Polly's Story (20 page)
‘I knew that one would be something special from the moment I clapped eyes on him,’ Da was fond of saying. ‘He seems to know what to do before you’ve even thought of telling him.’
Perhaps that’s why they named him Copenhagen, after the Duke of Wellington’s favourite horse. I rode him myself once, when I was no more than six: Colonel Vye put me up on his back and I took him round the yard to show Her Ladyship how steady he was. (Ma had a fit of the vapours when she found out, although I was never worried for a second.) Lady Vye loves riding, but His Lordship - well, that’s a different story. He had a terrible hunting accident when he was a young man which nearly killed him and never got up on a horse again. The stables at Swallowcliffe would probably have been full of motor-cars if he’d had his way, but with the rest of his family thinking just the opposite, I suppose he had to grit his teeth.
‘This isn’t right!’ I said. ‘We can’t let them take Copenhagen, not before he has to go.’
My father shrugged. ‘I’ve had my orders; His Lordship was quite clear about the matter. Now run along. They’ll be here in a minute and I don’t want you getting in the way.’
I’m not sure exactly when the idea came into my head; as I walked over to Copenhagen’s stall, it felt as though my body were obeying instructions from somebody else. I lowered the bar and slipped inside. ‘Come on, boy,’ I whispered, quickly attaching a lead rope to his halter and taking him out.
‘What on earth d’you think you’re up to?’ My father was too astonished to do anything other than stare at me, for the moment.
‘Say he broke out of the field, or you couldn’t catch him, or he’s cast a shoe. Anything you like,’ I said, hurrying past him on my way to the mounting block. All that mattered was to get Copenhagen out of there before the army men arrived. There was no time to bother with a saddle or bridle, but I’d ridden bareback on the Swallowcliffe ponies plenty of times as a child, and this was a horse I trusted to behave himself - even though he was a fair size. Hitching up my skirts, I grasped a handful of chestnut mane alongside the halter rope, hauled myself on to his back and teetered there for a moment with my bottom waggling in the air. Not particularly dignified (lucky there was no one but Da to see), but Copenhagen stood as still as a statue, thank goodness, until I managed to swing a leg over and straighten myself up. The ground looked a very long way down.
‘Grace, you come back here right now!’ Father had broken out of his trance and was running towards me, but he was too late; I squeezed my heels against Copenhagen’s side and we were off! I heard Da shout again, caught a glimpse of his pale, upturned face, then we were out of the stables and away, clattering over the cobblestones into bright sunshine. If Lord Vye and the soldiers had been in my way, what on earth would I have done? Ridden straight past them, I suppose, for my blood was up and I wouldn’t have stopped for the Kaiser himself - but luckily the yard was empty. Copenhagen blew down his nose, scenting freedom at last after a day shut up in the stables, while I jolted about on his back like a sack of potatoes.
I didn’t dare turn around to see if anyone was watching as we careered out of the yard, miles of open parkland ahead of us and the east face of the Hall behind, but it felt as though a hundred pairs of eyes were boring into my back. Any second now, someone was bound to glance out of one of those tall windows. The last thing they’d expect to see was a kitchenmaid making off with the Colonel’s horse, riding astride with her skirts and petticoats tucked up into the bargain! The very thought of it made me laugh out loud, and Copenhagen twitched his ears back and forth as though he were sharing the joke.
We charged down a path which led away from the house and through a gate out into the park. Copenhagen set his head towards a wooded slope half a mile or so away, which would be the perfect place to hide until the soldiers had gone. A stretch of open grassland lay ahead of us and he eased into a canter; such a smooth, rolling gait that it felt like sitting on a rocking horse, and a relief after the bumpy trot. Clamping my legs against his sides, I buried my hands in his mane and held on to the coarse, slippery hair for dear life. A thrill of excitement ran through my veins. We’d done it! We had given the army the slip - this time, anyway.
We were nearly at the woods by now, but the horse showed no signs of slowing down. I began to feel afraid. Surely he couldn’t keep going at this pace? ‘Hold on,’ I called. ‘Not so fast!’ The trees were looming up in front of us; I could see a path of sorts among them, but it was overgrown and tangled. ‘Wait!’ I shouted again, more urgently this time, as we plunged into the coppice and hurtled along the track. Brambles tore at my clothes and twigs were snapping all around me. ‘Stop,’ I begged, throwing myself low around the horse’s neck as we crashed through the undergrowth. ‘Please, stop now!’
After what seemed an age, at last I felt him lurch back into a trot. I straightened up to see what lay ahead - and that’s when it happened. In one split second, a branch had loomed up across the path in front of me; ducking down to avoid it, I lost my balance and felt myself falling, the world spinning around me in a sickening whirl of sky, leaves and tree trunks. Then came a bone-jarring thud. After that, nothing more except darkness, and pain.
About the Author:
Jennie Walters has had over twenty books published for children and teens, including the popular ‘Party Girls’ series. She was partly inspired to write the ‘Swallowcliffe Hall’ trilogy by visits to beautiful old English country houses, including Kingston Lacey in Dorset, Belton House in Lincolnshire and Castle Howard in Yorkshire. When younger, she spent two years in a cliff-top boarding school converted from a Victorian mansion with wood-panelled rooms, a huge marble staircase and one of the largest collections of stuffed birds in England. Finding a silver housekeeper’s châtelaine while clearing out her father-in-law’s flat whetted her interest in Victorian servants and their masters and mistresses, and prompted her to create a fictional country house of her own.
Jennie lives in London with her husband, two cats and a dog, and has two grown-up sons.
For fascinating insights into the world of English country houses and the families and servants who lived in them, visit Jennie’s website, packed with original photographs, historical information, extracts from servants’ letters, and much more!
NEW! Coming soon…
Eugenie’s Story
Eugenie, elder daughter of the aristocratic Vye family, is engaged on the most important task of her life: finding a suitable husband. Although beautiful and accomplished, she doesn’t have much of a dowry, for maintaining Swallowcliffe Hall in lavish style is eating up her father’s fortune. Her brother’s marriage to an American heiress has secured the Hall’s future, but Eugenie must play her cards carefully and avoid the faintest whiff of scandal if she is to become mistress of her own grand household. When disaster threatens, a hastily-arranged trip to Paris with her American relatives looks like the best way of preserving Eugenie’s good name – though dangerously charming young men are to be found everywhere.
Letters home from Eugenie’s maid provide a different perspective in this delightfully witty account.
