At dinner that night we asked if we could go to the Boxing Day meet.
We all agreed that Shafeen – the golden boy – should do it, because it honestly didn’t feel like Rollo would refuse him anything. And indeed he didn’t.
‘Capital!’ Rollo exclaimed, and from my short acquaintance with him I knew this was his highest expression of joy. This calls for a bottle of fizz. Bates –’ he summoned the butler – ‘the Veuve Clicquot ’84.’ As Bates left the room, Rollo rubbed his hands until the knuckles cracked. ‘This is really wonderful. This could be the making of you, Hardy. I mean, Shafeen.’ He leaned forward and tapped his nose. ‘And I’ll tell you why. I just had word that one of the royal princes will be there, and quite a few of the cabinet too.’
He was all smiles, as was his wife. It was odd, I reflected, sitting there in my red dress, having dinner with psychopaths – and not, of course, my first time. Odd that they were perfectly good company, just as their son had been. Odd that we knew they were planning a manhunt, or woman-hunt, and we could all just sit here, shooting the breeze, waiting for Bates to bring up the special bottle of champagne, instead of running from the room screaming. I was reminded of my day fishing with Henry. It was one of the most fun days of my life – right up until the bit when he pushed me in the lake.
Henry’s father eyed us all fondly. ‘I suppose you can ride, all of you?’
We’d discussed this on the way back from town. Nel, of course, had her own pony (called Gary, which I thought was just the best thing in the world). Shafeen had been riding, bareback and saddled, since he was old enough to hold his head up. And I’d learned in a most peculiar way, but entirely in keeping with my strange itinerant life with my dad. One summer holiday, when I was in Year 7, my dad had been filming in Austria, a documentary about those Lipizzaner stallions. You know the ones? They are these really amazing horses which are born black, then turn completely white when they are grown, then they get taught how to dance. It sounds really circus-y, but it’s not – it’s sort of grand and noble. Those little black foals end up as white stallions in golden ballrooms in Vienna, rearing and revolving in a ghostly kind of ballet. Anyway, the point of all that is that I had to stay at the Lipizzaner stud farm for the whole summer, so my dad got me riding lessons while I was there. I got pretty good – I mean, I can ride, and jump, and basically stay on a horse, but whether or not the Austrian style I was taught would pass the test at the hoity-toity Longcross meet was another matter.
‘We stable some horses in Hyde Park,’ said Rollo. ‘Why don’t you ride out tomorrow? Unfortunately I have some business in town.’ We looked at each other nervously, all hoping that the ‘business’ wasn’t picking up the game book from Cornellisen’s. ‘But Caro’ll take you. Won’t you, old girl?’
The countess didn’t look old at that moment at all, but about twenty-five. She had that shining Christmas-tree look about her, just as she had the day we’d met. ‘Of course,’ she said keenly. ‘I need to get my eye in before the meet, just like the rest of you.’
Bates came back in – without the champagne, I noticed. I guessed they’d run out of Rollo’s fave. But Rollo didn’t seem to mind. ‘Bates – could you call the livery stables and have the horses ready for tomorrow? Four mounts.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
Caro turned to us. ‘We’ll go directly after breakfast. The weather should be perfect for it. It will be such fun.’ She looked entirely happy and sounded entirely sane.
For the rest of the meal Henry’s parents were utterly charming. They were the consummate hosts, and they had this positive air about them that I struggled to define. After thinking about it really hard, I could only describe their air as triumphant. And I came away from that dinner feeling that our asking to go to Longcross wasn’t really a surprise to them at all.