LITMIR.BIZ

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clear of being seen from the house, my mind was free to think about other things, like the letter I’d taken from the fireplace. Let him not cross the Channel. The man who had written that was scared, and the reason for his fear – as the reason surely for my father’s death – came from France. So did the unknown, unfortunate woman that the fat man was hunting. And yet my last letter from my father, hinting at a secret, had not mentioned danger, rather the reverse: … one most capital story which I promise will set you roaring with laughter and even perhaps a little indignation … Blackstone could probably make sense of it all, but he wouldn’t tell me. Well, I was being his good spy. After only a few days under the Mandeville roof, I was bringing him a fat packet of news.

      The banks on either side flattened out and the back road joined the main road that I’d travelled on from Windsor. Half a mile in that direction were the great gates of Mandeville Hall. They were closed, but a trail of smoke rose from the chimney of the gate lodge into the blue sky. I turned in the opposite direction, making for what I hoped was the heath. For half a mile or so I had the road to myself, then four figures appeared, coming towards me. I fought against the impulse to jump into a ditch and went on walking. They were three haymakers, walking with their scythes over their shoulders, and a boy scuffling his boots in the dust behind them, trailing their long shadows as the sun came up. They nodded to me and the boy gave me a sideways look. If I’d had more confidence I might even have asked them the way, because I wasn’t sure I was on the right track for the livery stables.

      After a while a lane went off to the right, deeply marked with hoofprints, and a signboard with a horseshoe pointed to the stables. The heath opened out, with skylarks singing overhead and from far away a vibration of drumming hooves that seemed to come up through my bootsoles and straight into my heart. I envied what must surely be the uncomplicated happiness of the people riding those horses. Then the line of them came into view, pulling up from a gallop to a canter. I stood back from the path. They came towards me, but the lads riding them didn’t give me a glance. They had their hands full, bringing the excited horses back to a walk before they came to the harder ground of the path. The air was full of the smell of horse sweat and leather. There were five horses, three of them bunched together, then a calmer, cobby type with a big man aboard. Then a gap and a bright bay mare a little smaller and more finely made than the others. The lad riding her was having trouble slowing her to a walk, but that was because he was so heavy-handed. He’d pulled the reins in tight and was trying to hold her by sheer force so that she was dancing on the spot, fighting the bit. His face was white and terrified. He looked no more than twelve or so and I supposed they’d put him on the mare because he was the lightest. A sideways jerk of her head tugged the reins out of his hands. He grabbed and got one rein, slewing the bit sideways in her mouth at an angle that must have hurt. She reared up and, as her head came round towards me, I recognised the comma-shaped blaze and intelligent eye, now terrified.

      ‘Rancie.’

      The boy rocketed out of the saddle and landed on his side on the path. Rancie came down to earth and galloped past the other horses. One of them wheeled round to get out of her way and barged into his neighbour, who kicked him. I think I’d said her name aloud, but with the shouting, whinnying and groans of the lad on the ground, nobody noticed me. I ran after her, scared that she’d catch a leg in the trailing reins and throw herself down. Some way along the path I caught up with her. She’d stopped and was snatching at grass, not like a happy horse eating but a desperate one looking for consolation in something familiar. Scraps of grass were falling uneaten from her trembling lip. She rolled her eye at me and flinched as if expecting punishment. I think a kindly horse feels guilt when it loses its rider.

      ‘Rancie, girl, it’s all right, Rancie …’ I put a hand on her sweat-soaked shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault. Poor Rancie.’

      With my other hand, I gathered up the trailing reins. By then, the other horses were coming past us. The man on the cob was leading one of them because its rider had dismounted and was looking after the lad who’d been thrown. They were coming slowly along the path together, the lad limping and holding an arm crooked across his chest. The man on the cob called out to me as he passed.

      ‘Well done, miss. I’ll take her.’

      If an oak tree could have spoken, it would have been in that deep Hereford voice. Amos Legge, my fair-haired giant. He threw the reins of the horse he was leading to one of the lads and sprang off the cob’s back, landing neatly beside Rancie and me.

      ‘Thought it was you, miss. You be come to see Rancie, then?’

      He didn’t even sound surprised. As he ran his hand down Rancie’s legs, checking for injuries, she bent her head and nuzzled his back with that deep sigh horses give when anxiety goes out of them.

      ‘No great mishtiff done. Will you lead her in then, miss?’

      We followed Amos and the cob along the lane and through a gateway into the yard, Rancie as quiet as a pet dog. The yard was busy, with the horses coming in from exercise and a pair of greys being harnessed to a phaeton. Amos seemed to sense that I didn’t want to attract attention and led us to a box in the far corner.

      ‘You two wait in there, while I go and see to this fellow.’

      The straw in the box was deep, and good clean hay in the manger. At least Blackstone was keeping that part of our bargain, so perhaps he’d keep others. I stayed in a dark corner, talking to Rancie, until Amos came back. He untacked her, plaited a hay wisp and used it in long, sweeping strokes to dry off the sweat. When he put her rug on, he reached under her belly to hand me the surcingle strap, as if we’d been working together for months. As soon as the rug was on, the gold-eyed cat jumped down from the manger and settled in her usual place on Rancie’s back.

      ‘I thought you’d have gone home to Herefordshire by now,’ I said.

      ‘No hurry, miss. There’s work for me here if I want it, so I thought I might stay for a bit, see her settled. And it was in my mind I might be seeing you again.’

      A voice from the yard called, ‘Amos. Where’s Amos?’

      ‘I have letters for the post,’ I said. ‘Could you see they go on the next mail coach?’

      Blackstone had instructed me to send letters through the owner of the stables, but this was the chance of a little independence. Amos nodded, took both letters from me but gave back Celia’s coins.

      ‘I’m doing well enough, miss, but what about you?’

      ‘I’m employed at Mandeville Hall, only they mustn’t know about this.’

      ‘Amos.’

      The call was impatient. Amos picked up the saddle and bridle.

      ‘You wait here till I come. You’ll be safe enough.’

      ‘I can’t wait.’

      I’d lost track of time, but Betty would surely be getting the children up soon and I’d be missed. Still, one thing was urgent.

      ‘Rancie must be exercised properly. Isn’t there anybody who can ride her?’

      ‘I’m too heavy and the lads are feared of her, miss. That’s the third she’s had off.’

       ‘It’s because she’s light-mouthed. They’ll kill her spirit if they go on like this. Can you tell them you’ve had word from her owner that nobody should ride her until further instructions?’

      He nodded, but looked worried.

      ‘Needs a lady’s hand, she does.’

      I don’t know if he was deliberately putting an idea into my mind.

      ‘I’ll think of something,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back on …’ I did a quick calculation. In four days there might be an answer to one or both of the letters ‘… on Saturday.’

      He nodded and went out to the yard, taking his time. When I glanced out, everybody in the yard seemed to be occupied, so I slipped past them without anybody noticing and out of the gates.

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