‘Yes, he’s in the same block as mine – I’ll show you. Luckyyou, he’s gorgeous. Really kind.’ The girl smiled at her and carried on walking.What about the filly though?Sage fretted.
They walked under an arch and into a second stable block made of red brick. Although more utilitarian than the main yard – which was ancient and beautiful with ten huge loose boxes – this one, a square of thirty stables, was smart and functional. The girl pointed at a bay horse with a white star, who was looking over his door inquisitively.
‘That’s Strawbs. Box twelve.’
Sage noticed that next to each stable was a label stating the horse’s owner, sire, dam and age.This is new, she thought,and extremely helpful. She turned to thank the girl but she had already gone. Realizing that she, too, needed to get a move on, she quickly opened the stable door.
The big gelding was calm and relaxed, and stood quietly as Sage tacked him up; she was relieved to have remembered the order in which to put on the various pieces of equipment. Then, after picking out his feet and brushing the shavings from his tail, she led him into the yard. There was no time to be anxious, she was legged up immediately and before she knew it, they were following the other ridden horses out to the indoor arena, in a snake, one behind the other.
Her grandfather stood in the middle, wearing red corduroy trousers, a shirt and tie, his ancient tweed coat and a flat cap; he was holding a pair of binoculars in one hand and puffing away on his pipe with the other, seemingly oblivious to the chill of the morning. He nodded at Sage approvingly, continuing to watch his horses circle around him. There were about twenty in this string, all wearing orange-red-and-black striped woollen rugs to keep them warm. The corner of each rug was embroidered withDRJS, Dennis’s initials, in dark blue.
‘Have a trot,’ Dennis barked at the lad leading the ride, and everyone picked up their reins slightly. The horses were on theirtoes this frosty morning; a few half-heartedly jinked sideways, keeping their riders’ concentration as they waited to see if their mounts were going to fully explode, but none did.
‘Dillon, take your lot up Warren Hill. Chris, take yours around Side Hill. Amy, you can go up Warren Hill too, I’m coming in the car to watch.’ Dennis called out instructions to the leaders of each group who were to peel off and work their horses in different areas around Newmarket, then motioned to his granddaughter. ‘Sage, go with Amy and stick right behind her – on her heels, please.’ He strode off in the direction of the house, all the while talking to Peter, who nodded and wrote things down while hurrying to keep up with the older man’s long, purposeful stride.
Sage remembered Amy. She was an older member of the team who had been at North Place for a long time; a graceful rider as well as being naturally kind and reserved, and Sage knew she would help her. She was also a good listener and rarely volunteered any personal information of her own. She had race-ridden with Sage’s mother, many years back, and the two women had been friends in the weighing room. Sage caught her eye and smiled; Amy was lighting a cigarette as they had left the arena and Dennis was now out of sight.
Led by Dillon, they and the seven horses in front of them snaked their way along the pavement leading down towards the Heath. Amy had taken both hands off the reins and was steering her lively chestnut three-year-old with her knees, totally relaxed and unconcerned as the filly humped her back and playfully raked her head from side to side. She stayed entirely focused on getting her lighter to work on the blustery January morning; eventually the cigarette began to smoke, and breathing in a huge lungful of tar and nicotine, she picked up her reins again and grinned at Sage.
‘Sorry, love – I can talk now. You’re back! How are you? Where’ve you been again? The Bahamas or somewhere, wasn’tit?’ Amy was stick-thin, with a pretty face that had been etched with lines over the years; she had lived a hard life and was as tough as any of the men who worked in the yard, and more capable than most.
‘Panama – but yes, I am back. Back for good, thank goodness.’ Sage did not want to expand on her answer and comforted herself that Amy would probably neither pry nor ask any further questions and they rode along in a companionable silence. She was thankful that Strawberry knew his job and that he did not jump about like many of the flighty young thoroughbreds around him. Instead, he walked out with long, smooth, confident steps and pricked ears, exuding an infectious aura of optimism that Sage felt settling around her like an invisible cloak. Now that her nerves had abated, it felt good to be back on a horse. When another string in red exercise sheets trotted past them, causing Amy’s horse and the one behind Sage to throw themselves about in excitement, Sage felt profound gratitude towards him as Strawberry maintained his own steady pace; he almost seemed to roll his eyes in exaggerated disappointment at their exuberance.Dear Strawberry, she thought.This is how to do it – no fuss. She patted the big horse’s gleaming brown neck in thanks.
The two strings bound for Warren Hill made it safely to Sir Mark’s yard on the corner of the Heath, which had alarmingly been dubbed ‘neck-strap corner’ as it was where horses tended to be overcome with enthusiasm. When the anticipation of crossing the road to gallop up the hill proved too much for them, they normally threw themselves about with uncontrolled high spirits, the riders having to hold onto their neck straps like a lifeline, anchoring themselves deep in the saddle in order to avoid being thrown off. Sage waited quietly behind Amy, whose filly was starting to fidget, impatiently walking backwards and sideways as she was not allowed to continue onto the polytrackgallop before the first lot of horses had made it to the top. Sage watched, one hand on her neck strap and her reins bridged – just in case Strawberry gave in to the primal urge to prematurely hurl himself forward in pursuit of his friends – as Dillon and the first group streamed up the hill, one following the other almost nose to tail. She pulled up her stirrup leathers, shortening them to a galloping length. She could see her grandfather perched on his shooting stick on the grass halfway up the slope, watching through his binoculars. Peter was standing beside him, a mirror image.
Amy moved her hands forward fractionally, and her filly leapt into the air with excitement.
‘Are you all set, Sage?’ she said, looking back over her shoulder.
Sage nodded, pulling her goggles down over her eyes.
‘Yep,’ she replied, nodding and feeling the nervous butterflies in her stomach take flight again as Strawberry set off.
Years of riding green youngsters up these gallops had installed in Sage some self-preservation that served as a reminder to keep her wits about her at all times. Almost anything can happen at the moment of asking a fully racing-fit thoroughbred to move from a standstill into a highly anticipated gallop. She enjoyed the unhurried but powerful gait of the gentlemanly Strawberry and prayed he would not do anything unexpected. She bent low over his neck, relishing the strength and speed of the horse beneath her. She knew that she would look like a good jockey coming up the hill and that she was in the correct position, perfectly balanced; however, she was humble enough to know that anyone could look good on this horse, for he was as easy to ride as a bus. Reaching the top, Strawberry came back to a controlled canter on his own accord, gently easing into a lower gear to turn the tight corner of the white-railed track without losing any stability. He did not lean against the railsor run into the bottom of the horse in front like some of his more impetuous stablemates. Sage could feel herself smiling uncontrollably; she had not felt so light-hearted and free for a long time and knew that riding, for her, was the best medicine imaginable. Santiago Deverill and his mother felt very far away from Newmarket’s beautiful, frosty Heath, above which the first golden rays of sunshine were lighting up the sky.
As they walked down the track in the direction of the yard at the end of first lot, Sage saw her grandfather standing in the little car park next to his enormous new car. He was chewing on his pipe while talking to a young man who sat with an unconscious, elegant grace on an old-fashioned type of iron-grey horse with a blue-black, shortly pulled mane and neatly banged tail that stopped above his dark hocks. The stranger was dressed smartly in black jeans and long boots with a shirt and tie under a tweed coat and only a flat cap on his dark head. Sage did not recognize him but could see that her grandfather liked him by the way he was smiling. She watched Dennis put an affectionate hand on the large grey’s neck as he bade the intriguing rider goodbye and started to walk over to the fence towards her. The man clicked softly to the big horse and, moving straight into a canter from a standstill, aimed him at a substantial picket gate set into the wooden post-and-rail fence. The horse jumped it easily, his master hardly moving in the saddle at all, and they dropped back into an easy walk ahead of Sage on the track heading back down the Heath towards town.
‘Sage, how did that feel? Didn’t I tell you? Just like riding a bike.’ Dennis snorted in amusement, not letting her answer. He could see from the smile on her face that she was enjoying herself. ‘Next lot, I’ve put you up on your grandmother’s filly, Skylark. I just want you to bring her out for Fred to gallop. She’s running in her first race next week.’
‘Who was that?’ Sage asked in wonder, swivelling in her saddle to continue watching the man on the grey horse, having failed to take in much of what she had just been told. The man’s effortless harmony with the bold horse had scorched such an impression in her mind it had rendered her completely unable to think of anything else.
‘Oh, that’s Rafe Dunbarton. He’s a good lad, just started training himself. This is only his second season, often comes to me to talk things through. His father is a good friend of mine – Lord Walter, you remember? He’s one of our owners, had horses with us for years, although a few less now that he is supporting his son.’
Sage nodded. She did remember Lord Walter, who had always seemed friendly and kind when he had come to the yard to see his horses and have breakfast in the house afterwards; she had met him a few times over the years.
Dennis was already climbing back into his car, his head full of his own horses again by the time she had gathered her thoughts, and the string was moving steadily homewards.
‘Amy, did you hear my instructions? I can’t remember what my grandfather just told me to do.’ Sage felt her stomach contract with dread; she had completely zoned out. She did not want to ask Dennis to repeat himself, she would look such an idiot. The stranger’s casual grace had completely distracted her; she did not think she would ever be able to ride so well. He looked totally at one with the powerful horse. She prayed Amy had heard – she did not want to let her grandfather down on her first day back.
Amy responded with an arched eyebrow.
‘Were you distracted by something?’ Deciding to let Sage off the hook and much softer than usual because of Sage’s bruises, she continued, ‘You’ll have a job melting that one’s heart – even you, with your movie-star looks! Since he started training lastyear, the Honourable Rafe Dunbarton has been pursued by all the pretty – and not so pretty – girls of marriageable age in the area, and so far, he has not chosen one. There are rumours that he’s gay … What Icantell you is that he has shown zero interest in women since he got back from his job as assistant trainer to Oliver Crookwood in America a year ago. It’s all anyone seems to talk about in this goldfish bowl at the moment.’
‘Oh, that’s the very last thing on my mind, Amy,’ Sage said hastily.
They watched as the man broke into a canter, approaching the string all uniformly dressed in blue and green. He stopped one of the riders on a bay colt that was jinking sideways, and the lad who was riding the horse quickly jumped off. As Sage got closer she saw that Rafe’s face was a mask of fury. He was speaking to the stable lad in a barely controlled rage, his fists clenched. She could not hear what he had been saying but an angry muscle was jumping in his lean jaw.
Sage felt her stomach tighten. The familiar anger in his face set her internal alarm bells ringing, the sensation instantly bringing back the weight of fear and dread every time Santiago had looked at her that way, his face twisted with cruelty.
