The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

  Mercedes sighed happily, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “Whatever you think is best, mijita. It shall be exactly as you wish. You know, of course, that I would never interfere. My children will tell you, I have never been an interfering woman.”

  Epilogue

  Vienna, Austria, two years later

  Emma looks around at the gold-and-ivory riding hall, at the brilliance of the multifaceted chandeliers, snow cones of dripping ice, at the Austrian flags hanging from the red velvet balustrades and the portrait of Charles VI gazing down upon the spectators who wait in anticipation for Bizet’s violins to announce the opening of the great double doors. She is impressed.

  Her brother whispers into her ear. “It takes two years to teach a Lipizzaner to walk.”

  “I know that,” she tells him scornfully. “Where do you think I’ve been living all my life?”

  Eric grins. “Just making sure you appreciate what you’re going to see. We have the best seats in the house, thanks to Dr. Pohl.”

  She glances at Whitney sitting beside her. “He thinks I’m stupid,” she whispers.

  “He doesn’t think any such thing,” replies her stepmother. Two years have honed her ability for employing diversionary tactics in potentially explosive situations. “Look at Claire. Her eyes are so big they’ve swallowed up her face.”

  It’s true. Claire sits beside her father, her hands perfectly still in her lap. Her eyes focus on the double doors.

  Gabe looks behind the heads of his children and winks at Whitney just as the lights dim and the first notes of L’Arlésienne Suite pierce the din of the crowd. A hush falls over the room. At the end of the hall the double doors slowly swing open and the first horse and rider move into the expectant arena.

  Werner Pohl, perfectly composed, a vision in cinnamon livery, a two-corner hat and gleaming boots, leads seven other riders into the room. Under him, his neck perfectly arched, knees high and head proud, is Macbeth, the albino stallion, bred, born and trained in Ventura, California.

  Perfectly synchronized, the horses move as if in a dream—the regal vertical carriage of the head, the slight downward thrust of the haunches, the precise and delicate placing of the feet—straight to the portrait of Charles VI, imperial patron of the Spanish Riding School. There, in a majestic gesture of homage, the riders doff their hats in a wide and sweeping salute.

  The audience bursts into applause. Emma’s worldly demeanor cracks and she claps along with them. “How do the horses know what to do?” she asks Whitney. “I don’t see them using their heels or reins or anything.”

  Whitney smiles. “That’s the whole point. Your attention is supposed to slip away from the rider so that he disappears and your focus is only on the fluid movement of the horse.”

  Eric grips her hand. His face glows with excitement. “Watch this, Emma.”

  She watches. The white horses move from walking and cantering to the piaffe, a sophisticated trotting on the spot, to the Spanish Step, pirouettes, half pirouettes, the mincing cross-steps of the plié, the weaving of the quadrille and pas de trois.

  Emma knows what comes next, the most dramatic of all steps, the courbette, the levade and the capriole, the true “airs above the ground” where the stallion leaps into the air and, at the height of elevation, kicks out violently with his hind legs. Not every horse is up to it.

  Emma holds her breath, praying that Macbeth doesn’t disgrace her family. Even though the Mendoza Lipizzaners have been preparing for their debut for two long years, it isn’t usually long enough to master the capriole. If Macbeth succeeds, it will be because of her father’s training.

  Collectively, the Mendozas lean forward. Whitney, keeping her eyes on the arena, reaches across her stepchildren to grip Gabriel’s hand. She watches Macbeth slowly, gracefully, effortlessly, leap into the air and kick backward with his hind legs.

  For an instant, the silence is complete. And then the room bursts into applause. Row after row stands in ovation. Werner Pohl leaves the conformation and walks Macbeth across the arena to where Gabriel and his family are seated. Doffing his hat with a flourish, he bows to the Mendozas. Gabriel stands and bows back. The audience roars its approval.

  Behind Whitney’s eyelids, tears bum. Four-hundred and twenty-five years ago, the Spanish Riding School opened its doors. Now, because of Gabriel, it will continue.