“I wonder that Charles’s dear mother does not come and haunt you that I do!”
Carolan put out her tongue. In broad daylight it was not so terrifying to think of Charles’s dead mother.
“You can be saucy. Miss. If tonight she came into your room …” Jennifer made claws of her fingers and stared down at them.
“Everard says there are no such things as ghosts.”
“Doubtless it was because his mother told him not to frighten little girls. There are ghosts, so there!”
Tired and wearied was Jennifer, too tired for tormenting. She though longingly of the gin she kept locked up in her room.
“You had better not keep the squire waiting, unless you want a whipping.”
Carolan went down to the stables. She would rather have ridden alone than with the squire; she had never before ridden with him. They said he was a marvelous horseman. Carolan shivered in an ecstasy of terror.
One of the grooms came up to her and touched his forehead. “Morning, Miss Carolan.”
“Good morning, Jake.”
Jake’s chin was wagging, which it always did when he was amused; he was very amused this morning.
“Happy birthday to you. Miss Carolan!”
Carolan smiling dazzlingly. Fancy Jake’s knowing it was her birthday!
“Oh, thank you, Jake! Is the pony ready?”
Jake’s chin began to wag again.
“Is it, Jake?” she asked; she was fearful of another scene. If she was to ride with the squire, and her pony was not ready, there would be trouble; the squire hated waiting.
“Well, Missie, the pony bain’t ready…”
“Oh, but Jake, did you not know “I weren’t told to get no pony ready. Miss Carolan.”
“Well, let us get him ready now …”
“No, no, Missie, you durst not go in there!” She stared at him, round-eyed.
“What is in there, Jake?” “Twouldn’t be for me to tell you. Miss Carolan.” Then the squire came into the yard. He was whistling jauntily. He had enjoyed thrashing that arrogant youngster; it made him feel oddly young again.
“Ah!” he said, in ripe good humour.
“Ah! Mistress Carolan, eh? And Jake.” He winked at Jake, and Jake’s chin started to wag all over again.
“Very important day today, did you know, Jake?” The squire was waggish. Jake chortled; he looked as if he was going to burst with suppressed laughter.
“Aye, sir, I do know what day it be!”
“Very important indeed. Now, Jake, lead the way, man! Stop standing there like a plaguey donkey, and lead the way.”
They went into one of the stables, and there already saddled up was a smallish mare, strawberry roan in colour. She was a lovely little creature, spirited and full of personality, and as they came in, her ears pricked and she whinnied.
“Well, there she is! And a nice little thing at that, eh, Jake?”
“Aye, sir… a pretty little thing, and no mistake!”
“And what do you say, Mistress Carolan?”
“She is beautiful,” said Carolan, a sudden possibility occurring to her which could not, simply could not, be true. She could not bear the suspense, so she said: “Whose is she?” The squire laughed.
“Well, Jake,” he said, ‘is it your birthday today, Jake?”
“No, master, bain’t my birthday.”
“Well, it bain’t my birthday either!” The squire slapped his thigh.
“Do you mean …” said Carolan, looking at him very direct.
“Do you mean… she’s mine?”
“That’s about it,” said the squire.
“A birthday present?”
“Well, as Jake says, it bain’t his birthday, and it bain’t mine!”
“Oh!” cried Carolan.
“Oh!”
And when she looked up, the squire’s eyes were swimming with tears. She could see the red in them behind the tears.
“Thank you!” she said in a small voice.
“Oh, thank you.” Then, because she was so happy, she forgot to be afraid; she forgot everything but that the strawberry roan was hers no more ponies for her! Charles had a horse; Margaret had a pony; and she, Carolan, had this lovely strawberry roan. She could hardly believe it. She leaped high in the air, threw aside that restraint she had always worn in the presence of the squire, and said: “I wanted a pony! I wanted a pony… I didn’t think of a horse.”
The squire said briskly: “Not much good having a horse, if you cannot ride it. Think you can?”
“Ride it!” screamed Carolan.
“Well, let us see.”
It was strange to be riding alongside the squire. Always before, she had been out with one of the grooms; usually with Charles and Margaret too. And perhaps it was because she had ridden with Charles in those early days that she had learned to ride so quickly, and sat her horse so well and with such confidence. In the early days when she had been a little frightened, Charles used to whip up his horse to a furious gallop and in a little while he would have her mount and Margaret’s galloping wildly after him. Charles thought it good fun to see Carolan, white-faced, clinging to her saddle.
The squire watched her as she rode beside him; the sight of her straight little back delighted him. A good little horsewoman! Charles was good on a horse, and fearless enough, but he did not really like Charles. How pleased with the mare the child had been! The squire did not know when he had enjoyed anything so much. She had not expected a present from him either. There was a rare smile on the squire’s face; it was pleasant to look into the future. A daughter to dote on her old father. He pictured them, riding together through his estate. Why should they not be the best of companions? The squire and his daughter a good squire now. because he had no longer a roving eye for every village slut; he had eyes only for his daughter who was growing into a young woman more beautiful than any of them.
He broke into a canter, and then into a gallop. Carolan kept beside him, her red hair flying out behind; fine she looked, sitting her strawberry roan with distinction. Dammed, thought the squire, if I don’t take her along to the hunt with me! Why not? She can sit a horse with the best.
“Come on, Carrie girl,” he shouted.
“Why are you lagging behind?” And he laughed inwardly to see her spurt forward, her little chin set and determined.
Proud of her, he was. He wanted to show her off. A pity there was no meet today. Like to see her there among the pink coats. But not those disreputable cast-offs of Margaret’s. She should have a new riding habit; she should be grateful to him. He would say: “Come on, Carrie girl, what about a kiss for your old father?” When she was little more than a baby she had called him The Squire; now she called him nothing. She had to begin calling him Father; she had to think of him as her father. If anybody let her know he was not her father, there was going to be the devil to pay. After all, suppose he was her father; there was such a thing as a seven months child! She had been a little thing when she was born; suppose she had been born prematurely. Not impossible. How he wanted to believe that. The squire… and his daughter… The parsonage was down this road along which they were trotting. Why not call on the parson and “Mrs. Parson”? Be a good start. Let people know that he looked on Carolan as his daughter. He went riding with her on her birthday; he had given her a horse. Charles had had a horse on his ninth birthday, and Margaret a pony.
“Oh!” said Carolan, when he drew up.
“Are we going to see Everard?”
He had not thought of the boy of course. He was thinking chiefly of the parson’s wife; old Orland did not count for much.
The important thing was that Mrs. Orland should receive them and talk about the visit.
He signed curtly to her to dismount, and she did so neatly, he noticed with pleasure. They made fast their horses to the gate posts.
Mrs. Orland suppressed her surprise at the call.
“Good morning. Squire. This is an unexpected pleasure!”
He was bubbling over with good spirits.
“As long as it is a pleasure, does it matter that it is unexpected?” he asked archly.