found half-a-dozen of her father’s friends there. They were all gentlemen who made a fuss of her and told her she was a pretty child.
They had sat in the balcony and watched a woman who, with the grace of a Queen, was breaking in a wild horse with severity and yet with an expertise that Alita had known was remarkable.
Many years later she had seen her mother’s frown when her father mentioned the name Skittles and she had learnt that the woman she had watched had been Catherine Walters, not only the most notable woman-rider in the country but also the most notorious courtesan.
Ladies either pretended never to have heard of her or shuddered when her name was mentioned, but she was the only woman in England to jump the eighteen foot water jump at the National Hunt steeplechase at Market Harborough.
Alita could remember all too vividly that, while she had the face of an angel, when her horse had funked a jump, she had sworn at it in a manner that had left Alita wide-eyed with astonishment.
Her father and his friends, however, had laughed as if it was a familiar joke that they found very funny.
The riding school at Marshfield would be considerably bigger than the one where Alita had seen Skittles perform and she knew that, if anybody could make good use of it, it would be Clint Wilbur.
“You must do it!” she cried. “Imagine riding King Hal here when it is frosty and the ground is too hard to jump him outside.”
Her eyes were on the centre of the floor as she added,
“Wild West would soon learn, I am sure, to take one fence quickly after another. It’s only a question of timing.”
She was speaking as if to herself, and she smiled apologetically as she said,
“There is no need for me to explain that to you.”
“And what about Flamingo?” Clint Wilbur asked.
“I would love to bring him over sometime when no one is here. I expect you will go back to London several times a month, especially if it is too frosty to hunt.”
“I have an idea that I want to talk to you about,” Clint Wilbur said, “but we can do it more comfortably in the library, which I am sure is the background you prefer.”
He spoke almost mockingly, but Alita was only too happy to follow him through the great pillared marble hall to where she knew that the library was situated.
As they went, she was astounded by what had been done already.
Because the late owner had been ill for some time before he died, the house had grown shabby. His children, even before they heard the will, were aware that they would not be able to live at Marshfield and therefore had wasted no money on redecoration.
Now there were dozens of men in every room Alita passed, working on the walls, cleaning the exquisitely painted ceilings and reupholstering the furniture.
She stared about her in astonishment, finding it almost unbelievable that so much had been put in hand so quickly.
Clint Wilbur did not say anything but led Alita into the library, which she saw had not been touched.
She was glad, because she liked the books that filled the walls from floor to ceiling and the worn red leather sofa and armchairs, which she had always thought were very masculine.
There was a fire burning in the grate and Clint Wilbur indicated a chair beside it.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked. “I suggest a glass of champagne. I feel that we should celebrate – ”
Before she could ask the question, he finished,
“Our partnership, if that is the right word! And I would like to thank you for helping me with the stables and for confirming my impression that the music room is a waste of space.”
“Is that what it was built for?” Alita asked. “I don’t remember having heard of concerts ever being given there.”
“The Agent explained to me that it was added about sixty years ago by the owner’s father.”
“He must have been very musical,” Alita said with a smile, “but I feel that your horses would make better use of it.”
“They are not my horses yet.”
He rang a bell and, when a servant appeared, he merely said,
“Champagne!”
“Very good, sir.”
The servant closed the door and Clint Wilbur stood in front of the fire.
“Now, what is your starting price?” he asked.
Alita drew a deep breath.
“The Duke – suggested a thousand guineas each.”
“And you expect me to pay that, knowing that the market value is about five hundred guineas for the best of them?”
“They are all good!” she flashed.
“Very well – five hundred guineas each.”
“I think they are worth more. As you know yourself, the fact that we have such an excellent Racecourse to train them on has added enormously to their capabilities and so to their value.”
Alita spoke earnestly, but she felt a little embarrassed because Clint Wilbur was looking at her in what she thought was a cynical manner.
It was as if he knew that because he was rich he was expected to pay more than anyone else would have to pay.
“What you have to – consider,” Alita said with an effort, “is that you might pick up as good – if not better, although I doubt it – by going farther afield. But that will take time and perhaps you would have difficulties of transport, while the Duke’s stables are to hand. In fact one only has to ride from one field to another.”
“That is something I have already taken into consideration,” Clint Wilbur replied.
She knew that he was laughing at her and she thought that it was ignominious to have to bargain and fight over horses that she did not even own.
She had spent so much time on them and they had meant so much to her that she knew that, when she had to part with them, it would be agonising in a way that only another horse-lover would understand.
She had a sudden longing to say to Clint Wilbur, ‘Very well, if they are worth so little to you, leave them alone.’
But she knew she could not go back to The Castle and tell her uncle that she had failed and he could not have the money that he had set his heart on.
Clint Wilbur was watching her as if he knew what she was thinking and, before either of them could speak, the butler returned
.
With him was a footman carrying a silver tray and on it was an ice bucket in which reposed an already opened bottle of champagne.
The golden wine was poured into two glasses and Alita took hers tentatively.
It was a long time since she had drunk alcohol of any sort and she hoped that it would not prevent her from having a clear head and being able to continue her argument.
The servants put the tray down on a side table.
“Is there anything else you require, sir?” the butler asked.
“No, thank you,” Clint Wilbur replied.
Only as the door closed did he say to Alita,
“Perhaps you would have preferred tea? I forgot that I was in England and tea at four o’clock is a sacred institution.”
“I cannot stay long,” Alita answered. “I must get back to The Castle and help Sam with the horses.”
“And you would like a decision before you leave?”
“Yes, please.”
“Then I will tell you what I will do,” he said. “I will split the difference between us. I will pay seven hundred fifty guineas for each horse, on two conditions.”
“More conditions?” Alita murmured,
“They are a habit of mine.”
“What are – they?”
“First, that the Duke will keep the horses until the renovation of my stables, which you will supervise day by day, is complete.”
“Day by day?”
“It is your design, your plan. You must see that Durrant carries out your instructions.”
Alita wondered what the Duke would say if he realised that she was to go to Marshfield House every day.
Then she told herself that seven hundred fifty guineas was a fabulous price for the horses and he would not be likely to squabble over the details.
“And the other condition?” she asked.
“It concerns you.”
“Me?”
“When you said just now that the music room would make an excellent riding school, I had an idea.”
Alita wondered what it could be, but she did not speak and Clint Wilbur went on,
“In America I was very interested in the theatre. I have backed one or two shows, which, as it happens, have been unqualified successes.”
Alita thought to herself that they were bound to be! She was certain that everything he touched would be successful, and besides, as her father had said often enough, ‘money always goes to money’.
The Race For Love Page 6