Briony smiled wryly as she hitched the haversack across her shoulder. If the boys really consumed as much as Hettie had provided they would be completely unable to do a stroke of work during the rest of the morning, she decided.
When she arrived at Birchfields she stored the haversack in a cupboard in the tack room that was seldom used and immediately set to work getting through her chores as quickly as possible.
Before it was time for the morning break, she had cleared her work load, and felt entitled to go to the tack room a little earlier than usual. She cleared the table of brushes, tins of saddle-soap and the odds and ends of tack, metal polish and vaseline which usually littered it. On the surface she laid sheets of brightly patterned wrapping paper, on which she arrayed the goodies she had brought. From the shelf on which they usually rested she took the chipped mugs they used at morning break.
As the two boys came in, she was rewarded by the look of astonished delight which came into Johnny’s face as he spotted the pink and white iced birthday cake prominently displayed, flanked on each side by bottles of ginger beer and surrounded by the assorted goodies.
‘Well, this is something I didn’t expect,’ he exclaimed, rubbing his hands in anticipation. ‘Now that the boss has gone to Aberdeen, we can have a good tuck-in!’
‘All the same, we’d better not delay over our break,’ Andy said cautiously. ‘You never know—he might come back early, and he’s not in too good a humour these days, as we know.’
Johnny switched on the transistor. ‘We may as well look on the bright side! He may be delayed.’
‘After all, it won’t take us so much longer to get through this than it would to take our ordinary break,’ Briony interposed.
But here she proved to be wrong. Because, in spite of Andy’s pessimism, they felt relaxed and in a festive mood.
‘This is the first cheerful thing that’s happened in ages,’ Johnny remarked as they got around to the cake-cutting part of the feast. They were laughing and chatting as if they hadn’t a care in the world when, as the picnic was over, Johnny pushed back the table and invited Briony to join him in a waltz to the blaring music from the transistor. He was so happy that, although Briony was increasingly aware that they had far exceeded their break time, she hadn’t the heart to call a halt to the festivities.
They were, however, to receive a rude awakening.
As Johnny spun her around in a breathtaking climax to the dance, there was the sound of firm footsteps, and a shadow fell across the doorway. They came to a sudden halt as though frozen by Blane’s unexpected appearance.
With a few swift strides he crossed to the transistor and roughly switched it off. When he turned, his face was dark with anger. ‘And just what’s going on here?’ he began. He glanced at his watch. ‘Do you realise what time it is?’ And then his eyes narrowed as they fell upon the remainder of the feast and the table pushed up against the wall. ‘And what’s this?’ he asked blankly.
‘It was all my idea,’ Briony said faintly, as the two boys stood in embarrassed silence. ‘It’s Johnny’s birthday and I got a few extra things to celebrate.’
‘So you took advantage of the fact that I was going into Aberdeen, to hold a party!’ he gritted. ‘In future, don’t hold celebrations on my time!’
Sheepishly the two boys edged towards the yard, and Briony, to her dismay, found herself alone with a grim-faced Blane. Nervously she began to crunch up the empty plastic cartons and to thrust them into the oil-drum that served as a waste-paper basket.
‘You can do that afterwards,’ he told her quickly. ‘In the meanwhile get on with your work!’ And turning, he strode from the tack room.
Left alone, surrounded by the debris of the party, Briony’s nervousness disappeared with a rush and was replaced by furious anger. In defiance of his instructions she began to gather together the plates and mugs, and dump them on the shelves. Then, seizing the coloured papers, she rolled them into a ball. How typical of him, she thought furiously. After all, it wasn’t as though they were in the habit of wasting their time or lounging around the tack room. In fact, the boys and herself had more work than they could handle. Surely, for once, Blane could have turned a blind eye!
As she crossed the yard, still seething with resentment, she came upon Andy.
‘I don’t know what the boss is thinking of, giving the Shetlands to Johnny,’ Andy told her gloomily. ‘After all, he can’t manage everything—and neither can I, for that matter!’
‘He took the Shetlands away from me out of spite,’ Briony exclaimed furiously, ‘and Johnny simply hates having them. I think the best thing I can do is take them on again, and—’
‘You’d better not,’ Andy interposed. ‘The boss made a big point of Johnny having them. You’ll get the sack for sure, if you don’t toe the line.’
‘Well, what way can I help, then?’ Briony asked, exasperated.
‘I only wish you could exercise the palomino,’ he sighed. ‘He’s fidgety and restless. He hasn’t got enough exercise for the past few days. But of course, there’s no question of your doing that.’
Immediately Briony took up the challenge. ‘Why shouldn’t I exercise him?’ she demanded. ‘After all, I was told when I started work here that I’d have to do anything a stableboy can undertake.’
‘But you won’t be able to manage him!’ Andy protested. ‘He’s not one of your Shetland ponies, you know,’ he added with a grin.
‘Senga MacNeil rides him,’ Briony flashed.
Andy nodded, in his slow, stolid way. ‘Yes, but she’s much more experienced. And, to be straight with you,’ he added bluntly, ‘you’re not as good a rider as Senga.’
In her heart Briony knew he was speaking the truth, but she would not admit it. She kept arguing with Andy with feminine persistence, and eventually he gave in.
‘All right, then,’ he said at last resignedly, ‘but stay inside the grounds. Take the path behind the Dutch bam and you’ll be able to give him a good gallop on the level, and get some of the steam out of him.’
She had no sooner mounted than she realised that Andy had been right, for she found that Golden Sovereign was jibbing and prancing with nervous tossings of his head. Her own nervousness had somehow conveyed itself to the animal, for although she tried to hold him with all her strength, she was barely able to control him.
As she came level with the Dutch barn, she caught a glimpse of Blane mounted on the Hanoverian. But she did not know if he had seen her because she had enough to do trying to control the palomino as it waltzed sideways as though in a complicated dance. A moment later and she had reached the flat area behind the bam and was able to let Golden Sovereign have his head. He surged forward so suddenly that she was almost unseated.
Immediately her nervousness changed to exhilaration. How wonderful to ride a powerful horse like this, she thought, as the ground seemed to fly away beneath his heels. She delighted in the speed of this wonderful animal as the turf flew behind his bounding hooves.
It was only when she began to try to rein him in that she discovered that he had no intention of obeying her. Golden Sovereign was aware that she did not have the authority of Senga. A horse of this calibre was away beyond her skill, and the palomino was only too well aware of it. Briony pulled frantically on the reins as she realised the animal was bolting with her, but her exertions proved useless.
Vaguely she remembered instructions she had once received about what to do in such a situation. Pulling frantically on the reins was exactly the wrong thing to do. Instead of gradually and smoothly slackening the reins before tightening them, she found that she relaxed them too suddenly and her mount took this as encouragement to put on even more speed.
She remembered too, with growing panic, that a horse is at least eight times as strong as its rider and that trying to pull in a bolting horse is useless.
Feeling helpless, she was overcome by panic and gave a shriek of pure terror. Golden Sovereign laid his ears back and seemed to fly a
long at even greater speed, while Briony concentrated on trying to keep her seat.
It was then she heard the sound of galloping hooves behind her, and caught a glimpse of the Hanoverian coming up behind. Gradually it gained on her. Side by side the two horses galloped at breakneck speed. After a while it dawned on Briony that Blane was forcing the palomino to run in circles which gradually decreased in size. There came a slackening of speed and Briony found to her relief that the danger was at last over.
But the Golden Sovereign had still one last trick up his sleeve. In the centre of the field was a marshy patch of turf. Here he decided finally to stop, but drew up so suddenly that Briony flew over his head and found herself with her face and hair forced into the sticky clinging mud.
In a second Blane had slid down from the saddle of the Hanoverian and was by her side. She tried to wipe away the tears that made little channels through the mud that coated her face.
‘Are you hurt?’ he exclaimed.
‘No, there’s nothing the matter with me,’ she told him quaveringly, feeling completely demoralised.
‘But you’re crying,’ he insisted.
‘I’m crying because I’m angry!’ she burst out.
For a moment he looked at her in silence, then, flinging back his head, went into roars of laughter.
Disconcerted by his reaction, Briony gazed at him speechlessly, aware of what a spectacle she must present, her face coated with mud, her hair in sticky dripping wisps.
‘I’m not going to ask you why you did that,’ he said, as he helped her to her feet, ‘because I know it was my own fault. After all, you did want to hold on to the Shetlands. But it was a very foolish thing to do. The palomino could easily have broken your neck.’
He pulled a silk scarf from about his neck and gently mopped her face. ‘Do you know,’ he said quietly, ‘that little nose of yours looks even cuter covered with mud.’
Unnerved by her experience and undecided what attitude she should take, she found herself smiling tremulously. ‘I remember when I first came I boasted I could do everything the boys could do. And I wanted to prove it to you. Well, it seems I can’t after all. It makes me feel a bit of an impostor.’
As they walked towards the stables with Blane leading their mounts, his arm was about her waist. It was true her legs still felt decidedly wobbly. All the same she hoped neither of the boys would be around when they reached the stableyard.
To her relief there was no sign of them.
‘I think it might be as well if you got some of that mud off,’ Blane told her. ‘At present you’re not much of an advert for the Lennox Riding School. Why don’t you go up to the house and get Jean McPhee to open up the flat. After all, someone might as well have the use of it. Your godmother apparently didn’t find it up to her standards.’
Briony regarded him uncertainly. Now that his comforting arm was no longer around her waist, all her old doubts and suspicions rushed back. She remembered Hettie’s bitterness when she had spoken of how Blane had schemed to get her out of the flat. If only she could dismiss her nagging doubts about him, she thought miserably, as she slowly walked towards the house.
When Briony presented herself at the kitchen door, Mrs. McPhee received her without the smallest surprise. ‘Looks like you’ve had a nasty fall,’ she remarked equably, when Briony asked if she could tidy up and explained that Blane had directed her to use the flat.
The housekeeper unhooked a key from a board and led the way around the house and up the stairs. She shook her head regretfully as she opened the door. ‘Seems a shame that such a lovely place should be left unoccupied!’ she remarked as she led the way towards the bathroom. ‘Mr. Blane spent a mint of money on this—and now look at it. Not, mind you,’ she added, ‘that I ever neglect the place. In case Mrs. Gillies should ever turn up and want it again, I keep it spick and span,’ she said gravely.
And, looking about her, Briony had to agree. Everything shone and sparkled with freshness; the snow-white tiled walls, the turquoise bathroom suite with its gleaming porcelain fittings.
The housekeeper switched on an electric heater and after a few moments turned on the taps in the washbasin and steaming water immediately gushed out. ‘It beats me why she left as she did. Everything had been thought of, as you can see.’ She sighed. ‘Not, mind you, that it was altogether her fault, for I was a bit snappy at times. But then she was provoking, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
She reached in a cupboard and produced soft towels and a tablet of delicately scented soap.
Now was the time to get to the bottom of the mystery concerning Hettie’s exodus from the flat, Briony thought, and she decided to take the bull by the horns and face the housekeeper with Hettie’s complaints.
‘My godmother says Mr. Lennox wanted her out of the flat, but instead of asking her to leave in a straightforward way, he put you up to showing her she was unwelcome.’
Mrs. McPhee straightened and looked at her in astonishment. ‘But that’s not true,’ she said flatly. ‘Mr. Blane was very forbearing, in my opinion. You see—’ She hesitated, and then said in a rush. ‘Mrs. Gillies is a very interfering sort of body, and she was always down in the main part of the house and in the kitchen telling me how she thought things ought to be done and generally meddling with the running of the house. At first I took no notice, but when she saw that I wasn’t carrying out her instructions, she complained to Mr. Blane. Well, I tried to soothe her down, but it was no use, she still kept poking her nose into concerns that weren’t hers, and in the end I told her off,’ she added, looking a little guilty. ‘I know I shouldn’t have been so straightforward, but it really got on my nerves after a while, especially as I pride myself on being a good housekeeper and Mr. Blane had never any complaints against me.’
Briony nodded. The picture was only too clear. It was easy to imagine Hettie, bored and with nothing to distract her, invading the lower part of the house and generally causing chaos with her interfering and dominating personality. ‘I think I understand,’ she said quietly, ‘but, of course, my godmother was resentful about having to leave Birchfields. I don’t think, no matter what Mr. Lennox did for her, that she would have been satisfied.’
The housekeeper nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes, poor body! I used to feel for her because she must have been lonely up here on her own. Perhaps she’s better off where she is, down in the village with people around.’
After she had gone, Briony washed her hair and patted it dry in the thick soft towels, until it fell in loose gleaming waves almost to her shoulders. After her conversation with Jean McPhee she felt a wonderful feeling of relief. Blane had not put the housekeeper up to getting rid of Hettie—that was all that mattered.
As she went into the house she was surprised to see Blane, hands in pockets, striding up and down the hall. A thick rug near the door had prevented him hearing her approach and for a moment she paused, her hand on the door watching him, aware that her heart was beating fast at the sight of his broad sturdy figure. Would she always feel this surge of happiness when she caught sight of him? she wondered. And, if so, what future misery she was saving up for herself!
He swung around as he sensed her presence. ‘Ah, there you are. I’ve been waiting for you.’
She moved forward and as they faced each other an awkward silence fell. His eyes scanned her hair and his brown hand touched it lightly. ‘Why don’t you always wear your hair that way? You look like an enchanted princess.’
She mustn’t let her feelings betray her, Briony told herself. It was important to remember that it was Senga he would marry. ‘It’s time I got back to work,’ she said with an attempt at lightness. ‘I’ve spent enough time titivating myself.’
Immediately his manner changed. ‘So I’m being put in my place, is that it? No idle compliments for Miss Briony Walton!’
‘Oh no, I don’t mean that!’ she said quickly—too quickly and eagerly, she thought regretfully. ‘It’s just that—well—’
Sh
e dared not tell him that she dreaded finding herself once more—as she had with Jeremy Warne—at the losing end of a romance. The words that came so easily and casually were inclined to embed themselves in her heart. How was Blane to know how eagerly she longed for his approval? She mustn’t fall for his passing mood.
But as she spoke she had turned and scanned his face earnestly!
He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her towards him. ‘Why are you so mistrustful, Briony?’ he asked, his voice gentle.
She looked at him warily. Was she so obvious then? Had Jeremy’s betrayal left a lasting scar? ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said uncertainly, avoiding his eyes.
He shook his head. ‘You forget I’m Scottish. Haven’t you heard that we Scots have the gift of second sight? There’s something about you that tells me you were hurt badly at some time.’
She tried to laugh his remark away. ‘Now that is something I can’t believe! You, with second sight—you, of all people! You’re much too down-to-earth and practical.’
‘That’s just where you’re wrong! If you were ever to go away from Birchfields I think I’d see you in every nook and cranny of the place.’
Again her eyes scanned his face.
His voice had had a cadence she hadn’t heard in it before. He was teasing her, she guessed, but it was a loving teasing that she found irresistible. Slowly he drew her towards him and this time she didn’t resist. He was in love with her, she realised, with sudden overwhelming joy. There could be no mistaking it now that his lips were on hers. Everything seemed to fade into the background. She was only aware that what she had imagined was her love for Jeremy was a pale shadow of what she now felt for this man. When at last he released her, she gave a little sigh of blissful ecstasy.
New Boss at Birchfields Page 16