HartsLove

by K. M. Grant

  Everybody was screaming now, everybody except Daisy, who swung across the courtyard and lurched on to the drawbridge, gripping her crutches so tightly her knuckles cracked. ‘Don’t take him,’ she begged the castle. ‘Please don’t take him.’ She held her breath, willing herself to see Garth tumbling over and landing in the soft sludge of the moat, willing herself to see him clambering out. ‘Now,’ she willed. ‘Now, he’ll appear now. Help him, Hartslove. Help him.’

  A moment more, then she saw him. He was no longer an angel. He was a dirty, wet boy clambering up the banking and setting sail across the field towards the river. She watched him until she heard somebody running up behind her. She turned. Charles had rushed down from the roof. ‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ she heard him repeating. ‘OhsweetJesusno.’ When he reached Daisy, his legs buckled and he sagged against her. ‘It’s all right, Pa,’ Daisy said, holding him tight. ‘Garth’s all right.’ She held her father until his legs gathered strength, then helped him back across the drawbridge. ‘Garth’s safe,’ she told the others. ‘We’ve seen him.’

  ‘Lord Love Us.’ Mrs Snipper was still wringing her hands. Lily had fainted.

  ‘I don’t think the Lord had much to do with it,’ Daisy said. ‘Help Rose with Lily, Mrs Snips. I can manage Pa.’

  Daisy left her father in the library and returned to the drawing room. It was impossible to believe that scarcely half an hour had passed since the intruders had arrived. The cheque was still lying on the floor. Daisy burned it whilst the others laid Lily on a sofa and sprinkled her with water. When Lily began to come round, Rose wiped her hands and tried to be practical. ‘We must start packing,’ she said, looking rather hopelessly around the room. ‘Do you suppose people who buy castles buy the furniture and the tapestries? How do you take down curtains? Are they sewn on to the rails?’

  Daisy turned from the fire. ‘What do you mean, packing?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Daisy. You know just what I mean,’ Rose said in a tired voice. ‘We can’t stop people coming, and if Mrs Snips hadn’t screamed, we’d be sold already.’

  ‘Don’t you see?’

  ‘See what? For goodness sake, Daisy. See what?’

  ‘That we don’t have to go.’

  ‘Oh, please. We’ve got to go, and that’s that.’

  ‘You mean you want Hartslove to be sold?’

  ‘Don’t be unfair,’ cried Rose. ‘Of course I don’t! But living here costs money, and we don’t have any.’ Daisy blinked. ‘And besides,’ Rose carried on, recklessly allowing her worst fears to tumble out, ‘we can’t carry on living all bound up with stones and cobwebs and the Dead Girl and the tombstones at the Resting Place. Next year I’ll be eighteen. Eighteen! Don’t you understand, Daisy? Don’t any of you?’ She could not stop now. ‘I want to have a proper life, an ordinary life, and how can I – how can any of us – have an ordinary life when nothing here is ordinary? How can we actually have any life of our own at all?’ She could see the shock on her sisters’ faces but she did not care. She could not, just could not, spend her whole life in a place so full of the past there was no space for anything else.

  Daisy gulped. ‘It needn’t be like that, Rose. You can have a life. We all can.’

  ‘How?’ Rose asked, all her energy draining away. ‘How, exactly, Daisy, unless we leave here.’

  ‘Through The One.’

  ‘Oh, Daisy!’ Rose slumped on to the sofa next to Lily and buried her face in her hands. Lily was sitting up. ‘Don’t upset Rose any more,’ she begged.

  ‘There’s no need to be upset. Don’t you see?’ Daisy said earnestly. ‘The One’s going to win the Derby. I absolutely believe it. And when he wins, everything’ll be different.’

  ‘Different?’ Rose did not bother to raise her head. ‘How different? Whatever The One does, Pa will still drink; the candles will still go out; the Dead Girl will still haunt Pa’s passage; Ma still won’t come back.’ And Arthur Rose will still marry somebody else, she thought, though she did manage to stop herself saying this out loud.

  Daisy shook her head. ‘No, Rose. It won’t be like that.’

  ‘How will it be, then?’ Rose could not fight any more.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Daisy said. ‘But it will be good for all of us, each in our own way. I just know it.’

  Rose closed her eyes. ‘Even if you’re right,’ she said, ‘even in the hugely improbable likelihood that you are right, just tell me this: why on earth should this The One be different from any of the others?’

  Daisy held her ground. ‘I’ve never believed in any of the others,’ she said.

  Rose pulled herself together. Daisy must be made to face the truth. She opened her eyes and addressed her sister very slowly. ‘But Pa has, Daisy. He’s believed every single one. And you know as well as I do that even he doesn’t believe in this one. Why else would he have been going to take that cheque?’ She blew her nose on the handkerchief Arthur Rose had given her at the bird’s funeral. It was the end, and they had better get used to it. She got up, smoothed her skirt and made for the door.

  Daisy got there before her. She would not let Rose leave the room. ‘Pa’s so full of brandy he doesn’t know what he believes,’ she said. ‘Please listen, Rose. Please. Today Hartslove helped us. When I told those people Garth was a ghost, they believed me because of the mist. If we can do that once, we can do it again.’

  ‘It was just luck that Garth looked like a ghost,’ Rose said, her impatience, never far beneath the surface, resurgent again. ‘If it’d been spring, with the sun shining, he wouldn’t have looked like a ghost at all and the cheque would already be in the bank.’

  ‘It wasn’t luck,’ Daisy said, doggedly determined. ‘It was a stopgap.’

  ‘A what?’ asked Clover and Columbine.

  ‘A stopgap.’

  ‘Is that a special type of ghost?’

  ‘No,’ said Daisy. ‘A stopgap’s something that holds things together until they can be properly fixed.’

  ‘And when exactly will everything be properly fixed?’ asked Rose. She tried not sound sarcastic, but it was hard.

  ‘In one hundred and forty-eight days,’ Daisy said.

  ‘One hundred and forty-eight days?’

  ‘That’s how long it is until The One’s Derby.’

  A long pause followed this announcement. Rose did not know what to say. Eventually Clover, or perhaps Columbine, broke in. ‘One hundred and forty-eight days is forever. If we’ve no money, we’ll never survive that long. We shall starve. We shall freeze. We shall die.’ There had been an article about such a family in the copy of the Guardian they were currently digesting. Clover and Columbine began to imagine their own obituaries.

  ‘Be quiet!’ Rose barked. She looked at Daisy. ‘You’ve actually worked it out? To the day?’ she asked, almost incredulous.

  ‘It’s one hundred and forty-eight days to the race, including the day of the Derby itself. I looked it up in Pa’s racing book,’ Daisy explained. Nobody contradicted her, so she continued. ‘I’m thinking, you see, that though we can’t stop people coming to look round, we could put them off, just as happened today. I mean, one hundred and forty-eight days isn’t that many, really, and some days nobody will come at all. Obviously we can’t rely on mist, and we don’t want Garth to . . . to . . .’ she swallowed. ‘What I mean is that we could do our own hauntings, inside.’

  Clover and Columbine were agog. ‘We could dress up as dead de Granvilles, you mean?’

  ‘That kind of thing,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Stopgap ghosts!’ The twins’ eyes sparkled. ‘It would be fun. Perhaps one of the visitors will have a heart attack and die and we could write their death notice and get published.’ The prospect was glorious.

  Daisy ignored this. ‘What do you think, Rose?’ she asked tentatively. Rose’s support was crucial. ‘The One will win, Rose, he will.’

  Rose hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. ‘For the love of God, Daisy! Just stop it with that when I’m trying to
think what Ma would do!’

  ‘That’s easy, Rose,’ said Lily, in an intervention none of them expected. In the firelight, her face, even paler than usual, shone. ‘Ma would do nothing. She’d just drift, like the Dead Girl.’ She smiled a wan smile. ‘Ma’s a ghost here already.’

  The fire crackled and the door handle twisted. A sudden draught blew the door open. They all jumped. Nobody came in. Then they heard the rattle of teacups on a tray. ‘Mrs Snips,’ said Rose faintly.

  ‘That’s right, dearie,’ said Mrs Snipper. ‘Who On Earth were you Expecting?’

  5

  In the library, Charles sipped his tea as best he could. He was still twitching, wretchedly panicked by the recurring vision of Garth slowly cartwheeling to his doom. Eventually he dropped his teacup and pulled the bottle out of his pocket. Gryffed observed him, unblinking. ‘What are you looking at?’ Charles asked, uncorking the bottle. But though he took gulp after gulp, his hand still shook and the liquor was bitter in his throat.

  He leaned against the chimney piece and thought of himself at Garth’s age. How often, in those days, had he lain face down on the stone at the Resting Place? He was going to be a crusader then, just like his ancestors, and he was going to have a horse so famous that it would also merit a stone and an inscription. He slumped down. Hartslove had been his whole life. But when had he last seen the Dead Girl, with whom he had played as a child? When had he last felt the castle breathing? Once, he had been so rooted here that his bones ached when the castle was lashed with rain. Once, he had known just which candles would be snuffled at supper and which left alight. Once, he had felt hugged by the castle walls. How had he become as detached from Hartslove as he was from his wife and his children? His fingers closed over the bottle and raised it up. He stared at it as though he had never seen a bottle before. With a strangled cry, he tipped the remaining contents into the cold ash and watched them dribble away.

  Gryffed sniffed the ash. Charles called him. Gryffed obeyed. Charles forced himself to march through the great hall, past the kitchen and down the steps to the cellar. Without pausing, he rolled up his sleeves and carried all the cases so recently carried down back up again. He did not think about anything else. It was all he could do to concentrate on the task in hand. Within two hours he had harnessed up the vegetable cart, returned the cases to the wine merchant and was standing next to the Furious Boy full of cash and good intentions.

  At dinner that evening, during which, unaccountably, the candles all remained alight, he drank water. Garth had reappeared and was sitting in his usual place. Nobody mentioned the intruders or the cheque. Like his sisters, Garth gaped when he saw what was in his father’s glass. It was left to Lily to ask if Charles was unwell. ‘No, I’m quite well, Lily,’ Charles said, though his skin was clammy and his body dry as dust. He lifted his tumbler with a trembling hand and licked flaky lips. ‘I have a toast to make,’ he said.

  ‘A toast?’ repeated Rose nervously.

  ‘Yes, a toast. To Hartslove and The One,’ Charles said. Garth looked at his plate. The girls looked at Rose. She sighed very deeply. Her face was bleak. Daisy’s heart sank. It seemed an age before, with a small, resigned toss of her head, Rose picked up her glass. For a moment, Daisy thought she would smash it, but instead she raised it. ‘To Hartslove and The One, Pa,’ Rose said, though she looked at Daisy.

  ‘Hartslove and The One,’ Lily murmured.

  ‘Hartslove and The One,’ Daisy said joyfully.

  ‘Hartslove and The One,’ the twins echoed.

  Garth alone said nothing. ‘Garth?’ Charles asked. ‘Will you drink with us?’

  ‘Not that toast,’ Garth said, and ground his glass into the table. Charles set his own tumbler down without tasting a drop. The rest of dinner was eaten in silence.

  When their father and Gryffed had left the dining room, Rose turned on Garth. ‘Why couldn’t you join in, Garth? Pa was trying. He was actually trying. Why couldn’t you just have joined in? I mean, when did he last drink water?’

  ‘He must be sick,’ Clover or Columbine said fearfully.

  ‘No, he’s not, stupid,’ the other contradicted. ‘He’s trying to be good.’

  Garth shoved his chair out. ‘I won’t drink to The One,’ he said. ‘The horse’ll be the end of Hartslove, not the saving of it.’

  ‘Never mind that stupid horse. You could have just done it for Pa!’ Rose gripped her seat to stop herself leaping up and walloping Garth. ‘I managed.’

  ‘Pa!’ Garth spat on to the floor.

  ‘How dare you do that?!’ shouted Rose. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?’ Garth shouted back. ‘You should have seen Pa counting out the money for that horse. Piles of it. Just piles. Right underneath the “for sale” sign.’ He felt his heart might burst. ‘I hate him!’ He sprang up, sending the firedogs clattering noisily into the hearth, and ran out of the door, slamming it behind him.

  He did not stop in the hall. He ran right outside. It was windy and snow had started to fall again. He took no notice. He was going to do something even better than smashing the bottles. He headed for the stables, shoved open the yard gate and let it swing. Skelton’s house was dark. Garth found a lamp and matches. He went to The One’s box. The horse was lying flat out, almost asleep. Garth climbed on to the stable door. He barely felt the wind scouring his face. He looked only at the horse. This was what was wrong. This horse. This big, ugly, silly, money-eating horse. It did not belong here. It should not be here. He climbed down, pulled open the top bolt, kicked up the bottom bolt and opened the door. A flurry of snow blew in. The horse raised his head and slowly lurched to his feet. Outside did not look inviting. ‘Do what you should have done the day you arrived,’ Garth said loudly. ‘Get out of here.’ The horse did not move. Garth hurried to the back of the stable, set down the lamp and smacked the horse’s rump. ‘What’s the matter with you? Go on! You’re free.’

  The horse blinked. ‘I’m ordering you to get out!’ Garth flung his arms in the air. ‘Get out!’ The wind chose that moment to gust and the door banged shut. The horse jerked not forwards, but backwards, straight into the lamp. It tipped over. In half a second, the straw was smoking; in three-quarters, small flames licked. Garth lurched for the door, but the lower bolt, which he had not secured, had dropped back into its socket. Garth was on top of the door in an instant, but for one absolutely clear-headed moment he did not jump down, kick the bolt up and release the horse; He decided to leave him to burn. That would be a truly symbolic end to everything. He could see his father’s horrified face. He could hear ‘Yankee Doodle’ cut off midstream. He sat on the door, almost smiling.

  The horse could smell the smoke. His eyes were like saucers. He nudged Garth’s leg.

  Garth felt nothing. His smile was fixed. He was suspended in time. A flame shot up and subsided. The horse uttered no sound, only trembled. Still Garth sat. The horse shifted. His tail swished against the flames and the air filled with the smell of singeing hair. The smoke prickled Garth’s nose. Fire, the great cleanser, he thought. He felt a surge of something. This was how it would end. A huge great bonfire. During several long seconds, the smoke increased. The prickle moved from Garth’s nose into his brain. The picture in his mind altered. He no longer saw a glorious bonfire and his father’s horrified face; he saw the dreadful image of the horse alight. He saw the horse’s mouth open. He heard the horse screaming.

  With an awful groan Garth dropped down and opened the door. At once, the horse shot into the snow and Garth rushed to tip the contents of the water bucket over the lamp and burning bedding. The flames resisted only momentarily, and when they were doused Garth ran into the yard, snowflakes biting the tops of his ears. The One, confused, had not gone to the gate. He was pressed against the wall, his rug askew. Garth caught him and led him back to the stable. The One was not keen to enter. Garth let go, grabbed a fork and sifted out the charred straw, praying that the kerfuffle had
not alerted Skelton. When he had buried the remains in the midden, he grabbed the horse again and this time the horse reluctantly followed him in. Garth refilled the water bucket and adjusted the rugs. Apart from the lingering smell and The One’s look of alarm, it was almost as if nothing had happened.

  Except something had happened. As Garth closed the door and leaned against it, he realised the full wickedness of which he was capable. It was a horrible realisation. The snow hardened into hail and he raised his face to its whipping. He leaned over the door. The horse jerked back. Garth looked him full in the eye. ‘I’m sorry, The said abruptly. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  The horse’s ears flicked. He had no idea what the boy was saying. He only knew that the fire was out, that it was warm in the stable and that there was hay. Nevertheless, though he settled quite quickly, he did not lie down again that night.

  6

  Garth returned to the castle. He would sit with Daisy for a bit, though he would not tell her what he had almost done. He would never tell anybody that. As he passed through the hall he touched the Furious Boy’s sculpted arm and wished him alive. He would understand. He made his way slowly to where Daisy slept at the top end of the south-east wing and had pushed her door open before he realised she was not alone. Clover and Columbine were nestled together on the window seat like two little birds. Rose was sitting on an old rocking chair with a blanket over her knees. Lily was on the bed, curled around her birdcage, and Daisy was bundled into an armchair whose springs had long since given out. He would have retreated, but five faces were already turned towards him and Daisy was making room for him to huddle up beside her.