Joan Wolf (5 page)

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But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

—William Wordsworth

As Lord Rayleigh was beginning to realize, the gates of childhood were closing behind Jane and David. Even Jane, most oblivious of them all, was aware of changes. Dimly she understood that the old union of Jane-and-David was being threatened and, being Jane, she fought back. And, because other people had no importance to her, she assumed the change was emanating from David. They had always done things together; now he did things she was unable to do. He had reached his full growth of six feet two inches and his body, from hard work and exercise, was lean and hard. Jane felt he was leaving her behind and hated her few inches and lack of strength. She strove all through that summer to prove herself equal to him. Her silent struggle came to a head a week before she was due back at school.

The Marquis had recently purchased a new horse, an iron-gray stallion with a vicious temper. He wanted the horse primarily as a stud but planned to race him lightly, so he had to be kept in the stable and exercised regularly. It usually fell to David to ride him; very few of the grooms could handle him. Jane had asked to try him once and David had told her curtly that she wouldn't be able to hold him.

Her eyes had flashed, but she hadn't challenged him. She waited until he was not around one afternoon and then she entered the stable. “Saddle Condottiere for me,” she said imperiously to one of the younger grooms.

He gaped at her. “But, Lady Jane—"

"Don't argue with me,” she said, her chin rising ominously, “saddle him.” Centuries of command sounded in her clear voice.

"Yes, my lady,” the groom mumbled, and went to do her bidding.

She had been gone ten minutes when David returned. “Mr. David, Mr. David!” Stubbs, one of the senior grooms, hastened to tell him. “Lady Jane has taken Condottiere out."

"What?” David's head snapped around quickly. “When?"

"Ten minutes ago."

There was a white line around David's mouth. “Where did she go?"

"To the heath, Mr. David."

"Get me Alexander,” David said briefly, and stood waiting while the black horse was saddled and brought to him. He did not blame anyone for allowing her to ride the gray. He knew Jane well enough to guess what had happened. There were two sharp lines between his brows and he did not look young at all.

He left the stableyard at a full gallop and came upon Jane five minutes later. She was having a hard time with Condottiere. The gray horse wanted to run and Jane's arms and shoulders ached from trying to hold him to a slow gallop. Once he got hold of the bit she knew she would have a runaway. She was afraid, more for the horse than for herself, and the sound of galloping hooves behind her was very welcome. She gripped the reins tightly and in a minute Alexander was beside her and David had his hand on Condottiere's bridle. The two horses slowed to a walk, then a halt.

David swung out of the saddle and went to stand at Condottiere's head. “Get down,” he said roughly to Jane. Obediently she slid to the ground and went to take Alexander's reins from him. There was blood on her hands from where the reins had cut them. “Serves you right,” he said tensely, his eyes on those hands. She opened her mouth to speak but he cut across her, “We are going back to the stable. Get up on Alexander.” He waited until she was in the saddle, then mounted the great gray, turned him, and headed toward Heathfield without a backward glance to see if she was following.

She was. They arrived at the stable together and were met by most of the grooms, led by Tuft. David's mobile mouth was compressed. He waited for Jane to dismount, then said curtly, “Wait for me in the tack room.” He led the gray horse into the stable and the grooms looked tentatively at Jane and waited for the explosion.

None came. She held her head high, but she walked to the tack room and closed the door behind her. Once she was safely inside she went to sit apprehensively in “their” corner. She had never seen David so angry.

No one else in the stable had ever seen him like this, either. They were used to Jane's tempers; they were almost proud of them. But David was another matter; he was always soft-spoken and calm, gentle and easy-going. They were more frightened of his grim mouth and the leaping light in his golden eyes than they ever were of Jane's fireworks.

David deliberately took his time with Condottiere, hoping the familiar routine would help to calm him down. He wanted to shake Jane until her teeth rattled. When he finally opened the door to the tack room and saw her sitting so meekly waiting for him, his rage flared up once more.

"I could murder you,” he grated between shut teeth.

Unexpectedly, she hung her head. “I'm sorry, David,” she said low. “I was wrong. I won't ever do it again.” She looked at him a trifle anxiously. “He wasn't hurt, was he?"

Outside the door the grooms, who had managed to find work in the immediate vicinity, exchanged looks of amazement. “Did you hear what I did?” Stubbs asked Holland.

"She said she was wrong,” he replied in a dazed tone.

"All right, now,” Tuft said briskly, having heard what he was most interested in, “get back to work, lads. Enough hanging about.” They scattered to other areas of the stable, their opinion of David higher than ever.

Inside, David was saying furiously, “The hell with the bloody horse. Do you realize you might have killed yourself?"

Her sea-blue eyes widened slightly as she realized that his fury stemmed from concern for her. She stood quietly and let a torrent of words, all of which described her character in highly unflattering terms, pass unchallenged over her head. When he had finally run out of breath, she took a step closer to him. “I'm sorry,” she repeated. “I was stupid. Forgive me, David."

He stared at her for a long moment, the force of his rage spent. Her ribbon had come loose and her black hair hung in a sheer mantle almost to her waist. Her eyes looked enormous and her mouth trembled slightly. He swallowed. “Let me see your hands,” he said in a more normal tone. Obediently she came across to him and made no murmur as he cleaned and bound the ugly weals on her palms.

"Why did you do it?” he asked finally when he had put away the medical kit.

She refused to meet his eyes. “It was just ... oh, I don't know.” She made a vague gesture with her bandaged hand.

He looked at the shining black head, the top of which reached just below his chin, and felt a sudden pain somewhere in the region of his heart. “Tell me,” he said gently.

She looked up at him, her light eyes suddenly bright. “Oh, I wish I were a boy!” she cried passionately.

David's eyes were golden as he regarded the reed-slim figure before him. He put out a hand and touched her hair; it felt like soft silk. He noticed for the first time the beautiful way her head was set on her slender neck. Suddenly he was fiercely glad she was not a boy. He said as much, standing with his hand buried in the soft darkness of her hair. “I like you just the way you are. I don't want you to change at all."

Jane was oddly still as her great light eyes searched his face. “Really?” she said wonderingly.

"Really.” There was no mistaking the utter sincerity of his tone.

She smiled, the enchanting smile she reserved only for him. “I feel better,” she said.

Reluctantly he took his hand from her hair. “Good. I can take a few hours off this afternoon. Do you want to ride out to Marren Hill?"

"Yes. I would like that."

They left the tack room together as in accord with each other as usual. They both knew that something of importance had occurred between them, although neither was quite sure what it was.

The day before Jane left for school, George and Laura Rivingdale rode over to Heathfield to see the Marquis's new horse. The Rivingdales owned a small stud some seven miles from Heathfield and for the few weeks a year they were in residence they were neighbors.

It was a crisp, sunny day when the Marquis appeared in the stableyard leading the Rivingdales. David and Jane had been out on the heath with a few of the grooms exercising the hunters and their arrival in the yard coincided with the Marquis's. The Marquis called to David and he came over, handing his horse's reins to one of the grooms.

Laura Rivingdale looked at him and her eyes narrowed. A lock of sun-bleached hair had fallen forward over his forehead. His shirt was open and she could see the golden-brown column of his neck, the pulse beating strongly in the hollow of his throat. There was about him a curious and almost godlike air of simplicity and directness. She thought again of Michelangelo. She asked him a question about the horse and he replied, looking at her in a friendly, unsmiling way.

Jane came up to them and exchanged greetings in her cool, composed voice. “You've come to see Condottiere?” she said. “David had better bring him out."

A corner of David's mouth twitched and he gave her a half-glance, amused and tender. Laura stared after him for a moment, then her eyes turned, speculatively, to Jane. She was surprised by what she saw. The plain child, who had so astonished the neighborhood by her riding prowess, was growing up. Jane was beautiful. Laura's eyes moved from the striking face to the resilience and vigorous perfection of the young body, clothed so casually in an old riding outfit. Jane, unaware of her scrutiny, was talking easily with her uncle and Mr. Rivingdale, discussing the merits of the hunter she had been riding. David brought Condottiere out and the great gray was duly admired by the assembled company. Before they left, Laura Rivingdale ascertained that Jane was leaving for school the next day. She found this piece of information extremely interesting.

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Doth she not think me an old murderer,

Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy....

—William Shakespeare

Jane returned to school for her last year. This September she was almost looking forward to going back. She had worked all summer on a painting that she was anxious for Miss Becker to see.

Jane's position at school had changed radically in the three years she had been there. The distrust and uneasiness of her first year had given way to genuine admiration. Jane Fitzmaurice suffered from none of the uncertainties or insecurities that beset most adolescent girls. She went her way with a sublime disregard of either the customs or conventions that held the other girls in bondage. She was totally uninterested in romance, a topic that loomed large in the minds and the conversations of the other girls; yet no one was oblivious to the fact that the dancing master and the Italian master looked upon Jane with obvious admiration. She treated them with the arctic aloofness she reserved for anyone she did not greatly care for. The intensity of her feelings for David preserved her from the schoolgirl fantasies of her fellow students. She was both more innocent and more mature than they.

She waited two days before she mentioned her painting to Miss Becker. The art mistress asked to see it immediately and Jane brought it down to the small art room which was, blessedly, empty of everyone but themselves. She propped the canvas up on an easel by the window and stepped back, her eyes on Miss Becker's face, her brows tense with anticipation.

The woman's eyes widened as she looked at the painting before her. It was a picture of a boy and a horse standing in the middle of a grassy heath. What made it so extraordinary was the quality of the light she had achieved. It was a golden picture, full of the pure light of sun and sky and meadow. The boy, brown and gold as a young god, stood quietly holding the glossy chestnut horse whose coat reflected the light of the sun. It was dazzling, yet it was curiously peaceful, Miss Becker thought. Just so must the world have looked before the fall.

She turned to Jane, a look almost of reverence on her face. “It is beautiful, Jane. But you knew that."

Jane's face relaxed. “I thought it was good,” she said cautiously.

"It is more than good. You are a painter, my dear."

"No,” Jane contradicted. “I'm not a painter yet. But someday I will be."

"You are one now.” Miss Becker looked again at the painting. “There are some techniques you have still to learn, but your use of color is extraordinary.” She looked at Jane curiously. “What are you going to do with this?"

"Give it to David for his birthday."

"Is that David in the picture?” Miss Becker was the only one at Miss Farner's who knew anything about him.

"Yes."

"He is beautiful."

"Yes,” said Jane matter-of-factly. “I think so."

The Christmas holidays came and Jane was at Heathfield to give David his picture on his seventeenth birthday, which was two days after Christmas day. Then she returned to school and winter set in. On February twelfth, Laura Rivingdale returned to Hailsham Lodge, having become extremely bored with her husband and children, all of whom were at their main residence near Canterbury in Kent. She had thought of going to London, but the idea of London in February was blighting. It did not take her long to decide that Newmarket would be more amusing.

When her husband expressed surprise at her decision, she simply shrugged and said she needed to get away. He suspected she had a new lover and, since he had a new mistress he wanted the freedom to pursue, he made no objections to her going.

Laura Rivingdale was a very beautiful woman and at the moment she was very bored. She was tall and statuesque, with slanting green eyes and lovely, tawny hair. She had married George Rivingdale when she was eighteen and had given him two sons. After that she felt she had done her duty and they both looked elsewhere for their pleasures. The children were being reared by a nursemaid at their home in Kent.

She came to Newmarket because she could not forget David's face. When she rode over to Heathfield, it was to discover that Jane had returned to school and the Marquis was at a houseparty at Bellerman Hall. She managed to run down David in the stables. He was courteous, although he obviously had no idea what it was she wanted. She left after a few minutes, her image of him only reinforced by the flesh-and-blood reality. He looked curiously innocent and pure, she thought. Really beautiful. She was very glad she had come.