HartsLove

by K. M. Grant

  Rose shrugged helplessly. She made her way down the stairs to the kitchen. After a moment’s pause, Daisy beckoned to the others and they all followed, almost treading on the agent’s heels. Irritated, he turned round. The children bundled to a halt. When he walked again, there they were, right on top of him. Daisy actually trod on the back of his shoe with her callipers. ‘For the love of God!’ the agent exclaimed to Rose. ‘Are these your siblings?’ He bent to rub his ankle. ‘Tell them to get lost. I only need one guide.’

  Rose nearly did as he asked. What did anything matter any more. But as she turned to obey, she saw the Dead Girl gazing at her from the top of the steps, a diamond teardrop in the corner of each eye. It was the first time Rose had ever seen the Dead Girl out of their father’s passage. Rose breathed in, then out. She turned to the agent. ‘What siblings?’ she asked sweetly. Lily, Garth, Daisy, Columbine and Clover were immediately alert as hounds. The agent threw back an arm. ‘These creatures – aren’t they your sisters and brother?’

  ‘What creatures?’ Rose asked, more sweetly still. Angry now, the man seized Columbine. With perfect timing she became a rag doll in his arms and when he let go, sank to the floor, then rose again without a sound. ‘Stop this!’ the man expostulated. Clover nearly giggled. Rose opened the kitchen door. ‘This is the kitchen,’ she said. Mrs Snipper was banging pots about. Rose put a finger to her lips.

  The agent was relieved to see a plump, ordinary looking creature, with a mobcap and an apron. He coughed and took a notebook from the pocket of his chequered jacket. ‘What’s the capacity of the range?’ he asked. Mrs Snipper said nothing. ‘Capacity, woman, capacity!’ he repeated. Still nothing.

  ‘I don’t know the capacity,’ said Rose.

  ‘I wasn’t asking you,’ said the agent. ‘I was asking the cook.’

  ‘What cook?’ asked Rose. Mrs Snipper’s cheeks twitched and she banged the pots even harder.

  The agent looked at Rose in a fury. ‘Are you simpleminded or is this a silly game?’ he barked.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Rose, turning the full force of her cornflower eyes on to him. ‘Are you saying you can see a cook?’

  ‘There is a cook.’

  ‘If we could afford a cook, we’d hardly be selling the castle,’ Rose responded gravely.

  The agent ran to Mrs Snipper, but as he made to seize her, a cloud of ash gusted from the range and he caught a glimpse of a flame-coloured coxcomb. In seconds, Snipe had retreated, though the clouds of ash remained. The agent gasped and choked, seized Rose by the elbow and hurried her out of the kitchen, back up the steps and into the hall, the others following hard on his heels. Thoroughly disconcerted, the man gazed wildly about, trying to fix on something reassuring. But there was nothing to reassure, for surely, when he last looked, the Furious Boy had not had a pair of crutches stuck under his arms? In the doorway, Garth turned himself right over so that his head stuck out between his legs. ‘Oh! Horrible!’ the agent cried.

  At once, Rose was all consternation. ‘You look terrible! You should sit down!’

  The man swivelled round and round. The children, the cook, the ash – it was a monstrous trick. He knew it, and yet still his neck prickled. ‘Sit down?’ he cried. ‘Of course I don’t want to sit down. How do I know the chairs are real?’

  Rose laughed. ‘Oh, the chairs are quite real.’ She pulled one to the fire and pushed him into it. When the agent next looked, Rose was perched on the fender, and they seemed to be alone. ‘I shouldn’t really say this,’ Rose said confidentially, ‘but you probably did see other children. I never see the walking dead myself, but others apparently do.’ She contemplated him. ‘It’s usually a bad omen, I’m afraid.’The man gasped.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry!’ Rose was all soft concern. ‘I’m sure whatever happens to you won’t be painful, at least not very. Or perhaps it’ll happen to your mistress.’ She leaned forward. ‘You’ve both probably got until the next full moon.’ ‘The full moon?’ said the agent faintly.

  Rose patted his knee. ‘Don’t worry. Your mistress need never know until she’s parted with her money. No need for you to say anything. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  The man clutched his hat so hard he broke the rim and, when his mistress arrived, shot up as though the chair had bitten him. The lady was laughing, her arm more closely folded into Charles’s. Charles himself looked dazed. He could not look at Gryffed’s empty basket. He would not meet Rose’s eye. ‘You really are so charming,’ the lady said. Charles grimaced. The agent ran over and pulled his mistress away. ‘We must leave,’ he said.

  ‘Leave? What nonsense,’ the lady said haughtily, ‘I like this place.’ She tossed her head, hoping that Charles was as conscious of her pretty hair as she was.

  The agent tried to regain some composure. ‘The place is unsuitable,’ he declared.

  His mistress glared. ‘I like it, I tell you.’

  ‘It’s not – I saw –’

  ‘I’m afraid he saw the rats,’ Rose said smoothly.

  ‘Rats?’ The lady looked sharply at Charles. ‘In the castle itself? You never said.’

  ‘Rats? I don’t think so,’ mumbled Charles.

  ‘Not rats!’ cried the agent, losing the battle with his composure. ‘Ghosts, ghouls, quantities of dead children.’

  Charles smiled quite gently. ‘Not quantities of dead children, possibly one Dead Girl—’

  Rose interrupted. ‘No ghosts at all,’ she said, and patted Charles’s arm in an exaggerated show of support. He was surprised into silence. ‘Absolutely not a one.’ Rose made her smile as wide as it was false. Now the widow got a prickle up her neck.

  ‘Look here,’ the agent said. He did not like being shown up as a coward. ‘Do you have other children?’

  ‘Other than Rose?’ asked Charles. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘That’s right. You tell him, Pa,’ Rose said. ‘And don’t forget to tell him we also have a cook.’

  ‘We don’t really have a cook,’ Charles said. ‘We only—’

  ‘No need to go into all that, Pa,’ said Rose, with a meaningful glance at the agent. ‘You can tell them everything once the money’s on the table.’

  The agent took his mistress’s arm and chivvied her out of the door. She objected. He whispered in her ear. Once in the courtyard, she laughed. ‘What a lot of nonsense,’ she began to say. A raven flew from the top of the keep and landed on the ground right in front of her.

  ‘Good Lord!’ cried Charles.

  Rose curtsied deeply and pulled the widow down too. ‘You must curtsey. You see, there’s a myth – just a myth, I’m sure –’ The widow ended up on her knees. She looked in vain to Charles to help her up. Charles was transfixed by the raven. ‘I’ve never seen a raven here before,’ he said.

  ‘Raven, raven, no safe haven,’ intoned Rose. ‘And the person it touches will not last very, er, very muches.’ She winced at the rhyme.

  The raven squawked and hopped over to the widow. The widow, loudly declaring that she was not superstitious, nevertheless hopped away. The raven rose and tried to land on her shoulder. She shrieked and scrambled back into the trap. It was really very easy to frighten people, Rose realised with some surprise as the agent whipped their horses into a smart trot. Rose herself thought nothing of the appearance of the raven – or only that Daisy was right: Hartslove really did know how to help when help was needed.

  High above, Snipe hoisted a cage over his shoulder, crossed the roof and slithered down the back ivy. He would have smiled if smiling had been in his nature.

  Once the carriage had gone, Rose and Charles stood awkwardly together. Rose spoke first. ‘We should never have gone into Ma’s room,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, and about Gryffed –’ She could not go on.

  Charles shuffled his narrow feet. He wished the slug that had killed Gryffed had lodged in his own heart. He felt it there anyway. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the pistol slowly revolving, killing each of his children. Brandy
was the only thing that dulled the pain. Rose took his arm and walked him back up the steps. He knew she was trying to comfort him, but though Rose could not know it, she actually made him feel worse than Garth, worse than Daisy with her crippled legs, worse even than Lily, who, to him, looked even more like his wife than Rose did. It was not that Rose said hurtful things; Garth said far more hurtful things than Rose. Rose hurt him without words. She hurt him without even meaning to. She hurt him by being dressed in brown serge and in love with Arthur Rose when she should have been dressed in silk and in love with a curly-headed duke. She hurt him when she sat at dinner and tried to make everything normal. When he was with Rose, Charles needed a drink most of all.

  Rose was aware that her father wanted to get away from her, but now she had started to speak she would finish. ‘Pa,’ she said, her heart hammering, for she had never before spoken to her father as though they were equals, ‘we can’t undo what’s done, but couldn’t we make a new start?’

  ‘Rose,’ he said. ‘Rose, Rose, Rose.’ For a moment, he allowed himself to see this new start. He saw the ‘for sale’ sign torn down. He sensed the bustle of happy servants. He heard his wife’s gentle voice calling him in for lunch. But even as he saw and sensed and heard, the hole in his heart broadened and widened and darkened. It was too late, much too late. ‘All over,’ he said, and turned away.

  His tone frightened Rose. It was the tone of a dead man, and for all his shortcomings, she – they – needed their father alive. She seized his arm more firmly. ‘Not while we have The One,’ she insisted. ‘We drank a toast. Don’t you remember?’ Charles shook his head. Rose could not bear it. ‘Don’t shake your head,’ she cried. ‘Don’t you dare. Daisy believes in the horse, even if you don’t any more. Please, Pa. Can’t you pretend? After all, that’s what the rest of us are doing.’ Charles scuffed the toes of his boots. Rose pulled his arm more gently. ‘Come,’ she coaxed. ‘Come with me to the stables. Come. Come.’ He did not have the strength to resist her.

  They heard the row before they arrived. The One was tied up. Daisy had put the saddle on but Skelton dangled the girth. ‘The saddle’s one thing but doing up the girth’s a different matter. ‘The horse is ticklish. He’ll kick out, and with all due respect, Miss Daisy,’ Skelton was saying with offensive care, ‘you’re hardly going to be able to nip out of the way.’

  The One glared sullenly from behind his forelock. Skelton buckled the girth to the saddle and let it drop, then moved to the other side of the horse, picked up the girth and tried to fasten it. A twist, a grunt, a curse: the saddle hit the cobbles with a resounding thump. Daisy’s lips were so tightly compressed they almost vanished, her face so anguished that Charles was at last jolted out of his stupor. He wrenched himself away from Rose. ‘Let her do it, Skelton.’

  ‘I’m telling you—’

  ‘Let her do it.’

  Skelton held on to the girth. ‘Sir Charles, she’ll never be able to get out of the way.’

  ‘Let her.’

  ‘If the horse kills her, I’ll not share responsibility.’

  ‘Of course he won’t kill me.’ Daisy snatched at the saddle.

  Skelton knew better than to tussle for it. He crossed his arms. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Show us how it’s done.’

  Rose stood by her father as Daisy moved closer to the horse and began to croon. ‘Rose,’ Charles said. ‘I can’t –’

  ‘Just watch, Pa. Just watch.’

  Daisy hardly saw her father. She was concentrating only on The One. ‘Shall we show them?’ she asked the horse. ‘Shall we?’

  The One’s eyes flicked back and forth from Daisy to the saddle to Skelton, but Daisy knew he could hear her. She untied him and moved to the mounting block. Dropping the rope, she climbed on to the block, slid the saddle on to his back, then climbed down. She spoke to the horse with her hands, stroking his ears, then his neck, then his withers, and finally running her palms over the saddle flaps to his stomach. Skelton was right: the horse was ticklish. Nevertheless, very slowly and with complete confidence, Daisy took the girth and fastened the buckle loosely. The One’s skin puckered at the feel of the leather and he curved his neck to see what she was doing. He shifted, but the saddle was secure. Prodded by Rose, Charles approached the horse and rubbed his nose. ‘That was something, wasn’t it, Skelton?’ he said.

  ‘It was, Sir Charles,’ Skelton said. His expression was unfathomable.

  ‘And the horse didn’t try to kill her.’

  ‘No, Sir Charles, but then he’s standing still. It may be different once he moves.’

  Daisy threw Skelton a look and began to walk around the yard. The One walked quite calmly beside her until they passed the barn door. A sharp breeze rattled it and a tile clattered down, smashing on the cobbles. Even an old horse would have taken fright, and The One was so young. Throwing up his head, he whipped the rope out of Daisy’s hands and set off at a canter. At once, the stirrups, which Daisy had not thought to secure, slid down their leathers and punched him in the ribs. The One’s ears flew back at this unexpected belting and he crashed round the yard and out of the gate towards the Resting Place, the rope dangling. In vain, Daisy called for him to stop. Charles and Skelton ran out after him.

  With the saddle on his back and the grass beneath his feet, The One galloped round the Resting Place until, shaking his head against the slapping of the rope, he set sail for the river. At the start of the trees, he hesitated, skidded round and galloped along the fence. The straight line invited; the stirrups clanged; and when he heard the distant whistle of a train, he opened his shoulders and galloped. It took about a minute for Charles, Skelton and Daisy to stop their pursuit and to stand, their jaws dropping. The One was no longer galloping the thundering mad gallop of fear; he seemed to have forgotten about that. Instead he had made a discovery: that if he allowed his hindquarters to thrust and his legs to skim, he could gallop faster than the wind. He stretched out. He was enjoying himself. ‘My God!’ breathed Charles. The One had no intention of stopping and took no notice of the wicked rope snaking round those fragile front legs. Yet, inevitably, as the ground rose, the rope caught under one flashing front hoof and The One’s flight came to an ungainly and violent halt as he catapulted right over. Charles howled. Skelton yelled. Daisy’s teeth clamped her tongue.

  Charles ran down as the horse rose. The One was gasping, the breath knocked out of him, but there was no white bone sticking through the skin and no blood. When the horse had stopped gasping, Charles asked him to walk. He walked. He asked him to trot. He trotted. The horse was not happy but he seemed unhurt. ‘No harm, none at all,’ Charles said, ‘and did you see the speed? My God, this animal’s a miracle. I’ve seldom seen anything like that, and he’s not even trained yet!’

  Daisy unclamped her tongue. ‘Is he really all right?’

  ‘Right as rain.’

  ‘Thank God!’ whispered Daisy.

  Rose was pleased about the horse, but better still, Charles no longer looked like a dead man. A glimmer of a sparkle had returned. Even if The One did not win the Derby, he was to be thanked for that.

  ‘What do you think, Skelton?’ Charles was excited.

  ‘A good horse, certainly,’ Skelton said. He was breathing almost as quickly as The One. ‘A very good horse indeed.’

  They returned to the yard, Skelton deferring to Daisy in a way Daisy found both unsettling and gratifying. The One had certainly lifted everybody’s mood. She fussed over the horse for the rest of the afternoon, and Skelton left them quite alone. Only after Daisy had gone back to the castle did he pull on his boots and slip into the stable. The One was lying down. ‘No need to rise, laddie,’ Skelton said. The horse rose anyway. Skelton made no move towards him, just stood for a while, making his calculations. The horse shook himself. Skelton stepped to the side, then, without warning, he rocked forward, then back, then forward, then back again, and when he was ready, he kicked The One’s offside knee with vicious, carefully controlled force. Th
e horse grunted and his leg shuddered. Skelton waited until the leg had stopped quivering before inspecting his footwork. The knee was unmarked but already beginning to swell. ‘Perfectly judged, Mr Skelton,’ the groom said to himself. He closed the stable door behind him. The horse’s ears were flat back. Skelton laughed softly. ‘It must be rotten being a horse,’ he said, with no sympathy at all.

  10

  Breakfast had barely begun when Skelton appeared, sorry to inform Charles and his children that – such a pity, such a pity – though all seemed to have been well, it was now clear that the horse had damaged himself during the previous day’s escapade. ‘I didn’t like to say anything with Miss Daisy being such a genius with horses,’ Skelton said, manufacturing just the right amount of regret, ‘and she couldn’t have been expected to hold on when he shied in the yard, her being a girl, and, well, you know –’ he gestured at her crutches – ‘but a dangling rope’s the most dangerous thing in the world, particularly for a racehorse. If only – oh well, that doesn’t matter now. What’s done’s done, but I thought I’d better tell you at once.’ He shook his head in the ghastly silence. ‘I’ve had the hosepipe on the knee already, but I think it’ll take more than cold water. As I say, such a pity, when we had such high hopes.’

  Knives and forks, suspended in mid-air, dropped on to plates. Charles was white. ‘But he’s The One,’ he said. ‘We saw him.’

  ‘He was The One, sir,’ Skelton corrected.

  Daisy was on her feet. ‘It’s not true,’ she cried. ‘It can’t be true. He was fine all afternoon. He was fine when I left him.’

  Skelton bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry, miss.’

  ‘He was fine, I tell you.’

  ‘He looked fine, miss,’ Skelton said, ‘but you see, when you’ve been around horses as long as I have, you’ll know that injuries don’t always show up at once.’

  Daisy wracked her brains, trying to remember. She could see The One galloping; she saw the rope dangling; she saw him trip. The back of her neck froze. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘What have I done?’