so Marius ordered up Trixie’s feckless boyfriend, Josh, a good if flashy rider who modelled himself on Rogue Rogers.
It was a glorious morning with the valley silvered by a first frost and the leaves turning gold to match Furious’s radiant chestnut beauty. All went well on the gallops, as an enraptured Bertie and Ruby stood hand in hand watching Furious thunder past.
‘Why’s he called Furious?’ asked Bertie.
‘Because he’s fast and furious,’ replied a doting Ruby. ‘I can’t wait to lead him in. You can wear the topper you wore to the palace, Bertie.’
Next, Josh, crouched over the horse’s ears in his best Rogue Rogers fashion, tried to take Furious over a row of fences. Furious, with other ideas, jammed on his brakes, nearly propelling Josh over his head, and tried to eat the first fence.
‘How sweet, he’s having his breakfast,’ cried Ruby.
Furious then took a massive bunny jump over the fence, went into a frenzy of bucking, kicking and farting, and unshipped Josh, who, crash-landing and smashing the mobile in his pocket, launched into a frenzy of expletives, right in front of Ruby and Bertie, who strongly disapproved of swearing in front of a lady. Furious cleared the gate and set off down the drive to Willowwood.
Etta, that same morning, had returned from dropping Drummond and Poppy off at school. Despite Tommy’s assurance that Rafiq’s singing was soothing Mrs Wilkinson and that she had acquired two admirers, the veteran Sir Cuthbert and a black gelding called Count Romeo who belonged to Marius’s brother Philip, Etta missed her and Chisolm more and more unbearably. She had gritted her teeth and stayed away for three weeks, but like a stalker had constantly trained her binoculars across the valley.
Today she could see Mrs Wilkinson with her black and dapple-grey admirers, plus Chisolm and Horace the Shetland, turned out in a different field above Marius’s drive. It was hidden from the yard and gallops, which were currently full of activity. Etta’s resolve broke.
If she stole over now, she could snatch a few undetected minutes with Mrs Wilkinson. Stuffing the pockets of her moth-eaten grey cardigan with Polos, carrots and chopped apple, she set out down through the wood, slipping and clutching at willow fronds, crossing the river by a little bridge. Panting up fields, far more frozen because they faced north, she clambered over the rusty iron railings into Marius’s drive. There she heard a clatter of hooves and saw the most beautiful chestnut galloping towards her, reins flying, stirrups clashing.
‘Oh, you darling creature,’ cried Etta. Then, as if she were urging Drummond to do up his laces: ‘Stop, stop, you’ll trip if you’re not careful.’
Reaching into her pockets for an apple, she held out a flat palm to the horse, who ground to a halt, snorting wildly, rolling big hazel eyes.
‘Come on, sweet thing, I’m sure you’re hungry.’
Furious decided he was. He accepted an apple quarter and when he had polished off the rest of it, accepted two more before starting on the carrots. By this time Etta had put his reins back over his head, pushed his irons up the leathers, and was stroking his satiny neck.
‘You are lovely,’ sighed Etta. ‘I better take you back to Marius,’ then, as Furious nudged her pockets, she realized regretfully that she had only Polos left for Mrs Wilkinson. Perhaps she had better come back another day. But as she led him towards Marius’s main gates, she caught sight of Rafiq scorching across the fields below on Oh My Goodness, and a Land-Rover containing Ruby and Bertie and a white-faced Marius at the wheel thundering towards her. Marius was out in a trice.
‘Gimme that horse.’
But as he edged towards them, Furious flattened his ears, stamped his foot and lunged at Marius.
‘Stop that.’ Etta shook his bridle reprovingly. ‘You mustn’t bite people, have another Polo.’
Marius’s drive was flanked on either side by sporadic hawthorn hedges. Having reached a gap, Etta glanced up and caught sight of Mrs Wilkinson and her entourage. A second later, Mrs Wilkinson gave a great rumble of joy and careered towards them, nearly crashing into the fence.
‘Oh Wilkie!’ Chucking Furious’s reins to Marius, Etta ran to the railings and Mrs Wilkinson, who, whinnying, nickering, nudging, placed her head over Etta’s shoulder to draw her close.
‘Oh my angel,’ sobbed Etta, holding her tight, rejoicing in the rumbling warmth of her body, breathing in her new-mown hay smell, soaking her charcoal-grey shoulder with tears. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’