The Horse Dancer (58 page)

He had raised an eyebrow. ‘How many other English girls on horses do you think they see around here?’

Their guide gestured to them. They had hurried through courtyards, through long stableyards, where horses stood eating peacefully in stalls, out into the brisk winter air until, outside a tall white building, Natasha recognised the pony-tailed woman who had met them.

‘
Ici, Madame,
’ she said, beckoning. ‘She is in the Grand Manège des écuyers. Our presentation arena.’ As Natasha passed her, the girl had smiled, her eyes wide. ‘She has come all the way from England? Alone?
C’est
incroyable
, eh?’

‘Yes,’ said Natasha. ‘It is.’

They were back in the front foyer beneath the photographs, the gilded roll of members past. Another door opened, and she saw that Mac, in front of her, had stopped in his tracks. No one spoke. The building was vast, a monument to the art of horsemanship, the echoing space inside dotted with black-clad men on horses. It was like walking into an old master, she thought. They could have stepped back five hundred years. The man with the walkie-talkie murmured something to the girl, who gestured to them to follow her to the audience seating below.

She felt Mac’s hand tugging at her sleeve. ‘Tash, look,’ he said quietly.

Natasha followed his line of vision, walking down the steps after him until they reached the side of the arena.

Sarah was riding very slowly towards the centre. Her horse, the boisterous, glossy animal that had been in such rude health in Kent, was scratched and muddy. Two makeshift bandages sat bulkily on his knees and there were burrs in his tail. His eyes were hollow with exhaustion. But it was Sarah she saw: the child was so pale that she seemed ghostly, ethereal. A huge bruise had half closed one eye; her back and right leg bore a continent of mud. She looked too small for the great horse, her thin hands red with cold. To all this she seemed oblivious: she was lost entirely in what she was doing.

A short distance away an old man stood unnaturally upright in his black coat and breeches. He was watching Sarah, as she asked Boo to trot, to canter, created small, elegant circles around the men who stood on their own horses, watching impassively. Natasha found she could not take her eyes off her. Sarah looked like someone else, frail and older than her years. The horse slowed to a trot, then moved diagonally across the vast space, his hooves flicking forward in a balletic movement as if each step was suspended briefly by air alone. And then, straightening, almost impossibly, he slowed until he was doing it without moving forward.

Sarah’s face was a mask of concentration, the strain revealing itself in the shadows around her eyes, the tense set of her jaw. Natasha watched the minuscule movements of her heels, the tiny messages she sent through the reins. She could see the horse listening, accepting, obeying even through its fatigue, and understood that while she knew nothing about horses, what she was watching was beautiful, something that could only be achieved through years of relentless discipline and endless work. She glanced at Mac, beside her, and knew that he could see it too. He was leaning forward, his eyes locked on the girl as if willing her to succeed.

The horse’s legs moved up and down, a rhythmic dance, his great head lowering in obedience to the task. Only the flecks of spittle that sprayed from his mouth betrayed the effort this movement cost him. And then he was travelling around, dancing a circle around his own hindquarters, a controlled, flowing manoeuvre that made Natasha want to applaud for the elegance, the unlikeliness of it. Sarah murmured something to Boo under her breath, a small hand reaching out to thank him; a tiny gesture that brought tears to Natasha’s eyes. Then, as the horse rose suddenly on to his hind legs, teetering, absorbed in the effort of combating gravity, she was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched the lost child and the broken horse giving their all. She felt, she realised, proprietorial.

She felt Mac’s hand surround hers and squeezed it, grateful for its warmth, its strength, afraid suddenly that it might let hers go. And then Sarah was cantering around the edge of the vast arena, a beautiful, slow, controlled pace, almost too slow for movement, her body as motionless as if she had been carved. And as Natasha glanced at the old man, she saw that the others, on the horses, had removed their hats, were sliding them down their chests in a formal gesture, and one by one were striking off in the same direction, following her, their heads dipped, as if in salute to what they had seen.

Mac dropped her hand and reached for his camera, firing off shots. Scrabbling for a tissue, Natasha realised she was glad. What Sarah had done was magnificent. She should have someone to record it for her.

The horse slowed to a trot, then to a walk. The men replaced their hats, glancing at each other, as if even they were surprised by what they had found themselves doing. As the girl walked up the centre of the arena, facing the old man, they peeled off to the sides to watch. Sarah, grey now with the effort of what she had achieved, stopped her horse squarely in front of him, all four feet lined up neatly beneath him, his shoulders now slick with the sweat of effort and exhaustion.

‘She’s done it,’ Mac was murmuring. ‘Sarah, you beauty, you’ve only done it.’

The girl, breathing hard, dropped her head, saluting the old man, a warrior, returning from battle. The old man removed his own hat, nodding in reply. Natasha could see, even from where she was sitting, how intently the girl was watching him, how every atom of her strained to hear his judgement. She discovered she was holding her breath and reached again for Mac’s hand.

The Grand Dieu stepped forward. He looked at Sarah, as if he was trying to see something in her that he had not already seen. His face was sombre, his eyes kind.

‘
Non,
’ he said. ‘I am sorry, young lady, but
non
.’ He reached out a hand and stroked her horse’s neck.

Sarah’s eyes widened as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. She clutched Boo’s mane, then glanced to the spectator area, perhaps seeing Natasha and Mac for the first time. Then, with an almost imperceptible breath, she slid off her horse in a dead faint.

 

 

 

She was silent for the short journey back to the château, accepting without protest Natasha’s hand around hers, perhaps there for reassurance, perhaps from fear that she might disappear. They didn’t push her to speak; it was understood that this was not the time for questions.

When they reached the château, Natasha took Sarah upstairs to her room, undressed her as if she was a much younger child, and laid her on the big bed. As she brought the covers over the thin shoulders the girl closed her eyes and slept. Natasha sat beside her, one hand resting on the arc of her sleeping body, as if that small human contact might offer comfort. She was not sure she had ever seen anyone look so pale, so hollowed-out. Now that she allowed herself to consider the scale of what Sarah had been through she was profoundly shaken.

For a few moments after the Grand Dieu had given his verdict, chaos had broken loose. As Sarah had hit the sand she and Mac had run, in tandem, into the arena, Mac scooping up the seemingly lifeless body as the Grand Dieu caught hold of the horse. Dimly aware of the shouted exclamations, Mademoiselle Fournier’s hands flying to her face as Mac passed through, Natasha remembered being surprised by how effortlessly he had lifted Sarah, as if she weighed nothing, and how moved she had been by the protective way in which he held her close to him. Some minutes later, as Sarah gradually came round in an office close by, they had placed themselves on each side of her, Natasha cradling her head. The epic nature of her journey had briefly separated her from them, making her someone to whom neither of them knew how to respond.

And then Sarah had looked up at Mac, uncomprehending, and closed her eyes again, as if what she saw was too much to cope with.

‘It’s all right, Sarah,’ Natasha found herself saying, stroking her sweaty, matted hair. ‘You’re not alone. You’re not alone now.’ But the girl hadn’t seemed to hear her.

The resident doctor, summoned from the other end of the École Nationale, had diagnosed a fractured collar-bone and severe bruising, but recommended that what the child needed more than anything was rest. Tea was brought. Orangina. Biscuits. Sarah was urged to eat, drink, and obliged half-heartedly. Voices spoke urgently in French. Natasha barely heard them. She held the girl, who seemed unable to support herself, trying to will strength and courage into her. Trying to apologise for all the ways in which she had failed her.

C’est incroyable
. The tale had spread swiftly across the École Nationale, and groups of people emerged, some in jodhpurs and peaked caps, to glimpse the young English girl who had ridden halfway across France.

C’est incroyable
. Natasha heard it whispered as Mac carried Sarah to the car. She observed, as if from a distance, that the glances that followed them were a little less admiring. As if Sarah’s triumph could only have been achieved by some deficiency on her and Mac’s part. She felt no resentment at this; in her view they were probably right.

Boo was taken to the veterinary centre to have his injuries dressed and would spend the night in the stables. It was, the Grand Dieu remarked, the least they could do for such an animal. Mac said afterwards that he had stood in front of the stable for some time, gazing over the door as Boo, fed, watered and bandaged, lowered himself on to the thick straw and rolled, with a low groan of pleasure, in the deep, golden bedding.

‘
Alors
,’ the old man had said, not looking at Mac. ‘Every time I think I know everything about horses, there is something more to surprise me.’

‘I feel the same way about humans,’ Mac said.

The Grand Dieu placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘We will talk tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Come to me at ten. She deserves an explanation.’

And now, finally, Sarah slept, Natasha watching her as if the price of keeping her close was eternal vigilance. Late afternoon stretched into evening, the skies darkening to black. Natasha had eaten a bar of chocolate, drunk a bottle of water from the minibar and read a few pages of a book that had been left by a previous guest. Sarah did not stir. Periodically, alarmed by the girl’s stillness, she would creep over and check that she was breathing, then head back to her chair.

When she emerged into the corridor, some time after eight, Mac was waiting for her. He looked as if he had been there for some time. New lines were scored into his face, she noted, the strain of the last few days revealing itself. She closed the door quietly behind her. He got to his feet. ‘She’s fine,’ she said, ‘but she’s out cold. Do you want to see—’

He shook his head. Then he let out a long breath, attempting to smile. ‘We found her,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She wondered why neither of them seemed to feel the elation they might have expected.

‘I keep thinking—’ He broke off. ‘The way she looked . . . what could have happened . . .’

‘I know.’

They stood there, not moving. The corridor was steeped in the smell of old polish; the ancient rugs muffled sound. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

He took a step closer and nodded to his room. ‘You want to crash in mine?’ he said. ‘I mean, if she’s in your bed, you’ll have nowhere . . .’

When she spoke, her voice was neutral, businesslike. ‘I – I don’t think she should be left alone,’ she said. ‘I’ll sleep in the chair in there. I wouldn’t feel—’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘I think so.’

‘I’ll be next door if you need me.’ He tried to smile, his face sad and too knowledgeable, as if Sarah’s return had allowed him, too, to consider how close they had come to triumph and disaster. And, just for a moment, she couldn’t help herself: her fingers touched the new lines under his eyes. ‘You need to rest too,’ she said softly.

The way he looked at her then made her see that she was lost. All that vulnerability, that love . . . a steel door sliding back to reveal something she had thought long disappeared.

And then it was gone. He was staring at his feet. Fiddling in his pockets. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, not meeting her eye. ‘You two sleep well. Call for me in the morning.’

Sarah slept so deeply that when she awoke it took several minutes to work out where she was. She raised her head from the pillow, her eyes gritty, and saw out of the long window the distant leaves of a horse-chestnut tree. A car passed, and the sound hauled her into wakefulness.

She pushed herself upright, conscious of the stale smell of her skin, her grubby clothes. It was then that she spotted Natasha. She was curled up in an armchair, a blanket pulled up to her chin, her bare feet just visible.

Sarah vaguely remembered the feel of her hands stroking her hair, the surprising timbre of fear and relief in her voice when she’d said her name. And then she thought back to the arena, the sorrowful look in the Grand Dieu’s eyes when he had said
non
.

Something painful lodged in her chest. She lay back on the soft white pillows and stared up at the high, high ceiling, the only visible barrier between her and a huge, empty world.

Non
, he had said.

‘If she doesn’t want to talk, I don’t think we should push her.’ Natasha was standing in the great hallway while Mac settled the bill.

She gazed down the steps to where Sarah waited in the back of the car, her temple resting against the rear window. She appeared to be staring at nothing.