A Man For All Seasons (6 page)

She gathered up Pollyanna's reins and gave her an unjust stab in the side. The mare's head shot up in surprise but generations of Irish blood wasn't to be so easily denied. Even as she jibbed, Pollyanna pushed off with her hind legs and stretched out with her front.

Dimly, through the whistle of the wind and pounding of shod hooves, Seraphim heard him laugh. As her mare accelerated beneath her she could barely breathe. What if she fell? What if she didn't have the strength to stop her? What if they ran through a barbed wire fence or hit a tree? What if they slipped into the river? She didn't dare look toward the grey flat expanse of water, as if to do so would draw her inexorably into its depths.

A large clod of mud hit her in the cheek, cold and hard. A blur of dark horse scooted by and Chad waved cheekily as he overtook her. Dresden began to draw away. It looked like they were going to win. She felt Pollyanna strain to stay in the race and suddenly Seraphim wanted to help her. She let out a wild whoop of laughter, which caught in a sob in the tightened core of her throat. She stood a little in the saddle and brought her weight forward, relaxing her hold on the reins.

And then they caught up, the two mighty horses running neck to neck, heads bobbing in unison. For one brief moment she caught Chad's eye and he nodded. Then Pollyanna drew ahead and inside Seraphim's chest a great bubble of joy burst into crystals of light.

Above a copse of trees, the village steeple rose and Seraphim knew that home was getting close. She sat back down in the saddle and Pollyanna, puffing like a steam train, dropped back to a trot and quickly, a walk.

She watched as the other pair surged past and admired the man as he slowly cantered a circle on a thoroughly over-excited Dresden. She admired the length of his legs, the strong broad back and capable, sensitive hands. She liked his hands and the dusky tone of his skin. Hastily she redirected her thoughts. Perhaps she should get some therapy. Still, he'd have made a great dressage rider.

After a few minutes he joined her and they rode in silence, sweat steaming from their mounts, their flanks rising and falling in heaving pants. For a brief moment she wondered what it would be like to kiss a man with a beard. Would it tickle?

She looked at him. “You let me win.”

He smiled then. “Never.”

She patted her horse's sweaty neck and some of her exhilaration trickled away. If she turned up at the yard with Pollyanna like this, everyone would know she'd been galloping around the countryside. Of course that meant by morning tea half the neighbourhood would know, and by lunch her father would have informed her mother. Inwardly she groaned. Their well-meaning censuring drove her to distraction. Not that it happened very often.

“Chad, do you mind if we take a detour on the way back, you know, to let the horses cool a bit?”

He shrugged. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Relieved, her spirits lifted again as they slopped back through the bridle way and onto the road. She turned right and headed down to the village of Little Bottom. Chad found this pretty hilarious, and wanted to know where Big Bottom was. She showed him the old well, the Saxon church and the big house whose giant yew hedges were artfully pruned into animal shapes.

When he laughed he seemed younger somehow. “How old are you?” she asked, then felt herself flush, ashamed of her rudeness.

But he seemed unperturbed. “I'm nearly twenty-six.”

She was astounded. Why, he wasn't much older than she was. Yet she knew from her father that he ran his own business, and successfully too. Added to that was the recent revelation about his former rodeo shenanigans. His family must be loaded. Curiosity consumed her. “Do you have a big family?” She was pleased with her choice of words. It seemed a nice, inoffensive question.

But after a minute, when he didn't reply, she looked over at him. Her heart sank, for despite the beard she recognised a tightness around the eyes and a certain tension in the strong lines of his neck. She realised she'd somehow made a blooper.

He didn't look at her. “No,” he finally said.

They rode on in silence but she felt as if the easy camaraderie that they had established had been erased. She acknowledged that this upset her but refused to look any deeper.

Salvation came in the form of a herd of cows milling around a row of hay racks. There he stopped and observed them. “Bloody nice.” His tone was light and casual; he seemed his usual relaxed self.

She wanted to hop of Pollyanna, vault over the four rows of barbed wire, and kiss each curly head fervently. Instead she nodded vigorously, torn between her delight in his return to good humour and her desire to disguise her ignorance regarding the livestock. The only breeds she really recognised were fillet steak and roast beef.

He pointed at one large animal nearest to them. “I like the Herefords. Good tempered. Mind you they do better crossbred at home. Bit of Brahmin blood helps in the dry and with tick resistance.”

“I see,” she nodded wisely as she lied valiantly, desperate to keep the conversation alive. Actually she just loved to listen to the alien cadence of his voice. Dreamily she envisioned herself out in the Australian outback, bringing in the cows with Chad, riding side-by-side kickin' up the dust.

But then the church bells began to peal the hour. Dresden skittered across the road.

“What the hell's that?” asked Chad, after he'd brought the horse back in hand.

She was surprised. She barely heard the bells, they were just part of the background noise, like vehicles and wind. “It's just the church bells. It's eight.”

Soon they where home, clip clopping over the pebbly yard surface. They dismounted and she had a rather inelegant tug of war with one of the grooms as he tried to take Pollyanna from her. She clung onto the rains with grim determination. “Let go,” she hissed.

The boy stood back thoroughly alarmed. Breathless but victorious she led the mare over to her stable and untacked her. Beneath her saddle and bridle the brown coat had become hard and dark with dried sweat, the white legs caked in dried, flaky mud. She made her way swiftly to the tack room and armed herself with brushes, humming happily under her breath. She felt great.

Suddenly she jumped violently as she stood up from beneath the mare's front legs to find she was being observed. For a moment she thought it might be Chad, but disappointment flooded through her when she recognised the pale face of her betrothed. With considerable self-control she forced a smile onto her face. “Hi.”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Grooming my horse.” Wasn't it obvious?

His lips formed a petulant moue. “I just came to offer you a lift into London. I have to go to the office.”

She felt guilty; he was only trying to help. “Thanks. I won't be too much longer.”

He waited while she hastily threw Pollyanna's rugs back on and fastened the many straps and buckles. She could feel his growing irritation.

“You shouldn't be doing that,” he snapped.

“How the hell do you think I managed in Germany?” she flashed back, thoroughly fed up. No sooner where the words out than she regretted them. Her father had only let her go because he'd paid exorbitant fees to free her from any need to perform physically hard labour. But she'd been unable to sit back and watch the incredibly overworked staff run around after her and had insisted on pulling her weight. It had been one of the happiest times of her life.

But Bloody Barry would blab. She was a little shocked at her introspection. Since when had her fiancé become bloody?

She stalked back to the tack room, seething. She threw the brushes back into their drawer and tried to collect herself. Something tickled her face and a dark form swung before her left eye. She gasped in horror, her rage fading instantly. A small scream burst out of her lips and she began to dance around, slapping and waving her hands around her head and face in a frenzied dance.

“Get it off! Get it off!” she shrieked.

“For goodness sake, don't be so ridiculous. It's just a spider,” said Barry.

But she was beyond reason. She began to cry. “Get it off.”

And then a pair of strong arms entwined around her, holding her still, and a hand brushed her cheek briefly. Blinded by fear she instinctively held onto her salvation. For one brief moment she leant into the rock hard breadth of his chest. He smelt of horses, hay and healthy young male. Then she was alone.

“It's gone Seraphim. It's all right now,” said Chad quietly.

Her tremulous hands patted her face. The long sticky thread had gone along with the hairy, leggy monstrosity. She took in a long shuddering breath of relief. “Oh God, I'm sorry. You must think me a complete fool.”

Barry snorted his agreement.

Chad observed her. There was a strange intensity about him, an aura of curious melancholy. He shook his head. “No shame in being afraid.”

“I'll be leaving in ten minutes. If you're not ready I'll go without you.”

But Barry's voice was just a hazy drone in the background. She barely acknowledged the sharp click of his leather-shod feet as he left the tack room.

Suddenly her life seemed terribly complicated. What had seemed a few days ago to be the firm foundations of her life and future was now strangely out of focus. It was as if she'd put on someone else's strong prescription glasses. Her world had become fuzzy and indistinct, unfamiliar almost.

Panic surged in her chest. Why did she feel this way? What should she do? What
could
she do? Everything was organised. The invitations had gone out. Her final fitting for her gown was today. It was inconceivable that she back out at this stage. Wasn't it?

She returned to her first unanswered question. Why did she feel this way? Almost of their own volition her eyes travelled to Chad. She looked into his face and stared into his eyes. For some reason she felt as if she would find the answers there.

He held her gaze. Both stood quite still.

Finally he smiled softly. “My mum, she was terrified of spiders,” he said.

She understood somehow that he'd shared something. “Thank you.”

“No worries.”

Not another word was spoken as they made their way back to the house, for which she was grateful. They walked side-by-side, not quite touching. As they walked, Seraphim forced herself to think. She would go to London, she decided, but not with Bloody Barry. And white dresses were definitely no longer part of the equation.

Her body shivered at her own temerity. But her sculpted jaw set in a line of steely determination.

Seven

It was an action-packed day for Chad. Wally took him on a whirlwind tour of the local racing fraternity, half of whom seemed to reside in the snug depths of various pubs. Too polite to refuse, he drank three or four pints of warm, pale beer. Not an experience he was keen to repeat.

After a lunch of crusty bread, cheese and pickles, locally known as a ploughman's, in a pub that sported dangerously low, black overhead beams, Wally whisked him off to view the local lock. Chad had to admit that the lock was a fascinating concept. From its tiny neat brick cottage and immaculate garden to the rushing waters of the weir, it was bursting with old-world charm.

Then followed a dizzying parade of racing yards, umpteen cups of tea, and a visit to a local beef producer with a magnificent Belgium Blue bull standing at stud.

The sun had sunk below the horizon when they finally returned home. Chad had developed a healthy respect for the bladders of the Englishmen he had encountered, along with a deepening aversion to their warm beer.

Finally, in the welcomed, if temporary, solitude of his guest room, Chad finally had time to dwell upon the mornings events without interruption. He stood at the window and looked out onto the barn. No light filtered beneath the doors, it was quite deserted. He wondered where Seraphim was, and what she'd been doing all day; forcing himself to realise the fact that in all likelihood she'd gone with her fiancé to London and spent the day focused on wedding dresses and such like.

He felt a wave of anger as he recalled Barry's earlier performance. What an insensitive bastard. It had been all he could do to refrain from decking the pasty-faced moron. He relived the feel of Seraphim as she had clung to him. So soft and fragrant. Of course, he had to acknowledge it'd just been an instinctive need for reassurance during a time of crisis on her behalf. But still… She'd been terrified. The incidence had awoken memories, long buried. For the first time in years he allowed himself to look back. To his surprise the accustomed waves of grief and loss, failed to arise. Instead he was left with a subdued sadness, bitter sweet.

A soft knock on his door startled him. Somehow he knew who it was, even as he crossed the carpeted expanse of room. Glancing at the clock he saw it was six-thirty. Probably come to tell him dinner was imminent.

But she still wore a pair of dark blue jeans, a white shirt and a fat, padded jacket. Not appropriate for dinner dress. She smiled, and he noticed a small dimple playing in the hollow of one arched cheekbone.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he replied, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.