They went down to the kitchen, Sage leaving the phone and any thoughts of Santiago safely abandoned upstairs. She procured an unopened bottle of good whisky from the cupboard, then took Hal’s eager little hand in hers and after pausing to wrap the child up in the smart coat Betsy had found for him and grab an old Barbour and boots for herself, she led him out into the main yard.
Her grandfather had sweetly allowed Custard to take up residence in one of the huge, smart loose boxes. The tiny golden pony had illustrious neighbours, being flanked either side by Group 1-winning thoroughbreds. Dennis had even hada little flap put into the stable door so that Hal could open it up and let Custard peer out, for he could not see over the top like the larger horses. Hal now unhooked the catch and the inquisitive, whiskery yellow face immediately appeared through the window with a friendly whicker of greeting. Hal produced a carrot from his pocket and the pony accepted it enthusiastically, taking the offering with gentle lips from his outstretched hand.
Sage glanced down at her childhood wristwatch that she had found in the drawer of her bedside table; it was nearly lunchtime. They’d better get a move on, otherwise they might miss him; she was banking on the fact that Rafe would stop for lunch. Her caution about his brutish manner had been tempered by the gentle humour he’d shown at the dinner party, and even though she still felt wary she couldn’t ignore the obvious need to say a proper thank-you to him. He had undoubtedly saved the day that morning.
She tacked Custard up in his tiny saddle and bridle, aided by her little helper.
‘Mumma – he needs a coat, too. Like the big horses!’ Hal insisted.
‘Oh, does he now! I do beg your pardon, sir.’ Sage took the saddle off again and threw on a smart, striped woollen rug with her grandfather’s initials stamped proudly on the corner. She had to fold it almost in half to fit Custard but when she stepped back, she was pleased to see how well it looked with the small leather saddle secured safely on top.
‘That’s better. You do always know best, after all.’ Gathering up a stretching, wriggling Hal, she popped him on top of the quiet pony. Crowing in ecstasy, he immediately busied himself with his reins, having remembered how to hold them correctly, and when he had arranged them to his satisfaction, he looked up at his mother with proud, sparkling sloe eyes to check shehad noticed. Sage smiled at him, affirming how clever he was, then with a Thelwell thump of his little booted heels in their tiny stirrups, which rested no lower than the saddle flaps, they set off down the Bury Road towards town.
Turning right before they reached the clock tower roundabout, Sage marched past the Severals, trying not to let the mortification of her and Skylark’s earlier calamity impede her progress. Custard walked peacefully beside her, the weight of responsibility lying softly and reassuringly on his back along with his featherlight pilot, who was singing ‘Puff, the Magic Dragon’ loudly and out of tune. Hal was muddling his words and was stuck on the line that now sounded like ‘fock-i-licked in the autumn mist in a Lana Honilee’, which was being sung on a loop. Sage wondered if it sounded a bit rude but let him carry on as he was so jolly, and it was at least an improvement on a straight-out ‘bugger’.
Looking at him on his pony, his angel hair curling beneath his hat and his perfect, cherry-red cupid’s-bow mouth open in song, made her heart constrict with pride and love. All she wanted was to keep her son safe, secure and by her side. She still woke tense and poised for flight in the mornings, expecting Santiago to be nearby, and she dreamt wistfully of finding a space where they could breathe freely again, from the very beginning of every day. She would come up with a plan to stand on her own two feet without relying upon anyone else, she promised herself.
As they approached the crossroads, Sage turned right and walked through an elegant black gate under a red-brick archway and into Rafe’s yard, Touchstone Lodge, which was beautifully laid out in a huge horseshoe shape. A sweet little cottage stood at the end of a gravel path. She led Custard through another wrought-iron park gate and up the path, then tentatively knocked on the solid oak door. She bit her bottom lip and twirled the bluelead rope through her cold fingers. After about a minute, there was still no reply. Shamefully relieved, she turned the pony and child to leave; however, as they reached the gate she heard the door open behind her. Turning around, she was confronted by a man in his mid-twenties shivering on the doorstep in just a pair of jeans, his chest brown and noticeably defined.
‘Oh. You’re not Rafe.’ Sage was flustered.
‘No, I’m not.’ The man was unrepentant and smiled balefully at her, giving nothing away. He continued to take Sage in through slanted brown eyes that were bloodshot and half-asleep, and which rested on high, shadowed cheekbones over a square jaw covered in day-old stubble. His large mouth creased into a half-smile, as if he knew all her secrets. Despite the signs of a heavy night, he was extremely good-looking, and his arrogance all too familiar.
‘Is he here?’ Sage asked abruptly.
‘He’s in the yard, I think. I’m not sure – I’ve just woken up,’ the man said, stifling a wide yawn.
‘Are you the errant brother?’ Sage asked curiously, finally connecting the dots together.
‘I guess so. Hi, I’m Louis,’ he said, holding out a hand like an invitation.
Sage ignored it. She had met boys like Louis too many times; he held no allure for her. ‘I’m Sage Deverill. I mean, Beaumont. I won’t shake your hand, I’m freezing. Go back to bed – sorry for disturbing you.’ With that, she turned tail and bolted back through the gate, trailing Custard and Hal in her wake.
‘You can disturb me any time,’ muttered Louis into the wind, shaken for once out of his habitual cool by the ravishing woman striding away from him.Far too good to be wasted on boring old Rafe, he thought unscrupulously as he closed the door and climbed the stairs to go back to bed.
Sage did not want to take Custard into the yard. Sometrainers were extremely particular about who was allowed into their stables and she did not expect that a scruffy little pony would be high on Rafe’s invitation list. They had just reached the road when she heard her name being called. Looking back through the archway, she saw Rafe loping towards them, two red setters trotting behind him like bodyguards. He was wearing boots, riding jeans and his customary flat cap on his dark hair, and embroidered in green on the breast of his blue coat were the wordsDunbarton Racingand an emblem of a monkey holding a pineapple.
As he came to a stop in front of them, Rafe gave a rare, genuine smile. Sage’s pulse raced.
‘Hello, Master Hal. How do you do?’ he said, raising his hand to his cap in a respectful salute.
Hal looked at him in wonder; grown-ups often spoke to him in ridiculous baby voices. He shyly smiled up at him.
An enormous grey cloud suddenly blotted out the feeble late-January sunshine and it started to rain again; fat, wet, cold drops went straight down Sage’s neck, making her audibly shudder.
‘Come into the tack room, it’s warm and dry in there,’ Rafe said, taking the lead rope from her. He jogged across the yard, leading the way with Custard and Hal following willingly, the child bumping about as the pony’s little legs moved into a trot.
‘Hold onto the mane, Hal!’ Sage called, jogging alongside in case Hal might tumble off. Rafe put a hand on Hal’s leg to keep him in the saddle but carried on running to the tack room in order to escape the rain. Inside was a smart Persian rug that was laid out on the sandstone floor before a crackling log fire. It was a large room with saddles and bridles, all on their own racks, covering an entire wall. The walls were painted duck-egg blue and the racks were dark green. The effect was staggering.
‘What a beautiful room,’ Sage said. She looked about with astonishment. Her grandfather’s tack room was musty andcovered in cobwebs with ancient metal racks on wooden walls; this one looked as though it were straight out ofArchitectural Digest.
‘It’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’ Rafe was laughing. ‘This is what happened when I left my mother in charge of decorating. She is completely impractical, but an absolute angel. I just haven’t had time to paint anything since starting up but after a year, Mum decided that the tack room needed tarting up to impress the owners. This is the result – and I must admit, people do seem rather impressed by it, although after seeing it for the first time, I was relieved not to find the stables painted in gold leaf! What do you think, Master Hal? Do you like it in here, out of the rain? Custard seems to be enjoying himself.’
‘Sweeties?’ Hal asked hopefully, sensing weakness and sliding off his pony.
‘Ha! You may be in luck. Have a look in the top drawer.’ Rafe gestured towards a huge walnut dresser that stood against the far wall. ‘You should find some Polos that you can share with this jolly smart pony.’ Rafe stroked Custard’s damp white star as the pony stood quietly, his eyes half-closed. ‘He’s unbelievable. Aren’t you lucky to have such a cool pony?’
Hal returned with a roll of Polo mints clasped in each sticky hand.
