The Silver Falcon (4 page)

Three happy years. Marred perhaps by twinges of uncertainty, because there was so much about him that she didn't know, and there was a sense of disappointment which she suppressed because he didn't want her to have children. It was soon sublimated in her devotion to him. It was a warm, secure world, presided over by her husband. She moved her chair closer to his bed, and took his hand in hers. It had wasted like his body; the veins stood out like cords above the pallid skin; his hands were the epitome of him. Large and strong, with a thick powerful wrist: they could be gentle with her and at the same time hold the strongest horse. She stayed by his bedside in the chair, from the evening through the night, sleeping in fits, but mostly awake and quietly waiting. Although he didn't show any sign of consciousness, she felt that he knew she was near.

She saw the dawn come up, creeping above the grey window panes, turning the glass rosy until the pink became suffused with gold as the sun rose. She had left the curtains open; it was Charles's habit to sleep like that. He disliked the dark; he liked to wake to the sight of his own green fields. Isabel felt stiff and tired; she went into the big marble bathroom which led off their bedroom, and washed in cold water. Her reflection looked hollow-eyed and weary. It was six thirty; the household would be stirring soon. As she turned to come back into the bedroom she saw that Charles Schriber was awake.

She stroked his forehead; it was cold, as cold as his cheek when she kissed him. ‘I'll get the nurse, darling,' she whispered. ‘She'll help me make you comfortable.' Slowly he shook his head. He was breathing with slow, laboured breaths and he caught at her with his hand, drawing her down to him.

‘No nurse … I want you, Isabel. Only you. Stay with me.' The eyes were dull, the hand fell away, slack and powerless to keep hold of her.

‘I'm here,' she whispered. ‘Don't worry. I'm with you.' She put her arms around him, resting his head against her breast.

‘You've been here all night,' he said. ‘I felt you.'

‘Don't talk,' Isabel soothed him. ‘Stay quiet, darling, don't tire yourself.…'

‘I've left you everything,' he said. ‘The stud, the horses, everything. You're the best thing that ever happened to me.… I want you to have it all. And the Falcon –' He made an effort to raise himself and failed. She could see that every word was a tremendous effort, and she tried to quiet him, but he went on, driving himself by the force of an indomitable will.

‘The Falcon … he'll win the Derby. I want you to race him for me. I want you to promise me – promise me you'll send him over. Carry my colours … even if I don't see it. Promise me!'

‘I promise,' Isabel said. ‘I promise you, darling. I'll do just what you want.'

‘I wanted to win that damned race.…' For a moment his voice sank to a mumble, repeating the words again and again. ‘I bred him for it. Just for the Derby. He'll do it. I know he will … you do this for me, Isabel. The last thing …'

‘Nothing will stop me,' she said. ‘I give you my promise.' He sighed as if a burden had been lifted from him; for a moment his eyes closed. Isabel knew that death was very near; she held him close and tight against her.

‘Richard …' She could hardly hear him. It was a hoarse, slow whisper.

‘Don't have him round after I've gone. Don't ever trust him … he'll try and stop you running the Falcon … he knows how much it means.… Don't let him near you, Isabel.… I won't be here to take care …' He didn't finish the sentence; his breathing deepened, a harsh choking sound came in his throat. She knew its significance, and her tears fell. She was holding him against her like a child when a few minutes later he died.

There were no arrangements for Isabel to make; Charles had thought of everything. He had planned his funeral; he wanted a service in the Episcopalian church and a private burial in the grounds of his home, near his beloved horses. He had left a list specifying the close friends who were to be invited to the final ceremony.

The day of his death passed in a curious blur for Isabel. From the time she left his bedroom the sense of unreality grew stronger. It couldn't have happened. It wasn't possible that the long sad weeks of waiting had culminated that morning. She saw Rogers, who gathered the old black cook, weeping copiously, the three indoor maids and a young boy who had run general errands round the house, into the drawing room, and told them that Charles was dead. There was a silence, broken by the butler clearing his throat; there were tears in his eyes.

‘He was a fine man, Mis Schriber. We're surely going to miss him. We want yuh to know we'll do anythin' we can for you. Just like it was for him.'

She thanked them; when they went out, closing the door, she was alone in the room where she had been married. She had never felt more lonely in her life, nor more determined not to fail him in the smallest detail.

And the most important was five miles away in his private trainer's yard. His last wish, wrung from his sinking body with such effort, was for the grey colt, Silver Falcon. Promise me … the words whispered again in her mind, and then the others followed them. Richard … don't ever trust him.… She shut them out. To be so implacable even in the moment before death – and now it was too late. She hadn't sent the cable in time. There would be no reconciliation now.

She went round to the back of the house; the hours had fled by and it was late afternoon. She took the Range Rover out of the garage and drove round to the back gates.

A few minutes later she drove through the entrance to the training yard, and pulled up outside Tim Ryan's bungalow.

The stables for Charles's two-and three-year-olds were part of a handsome complex, and included the bungalows occupied by Harry Grogan and his wife, and Tim Ryan. Each was bordered by a low white paling fence, with a small well-kept garden. The staff quarters were a modern, brick-built building, backing on to the two-year-old fillies' yard, which was sheltered on three sides to protect the more delicate female stock.

Tim opened the door as she got out. He came towards her, and she knew that he had heard the news. He held out his hand and took both of hers.

‘Andy telephoned,' he said. ‘I'm terribly sorry. He was a grand man. Come inside.'

‘No,' Isabel said. ‘I'd like to see the Falcon first. It'll help me, Tim.'

‘If you say so, of course. We'll walk round. Do you want me to get Grogan?'

She shook her head. Grogan was a talkative, tough professional; she had never got on to close terms with him or his wife.

‘No, I'd rather see him with you,' she said. They walked down towards the rectangular yard where the horses' boxes stood. It was a clear evening, but chill with the approach of winter. The unmistakable odour of horseflesh was stronger than usual. As soon as they approached the first line of boxes a Security guard approached them; he held a German Shepherd dog on a chain leash. When he saw Ryan and Isabel he saluted and went back to his post.

Ever since a neighbour had lost three valuable two-year-olds, every stud and private stable had its nightwatchman, some of them armed or with guard dogs. The three colts had been found with their front tendons cut, and had to be destroyed. It was never proved, but there was a rumour that their trainer had resisted pressure to pull an odds-on favourite in a five-furlong race at Saratoga. The bookmaking syndicate had taken their revenge. As Charles told Isabel, soon after she arrived there were aspects of racing which had nothing to do with sport.

Tim Ryan stopped at a big box situated at the end of the line, close to the covered school, where the horses were exercised in bad weather. He switched on the outside light, unlatched the top door and Isabel came up beside him. The horse was resting. He stood in one corner, near the bulging haynet, his off hind leg at rest; when the light came on he turned his head and looked at them. His ears had gone flat back.

‘I'll go in first,' Ryan said. ‘You don't come in till I've got hold of him.'

The colt watched him come across the straw; there was a malevolent look in the big bold eye. Ryan was talking to him; he had a way with horses, especially with the more difficult ones, and he was a genius with fillies. Even the most temperamental responded to him. He slipped a head collar over the colt's neck and buckled it on. He hooked his fingers in the strap, and called to Isabel.

‘Come on in; mind you don't get too near his quarters. He's been a real bastard today. I'll tie him up and then strip him off for you.' He attached the head collar to a piece of twine, which was fastened in turn to a chain hooked into a ring in the wall. It was just strong enough to let the animal know he was tethered, but a sudden backward jerk would break it without damage to the horse's neck muscles. Isabel stood some feet away, near to the colt's head. Ryan, still murmuring and patting his neck, unbuckled the surcingle that held his rugs in place, and slipped them off.

‘There,' he said. ‘Doesn't he look great?'

The dark, iron-grey coat was gleaming with health, and the loins and quarters were broad and tight with muscle. He stood all of sixteen-two hands high, his mane and tail were black. He had a proud head set on a magnificent full neck. Isabel stood watching him in silence. The living result of Charles Schriber's years of careful planning, a horse bred with one specific prize in mind. The most prestigious of them all. The Epsom Derby.

He had explained it all to her one night, tracing the cross breeding to the great Derby winner Hyperion and Nearco on the male line and the Phalaris blood from the dam's side. The dam, Silvia, had won two American Classics for Charles; she was a beautiful, sweet-natured filly who went on to become a very successful brood mare. He had mated her with his best Classic stallion Silver Dancer. Her first two foals were fillies. The final result of that third mating stood in front of her, the embodiment of one man's ambition. A superb, beautifully bred Classic colt. He had raced as a two-year-old, winning the Champagne Stakes at Belmont by three lengths and the Futurity at Laurel Park, again by a comfortable margin. He turned his eye to look at her; a rim of white showed round it. His dam had loved being handled and trusted human beings. She hadn't passed the characteristics on to her son. From the time he was foaled, he had resented being touched by anyone. His temper was notorious; his ferocity with the stable lads made him unpopular, but by contrast it seemed to amuse Charles.

‘Just high spirited, that's all he is – won't stand any goddamned messing around –' she could remember him saying it and laughing. He had almost taken pride in the colt's temperament; he spoke of it as if it were in a way an extension of himself. And he refused to approach him with caution, as Tim and Grogan advised. He would march up to him in his box, grab him by the head collar to restrain the colt from snapping at him, pat him on the neck and exult out loud.

Isabel looked at Tim.

‘He looks marvellous. Thank you, Tim.'

‘I'll rug him up again; we don't want him catching cold.' She left the box as he slipped off the colt's head collar. He swung round and came towards them as Tim shut and fastened both upper and lower doors. Tim switched out the light. It was quite dark outside. He did something he had never done before. He put his arm round her.

‘It may sound funny,' he said, ‘but I felt he was in there with us.'

‘So did I,' Isabel said. ‘And I believe he was.'

‘I'm going to take you back to the bungalow and get a brandy inside you,' Tim said. ‘And then I'm going to make us both something to eat. You're not going up to that house tonight until you step into your bed.'

He grilled two steaks and made a salad; she wasn't allowed to help. And she hadn't realized that she was hungry; he had given her a brandy and followed it with a full-bodied red wine. Some of the raw sensibilities were dulled and she found herself at peace, sitting opposite to him. And then she told him what Charles had said.

‘He's left me the stud,' she said. ‘And he wants me to carry on exactly as he did. More than anything, he wants the Falcon to run in the Derby next year. I promised him I'd go ahead with all his plans. And I'm going to keep that promise. I hope you'll help me, Tim.'

‘You know I will. I'll be right behind you, every step of the way. And I'm glad, Isabel – I'm glad you're going to carry on. We have a great tradition here. Nobody's said anything around the place, because they all trusted Charles to take care of them, but they're going to be very relieved you're taking it on. And you'll make a success of it. We'll all see to that.'

‘It won't be easy,' she said. She sipped the wine. ‘In a way I'm scared of the responsibility. But in another way I'm glad of it. I'm glad he gave it to me. I've got something to work for. And I'm going to win that race for him. Carrying his colours.'

‘He loved that colt,' Tim said. ‘I've never known a man so obsessed as he was. You remember the night he was foaled?'

‘I'd just arrived,' she said. ‘He took me along to watch.'

‘When it looked as if the mare was in difficulties, I had to hold him back from going in to her – remember that? And then the little fellow came through and he was beside himself, he was so excited. He was determined she'd have a colt, and there it was. After two matings, both producing fillies by the Dancer, she'd given him his Derby colt. God, we got through the champagne that night!'

Isabel didn't need to be reminded. It had almost been her introduction to life at Beaumont, that night when she was rung through on the house telephone and told to come downstairs because Mr Schriber wanted to show her something important. It was two in the morning. The viewing box, filled with Grogan, Tim Ryan, Geoffrey Oliver and Charles, a fire burning to keep out the cold, a table with whisky and glasses, everyone peering through the window into the foaling box, where the mare was in labour. The anxiety, Charles swearing and arguing with the vet when things looked complicated, and then the moment when the little foal was thrown, and Charles had dragged her forward to the window to look. A leggy, wet, bedraggled little creature, struggling to get up, slipping and stumbling and then finally straddled on his four feet.