by K. M. Grant
Rose was shocked. ‘Daisy! We don’t have to—’
‘Yes, Rose, we do,’ said Daisy.
Their mother got up and stood by the window. Six pairs of eyes followed her. Lady de Granville turned. ‘How did you know The One would win the Derby, Daisy?’
‘I don’t know.’ Daisy struggled to be honest. ‘I didn’t know all the time. But I did know something. I knew that he made me feel so . . . so . . .’ She frowned, searching for the right word, and at last she found it. ‘He made me feel so hopeful,’ she said.
Their mother’s eyes danced. ‘Hopeful,’ she said. ‘That’s exactly the word. Hopeful’s what you children make me feel. I don’t know why I couldn’t see it before. I think hope must have been smothered by your father’s –’ a tremor, a breath – ‘by other things.’
The last of Garth’s strength seeped away. He slowly keeled over. He was asleep. His mother took a cushion from the sofa and placed it carefully under his lolling head. ‘I see hopefulness very clearly now,’ she said. She moved amongst them, settling one of Rose’s curls, touching Lily’s cheek, stroking Daisy’s hand and kissing Clover and Columbine’s foreheads. ‘Though none of you have four legs and a snip, you’re each my The One. Help me never to forget that again.’
27
Skelton found it harder than he imagined to keep his secret. He bitterly resented being obliged to doff his cap to Lady de Granville and having to stand like a schoolboy when Daisy told him that on account of the whip he was never, ever to go near The One again. He sloped off to make his own way home. His revenge would be the sweeter the longer the de Granvilles imagined their troubles were over.
Daisy was delighted to see him go. She saw to the horse’s every need, and when she could not manage, Garth helped her. He was subdued, not cowed. Daisy understood the distinction very well. She never asked what was said in the long hours Garth spent alone with their mother once his hangover wore off. It was enough that when Garth came to find her he was walking on his hands, wordlessly showing her two things: first, he was happier; and second, there was no bottle in his pocket.
Lady de Granville, Rose, Lily, Columbine and Clover travelled back to Hartslove together, Arthur acting as baggage handler, guide and guard. Their journey was quick. Daisy, Garth and The One’s journey took a little longer. Not that it was hard. Nobody could do enough to ease the passage of the Derby winner: the train companies gave him the most comfortable box; his rack was filled with the best hay; well-wishers left small presents of oats and carrots. Garth and Daisy stayed with him day and night.
The whole of Manchester, or so it seemed, turned out to greet them. Amongst the first well-wishers was Mr Snaffler, set on making a great show of checking that apart from his bruised nose, The One was undamaged by his experience. Daisy was chilly. ‘Arthur Rose is the only vet The One needs,’ she said, ‘and don’t worry, we’ll pay all your bills tomorrow.’ Snaffler blustered. Daisy swept past him. The One, not caring for the crush, kept the scarred nose that had achieved so much fame tucked into Daisy’s elbow.
After the stationmaster expressed himself delighted to send on their baggage, Garth and Daisy began to walk The One down the long road to Hartslove, Daisy in the saddle. After a mile or two, the townsfolk thinned out until there was just the three of them. They did not hurry. When, hours later, they climbed up on to the familiar moor, Daisy was amazed to see her crutches tucked neatly into a crag. ‘I used to think it was you who collected these and put them where I could find them’, she said to Garth. ‘Help me off.’ Garth helped her out of the saddle. She swung her crutches. ‘It’s not you, though, is it?’
Garth shook his head. ‘I don’t know who it can be.’
‘The Dead Girl?’
‘I don’t think she ever leaves the castle.’ Something else was bothering him. ‘Daisy?’
‘Yes?’
‘We never found the coxcomb man I hit.’
‘A red saviour for a red horse,’ said Daisy.
Garth gave her a sideways look. ‘You’ll be writing poetry next.’
Daisy giggled and poked him in the ribs. ‘We didn’t find him, but I’m sure if he needs to, he’ll find us.’
‘You really think that? What if he doesn’t know where we live?’
‘Garth! We’ve got the most famous horse in the world today! We’ve got The One! Everybody knows where we live!’
The One was surprised by how loudly two human beings can laugh. Daisy mounted again. Garth hitched her crutches over his shoulder. Over the moor and down into the Hartslove valley they strode. At Hartslove’s rusting gates, Garth stopped. ‘Do a lap of honour round the Resting Place,’ he said.
‘The One’s probably tired,’ Daisy answered, but her eyes were alight.
‘He’s the winner of the Derby.’
‘I don’t know –’
‘He’ll look after you,’ Garth said. ‘Just hold tight.’
‘I’m holding!’
‘One, two, three, GO!’
The One, happy to be home, launched himself off, galloping where he chose. At first Daisy was too busy clinging to the saddle to enjoy herself, but the rhythm was so secure and The One’s movements so fluid that when he leaped over the flat stone and swept around the chestnut tree, she was steady in the saddle. She threw back her head. Now she could hear applause, and it was not the fickle applause of the Epsom crowd. Nor was it Garth clapping her on. What Daisy heard was the deep, sustained and endless applause of Hartslove itself. As she galloped her winner over the drawbridge, Father Nameless’s bell rang out and at its peal Daisy threw a victorious fist into the air and let out one wild whoop of utter delight.
Charles had barely set foot out of the library since his children had left, and Mrs Snipper’s meals – strange ones, since she had no provisions from Snipe – had remained largely uneaten. Often, he locked the door. Equally often, using a key Charles did not know she had, Mrs Snipper crept in and removed the inevitably empty bottles. If Charles was sleeping, she covered him with a blanket. It was Mrs Snipper who brought him the news of The One’s victory, news that had been delivered to her by Snipe along with a bag which Mrs Snipper secreted in a cupboard in the dining room. Snipe volunteered no information about the wound on his face, and Mrs Snipper did not press him. Snipe’s business was his business unless it was her business. She cleaned his face and gave him an extra helping of soup.
At first, Charles was astounded by the Derby news. ‘Won? He WON? Are you certain it was The One?’ When Mrs Snipper said that indeed she was certain, and that the whole of Manchester was preparing for the horse’s triumphant return, Charles shrank as though she had announced an outbreak of plague. ‘But he was lame! He was going to break down! He – he –’
‘I don’t care what he was going to do,’ said Mrs Snipper. ‘I’m just telling you What He Did.’
Later that day, the hired carriage drew up and Mrs Snipper ran to greet it. Arthur Rose got out first, pulled down the carriage steps and handed out, in turn, Clover, Columbine, Lily and Rose. There was a pause. With a sudden premonition, Mrs Snipper’s heart skipped a beat. A neatly shod foot appeared on the step, followed by the clack of crinoline under silk, and then, with a slight hesitation, the rest of the person Mrs Snipper longed to see quite as much as the children. ‘Oh,’ she cried. ‘Oh my! Oh My Lady!’
Clara de Granville held out her hands. ‘Mrs Snips!’ she said. ‘I’m so glad to be home.’
Charles heard the carriage. He was in a fever. His contract with Skelton had been a joke, right? They had both agreed it was a joke. Skelton would already have torn it up. But he knew in his heart that Skelton would have done no such thing. He knew it as certainly as he knew that if he did not stop drinking he would soon be dead. He swallowed three gulps of brandy very quickly and placed the bottle on top of the newspapers. A deathly calm overtook him. He stood in the middle of the room like a condemned man waiting for the executioner. He watched the door handle. Any second now. Any second. Any . . .
; It was Rose’s step he thought he heard, though with the acuity that sometimes accompanies drunkenness, he actually understood, the moment he heard it, that it was not Rose’s step. The door handle turned. He braced himself.
Clara de Granville was framed in the doorway. Charles was motionless. His wife removed her hat slowly. She saw the bottle on the newspapers. She saw her husband’s soldier’s stiffness. She saw Gryffed’s empty bed. It struck her that she could walk towards Charles, or away from him, but that if she walked towards him she could never walk away from him again. She thought of her children. She thought of The One. She walked forward carefully, though without hesitation. It took both herself and Charles a long time to speak, and their actual words were much less important than the fact that they spoke at all.
When, in due course, they emerged from the library, they found Rose, Lily, Clover and Columbine in the drawing room recounting every detail of the tumultuous week to Mrs Snipper and discussing a celebration dinner for Daisy and Garth when they returned. Charles allowed them to exclaim and beam. He could not tell them now; they were too excited. Nor could he tell them when they pulled him with them to take their mother upstairs; they were too happy. Nor could he tell them as they rushed in and out with armfuls of fresh flowers and helped Mrs Snipper throw open the windows of his wife’s room, bringing it back to life. That would be too cruel. Nor could he say anything when Daisy and The One swept over the drawbridge with Garth performing cartwheels behind. Charles knew that Skelton was in his house and could appear at any moment, but as long as Skelton did not appear, he could remain silent.
‘They garlanded The One and turned him loose at the Resting Place to roll and sneeze and graze. Eventually, Charles slunk away, and Garth, missing him, went in search. His mother had told him much about his father that he wished he had known before. Still, he knew it now and, in exchange, he would tell his father the truth about himself and the race, a truth Daisy was sure to gloss over. He found Charles leaning against the fireplace in the library, his hands knotted behind his back. Charles had finished the brandy, wanting his head to be foggy; it was still clear as clear.
Garth spoke quickly. ‘I got drunk before the race, Pa. I got so drunk I could hardly stay on. The One didn’t know when to start, and I couldn’t remember what we’d practised – Daisy and me, that is. Skelton wanted me to use a whip, like Grint did in the Guineas, and I did use it, only a man got in the way and I hit him instead. Ma told me about the war. I understand now.’ He tailed off.
Charles unknotted his hands. ‘Oh, Garth,’ he said sadly, ‘drink has made fools of us both.’ Garth moved towards him. Charles shook his head. ‘It’s time,’ he said, and walking swiftly past Garth, he made his way to the stables. Garth followed.
Skelton was waiting in the doorway of his house. He welcomed Charles heartily. ‘Well, Sir Charles,’ he said, ‘I believe you’ve come to honour your bargain.’
Charles swallowed. ‘It was a joke, Skelton. You said it was a joke.’
‘Saying’s saying. I don’t believe a judge will find this a joke.’ He produced the contract and waved it in front of Charles’s nose. ‘Written and signed by yourself.’
‘Skelton –’
‘Mister Skelton.’
‘Mr Skelton,’ mumbled Charles, ‘you and I know it was a joke. I was drunk. You know I was drunk. And though you might want to take Hartslove and The One away from me, you can’t want to destroy the children – for God’s sake, man – the children.’
Skelton unrolled the paper. ‘The writing’s very careful,’ he observed cruelly, ‘and your signature’s very straight. Poor old Sir Charles. You can’t even do drunk properly.’
Charles stood as straight as he could. ‘I’m begging you, Skelton,’ he said. ‘Tear up that wretched contract.’
‘I won’t,’ said Skelton and closed the door in Charles’s face. Charles turned. Garth had heard every word. ‘Garth!’ Charles stuttered. But Garth was already running back to the castle, leaving Charles to stumble behind.
Arthur Rose had arrived at Hartslove, invited by Lady de Granville to be thanked properly for looking after her girls. Charles barely saw him. ‘All of you, come to the dining room,’ he said, ‘and bring Mrs Snipper.’
Surprised rather than alarmed, they all gathered. Garth’s expression was blank as a waxwork’s. In honour of Arthur, Rose was wearing her Derby clothes and had her hair up, which caused Arthur some pain. Hartslove was stirring. Rose would soon be off. He made to leave. Charles waved him in. ‘You might as well stay,’ he said. ‘You’ll hear soon enough.’
Charles sat, then stood, then sat, then stood again. He coughed. ‘Just after The One had his accident, I got drunk in Skelton’s house and we made a joke. If The One won the Derby, I would give the horse, the winnings and Hartslove to him. The One has won the Derby.’ He stopped.
‘So?’ said Rose. ‘A joke’s a joke.’
‘Not quite. You see, I wrote it down,’ Charles said in a great rush. ‘And I signed it. Skelton has the paper and insists that it’s not a joke, it’s a contract, and the contract must be honoured.’
‘But a joke’s not a contract,’ said Daisy. She refused to understand. ‘You laugh at a joke.’
‘It doesn’t look like a joke,’ Charles said. ‘That’s just what we called it. We didn’t laugh – or perhaps we did. Doesn’t matter.’
‘But if Skelton knows it was a joke—’
‘Mister Skelton knows nothing of the sort,’ a voice boomed from the door, and the man himself appeared. ‘And nor does the county judge. Don’t think I haven’t had the contract checked and verified.’
‘You’re a scoundrel,’ said Charles.
‘And you’re a soak, which is lucky for me.’
‘It can’t be true,’ shrilled Daisy. She still tried to block it out. ‘The One won the Derby so that we could keep Hartslove.’
‘A contract’s a contract.’
‘But The One!’ She felt physically sick. ‘You can’t have him! You can’t!’
‘It’s a pity your father didn’t have your faith.’ Skelton rocked on shiny boots. He held out his hand to Mrs Snipper. ‘I’ll have the keys.’
Mrs. Snipper reversed. ‘You’ll get nothing from me.’
‘I’ll get everything, one way or another.’
‘No!’ shouted Daisy. ‘No!’
Arthur moved between Skelton and Mrs Snipper. ‘Hold on. If Sir Charles is, as you say, a soak, then he’s not competent to make a contract,’ he said.
‘That’s right. Oh, that’s right!’ Rose was smiling again.
‘Oh really,’ sneered Skelton. He had not realised until now that Arthur was in the room. Not that it mattered. ‘The writing’s very careful. Very careful indeed. Not drunken writing, not at all.’ He smirked. ‘Bad luck, young man. There’s no heiress for you here.’
Rose went white.
‘Mr Skelton,’ Lady de Granville said, rising up, ‘you can’t mean to deprive us of our home.’
‘Well, your ladyship –’ he rolled her title round as though it were a sour plum – ‘homes come and homes go, and you’ll not miss the place, having been away so long.’
Daisy banged her fist on the table. ‘We’ll give you the Derby winnings.’
‘Not enough.’ Skelton sat down and splayed his legs. ‘I want what I’m entitled to.’
‘Skelton,’ said Mrs Snipper.
‘Mister Skelton.’
‘Skelton,’ she repeated, ‘I’ll buy the place off you.’
‘You?!’ He laughed out loud. ‘What with? Your wages?’
‘Now that’s a proper joke,’ Mrs Snipper said. ‘I don’t have wages. No, I want to buy the place – and the horse of course – with money.’
‘Would that be money you’ve baked in a pie?’ jibed Skelton.
‘You don’t bake money in a pie. I’d like to buy it with this.’ From under the sideboard Mrs Snipper produced the bag Snipe had brought home. ‘There’s nearly twenty thousand pounds in here,’
she said. Skelton gaped. They all gaped. ‘Why the gaping?’ said Mrs Snipper. ‘I had a bet on The One, that’s all. I told you I would.’
‘But how on earth did you win so much?’
‘I put a bet on the day you left and got Very Good Odds.’ She looked around. ‘Really, I don’t know why you’re amazed. I’ve always betted on Sir Charles’s The Ones. I knew it was bound to Work In The End.’
Skelton recovered himself and calculated. ‘You can have the castle for all that, but not the horse.’
Daisy gasped.
‘I’ll have both or none,’ Mrs Snipper countered. She opened the bag.
Skelton put his feet on the table. ‘I’m not giving up the horse.’
‘Well then,’ said Mrs Snipper, ‘no deal.’
Daisy slumped. ‘I won’t believe it,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t believe it.’
Skelton tossed the contract to her. ‘Perhaps this will help.’
Arthur caught it. ‘May I?’
He held it up. He read it to himself, then he read it aloud. ‘I, Charles Gavin de Granville, promise that if The One, who can’t walk at the moment, manages by some miracle to gallop, and by a further miracle actually manages to gallop first past the winning post in the Derby of 1861, I really don’t see how, but anyhow if the horse does, I’ll give it, the horse, I mean, the prize money and Hartslove Castle to my groom, Skelton. Signed, Charles Gavin de Granville and Arnold John Skelton.’
Charles put his head in his hands.
‘I’m going to read it again,’ Arthur said.
Rose was appalled. ‘Don’t torture us, Arthur.’
‘I’m going to read it again.’
‘As often as you like,’ said Skelton.
When he had finished, Arthur did not hand the paper back. Skelton was unmoved. ‘Don’t think destroying that’ll make any difference. I’ve a certified copy.’