Page 5 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘Oh, Adam!’ Bobby said, exasperated. ‘She was wonderful! You sound like Mr Cowling.’

Even Nina rarely used her husband’s first name. He was, somehow, quintessentially Mr Cowling. At this mention of him, she turned her head away.

Adam didn’t notice. ‘It’s you who’s always saying how dangerous riding side-saddle is,’ he said to Bobby. ‘Suppose Jewel had stumbled on landing and fallen? Nina could have been trapped underneath him.’

‘But that’s the whole point!’ Bobby cried. ‘We shouldn’t be forced to ride side-saddle. Why should men tell us what we can do and can’t do? You can’t turn the argument on its head and say it’s a reason never to go out of a walk! If women had—’

The hunt secretary interrupted them, riding up and touching his hat. ‘Hounds have lost him,’ he told them, ‘and the master’s decided to call it a day.’

‘Just as well, really,’ Adam said, as the secretary rode off to spread the word. ‘It’s getting damned cold.’

There was a glittery feeling to the air as the sun sank and the frost began to fall. The sound of conversation rose as the field said their goodnights, thoughts turning to hot tea and hot baths. The grooms rode up: Hoday handed Bobby her hat, while Daughters said to Nina, ‘Better keep him moving, missus. We don’t want chills.’

Nina thought he gave her a rather disapproving look, and wondered whether it was for her previous fast riding or the current coffee-housing. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said. ‘We’re going now.’ She looked around. ‘Anyone know where we are?’

Bobby knew every inch of the country. She pointed her whip. ‘See that line of elms over there? That’s a lane that comes out on the Langton road, just above Skinner’s Farm. Then it’s about three miles home.’

The drawback with hunting was having to hack home afterwards when you and the horse were tired and night was coming on. It was necessary to trot most of the way so that the horses didn’t get cold, and trotting side-saddle was terribly uncomfortable. Bobby found them a track that led to a gate into the lane, and then they kept to the verges as much as possible, trotting through the gathering gloom and the uncanny stillness of a winter evening. Every sensible creature was indoors, and only the owls skimmed the dusk fields like velvet shadows.

When they turned onto the Langton road, the verge was wide enough to ride two abreast. Bobby fell in beside Nina as they walked for a bit to rest the horses’ backs, and said, ‘Kipper’s right about one thing, though.’ Kipper was her childhood name for Adam. ‘You were riding rather more recklessly than usual. Has something happened?’

‘No. Why? What should happen?’ Nina said.

‘That’s a very evasive answer. Has Mr Cowling said something to you?’ Nina’s quick glance told her she had hit the bull. ‘Did he try to stop you coming out?’

‘No, of course not. He likes me to hunt, as long as it’s side-saddle. He thinks I look elegant.’

‘There is something wrong, though, isn’t there? Tell me what’s upset you.’

Nina was silent, and then she sighed. ‘I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t.’

‘You can tell me anything,’ Bobby insisted.

Not this, Nina thought. ‘We should probably trot again. It’s getting really cold, isn’t it?’

They trotted. Nina had knives in her back; her hands were numb, despite her gloves. The cottages they passed showed yellow squares of lamplight, making her think of butter melting on hot toast. Invisible in its kennel, a dog barked sharply as they passed, the rattle of its chain ringing clear in the unnatural stillness of the frost.

* * *

They passed Welland Hall first. Nina resisted all appeals to come in and take tea, and rode on to Wriothesby House with Daughters a polite distance behind, her mind a pleasant blank of tiredness. She had half hoped to slip in unnoticed, but her terrier, Trump, had been without her all day, and came scurrying from the kitchen, barking excitedly.

That brought Mr Cowling from the small parlour that he used as a business-room, newspaper in his hand, as eager as Trump for her return, but less sure of his welcome.

‘There you are!’ he said, with studied heartiness. ‘Was it a good day?’

‘A lot of blank draws,’ she said, crouching down to caress the dog, ‘but then we had a very good run. Bobby thought it was a ten-miler, but I think a bit less. Eight, perhaps. Very fast, at any rate.’

‘Good, good,’ Cowling said. ‘And the horse went well?’

‘Perfectly.’ She knew he wanted to talk about the thing she didn’t want to talk about. ‘I’ll go up and have my bath,’ she said.

‘Have a cup of tea first,’ he urged. ‘And a muffin. You must be starved.’

‘No, I think I’ll bathe first. I’m a bit stiff.’ She began to turn away, tried to forestall him with a neutral comment. ‘I’m glad we have a proper bathroom now, and hot water from a tap. No need to have a servant toiling upstairs with cans.’

‘Nina,’ Cowling said urgently. ‘I want to talk to you. I must talk to you.’

She didn’t meet his eyes. ‘Not now,’ she said.