Runaway (14 page)

Belle wriggled further round with a squeal of pain and tried to roll. In a panic, I hauled on her halter. ‘Belle, no!’ I cried. ‘Get up!’

Belle was beside herself with pain. She fought me, desperate to roll in an attempt to relieve the agonizing pain in her belly. She groaned again. I pulled and pulled. I tried to push her. I even walloped her rump in an attempt to get her on her feet. ‘Get up!’ I shouted, beside myself with fear. ‘Get up, Belle, or you’ll kill yourself!’

Belle snorted, struggled to get up, but failed, sweating with pain and effort. I couldn’t do this alone. I had to get help.

Hurrying out of the stable, I started to run across the yard to the rooms where the senior grooms slept. On my way, I cannoned into a figure in the darkness. Whoever it was grabbed me. ‘What’s up, lad?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing running around the yard at night?’

I recognized the voice. I wouldn’t have chosen Bridges to help me right now, but at least he was experienced. ‘It’s Belle!’ I gasped. ‘She’s got colic and she’s trying to roll! I can’t get her on her feet!’

He uttered an oath under his breath, and hurried straight to Belle’s stall. I scurried after him.

With much coaxing, pushing, pulling, and swearing, between us we managed to get the poor, sick horse up. It seemed to me she had deteriorated even in the short time since I’d left her.

‘Open the door!’ Bridges ordered me once she was standing. ‘We’ll try walking her.’

I flung the stable door wide, and between us we led the trembling, snorting mare into the yard. The other horses, aware something unusual was going on, looked out of their boxes at us. Pitch, awake now, disturbed from his slumbers by the commotion, whickered to the mare and then neighed loudly. A flicker of her ears was the only sign Belle gave that she’d even noticed. The pain in her gut consumed all her attention.

Bridges squinted at the stable clock in the moonlight. ‘Half past one,’ he said. ‘We’ll walk her for a quarter of an hour and see if it helps. Can you fetch a blanket from the tack room, so she doesn’t get chilled? She’s in a muck sweat.’

I dived into the tack room, pulled a horse-blanket off the rack, and emerged with it. It was a chilly night, although the days were mild now. Bridges paused so I could throw the blanket over Belle and then we walked on, steadily, slowly, one either side of her head, frustrating her attempts to lie down and roll.

After five minutes, Belle stalled and looked as though her legs were going to go from under her. I stood in front of her, stroking her, speaking to her calmly. Bridges let me be, not criticizing me or pushing me aside as he usually did. I don’t know whether it worked, or whether the spasm passed by itself, but the horse grew calmer and started to walk again.

Belle’s belly gurgled and growled as we walked and each time it did, she paused, shuddering and writhing in pain. After quarter of an hour, we led her back into her stable.

‘Stay with her while I fetch a lantern and a towel to wipe her down,’ said Bridges. ‘Whatever you do, don’t let her roll. We don’t want her twisting a gut! But you know that,’ he added more to himself than to me. He disappeared into the darkness. I stood quietly, stroking the frightened horse, speaking to her soothingly. I felt she was calmer, but I couldn’t be sure.

It was several hours before we were certain Belle was on the mend. We both stayed with her until near dawn, speaking little to each other, but often to the horse. We found ourselves in tacit agreement on how to care for her, and we were proved right. By four o’clock, we were sure she was out of danger so Bridges went back to bed, leaving me in charge. We’d worked well together to tend a sick horse. I hoped it would lessen his resentment of me.

I wrapped my blanket around myself and lay down in the corner of the box. Belle was still restless at first, but after a while, exhausted by suffering so much pain, she lay down and slept. I lay close to her in the darkness, her warmth helping me relax. My relief left me feeling shaken and tearful. ‘I love you so much, Belle,’ I whispered to her in the darkness. I shuddered to think that if I hadn’t slept beside her tonight, we might have lost her.

It was bright light when I awoke, the sun streaming in. The yard was bustling beyond the half-door of Belle’s box. I’d slept right through the start of work. I checked Belle. She was still sleeping peacefully. Her temperature seemed normal and her hide was dry. I leaned back against her in relief, yawned, and stretched. A shadow fell on me and I jumped as both Bridges and Lawrence looked at me over the half-door of the box.

‘Good morning, Charlie,’ said Lawrence. ‘I gather we have you to thank that this valuable creature is still alive.’

I sat up, embarrassed to think how dirty and dishevelled I must look after a night caring for Belle and sleeping in her straw with her. I was dog-tired and I hurt all over. ‘Er … good morning, sir,’ I stammered, scrambling to my feet and brushing straw from my clothes. ‘Not just me, Mr Lawrence. Mr Bridges was doing a round of the yard anyway and would have found her.’

There was warmth in Lawrence’s smile that set my heart racing. ‘We’re grateful to you both,’ he said. He unlatched the half-door and stepped into the box to check Belle over. ‘Keep her quiet today,’ he instructed us. ‘I’ll speak to Miss Judith myself. Charlie, how are you feeling after your broken night? Do you feel up to beginning to learn to drive?’

I’d looked forward to learning to drive a horse in harness since Lawrence had first promised it. My tiredness faded in an instant.

‘I think the answer is yes, to judge by the boy’s expression,’ commented Bridges.

‘Very well,’ said Lawrence. ‘Get yourself washed, Charlie. And I mean thoroughly washed. I’m not taking you out looking like that nor reeking of the stables as you do. Livery, please! We have Lord Rutherford’s reputation to maintain. And see to it someone harnesses Sorrel to the gig, will you Bridges? Charlie, I’ll come and get you in an hour, once I’ve had my breakfast.’

‘You …
you’re
teaching me?’ I stammered.

A smile lit Lawrence’s face. ‘I’m both more patient and more courageous than Bridges,’ he said. ‘He’ll take over once you’re less likely to put the horse and gig in the ditch.’

Lawrence drove the gig out of the yard, negotiated the sharp corner through the gate, and then looked at me. ‘Ready to take a turn?’ he asked.

‘I can try,’ I replied nervously.

I’d been allowed a bucket of hot water from the kitchens and had hidden myself in an outhouse to wash thoroughly. My skin was pink and I smelled of soap. I’d even scrubbed my teeth. My new livery smelled of clean, new wool and my wig sat neatly on my head. I hoped I was no longer offensive to sit next to.

Lawrence slid over on the bench and indicated I should move into the central space. I moved closer to him and he put the reins into my hands, showing me how to hold them correctly. Sorrel sensed the change of driver at once, tossing her head briefly and picking up her pace for a moment.

‘Can you feel the contact with her mouth through the reins?’ asked Lawrence. ‘You need to maintain that at all times. Not too tight or she’ll fret. Not too loose or she’ll be in charge, not you. Unlike riding, the reins are the only contact you have.’

I nodded, trying to remember it all. ‘Though Sorrel would probably often do well enough by herself,’ I remarked. ‘The packhorse trains often used to go ahead of us on the road. They knew their way home.’

‘Ah, yes, you’ve worked the packhorse trains too, haven’t you?’ asked Lawrence. ‘A varied career for one so young.’

‘It wasn’t for long. I was filling in for Martha’s boy who got his leg broken.’

‘I see. Keep her going steadily up this hill. She wants to slow down.’

I urged Sorrel to maintain her pace and smiled as she responded. ‘It’s not so very different from riding,’ I observed.

‘There are differences,’ Lawrence replied. ‘You have no leg contact, of course. You need to learn to judge the width of your vehicle, or there are places you may get into trouble. That’s something a carriage horse can’t do for you. She won’t find her way either, as we don’t follow a regular route like your packhorses. We’ll turn left at the end of the carriageway. I don’t think the road down to the Bath is the best one for a learner.’

I drew Sorrel to a halt as we reached the road, to check for other vehicles. Lawrence put his hand over mine to demonstrate how to turn left and to instruct the horse to trot. He then sat back and watched me, one arm resting on the back of the seat. I felt my colour rise under his scrutiny. I concentrated hard on driving Sorrel to the best of my ability.

‘So where did you grow up, Charlie?’ asked Lawrence at last. ‘Who were your parents?’

I cast him a sideways glance, wondering whether it was normal for a man of his status to take an interest in a lowly stable boy. I faced forward and wondered how much to tell him.

‘I can’t imagine why you’re interested,’ I said frankly, playing for time.

‘It’s my job, as Lord Rutherford’s steward, to take an interest in all the staff,’ Lawrence told me casually. ‘Besides, an air of mystery clings to you.’

‘A mystery would be far more exciting than the truth,’ I told him with a fast-beating heart. I’m merely the d … son … of a soldier who died in poverty and I must make my own way in the world.’ I’d so nearly said daughter. How could I be so careless?

‘Don’t fret the horse,’ said Lawrence, his eyes still on me.

My nerves had transferred themselves down the reins. Sorrel had shaken her head and increased her speed. I hated being observed so closely.

Lawrence put his hands over mine and drew Sorrel back to a walk. My hands trembled at the unexpected touch, but he released me again as soon as Sorrel had slowed. Did he suspect something? I felt suddenly unsure of myself. As though my disguise were the most ridiculous and transparent sham ever.

‘So where was your father stationed?’

‘All over the place. We followed him everywhere,’ I said evasively.

‘France?’

‘Er … yes. And the Americas.’

‘But you returned to England?’

‘My father wished it so.’

‘That’s unusual,’ commented Lawrence. ‘Normally the soldiers who go to the Americas stay. There are better opportunities over there.’

‘I know. That’s what my brother Robert felt. He chose to … ’ I bit my lip hurriedly.

‘To stay? So you have an older brother.’ Lawrence looked keenly interested. Now I might really have put myself, and Robert, in danger. Lawrence and the surroundings of Deerhurst seemed far removed from the squalor and want of London and the horror of my father’s murder, but who was to say?

‘In what year were you born, Charlie?’

Lawrence fired the question at me unexpectedly and I faltered. I was fairly sure I’d told him I was thirteen, but I couldn’t work out quickly which year my birth would be. ‘Uh … 1708. No, I mean 1712.’ I felt a burning flush spread over my face and neck at my own stupidity. Why had I not worked out my new birth date before being asked? I never could do arithmetic under pressure.

‘1710, then. I see. Why did you feel the need to lie to me about your age?’

My face was still tingling. I kept my eyes fixed between Sorrel’s ears and tried to calm down enough to think straight. Lawrence had led me into talking about myself and then cornered me. Why?

‘I could understand it if you’d told me you were older. Why younger? It makes no sense.’

I hung my head. ‘I thought you would think me a small, skinny thing, perhaps not up to the work,’ I told him, squirming uncomfortably.

‘I’d already offered you the job,’ Lawrence sounded more puzzled than angry. ‘There was no need to conceal the truth.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

There was a long silence, during which Lawrence continued to look at me. I felt deeply uneasy. It was hard not to recall those posters in London. Could Mr Lawrence have seen them and made the connection with me? Was I under suspicion? My heart beating quickly with fear, I sought to change the subject, to distract Lawrence from thinking about me.

‘I’ve told you about myself,’ I said, rather breathlessly. ‘What about you? Have you always lived here? If I’m permitted to ask you, that is,’ I added diffidently.

‘Of course you are permitted,’ replied Lawrence calmly. ‘No, I haven’t always lived here. I grew up in north Gloucestershire. My father was a navy man, though we didn’t follow him as you followed yours. He came and went. He was killed in 1712.’

‘I’m sorry. It must have been hard for you to lose him.’

‘It was. I was fourteen and my mother had four younger ones to provide for. I was very fortunate to be taken on here. Although I’m related to Lord Rutherford, he was under no obligation to provide for me.’

This gave me a different perspective on Lawrence. I knew he was employed by his lordship, but I’d thought of him as part of the family. Now I could see he might live in the house but he was separate from them; more servant than relation.

As we drove back through the open lodge gates, Mrs Saunders was standing at the door of the lodge house with a curtsey and a greeting. Her eyes were on me, I noticed, not on Lawrence. There was an anxious look in them, almost a look of longing, that made me uneasy all over again. I nodded to her but drove Sorrel on at a steady trot, not relaxing until we were out of sight.