who scuttled off to the Ladies to take the shine off her flushed post-tennis face, Etta realized it was Seth Bainton.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked an utterly delighted Alan.
‘I’m back in England for a good nine months,’ said Seth. ‘We’re doing a BBC film of The Seagull and after that Corinna is off to the States in a tour of Macbeth. And next year there’s talk of Antony and Cleopatra at Stratford.’ Then, breaking away from his well-wishers, Seth added, ‘And you must be Etta Bancroft. Alan told me how pretty you were and about the syndicate. I’m desperate to have a share in Mrs Wilkinson, such a sweet horse. I love her big white face, looks as though they ran out of grey paint.’
And Etta melted because he was absolutely gorgeous.
‘She must run a lot at Stratford so I can nip out of rehearsals and cheer her on,’ he added, taking Etta’s hands. ‘And lots of Sundays as that’s my day off.’
‘That’s one day the vicar can’t do,’ giggled Trixie.
Within five minutes, such was Seth’s exuberance and charm, they’d agreed to form a syndicate.
These are my friends, thought Etta joyfully. If they have shares in Mrs Wilkinson, nothing can go far wrong.
‘What a heavenly dog,’ she said, patting the black greyhound’s sleek body, which was even more toned and muscular than his master’s. The dog proceeded to look down his long nose at Araminta and Cadbury, rotate his tail and stand on his toes, before crossing the garden and leaping on to the bench seat with the most cushions.
‘What’s his name?’ she asked.
‘Priceless, in all senses of the word,’ said Seth. ‘This calls for another drink.’
‘Several drinks,’ said Alan. ‘We must decide on a trainer.’
‘Let’s go for Marius,’ suggested Seth. ‘He’s so near and Olivia’s so sweet. Harvey-Holden’s a no-go after that horrendous court case. Isa Lovell’s broken away from Rupert and only just started up on his own, and he’s a tricky bugger.’
‘We ought to ask Rupert,’ protested Etta. ‘He did lend me his lawyer for the court case.’
‘He’s too big and too opinionated,’ said Seth, who didn’t like competition. ‘Meanwhile Dermie O’Driscoll’s too far away. Robbie Crowborough’s bent. Corinna’s nephew paid thirty-five thousand for a horse that Robbie claimed had never been beaten. In fact it had never actually raced, just stayed in a field so it developed laminitis then broke down.’
‘We won’t go to Robbie,’ interrupted Alan, seeing alarm on people’s faces. ‘Let’s check out Marius.’
‘Who will approach him?’ asked Major Cunliffe, who’d had several up-and-downers with him over speeding racehorses.
‘I will if you like,’ said Alban, feeling a surge of authority. ‘Known him since he was a boy. Now what would everyone like to drink?’
‘This calls for champagne,’ said Seth.
‘I do hope Marius will allow us to see lots of Mrs Wilkinson,’ said a suddenly worried Etta.
‘You can always wave across the valley at her,’ suggested Woody.
How sweet he is, thought Niall, then out loud, ‘I’m afraid I can’t run to a share in Mrs Wilkinson – yes, I’d love a glass of fizz please, Seth – but I hope when she goes racing I can pray for her success and safe return.’
‘Bless this horse,’ grinned Seth.
He had such merry dark eyes and a wonderful laugh, decided Etta, which immediately made people feel better. She was horrified to find herself thinking what fun he’d be in bed.
‘Will Marius let us drop in?’ she asked.
‘Well, he is rather anti-visitor,’ admitted Alan, ‘but Olivia will be very accommodating, she’s so easy-going.’
‘Pity Wilkie can’t be a weekly boarder,’ said Trixie.
‘Cheer up, darling,’ whispered Alan. ‘You’ve just made twenty-seven thousand. Nine shares at three thousand pounds each in Mrs Wilkinson. Thirty thousand minus your three thousand share.’
Etta clapped her hands for quiet.
‘I can’t thank you all enough for helping me,’ her voice trembled, ‘but if Mrs Wilkinson retires from racing, would it be OK for me to try and buy her back?’
Later, Alban insisted very unsteadily on walking Etta home through the gloaming to her bungalow, commenting on the frightful mess Valent’s builders were making at Badger’s Court.
‘Can’t leave well alone.’
‘He’s been angelic to Mrs Wilkinson,’ protested Etta.
‘Surprised he didn’t slap scaffolding on her as well.’
Outside her bungalow, as Etta groped for her key, she had a feeling that if she asked Alban in for a drink he’d accept. Only because he wants another drink, she thought humbly. But as she turned to say good night, he suddenly blurted out:
‘Awfully glad you’ve come to live in Willowwood, Etta,