The Enchanted

by Charlotte Bingham

‘Very American,’ Constance returned, trying to smile.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I happen to mean it.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with my being an actress, you’re quite right,’ Constance continued, beginning to recover her composure. ‘It was my marriage. Or more particularly one of the men I married. You’re too young to remember, sweetie – you probably both are. It might just ring bells with Grenville. One of my husbands happened to be a somewhat notorious fellow called Andrew Topsham.’ She waited for the expected reaction but all she got was silence from both Grenville and Lynne.

  ‘See?’ Lynne exclaimed after a moment. ‘Nothing to us. Not a thing.’

  ‘Andrew Topsham,’ Grenville said slowly. ‘It does ring a bell somewhere or other. Yes.’

  ‘Let me save you the trouble, dear,’ Constance said. ‘He was a spy. Cold War jobby. He spied for the Russkies.’

  ‘Red Andrew, of course,’ Grenville exclaimed. ‘Defected, didn’t he? Sometime in the early sixties, if my memory serves me.’

  ‘I met him just after the war. He’d had a rather good war, so I was told, if there can be any such thing, which I very much doubt. He was frightfully well connected, knew all the right people, terribly dashing, but – well, a little peculiar I thought, but we won’t go into all that. Anyway, the point was he worked for Intelligence, or in Intelligence or whatever they call it, but all the time he was stealing stuff for his Red friends. He got out, defected, and left me behind, high, dry and stranded. The so and so had implicated me as a sort of red herring—’

  ‘I remember now,’ Grenville said. ‘It’s all coming back to me.’

  ‘I thought it had gone away,’ Constance sighed, turning to stare out of the window at the rain-lashed winter landscape flashing by. ‘I was finally given the all-clear, but of course you know what they say about mud. It does stick, you know. By George it does. So they advised me to go on holiday, a long holiday, which I did. I went to a friend’s in South Africa, a chum from the Rank school of little charmers who had married really rather well and lived out there until a few years ago. Met someone there, as it happened, and got involved. An absolute beast of a fellow who went in for a lot of beating up. Wouldn’t think it to look at him. Looked like an angel, sweetest little baby face and lots of curly blond hair, and drank himself to death.’

  ‘Lord Frimley, perchance?’ Grenville wondered, giving her a smile via the driving mirror.

  ‘Sir Peter Frimley, as it happened,’ Constance replied. ‘Don’t laugh, dear, that really was his handle, though don’t ask me. So I took his title since I thought that was the least he owed me and back I came, thinking the dust must have settled by now, because I was frightfully homesick, don’t you know. Pretended we’d been wed. It worked because no one remembered me, not as Lady Frimley. They hadn’t a clue. All washed up and long forgotten.’

  ‘You obviously haven’t lost your looks, Connie,’ Lynne said.

  ‘Obviously not,’ Grenville agreed. ‘Hence the tripe hound’s recognising you.’

  ‘For the life of me I don’t know how,’ Constance said. ‘As a girl I was raven-haired and now I’m grey as a ghost; a little shrunken, invisible old woman.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Lynne laughed. ‘I’ve seen the heads still turning.’

  ‘Pooh,’ Constance said, but with a half-smile.

  ‘Anyway,’ Grenville said. ‘So what if he thought he recognised you? It’s all over. Dead, gone, buried.’

  ‘You know the papers, dear.’ Constance sighed. ‘They’ll dish it all up again. Red Andrew’s scarlet woman and all that nonsense. I really don’t want it all dragged out of the cupboard yet again.’

  ‘We’ll take care of you,’ Lynne assured her, linking her arm in Constance’s. ‘We won’t let the illegitimates get you.’

  ‘I do hope you won’t,’ Constance said quietly. ‘I think it would finish me. Just when everything was at its very best, too. Do you know something? I think this is the first time I’ve ever had any fun, first time I’ve been really happy, since I was a gel, as we used to say in those days. This is the very first time in such a long time I’ve felt really happy.’

  Before they began their own journey home, Alice and Millie treated themselves to some tea and cake. While they were enjoying their refreshment, Alice noticed Harrington Lovell looking at her occasionally from his own party across the room, but thought little of it until, after Millie had disappeared to the ladies preparatory to leaving the course, she found Harrington standing at her table, hands clasped behind his back and inclining himself forward as if he wished to speak confidentially.

  ‘Alice,’ he began. ‘Forgive the intrusion, and I’m not quite sure how to put this without seeming too forward …’

  ‘You’re not intruding at all,’ Alice assured him. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No thank you.’ Harrington gave a cautious smile. ‘No, what I really wanted was to know – well. How can I best put this? I wondered when you might be racing your horse again.’

  ‘Why’s that, Mr Lovell?’

  ‘Harrington, please. Or better still Harry. That’s what all my friends call me.’

  ‘Sorry. Of course,’ Alice said. ‘Why do you want to know when the horse is running again? Do you want another bet?’

  Harrington laughed. ‘No. No, the reason I wanted to know is because I’d like to know when I might see you – you all – again.’

  Alice looked up at him quickly, and found to her interest and surprise that her heart was suddenly beating a little bit faster.

  ‘To be truthful, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Rory’s sending us a list of entries later in the week.’

  ‘I see.’ Harrington nodded, not knowing quite how much further to go, before deciding to cut his losses and leave. ‘In that case, best thing I can do is to keep an eye on the racing papers,’ he said, straightening up. ‘Or have my trainer let me know.’

  ‘Of course,’ Alice agreed. ‘Except now I’m curious,’ she added. ‘I don’t mean to be rude—’

  ‘I doubt very much whether you could be, Alice.’

  ‘But since you have horses of your own, I was just wondering why you were so keen to see ours running.’

  ‘It isn’t your horse I want to see, Alice.’ Harrington leaned forward again. ‘Actually it’s you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Alice, finding herself unexpectedly on the back foot. ‘Oh. Oh, I see. Or rather I don’t. I don’t see.’

  ‘I’d like to say because me Tarzan, you Jane,’ Harrington replied. ‘Except I think I’m a bit too old now for that to sound convincing. So let’s just say it’s a man–woman thing, Alice. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, and now I find I would like to see you again. That is, provided it’s all right with you.’

  ‘It’s perfectly all right with me, Harry. I’ve enjoyed meeting you as well. Very much.’

  ‘So,’ Harrington concluded, straightening himself to his full and still impressive height as he saw Millie making her way back to the table. ‘To the next time. To our next time.’

  Then he was gone.

  ‘So what do I spy here?’ Millie said, collecting her things off the table. ‘Got yourself a heavy date, sister?’

  ‘Never you mind that,’ Alice replied, getting up to leave. ‘That was just horse talk.’

  Even so, as she left the bar, Alice couldn’t resist one last glance over her shoulder, and, when she looked, she saw that apparently Harrington couldn’t resist one either.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Best Laid Plans

  Rory was sitting studying the Racing Calendar with his mind on entries when Kathleen walked into his office. He had been doing his very best to keep his mind off the subject of Miss Kathleen Flanagan ever since it had become obvious to him that she and Blaze Molloy were an item. Up till now, he had been managing the task better than he thought he might, using what little free time he had in trying to make his convalescent father as comfortable and happy as possible. He was surprised but pleased to see that Anthony see
med more than happy to watch the activity of the yard from the warmth and comfort of an armchair in the drawing room, and to catch up on all the news at drinks time over a weak whisky and water, rather than try to take back hold of the reins.

  There was concern, however, over the exact condition of Anthony’s health, Dan having told Rory privately before sending his patient home that in an ideal world he would have the sort of heart surgery that currently was only being practised in America, and at a price. As it was, they had done everything they could and would continue to do so in order to keep their patient up and about, as Dan put it, which Rory took to mean they would do everything possible to keep his father alive and well enough to enjoy life for as long as they could. That was all that was said, because on their side of the Atlantic that was all that could be done.

  But now Kathleen was standing on the other side of Rory’s desk, looking even more beautiful than ever, Rory thought, if such a thing were possible. Being at Fulford Farm obviously suited her for since she had come to work in the yard everything about Kathleen seemed to have become more exceptional; her skin gleamed, her eyes shone, her hair looked more lustrous, her figure even shapelier, and her personality was ever more vibrant. It was as if she was in training herself and blooming under her new regime.

  Despite all this, Rory wanted her to disappear from his life, while with all his heart he wanted her to stay, because he knew from the bottom of that same heart that he could have no chance with her, not since the arrival of the handsome, laidback and highly talented young jockey Blaze Molloy. It seemed every time he looked up or turned round there they were, deep in conversation, Blaze with an arm draped round her shoulders, or Kathleen just smiling across the yard at him as she went about her work, or the two of them in deep and private debate on the course, or celebrating their horse’s win with their peers, while the only time he himself spoke to Kathleen in any depth was when they needed to discuss matters concerning Boyo. Every time Rory thought he might try to dig a little deeper, either someone or something interrupted them, or Kathleen excused herself on the pretext of having to do something to or with her precious charge. So Rory had resigned himself to an existence that now included a seriously unrequited love.

  ‘We have a problem, Mr Rawlins,’ she was saying, her cap off, gently tossing back her head of long dark hair. ‘He’s off his food.’

  ‘Since when?’ Rory asked, getting up immediately. ‘He’s been eating up everything. So when did this start?’

  ‘He started picking at it yesterday, and now today he won’t go near his pot.’

  ‘Right. Fine. I’ll come and have a look,’ Rory said, thinking that although going to stare into the horse’s manger was hardly going to work the oracle, at least it would afford him some time with the object of his affection.

  ‘What I was wondering was why you’d changed the supplier,’ Kathleen remarked as they crossed the yard. ‘I’m sure you had good reason.’

  ‘Changed the supplier?’ Rory stopped and looked at her. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘It wasn’t the usual corn merchant who delivered the last lot of fodder,’ Kathleen told him. ‘The man said someone had rung him and transferred all the stable orders to his firm.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Rory said again, his brow furrowing. ‘We had a new supplier and no one thought of mentioning it?’

  ‘You weren’t here, Mr Rawlins,’ Kathleen replied, looking as though she were mortally affronted. ‘It was the day you were collecting your father from hospital. And since it was exactly the same food we’d been having before, no one thought anything of it. Anyway, Pauline said it was all in order, that there’d been some problem or other with the last people, and so we never thought another thing about it.’

  ‘Pauline? But it isn’t really Pauline’s – look, we’d better f-f-find Pauline, because I don’t like this at all. I certainly never authorised any such change – not m-me.’

  ‘But Pauline’s not in. Didn’t you know? She’s been off for a couple of days, and she called this morning to say she was still unwell.’

  ‘Why am I always the last to know any – it doesn’t matter. Forget it,’ Rory muttered, hurrying now towards the feed room. ‘How many feeds has B-Boyo had? From this famous new delivery?’

  ‘You don’t think—’

  ‘I th-think a lot of things, but first things f-first.’

  ‘He’s only had supper last night and breakfast today from the new stuff, because I don’t like waste and I thought we should finish the last consignment first. It’s just the way I was brought up.’

  ‘Ker-ker-ker – quite right too, Kathleen,’ Rory said, inspecting the new consignment of fodder. ‘You might just have saved the day.’

  Noel took the foodstuff away for analysis, having thoroughly examined the horse and found nothing apparently amiss with him, although as a precautionary measure he also took away a blood sample and a specimen of the horse’s droppings for analysis. After Noel had departed, Kathleen insisted on giving her charge a purge as well, assuring Rory that the mixture she intended to use was purely herbal and would leave no unwanted medicinal traces.

  ‘Obviously you think it was doped with something,’ his father observed at drinks time. ‘Although if someone’s keen on stopping the horse, wouldn’t they wait till nearer the time of his next race?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so, but this could be – couldn’t it? – one of those slow-term drugs you were on about,’ Rory replied. ‘Something they might simply want to get into the horse’s system, that works insidiously; some sort of dope that – you know, something that might slow him up a bit on the gallops, but not sufficiently so for us to get worried.’

  ‘But then when you get him to the races—’

  ‘There was that horse you swore was stopped end of last season? One of Dick Anderson’s up at Haydock? And then it went and dropped dead in the paddock after the race.’

  ‘Lovely thing to do to an animal,’ Anthony observed. ‘Nice people.’

  ‘And that chap you know – the security guy from the Jockey Club,’ Rory continued. ‘Didn’t he tell you there was this new stuff coming in from Scandinavia that left absolutely no trace? That it was worrying them all sleepless?’

  ‘How long before you get the result?’

  ‘Twenty-four hours, tops. Noel’s giving it priority. And can you believe they got at Pauline, of all people? You just can’t tell with people.’ Rory shook his head in dismay and poured himself another beer.

  ‘And she’s done a runner, you say,’ Anthony said.

  ‘Well, of course. Could be anywhere by now. Who’d want to do this anyway? We’re not exactly a big betting yard or anything. Bastards.’

  ‘We don’t know what they’ve done yet, old chap – if anything,’ Anthony remarked, holding up his own glass for refreshment. ‘But it wasn’t very subtle, was it? Somebody’s going to remark on the change in the food merchant sooner or later, sooner more likely than later. And the moment they do, end of story.’

  ‘They probably thought that with me in charge nobody would bother to remark on it. Not the sort of thing anyone would get past you.’

  ‘Don’t be hard on yourself, Rory. You’re doing well, so don’t beat yourself up – there’s no need.’

  ‘I forget to book the dentist, I left the horses on contaminated straw when we’d discussed putting them on shavings, I let Kathleen turn the horse out in the paddock – we were lucky to get away with that one – and now someone’s sending us unauthorised fodder.’

  ‘Rory?’ his father interrupted. ‘You’ve had a lot on your mind, and I wasn’t here.’

  ‘I can’t have been paying that much attention when you were here, can I?’

  ‘You’ve also trained a horse to win two races.’

  ‘I’ve also got a horse who’s won two races.’

  ‘What is this about anyway?’ Anthony asked. ‘This isn’t like you at all. So what is it about?’

  ‘It’s about
me thinking I could just take over just like that and manage, Dad, that’s what this is about,’ Rory replied. ‘Instead of thinking what I was doing. Instead of asking for advice. I should have asked for advice instead of just going ahead thinking training horses and running a yard was … was – I don’t know. Child’s play.’

  ‘That isn’t what this is all about at all, old chap. You’ve got something on your mind.’

  ‘I’ve got a stable full of horses on my mind, Dad, that’s what. And if Kathleen hadn’t brought the subject up, this latest thing – the change in supplier – it might have gone unnoticed for days. Maybe the others thought with the way things have been – with the way they still are, actually – maybe they thought there’d been some problem or other over the bills, let’s say, and if so they might have been too tactful to mention it.’

  ‘What did our regular suppliers say? Mortons? I take it we’re back with them?’

  ‘Mortons told me someone had rung a few days ago cancelling the order but without any explanation.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘A man, oddly enough. Pauline’s contact, presumably. And yes – I put our order back in place.’

  ‘Makes your hair stand on end,’ Anthony said, draining his glass. ‘The lengths people will go to stop a horse.’

  ‘People as in bookmakers?’

  ‘The poor old bookmakers,’ Anthony said wryly. ‘They get to carry the can for everything. This sort of thing can be down to anyone, you know. A rival. A soured ex-owner. An embittered bloodstock agent – the racing world is full of people carrying grudges, real and imagined. Let’s wait on the tests. Maybe they’ll give us some sort of indication.’

  ‘Maybe they will,’ Rory agreed. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take Dunkum out for a bit of a walk.

  He took the lurcher for a long walk round the farm, trying without success to sort out his head and his heart. He hated both making a fool of himself and being made a fool of, so he resolved at least to put a stop to both of those, determining to ask for advice when in doubt and not to say yes to anything equine when he either meant no or just don’t know. Horses were an unknown quantity even to the most experienced of trainers, so to Rory, who considered himself well and truly still an apprentice in the craft, it seemed absolutely vital that every decision regarding the yard must be thoroughly discussed and not arrived at on the wings of some whim or other. He would make lists, he would have charts, people would have specific tasks delegated to them, and nobody would do anything without the properly considered consent of both him and his father.