Page 32 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #2)

Mrs Deering met Nina in the hall when she got back. ‘Just in time for tea, madam,’ she said with a kind smile. ‘Shall I bring it to you in the drawing-room? Did you have a pleasant walk?’

‘Very pleasant, thank you,’ said Nina. ‘And I met such a nice lady – a Mrs Wharfedale – who was walking a hound from the hunt.’

‘Oh, you must mean Lady Wharfedale, madam. From Welland Hall, just down the road?’

‘ Lady Wharfedale?’

‘His lordship’s from a very old local family, madam, very highly thought of. And Lady Wharfedale is a popular hostess and a hard rider to hounds, so they say.’

Nina was glad she hadn’t known before that her new friend was a ladyship, or she might have felt shy.

As it was, she could think of her only as Bobby.

In the drawing-room the French windows were open onto the terrace, and the warm air was flooding in.

Trump found an oblong of sunshine on the floor, flopped onto his side and went instantly to sleep, worn out by the long walk.

Nina was halfway through her solitary tea, and wishing she had company, when she heard voices in the hall, and soon Mr Cowling and Decius came in, followed by Mrs Deering with fresh hot water.

‘Afternoon, Nina my dear,’ Mr Cowling said cheerfully. ‘I hope you haven’t eaten all the scones.’

‘Not quite all,’ Nina said.

‘I’ll bring you some fresh, sir,’ Mrs Deering said. ‘I know you like them warm.’

Mr Cowling drew up a chair and observed Trump, who hadn’t stirred. ‘That dog’s spark out,’ he said.

‘We had a long walk,’ said Nina. ‘And we met someone—’

‘Aye, aye, so I’ve heard. Lady Wharfedale. I’m very pleased, my dear. That’s just the sort of friend I’d like you to make. I’m not acquainted with his lordship, but I hear they’re a fine old family and important people hereabouts.’

Nina felt unreasonably peeved, as if the specialness of her new friendship were being diluted. ‘I didn’t know who she was,’ she said, a touch crossly. ‘Our dogs met, and I just thought she was nice.’

Decius, who had been fetching a chair for himself, said, ‘I’ve met her once or twice about the lanes. There’s no stiffness or formality about her – she has a pleasant openness of manner.’

Mr Cowling didn’t seem to be listening. He was putting sugar in his tea, frowning to himself.

‘Aye, that’s the sort of society we must aim at if we’re to be living here permanent.

The Crawfords are good enough folk, but I’d like you to be moving in higher circles, my love.

You deserve it. I hear they’re pretty wealthy, too.

I wonder where his money comes from? Is it all old money?

I could put him in the way of one or two things, if he cares to invest. I must make some enquiries. ’

‘She’s asked me to go riding with her,’ Nina said, defiantly keeping to her own point. ‘But I haven’t a habit.’

‘Get one, get one made,’ said Cowling promptly. ‘Get everything you need! Riding clothes are very becoming. I’d like to see you in one of them little top hats with a veil. Very classy.’

‘She said to go to Garner’s in the Square. And she says I can ride one of her horses – I suppose she has several.’

‘You must have a horse of your own,’ he declared at once.

‘We’ve all those stables out there doing nothing.

I’m glad you want to ride, dear – it’s healthy exercise, and ladies look so elegant on horseback!

You must join the hunt, as well. That’s the way to meet fine folks.

They have dinners and balls and all sorts, as well as the hunting.

If you get a horse you’ll need a groom as well, and he’ll need a horse.

Decius,’ he turned to his secretary, ‘I don’t doubt you’ll know what’s wanted, and if you don’t know where to find a nice horse for Mrs Cowling, you’ll soon find out, that’s for sure! ’

Mrs Deering came in with a dish of warm scones, and Trump woke from his first deep sleep, stood up, shook himself, and looked at her hopefully. ‘Shall I take him into the kitchen, madam? I dare say he could do with a drink of water after that hot walk.’

Mr Cowling was all good humour. ‘Aye, take him away and spoil him, Mrs D. I dare say you’ll slip him some little treat or other, the lucky dog. My, those scones smell good! Have you heard Mrs Cowling’s been invited to go riding with Lady Wharfedale? Isn’t that splendid?’

‘Very suitable, sir,’ said Mrs Deering.

‘Suitable, aye, that’s the word! But, of course, we shall have to buy a horse, and a groom’s horse, and find us a decent groom. Maybe a stable-boy, as well. Might as well do it properly. If you know anyone that wants a job, Mrs D, you just sing out, will you?’

‘I will make enquiries, sir, if you’d like me to.’

‘Do so, do so. Someone honest and reliable for the groom – not too young, we don’t want a dasher – and I’d sooner it was someone local that you know all about. I’d feel safer that way.’

Nina felt her pleasurable little encounter had been run over by a juggernaut, but the main thing, she told herself sternly, was that she was to have a horse, something she had only dreamed of since she was orphaned.

She caught Decius’s eye, and he gave her a small, reassuring smile.

He would take over the business, and she knew she could trust him.

But she would ask Bobby if she knew of a suitable horse for sale and, if so, make sure to get the two of them together.

She imagined the meeting – she knew they’d like each other.

Yes, the main thing was that she was to have a horse.

Or – no, she corrected herself with a feeling of content – the main main thing was that she had a friend.

William had wrung a good deal out of his dreadful experience, in terms of attention and sympathy.

For a couple of weeks everyone had wanted to hear every detail of the events up at the Castle.

He could repeat the story as often as he wanted, and if he had been a drinker, he could have drunk himself into a stupor without paying a penny.

But that evening when he had stepped inside the Dog and Gun, he’d felt a different atmosphere.

One or two people looked up, but then immediately down again.

Conversations were not broken off. No one called him over.

The delicate click of dominoes on a wooden table top did not change rhythm.

The collie lying under Phil Buckey’s chair did not even lift its muzzle from its paws.

His time in the spotlight was over. Everyone had heard about the terrible black and bloated face, and exactly what William had felt and done immediately and for days afterwards.

But the topic had died, its light had gone out, and as William asked Mr Corbie for his usual half-pint of ale, no one so much as looked round, let alone offered to buy it for him.

Corbie gave him a cynical smile. ‘Penny-ha’penny, Mr Sweeting, I’ll trouble you for. Thank you. Have you heard, Lord Shacklock’s bull Caesar got out, went on the rampage right through Ashridge village? Killed the postman on his rounds.’

‘Did it?’ William said, startled.

‘Poor Walter Horner, with a wife and three children dependent on him. Aye, he was on his bicycle. Old Caesar must’ve thought it was another bull. He charged it, sent Wally flying. Got the bicycle tangled on its horns, and it must’ve maddened him, for once he got clear, he went after Wally.’

Roddy, the barman, oozed up to snatch a bit of the story.

‘’Orrible, it was!’ he said gloatingly. ‘Stuck its horn right through him, I tell you no lie! Right through and out the back, like a bloomin’ sword!

And then what d’you think it did? Ran right into a tree and pinned poor old Wally to the trunk.

Just like a butterfly on a pin. ’Cept he didn’t look much like a butterfly with a gurt horn through him.

Eyes stickin’ out of his head, so I heard. And blood everywhere.’

The others sitting at the bar had all turned in their seats now, and were eager to add their own details to the gruesome story.

‘Got ’isself stuck proper, that ole bull! Stuck in the tree trunk. Couldn’t get isself free.’

‘Mrs Greenway from Larch Cottage come along and found him. Gor! Wish I’d bin there!’

‘She never fainted nor nothing. Just tiptoes past and runs to fetch the policeman. That’s a tough old dame!’

‘Course, old Wally was dead by then.’

‘Dead as mutton!’

‘Policeman wanted to shoot the bull – well, who was going to risk trying to get it free?’

‘But Lord Shacklock’s bailiff wouldn’t have it – said that bull was worth hundreds. Prize animal. Argued about it, they did, right there in the road—’

‘And all the while poor old Walter Horner’s pinned to the tree with ’is eyes wide open, a-starin’ over that bull’s head like he was surprised. That’s what I heard from Frankie Gilbert, who come along while the argufying was still goin’ on. Like he was surprised, he said.’

‘Well, you’d be surprised if a bull pinned you to a tree! Gor, what a sight it musta bin!’

William listened, sipping his beer, and realising no one was going to want to talk to him any more.

But he still felt shaken and depressed by his experience.

Talking about it had helped him. His shoulders slumped more and more, and as the level went down in his glass he felt, for the first time ever, that he might even have another.

Might as well. What was the difference? Who cared about him?

A powerful smell of otto of roses mingled with sweat enveloped him, and raising his eyes, though not his head, he found himself gazing into the fleshy canyon between Tabby Mattock’s considerable bosoms. ‘Cheer up, Mr Sweeting!’ she said kindly. ‘It may never happen.’

‘Already has,’ William mumbled.

She leaned closer, and laid a warm, damp hand briefly over his. ‘Ah, never mind that lot. Why don’t you have another half? Go on, do, it’ll make you feel better.’