Hard Choices (21 page)

Summer promises to make sure my clothes are brought across to Leeds as soon as she can manage it. And my car. We rushed away from Black Combe without so much as an overnight bag, though Dan assures us that the apartment is fully equipped with everything we might need.

I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying, but I do at least want to know that Queenie’s on the mend before going back to Cumbria. So I’m surprised when, inside the massive reception foyer, Nick takes my elbow to stop me as we head for the lift.

“I’m not coming up.” He hands me the key card. I look at him in astonishment.

I’m baffled. I shove the card into the back pocket of my jeans so I can sign my questions. “But why? Where are you going?”

“Home. Cartmel. And you’re staying here.” His tone is firm, brooking no argument. I just gaze at him, my eyes doing my pleading for me, but he’s implacable. He pulls me over to a seating area at the far end of the foyer, out of earshot of anyone passing on their way to the lift.

He holds my hands in his as he explains, to stop me interrupting him. “I claimed you, and you accepted me as your Master. That hasn’t changed, but it’s clear to me that you don’t fully understand what that commitment means. And you do need to understand that, before we can move on. So, we have to talk. You have to make me understand why, how this all happened. And I need to know that you appreciate the absolute need for honesty, trust, transparency between us. And that you accept the consequences for a submissive of disobeying her Master. Those consequences will not be pleasant, Freya.”

The blood drains from my face, even though I’ve been expecting this. I always knew he’d punish me, and that his punishment would be physical. And harsh. A punishment beating, definitely, and probably more severe than that first time at the club. I was a novice then, and he took that into account. Not anymore, though. But I want it to be over with. I can accept anything, as long as he forgives me and we can move on. I tug my hands free.

“Please, do it now. Upstairs, in the apartment. Nathan has—equipment. Things you’ll need. I want you to punish me. I want to learn how to be a perfect sub. Please, teach me that. Do whatever you have to, to help me learn…”

He shakes his head. “Not now. Not yet. I’m too bloody angry with you to even contemplate disciplining you. I’d hurt you. Really hurt you, and surely regret it later. So no, you’ll wait until I’m ready. And then, if you accept my punishment, and if you can convince me you’ve learned from the experience and that you better comprehend the parameters of our relationship, the true nature of submission, then I’ll accept your apology. If you still want to offer it. And then we can move on. Do you understand?”

I shake my head, but in denial rather than confusion. I understand perfectly what he’s saying and why he needs to leave me. And already I feel bereft. Any punishment, however harsh, would be preferable to being left alone. I know the tears are again streaming across my cheeks, but he’s quite unmoved by my grief now.

“You can stay here as long as you want, or come back to Cumbria. To Kendal. I want to know where you are, and you’ll wait to hear from me. Is that clear?”

I just gaze at him through my tears, so he repeats his question, and his stern Dom voice penetrates my haze of utter misery. “Is that clear? Answer me, now.”

I nod, knowing there’s no point at all trying to change his mind. Instead, “How? How will you get back to Cartmel?”

“We’re just a few minutes’ walk from a mainline station. I’ll be fine. And you’ll have your car back soon so you’ll be able to get to the clinic, or back to Kendal. I take it you can drive fine, with your pot on?”

I’ve not had to try yet, but I probably could. Failing that, I could still hire a driver. I just nod.

“Good. I’ll be in touch.” He stands, and turns to walk away. I remain seated, my misery absolute. He stops after a few paces, turns back to me. “I hope your horse makes it.”

I glance up again in time to see him disappear through the revolving door to the outside, never once looking back. And he’s gone.

Chapter Fifteen

The next few days pass in a blur. I’ve never felt so low, so utterly lonely. Summer’s been across from Black Combe every other day or so, and the first time she brought my Vanquish. Eva followed her that time in her own car to give Summer a lift back. She was keen to know how I was as well. I gather Ashley did offer Summer a job, and she’s accepted it, so she won’t be returning to Cumbria after all.

I’m glad about that, but I feel even more alone now.

Most days I go to the equine clinic to see how Queenie is. She’s managing to stand and can hobble around her tiny stall on three hooves. The staff all assure me she’s doing fine, as well as anyone could expect in the circumstances, and that her recovery will be a slow process. I suppose there’s some comfort to be taken from that, and I need to be patient.

Apart from my trips to Horsforth I stay in the apartment, because that’s what Nick told me to do. At least I think it is. He told me I could stay here, or go to Kendal, and he mentioned using my car to visit Queenie, but he didn’t say anything about going anywhere else. So I don’t. I just wait here, as instructed. I wait for him to get in touch with me. And I dread hearing from him, because that’ll mean it’s time to face his discipline, and I’m genuinely scared at what that might mean, what he might decide to do to me. But I dread not hearing from him even more, because that means this awful half-life will continue, this endless purgatory of not knowing.

I’m not completely cut off from outside contact, of course. I hear regularly from Max, who sends me updates on the insurance claim and other matters as needed. I am to have no worries on the financial front, it seems. Not that I ever did. And even Nathan Darke drops in from time to time. He has his offices in this same building, a few floors below, and probably has instructions from Eva to check up on me on his way home from work. Still, he’s pleasant company, if a little intimidating, and he’s made it clear I’d be welcome to stay at Black Combe if I’d rather. Black Combe was not on Nick’s list, though, so I thank him and explain that I’d prefer to stay here.

I did wonder about Manchester, and whether I was expected to show up there some time soon. Again, Nick didn’t say, and I’m reluctant to make contact with him to seek clarification. I will if I have to, but settle first for emailing Ange to ask how it’s all going at the new club and if she needs me. Her reply is typically generous. She assures me they’re managing fine. Ange, Frank and apparently Portia are making a great team so far—I’m to just concentrate on my horse and join them when I’m ready. She finishes by saying that if things get hectic Nick’ll have to get his hands dirty. I get the impression that whilst she clearly knows about Queenie, Nick hasn’t told her anything else. I appreciate that.

The apartment itself is stunning. A penthouse with a rooftop terrace and a fabulous view across the Leeds skyline. It’s fascinating by day and breathtaking at night. The terrace even has a lawn, and two life-size models of sheep grazing. I gather the master bedroom has all sorts of cunningly designed features—not quite a dungeon, but not far off. I did have a peep in there, but apart from a few hooks in the ceiling and the fact that the huge bed is situated in the centre of the room, the only really obvious piece of kit is a St Andrews cross mounted on the wall opposite the window. This is the tallest building around, though, so no danger of peeping Toms unless they’re in a passing aeroplane. Not that any of that need concern me—it’s hardly likely I’m going to be partaking of the facilities.

I’m using the guest bedroom, and now that Summer’s brought my things from Black Combe I have everything I need. Except for Nick.

The days drag by, and become a week. Then two weeks. I change my appointment from Barrow orthopaedic department to St James’ in Leeds, and I have the plaster cast removed from my arm. My wrist emerges a little skinny and pale, but none the worse really for the ordeal. And as Queenie continues to improve, slowly, I begin to think that maybe I could go back to Kendal. It’s time. I email Nick.

From: Freya Stone

To: Nick Hardisty

Date: 2 November 2013

Subject: Coming Home

Hello. How are you?

Queenie is doing well. I think I could come back to Cumbria now. I’ll be back at my apartment tomorrow sometime. I hope that’s OK with you.

I love you, and I miss you. Please, don’t be too long.

Freya

I agonised over that last line, deleted and rewrote it several times, then just pressed ‘Send’. It’s done now.

* * * *

The next morning I get up early. My plan is to drop in at the clinic first, then head off to Kendal from there. I carefully collect all my belongings from the guest bedroom and the bathroom and shove everything into a holdall. I dump it by the door and rummage in the fridge for something for breakfast.

As I munch on scrambled eggs on toast I think back to Nick’s curt response to my e-mail yesterday.

From: Nick Hardisty

To: Freya Stone

Date: 2 November 2013

Subject: Coming Home

Thank you for your email. All noted.

Regards

Nick

Well, at least he didn’t seem any angrier than when we last spoke. It’s been ten days—he must be calm by now. Surely.

I’m just heading for the lift, my holdall in one hand and Nathan’s key card in the other, when my phone pings to let me know I have a text. Hoping it might be Nick, maybe even something along the lines of
Welcome back
, or better still,
Come to Cartmel
, I drop my bag on the floor while I dig my phone from my pocket.

It isn’t from Nick, though. The text is from Pat.

Please come to clinic. Urgent.

My heart lurches. This can’t be good news. I text my reply.

On my way. 30 mins. What’s the problem?

A few seconds later I’m in the lift headed for the eighth floor where I’m going to drop the key card off at Nathan’s office, when the phone pings again.

We’ll talk when you get here.

Oh shit! I break into a trot as I head for my car, glad at least that I no longer have the pot on my wrist and can drive myself easily.

Pat’s waiting in the car park when I pull up, and he rushes over to my car to open the driver’s door. He looks as though he’s not slept all night, and I soon learn that he hasn’t.

“There’s a problem. Queenie’s developed a complication. Come on. The vet’s with her now. He’ll explain.”

I follow him, running to keep up as he hustles me along the familiar trail around the building to the stables and paddock at the back. As we turn the corner the first thing I see, which I really should not be seeing, is that the door to Queenie’s stall is open. That’s wrong. What’s to stop her just hobbling out? She’s not supposed to move around much, certainly not go strolling around the paddock or stableyard. There’s no way they’d leave her door open unless…

Sure enough, when we reach the stall I can see that Queenie’s not on her feet any longer. She’s lying on her side in the straw, and a vet is kneeling beside her, his stethoscope pressed against her sides. Her breathing sounds awful, laboured and harsh. I don’t need a stethoscope to tell me she’s poorly. Really poorly. The vet glances up as we enter, then stands to come and talk to us. I’ve seen him regularly over the last ten days, we’ve chatted. Well, sort of. He chats and I write on my phone. He’s called James Winterton. I understand that his wife has just given birth to twins.

His expression tells it all. He’s sad. Desperately sad. And, worse than that, he looks beaten. He takes my hand, shakes it, and I just stare at him, waiting for some sort of explanation for this setback. Because surely that’s all it is. Queenie was getting better, the worst was over. It was, I know it was.

“She’s developed laminitis. That’s an inflammation of the tissues in the hoof. It can be a complication of a fracture, especially in the front hooves, but it’s rare. We weren’t expecting it. Unfortunately, Queenie started to show signs late yesterday, and it’s developed very rapidly since. She’s in a lot of pain now.” His voice is soft, I think as much so as not to disturb Queenie as for my benefit.

My phone is in my hand immediately and I’m stabbing at the screen desperately, begging for good news.

Inflammation. That doesn’t sound too serious. Surely you can treat it.

I hand my phone to James.

He glances at my note, then back at me. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. The problem is, she’s developed the laminitis in her left front hoof. It’s probably been caused by undue strain as all her weight has been placed on that side as she’s tried to get around on three legs. Maybe aggravated some existing underlying condition. But it’s very uncomfortable, agony for her, in fact, as you can probably tell. And now she has no usable front legs. She can’t manage like that, Freya. It would take weeks for either leg to heal sufficiently for her to stand again, and for a horse that’s just not an option. I’m sorry…”

I shake my head, unable to comprehend that this disaster has just come at us, out of nowhere. She was fine yesterday, doing so well, and now—this.

So what are our options? What do you think we should do now?

I thrust the phone back under his nose.

He looks at my note, then at me. “We’re out of options. I’m so sorry…”

I just gape at him, uncomprehending. He can’t mean… No, not possible. It’s just a hoof, for God’s sake. Just a bit of inflammation.

Pat steps forward, drapes an arm across my shoulder and squeezes me. “We tried. We really tried everything, Freya. It was worth having a go, but we never anticipated this…” Neither man wants to actually put into words what’s now staring us in the face.