by Alex Stuart
Deirdre, who had visited him several times in the cramped London studio he shared with two friends of his, knew that he was having a hard struggle. She was glad when he made one of his periodic visits to King's Martin, for only at home, she felt sure, did he get enough to eat. The car, with its specially adjusted controls, was provided by the Ministry of Pensions and was his one luxury. For the rest, he lived frugally, dressed shabbily and worked with concentration and at a speed and pressure which, whilst securing him recognition, seemed to her to be undermining his health.
Studying his absorbed face now, she thought, with a pang, how much he had changed and how thin and pale he looked. Sean had never been particularly robust, but he had never looked ill until this last visit.
He was a small man, only a few inches taller than herself, fine-boned and slim, with a puckish, unlined face and the bluest eyes Deirdre ever remembered seeing in her life. She wondered, looking down at him, if—in spite of his protests—returning here to this atmosphere of horses and racing hurt him more, perhaps, than either she or her father had imagined. They had moved to King's Martin after the war but Sean had worked in Ireland. He had never gone back, even for a visit, after his return from Korea, nor had he made any attempt to renew his friendships amongst the Irish breeders and trainers with whom he had been so popular. And…
"Well"—Sean glanced up with disconcerting suddenness and met her gaze—"that's it. Should make a very fetching design for a Christmas card. In fact, I've several for next Christmas. Would you like to be on a Christmas card, Deirdre?"
"Sean!" Deirdre stared at him. "You're not designing Christmas cards, are you? I thought—"
Sean gave her his engagingly mischievous smile. He said, curling his tongue round the brogue he sometimes affected: "I am, then. And calendars too! Sure, there's a grand profit in it. Would you be having me turn up me nose at commercial art?"
"Of course not. But—" She could not have explained her uneasiness. Sean had spoken of commissions for serious work but surely…
"Forget it," her brother bade her. He thrust the sketch book into one of the capacious pockets of his worn tweed jacket and limped over to her. A hand on Moonbeam's plaited mane, he said: "I thought himself was to be the other Hare? Why look for him? He'll know you're here."
Deirdre made a little grimace. "He cried off at the last moment. You see, he wants to sell Moonbeam and he's got a prospective buyer lined up. So he's arranged that the prospective buyer is to be the other Hare. I don't like it much."
Sean grinned. "Ach, you should know himself by this time! 'Tis just one of his brighter notions—he means no harm, he's only trying to pave your way for you. And who is the prospective buyer? Anyone I know?"
Deirdre shook her head. "I don't think you know him —he hasn't been here long. His name's Carmichael, Colonel Carmichael, and he's just bought Manor Farm."
"Oh? What's he like?" Sean's tone was unexpectedly brusque.
"I don't know, I've never met him either, only seen him at a distance." Deirdre sighed. "They say he's not awfully friendly and he certainly doesn't look it. But—"
She hesitated. Sean never talked of his experiences in Korea and, as a rule, mention of the word was enough to cause him to relapse into moody silence.
"Well," Sean prompted, "and how does the colonel excuse his unfriendliness?"
"He was a prisoner in Korea."
"Was he now?" Sean's lips compressed. "Carmichael, you say? Do you know his regiment?"
"No. His Christian name's Alan, I believe, if that's any help. Did you ever meet him out there?"
From the Staff Tent, a bell sounded a lusty summons, and Moonbeam, startled, tossed his head, spinning this way and that in a restless, excited war dance. Deirdre had her hands too full for a moment to hear Sean's reply to her question. She said breathlessly: "Goodness, that's for me—I'd better go."
"Perhaps you had, Deirdre," Sean said. His voice was low and shaken and he was looking, Deirdre saw, at a tall, fair-haired man in jodhpurs and hacking jacket who, mounted on one of Sir Henry Hollis's horses, was coming towards them. She noticed to her astonishment that her brother's eyes were bright with an emotion she could not analyse. It could have been dismay or even anger but it was almost certainly recognition.
"That's him," she said, controlling Moonbeam with difficulty, "that's Colonel Carmichael. Sean, you—do you know him?"
Sean's expression went suddenly blank, as if he had pulled a mask over his face. "No," he said flatly. His mouth was a tight, unsmiling line. "I don't know him. When did I ever hobnob with colonels? I—" He managed a smile then. "Off you go, Deirdre, he's looking for you to tell you 'tis time the Hares weren't here. Do your stuff and sell him the horse. I'll be keeping my fingers crossed for you!"
Abruptly, he turned his back on her and went limping across to his car.
Deirdre waited for a moment, looking after him uneasily. But he gave no sign that he knew she was there and Moonbeam was becoming harder to control, so, catching her breath on a sigh, she gave the grey his head and went cantering over to meet Colonel Carmichael.
CHAPTER TWO
Seen at close quarters, Colonel Alan Carmichael was younger even than Deirdre had thought him—thirty-three or four, perhaps—and not at all her idea of a retired Army colonel. He was neither red-faced nor blimpish but a very good-looking, rather grave young man, whose features were regular and strongly moulded, a trifle aquiline. His expression was as she remembered it from the glimpse she had caught of him in the car, austere and a little forbidding, and his eyes were a glacial, steely grey, but, as she came nearer to him, his mouth relaxed in a smile which banished the gravity and made him instantly more human and more approachable.
"Miss Sheridan?" He raised his cap. "I was told I'd find you over here. I gather it's time we started."
Acknowledging this greeting, Deirdre studied her new acquaintance, wondering why the sight of him should have upset Sean so much. For, despite his denials, she was convinced that Sean had been upset. But there was no time to go into that now; the children were waiting in an eager, excited bunch, and they raised a cheer as the two Hares, the bean sacks slung loosely across their shoulders, cantered past.
"We'll give you ten minutes' start!" the Pony Club Secretary called after them and sternly ordered his unruly pack of Hounds to turn their back so that the Hares might have their chance to slip off unobserved.
"Better put that copse between us, Miss Sheridan," Deirdre's partner suggested, "before we start laying a trail. But"—he glanced at her over his shoulder—"I imagine you've got a course mapped out, haven't you?"
Deirdre nodded. "Yes, I have. My father and I worked it out together. We can start from the far side of the copse, though—that will delay them a little."
From their temporary hiding place, she pointed out to him, roughly, the route they would take and Colonel Carmichael said approvingly: "Very sound. Some decent fences for the older children—and plenty of gates for the young idea. This is first-class training for them, but we don't want any of them getting hurt, do we? Well, if you take the lead, I'll look after the trail and be right behind you."
"This way then," Deirdre told him and touched Moonbeam with her heels.
For the next fifty minutes they made their way at a steady canter round the course she and her father had planned, stopping twice to give their horses a breather and once, at Colonel Carmichael's suggestion, in order to lay a false trail.
There was little opportunity to talk—once Deirdre called out a warning of wire and they halted, so as to set the trail safely away from it; on two occasions, as they jumped side by side, Colonel Carmichael complimented her on her horse's performance. She knew that he was watching Moonbeam, approving of him: saw, too, that he was an accomplished horseman. Sir Henry Hollis's chestnut wasn't normally a spectacular jumper, but in such expert hands the old horse did all and more than was asked of him.
But after a while the pace began to tell and Deirdre saw her companion drop back,
waving to her, quite cheerfully, to carry on alone.
She did so, her light weight making little impression on the powerful Moonbeam, and with the ground rising steeply and the going deteriorating, she reached the end of her point and pulled up. Letting her reins fall on Moonbeam's damp neck, Deirdre dismounted, to glimpse, from her vantage point, the first of her pursuers in a field two miles away. There was plenty of time she reflected, to give her horse a blow and wait for her companion to catch up with her before they set off on the shorter, homeward route back to the camp.
He was coining up the slope towards her, walking with long, easy strides and leading his tired chestnut, the reins looped over his arm. He smiled and pointed below to the little line of children on ponies, strung out along the false trail.
"We foxed them, Miss Sheridan! But by Jove, they're going well — you can be proud of your pupils. Have we time for a smoke, d'you think?" He took out his cigarette case and offered it, looking at Deirdre enquiringly.
She shook her head. "I don't, thank you. But you've got time for one, if you want it. We can't take the short cut back to the park until they're past the spinney on the left there, or they'll see us."
"Right, I'll keep them in sight — they're heading for the spinney now." Colonel Carmichael lit his cigarette, cupping the match between strong brown hands. Then his eyes went to Moonbeam. They were admiring, knowledgeable eyes. "That's a grand young horse of yours, Miss Sheridan."
"Yes." Colour leapt to Deirdre's cheeks. This was her cue but she hesitated, reluctant to play her accustomed part, with this man as protagonist, wishing herself anywhere but here. But what was the use of wishing? She was here and the supposedly unapproachable Colonel Carmichael was beside her, making overtures of friendship. She had done her job, given him a more than convincing demonstration of Moonbeam's prowess as a jumper. Did it matter that her father had tricked him into coming with her? He was well off, he wanted a useful point-to-point horse — it would be madness to let slip this opportunity of acquainting him with the fact that Moonbeam was for sale. Her father was depending on her… and there was that dreadful overdraft.
She lifted her head and told him, stammering a little:
"Colonel Carmichael, I — if you're looking for a horse, I mean — this one, Moonbeam, is for sale."
Colonel Carmichael stiffened perceptibly. His smile faded and his tone was cold as he asked: "I see, but — tell me, do you always tout your father's horses for him? Even on an occasion like this?"
"I" — indignation mingled with a sense of guilt put an edge to Deirdre's voice — "I suppose you can call it that, if you wish to, Colonel Carmichael. I work for my father, whose business is breeding and training horses. And selling them. I'd heard you were likely to be interested, that was why I mentioned it. But if you're not—"
"Oh, but I am interested, Miss Sheridan! Both in the horse and in your methods of salesmanship — they're very effective. And, of course, I've heard of your father. I've heard a great deal about him." The implication was deliberately offensive and Deirdre's colour deepened. Before she could answer him he went on, his tone now brisk and businesslike: "I imagine it was his idea and not yours that I should take his place as Hare this afternoon? Oh, don't trouble to deny it, it doesn't matter. But I like the horse very much… so perhaps you'd better tell me what your father is asking for him?"
Controlling her temper, Deirdre told him.
"Oh!" His brows lifted. "That's pretty steep, isn't it?" He spoke curtly. Uncomfortably aware of her heightened colour, Deirdre returned, with equal curtness: "No, not for a horse like this. If you're going to race at all, you—"
He interrupted her: "Miss Sheridan, I think you must have been listening to some of the exaggerated rumours about me. Most of them are untrue and I certainly don't intend to be held to ransom on account of them! I've come here primarily in order to farm. If I do any racing, it'll be for my own pleasure, and whilst I do intend to buy a horse or even a couple of horses, I'm not a rich man and I can't afford to pay fancy prices for them. Er—perhaps you'd prefer it if we went on and finished our show for the children? I can haggle with your father when we get back, can't I? It scarcely seems the thing to indulge in acrimonious argument with a" — he bowed but he wasn't smiling and his eyes were stern—"with a charming young lady to whom I'm indebted for an enjoyable afternoon and a most competent lead. So if you'll forgive me…"
Deirdre was furious both with him and with herself, and anger almost always reduced her to speechlessness. What right had he to suggest that her father was—was—
She took a deep, uneven breath. "My father doesn't 'haggle,' Colonel Carmichael. Nor does he ask fancy prices. I don't know what you've heard about him, but if you think he does, then you, too, must have been listening to exaggerated rumours! I've told you Moonbeam's price. I've told you in case you should want him. You'll find my father won't reduce his price and I see no reason why he should — Moonbeam is worth every penny. I broke him in and I've hunted him, so I know he is!"
"You made a good job of him." Colonel Carmichael conceded.
"Naturally," Deirdre returned, with a flash of spirit, "I'd not 'tout' him if I hadn't."
The smile hovered again at the corners of his sternly set mouth. "My choice of words was perhaps unfortunate. I seem to have annoyed you, Miss Sheridan, and that wasn't my intention, I assure you. If it's any excuse, I was disappointed — having allowed myself to hope that you had sought my company this afternoon for its own sake — to learn that you had an ulterior motive for seeking it. However, it's possible that your father and I may be able to come to terms. I'll call on him, if I may. But"—he pointed —"the children have reached the spinney. I'd better get up." He swung himself expertly into the saddle and turned to look at Deirdre questioningly: "Shall we make our dash for it now?"
But Deirdre was not looking at him.
Paddy was galloping up the hill — an agitated Paddy, whose face was white and whose horse was lathered with sweat… Deirdre's heart turned over.
Something must be wrong, dreadfully wrong, for Paddy to use a half-schooled four-year-old thus…
"Paddy—" she cried. "Paddy, what is it?"
Paddy pulled up beside her, breathing hard. "Miss Deirdre thanks be to God that I've found ye!" There was panic in the old man's faded eyes. He gripped Deirdre's arm. " 'Tis the Captain, Miss Deirdre dear — ach, you must be brave, now! Marigold was after putting him down— 'tis a terrible bad fall that he's had. Ye'd best come to him, I—"
"All right, Paddy, all right, I'll come. But is he—Paddy, is he badly hurt?"
Paddy said, with a sob in his voice: "I don't know. I don't know, Miss Deirdre. I — I think he's killed."
Tears burned in Deirdre's eyes, her throat contracted, so that she could not say a word. And then, from behind her, came Colonel Carmichael's voice. It was very steady and reassuring.
"I'll come with you. It may not be as bad as you think."
Deirdre couldn't speak but her eyes thanked him. With Paddy in the lead, they set off down the hill.
A little crowd had collected in a corner of a wheat field, but none of the children was there and Deirdre was glad of this. Some farm hands who had been working near by had brought up a gate, removed bodily from its hinges. Deirdre could not see her father at first for the press of people about him, but she recognized Marigold, being led up and down by a boy in rough overalls. The filly was shivering, her glossy chestnut flanks covered with mud, her saddle awry and a leather broken. The boy spoke to her softly, but she was frightened and tugged at the reins he held, trying to get away.
Paddy swore beneath his breath. "Sure, she took that cut-and-laid at the roots, so she did — as if she didn't see it."
He took her from the boy, and instantly she quietened, Paddy loved his horses, and even in that moment, when her brain was frozen and her blood turned to ice, Deirdre found herself approving of his concern for the little filly.
Then someone was urging her to dismount and a ha
nd grasped Moonbeam's rein. In a sort of daze, she realized that it was Colonel Carmichael and that his touch on her trembling fingers was gentle. "Down you get. Don't worry about Moonbeam, I'll look after him. And my car's at the farm there, if you need any transport." He helped her down, steadied her, a hand firmly at her elbow. "Your father's alive and they've got a doctor for him. Don't be afraid."
"No," she said, "no," and didn't recognize her own voice.
The crowd parted to make way for her. The local doctor, in his shirtsleeves, kneeling by her father's side, looked up to smile at her. His small son, Deirdre recalled, was a Pony Club member and Dr. Chalmers must have come, with the other parents, to watch the paperchase. It was lucky that he had.
He said, in a whisper: "He's conscious, Deirdre, but he's wandering a bit. Seems to be worried about something and keeps asking for you. Something about a horse, it is. See if you can relieve his mind, will you?"
Deirdre nodded, tight-lipped. "Is he — Dr. Chalmers, is he badly hurt?"
The doctor sighed. "He's fractured his pelvis but I don't think it's any worse than that. I've sent someone to 'phone for an ambulance. We'll get him into hospital as soon as we can." He yielded his place to her. "Dennis," he said, "here's your daughter, here's Deirdre."
Deirdre flung herself on to the muddy, churned-up ground, and her father twisted his head painfully to look at her. His face was very pale, beaded with sweat, and his eyes dark with agony. But he managed a wry little grin. "I seem to have taken a toss, child. But 'tis nothing to worry about, they shouldn't have sent for you. Tell me — is Marigold all right?"
"Yes, Daddy, she's all right. Paddy has her."
"She'll have had a bad scare, poor baby. 'Twas not her fault. Deirdre, you'll look after her?"