some colonel?”
“He’s a jerk; they don’t want Tory.”
“Why are they so reluctant to let her go, then?”
“Molly likes something to sharpen her claws on. Tory’s her cat-scratching board.”
She bent down to pull a bit of groundsel, then asked Jake to uproot a thread of bindweed that was toppling a lupin.
“It’s hell getting old. I can only prune sitting down now. And what’s in it for you?” she asked.
“I couldn’t marry her if she weren’t rich. I’ve got to get started somehow. And I think Tory and I could make each other happy. Neither of us has ever really had a home before.”
That was the nearest he was going to get to placating her.
“Aren’t you banking too much on that horse being a winner? She might break a leg tomorrow.”
“I’ll get more horses. This is only the beginning. To make it work as a show jumper, you’ve got to have at least half a dozen top horses and novices coming on all the time. The gypsies taught me how to recognize a good horse, and I can ride them, and I’ve got patience.”
“Let’s go and watch the three-thirty,” said Granny Maxwell.
Mal le Maison was second, Whirlwind Courtship nowhere. That’s torn it, thought Jake. At that moment, Tory came in with a tray.
“Are you ready for tea yet, Granny?”
“Put the tray down on this table in front of me, thank you, and sit down. I have something to say to you both.”
For a minute she looked at them both with speculative eyes.
“I’m not going to give you any money. Young people should get along by themselves. Tory has a considerable income and you’ll soon save enough to buy and sell a few horses.”
Jake’s face was expressionless. That was that. His hopes crashed.
“I’ve no intention of breaking the trust,” Granny Maxwell went on, picking up the blond peke and rolling it onto its back, “until I see if you’re capable of making Tory happy. In three years’ time, she’ll get the money anyway. However…”
Jake stiffened, fighting back hope, as with maddening deliberation Granny Maxwell poured tea into three cups, and went into a long “would anyone like milk, sugar, or lemon” routine, and then handed out plates, and asked whether anyone would like a sandwich.
“However,” she repeated, “Mr. Binlock is retiring to a cottage in the middle of June, which means the Mill House at Withrington—that’s about twenty miles north of here—will be empty. You can have that.”
Tory turned pale. “But Granny, it’s got stables and fields,” she stammered.
“Exactly, but it’s tumbledown and very damp. I hope you haven’t got a weak chest,” she added to Jake, “but it’s yours if you want it.”
“Oh, Granny, darling,” said Tory, crossing the room and flinging her arms round her grandmother.
“Don’t smother me, child, and there’s no need to cry. And as you don’t appear to have any transport, I’ll buy you a decent horse box for a wedding present.”
Jake shook his head. “I can’t believe it,” he said.
“There’s one condition,” Granny Maxwell went on with a cackle of laughter. “That the first time you appear at Wembley, you buy me a seat in the front row. I’m a bored old woman. In time, if you do well, I might buy a couple of horses and let you ride them for me.”
“If you really are going to buy us a horse box,” said Jake, “I’d better learn to drive properly and take a test.”
6
S ix long months after she arrived in London in 1972, Helen Macaulay met Rupert Campbell-Black. Born in Florida, the eldest daughter of a successful dentist, Helen was considered the brilliant child of the family. Her mother, a passionate Anglophile and the daughter of a Presbyterian minister, was constantly reminding people of her English ancestry. In fact, a distant connection had come over, if not on the Mayflower, perhaps by the next boat. Mrs. Macaulay glossed over this fact and from an early age encouraged the young Helen to read English novels and
“He’s a jerk; they don’t want Tory.”
“Why are they so reluctant to let her go, then?”
“Molly likes something to sharpen her claws on. Tory’s her cat-scratching board.”
She bent down to pull a bit of groundsel, then asked Jake to uproot a thread of bindweed that was toppling a lupin.
“It’s hell getting old. I can only prune sitting down now. And what’s in it for you?” she asked.
“I couldn’t marry her if she weren’t rich. I’ve got to get started somehow. And I think Tory and I could make each other happy. Neither of us has ever really had a home before.”
That was the nearest he was going to get to placating her.
“Aren’t you banking too much on that horse being a winner? She might break a leg tomorrow.”
“I’ll get more horses. This is only the beginning. To make it work as a show jumper, you’ve got to have at least half a dozen top horses and novices coming on all the time. The gypsies taught me how to recognize a good horse, and I can ride them, and I’ve got patience.”
“Let’s go and watch the three-thirty,” said Granny Maxwell.
Mal le Maison was second, Whirlwind Courtship nowhere. That’s torn it, thought Jake. At that moment, Tory came in with a tray.
“Are you ready for tea yet, Granny?”
“Put the tray down on this table in front of me, thank you, and sit down. I have something to say to you both.”
For a minute she looked at them both with speculative eyes.
“I’m not going to give you any money. Young people should get along by themselves. Tory has a considerable income and you’ll soon save enough to buy and sell a few horses.”
Jake’s face was expressionless. That was that. His hopes crashed.
“I’ve no intention of breaking the trust,” Granny Maxwell went on, picking up the blond peke and rolling it onto its back, “until I see if you’re capable of making Tory happy. In three years’ time, she’ll get the money anyway. However…”
Jake stiffened, fighting back hope, as with maddening deliberation Granny Maxwell poured tea into three cups, and went into a long “would anyone like milk, sugar, or lemon” routine, and then handed out plates, and asked whether anyone would like a sandwich.
“However,” she repeated, “Mr. Binlock is retiring to a cottage in the middle of June, which means the Mill House at Withrington—that’s about twenty miles north of here—will be empty. You can have that.”
Tory turned pale. “But Granny, it’s got stables and fields,” she stammered.
“Exactly, but it’s tumbledown and very damp. I hope you haven’t got a weak chest,” she added to Jake, “but it’s yours if you want it.”
“Oh, Granny, darling,” said Tory, crossing the room and flinging her arms round her grandmother.
“Don’t smother me, child, and there’s no need to cry. And as you don’t appear to have any transport, I’ll buy you a decent horse box for a wedding present.”
Jake shook his head. “I can’t believe it,” he said.
“There’s one condition,” Granny Maxwell went on with a cackle of laughter. “That the first time you appear at Wembley, you buy me a seat in the front row. I’m a bored old woman. In time, if you do well, I might buy a couple of horses and let you ride them for me.”
“If you really are going to buy us a horse box,” said Jake, “I’d better learn to drive properly and take a test.”
6
S ix long months after she arrived in London in 1972, Helen Macaulay met Rupert Campbell-Black. Born in Florida, the eldest daughter of a successful dentist, Helen was considered the brilliant child of the family. Her mother, a passionate Anglophile and the daughter of a Presbyterian minister, was constantly reminding people of her English ancestry. In fact, a distant connection had come over, if not on the Mayflower, perhaps by the next boat. Mrs. Macaulay glossed over this fact and from an early age encouraged the young Helen to read English novels and
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