Riders

Underfoot it was freezing so hard that he ought to have been more frightened of falling over. But, in vino, he crossed the snow without a slide or a stumble.

Helen was amazed that Marcus recovered so quickly. Driving in on the fifth day to take him home, she found him playing with the most exquisite model circus. There were clowns, little dogs with ruffs, a ringmaster, and even a ballerina in a pink tutu, who slotted into a cantering horse with a pink plume. All the nurses were gathered around playing with it.

“How darling,” said Helen in delight. “Who gave you that?”

“Dake did.”

“Dake?” said Helen, puzzled.

“Dake with the sore leg. It’s better now. Want to see Dake.”

“Who can he mean?”

“Jake Lovell,” said Sister Wutherspoon warmly. “He popped in last night on his way back to Warwickshire and brought the circus with him. Marcus was a bit restless, excited about going home. Sister Tethers, who was on duty, had a very sick child to look after. Jake stayed playing with Marcus for hours.”

“How very kind,” said Helen. “How very, very kind.”

“Mr. Buchannan gave him the go-ahead on Monday evening. I still don’t think he’s come down to earth.”

“Oh, I’m so pleased,” said Helen, “and he still remembered Marcus.”

“Want to see Dake,” said Marcus.

51

The winter seemed to go on and on, but at last the snow melted; aconites and snowdrops appeared and Helen watched Rupert’s dogs trampling over her crocuses, snapping off their fragile heads, and found she minded less than on other years.

As she went for long solitary walks in the woods, her thoughts strayed far too often to Jake Lovell. Over and over again she got out the road atlas and realized how far he’d driven through the snow to give Marcus the circus. She remembered how unembarrassed he’d been by her tears and how cold he’d got sitting in the car, just patting her shoulder.

As she watched the spring emerge with aching slowness she wondered how she could thank him for lunch and for the circus. She didn’t want to write in case some secretary opened the letter. He might have told Tory about lunch, but if he hadn’t, it might make things awkward. Personal letters were so obvious when they arrived at a private house. She remembered so many arriving for Rupert over the years, usually in gaudily colored envelopes, sometimes with SWAK on the back, and how she’d longed to steam them open. Janey, she knew, would have had no such scruples.

Chatting to Janey in the kitchen one day, and leafing through the latest issue of Horse and Hound, with a shock of recognition she came across a picture of Jake. The caption underneath said he would be making his comeback at the Crittleden Easter meeting, and how glad readers would be to see this brilliant but very private rider back on the circuit. He had evidently recovered from one of the worst accidents in show- jumping history and had learned to walk by sheer guts and determination. The story went on to praise his staunch, close-knit family and to explain that Jake had not achieved the international fame of other British riders because, before the World Championship, he preferred to jump in this country and get home to his family in the evening. Malise Gordon was quoted as being absolutely delighted. If all went as planned, he hoped Jake would be offering himself for selection for Los Angeles.

“Good that Jake Lovell’s back, isn’t it?” she said to Janey.

“I shouldn’t imagine Rupert thinks so.” Janey took the magazine from Helen. “I’ve always thought he was very attractive. All that Heathcliff gypsy passion kept under such perfect control. He’s much more self-confident too. I saw him interviewed on the box last night about his comeback and he actually managed to string a sentence together. And, instead of looking sulky and defensive, he was rather cool and detached.”

Helen found her voice thickening, as it did when she asked if she could cash a check at the village shop. “Have you ever heard any gossip about other women?”

“No, he’s squeaky-clean reputation-wise. You only have to look at Tory to see he hasn’t got very high standards.”

“I guess he’s only interested in getting to the top,” said Helen.

“Perhaps,” said Janey thoughtfully, “but there’s something irresistible about men who are impossibly hard to get, which is not something one can say about your dear husband.”

It was strange, reflected Helen, that, after that unspeakably dreadful last night in Kenya, she and Janey could still be friends. Janey had an amazing ability to swan in, not attempting to justify or apologize for appalling behavior, which made it possible. Rupert, however, she could not forgive. They both moved around the house not communicating, like goldfish in a bowl.

The week before Easter brought the first sunshine for days. Helen went around the house turning off lights that weren’t on, because the rooms were suddenly so unexpectedly bright. Out in the fields she noticed little red buds on the wild roses and larks singing in the hazy drained blue sky, thrashing their bodies like moths against nonexistent windows. Perhaps I could escape, thought Helen, listening to the larks’ strange whistle; perhaps I too am thrashing against a window that isn’t really there.

Next day the vicar came to tea, to talk about raising money for the church spire. Afterwards Rupert walked in from the stables, to find Helen and he praying together in the drawing room.

“Christ,” he said in horror, and walked out again.

The vicar, who had a white beard and stank like a polecat, scrambled creaking to his feet.

“I wish we could make some progress with your husband,” he said with a sigh. “I feel he is very troubled.”

“I don’t think he’d see it that way,” said Helen hastily, “but thank you very much.”

Carrying the tea things into the kitchen, she found Rupert and Tab eating an Easter egg and reading Dandy together.

“Flappy Oyster,” said Tab.

She shouldn’t be eating Easter eggs before Easter Sunday, thought Helen, appalled, but she didn’t say anything.

Rupert looked up. “Has your friend from Hollywood gone?”

Burying her face in the dishwasher, as she stacked the cups and saucers, Helen said, “I thought I might come to Crittleden on Saturday.”

“The anniversary of your first show,” said Rupert. “That’s rather touching.”

“I’m having lunch with the Godbolds,” said Helen, putting all the knives in the wrong way up, “so I can come on afterwards. I also thought I might fly out to Rome for a couple of days.”

Rupert looked slightly startled. “Whatever you like,” he said.

For the first time in years Helen felt excited and took ages planning what she was going to wear to Crittleden. Despite the lack of sun April had been very dry, so she wouldn’t have to wear gum boots. She settled for a pinstriped suit, a white silk shirt, and a charcoal gray tie and a gray trilby.

After a lightning lunch at the Godbolds, where she ate nothing, she arrived at Crittleden just as the riders were walking the course for the big class. There was Rupert fooling around with Wishbone and Billy, and there was Jake, still limping quite badly, walking beside Fen. He looked small and preoccupied and very pale. Neither of them were speaking. Fen was only an inch or two smaller than he was.

Jake felt nausea creeping through his stomach as he made his way towards the collecting ring. People nodded and waved and clapped him on the back, but he hardly noticed them. Why the hell hadn’t he chosen a smaller show to make his comeback?

A little girl rushed forward for his autograph. “Later,” he snapped.

Lack of sleep and food had made him dizzy. Everything seemed unreal. For the past week he’d hardly slept,