Prima Donna (27 page)

She was unprepared for the scene that greeted her. The square was vast, clearly built around ox-and-cart dimensions, with cobbled streets and a large corn exchange in the centre. The village
store, white-painted, with Georgian glass panes and a display of fruit, flowers and newspapers outside, was diametrically opposite where she was standing. Next to it was the Hart Inn, and gathered
outside, in a clatter of hooves and scarlet coats, was the local hunt.

Pia looked on nervously. It didn’t take a genius to work out she’d be
persona non grata
after the ball. A fat man was walking around with a tray full of whisky shots,
holding it up to the riders. Most of those on horseback were in black or navy coats; there were just three that she could see in the traditional red jackets. One had a bugle in his hand and was
talking animatedly to a woman in a navy velvet riding habit. She was sitting side-saddle and looked fresh out of a Stubbs painting. Pia absent-mindedly appraised the position of the riders’
shoulders and their erect forms. Ballet made her hyper-aware of good posture.

The villagers had come out in force and were standing around, leaning on dilapidated old Land Rovers in Barbours and flat caps, eating flapjacks and drinking tea from Thermos flasks.

Pia walked slowly around the square. If she approached it from the left, she’d be able to get into the shop without passing any of them directly. She dropped her eyes to the ground. Her
exposed toes felt cold, even with the customary leg warmer pulled on, and she wished she’d brought her sunglasses – although around here, she guessed, shades in mid-March would probably
be more a flashing light to her fame than a disguise. Besides, the plaster cast was a dead giveaway to her identity. She was in plain sight of the riders, and unable to speed up, she had nowhere to
go but straight towards them.

As she got closer, she pulled the shopping list Mrs Bremar had given her out of her pocket, and scanned it quickly. Plain flour, butter, cheese, leeks, fish sauce . . .

‘Well, look who it is,’ she heard one voice say in a low voice to another. ‘It’s Miss Brazil, out to save the world.’

‘No, it’s Miss World, surely, looking for world peace,’ another voice carped.

‘Well, it won’t be
Mrs
World any time soon – or Mrs Silk come to that. Did you see his face? He was mortified by her.’

‘She’s such an embarrassment,’ a third voice sniped.

‘I could have told you that. They never should have let her in in the first place. I mean, she probably can’t even ride. I doubt she knows which way is up on a horse.’

‘Well, the duke won’t let her in again, that’s for sure. You know what a stickler he is for—’

Pia opened the shop door and stumbled inside, as desperate for its sanctuary as if she’d been under mortar fire. The bell above the door rang noisily and the shopkeeper – a
middle-aged woman in a green polyester housecoat – came through from a back room.

‘Mornin’. How can I help you?’

Pia looked at her dumbly, her cheeks stinging with shame, her ears ringing at the women’s taunts. Tears pricked her eyes.

The woman looked at her more closely. ‘Are you Pia?’ she asked.

Pia just nodded.

‘Mrs Bremar rang ahead and asked me to put this bag together for you.’ She reached under the counter and pulled out an orange string bag full of all the provisions on the shopping
list. ‘She said it might be disorientating for you finding all the different bits and bobs, seeing as you’re foreign,’ she said.

Pia nodded, her eyes sliding over to the window at the laughing girls on horseback.

‘Right, let’s tally this all up, then,’ the shopkeeper said, punching numbers into the till.

Pia kept her eyes on the gaggle outside. The heroine who had been sitting side-saddle, and attracting legions of admiring glances, turned out to be none other than Violet, of course. She
dismounted, leading her horse away from the main body of the meet and over to an iron bull-ring at the side of the pub. Pia watched her tether the horse and go inside.

‘That’ll be eighteen pounds fifty-six, then,’ the shopkeeper said.

Pia opened the purse and pulled out a twenty-pound note. She held it up questioningly. She was used to only dollars or euros.

‘That’s the one,’ the shopkeeper said, taking it. ‘And here’s your change.’

Pia pocketed the change and picked up the bag. She went to the door. Then she turned round.

‘When is the next bus to Plumbridge House?’

The woman checked her watch. ‘It was at nine-thirty this morning.’

Pia frowned at her. ‘But there must be another one today.’ It was more of a demand than a question.

The shopkeeper shrugged. ‘Sunday service. Nine-thirty out of town. Eleven-thirty back in. That’s it.’ She looked at Pia and at the plaster cast. What was she doing taking the
bus with that on her leg anyway? ‘Do you want me to ring Mrs Bremar to send someone to collect you?’

Pia shook her head and lifted her chin defiantly. She was fed up with everyone doing everything for her. Even this shopping had been prearranged for her. ‘No. I’m fine.’

She went outside and stood for a moment, hidden from the hunt’s view by the fruit stand. The coast was clear for now. The girls, in Violet’s absence, had disbanded and merged with
the rest of the meet, their attention caught by other gossip.

Pia looked around her. She wanted to make a quick getaway before Violet came back out. She knew Violet wouldn’t hesitate to start up the ritual humiliation of the village’s guesting
ballerina on her return.

She looked down the little lane to her side. It meandered to the left. She should be able to get back to where she had come into the village if she just kept turning left.

She started down it, her hand absent-mindedly reaching out to pat the tethered horse as she passed. The horse whickered softly, and Pia stopped. It was a black mare, fourteen-three, she
estimated.

‘
Hey, crianca
,’ she whispered. ‘
Oh, voce esta tao bonito. Tao bonito.
’ She ran her hands expertly over the mare’s flank and neck, and the horse
nodded approvingly. Violet’s words – she’d recognized the particularly vicious tone of her voice – tap-danced in her head: ‘. . . doubt she knows which way is up . .
.’

She looked at the side saddle. It was antique and clearly worth a fortune – more than the horse probably. It gave her an idea, something that would give her the last laugh.

She looked around furtively.

‘Hey, would you like to run with me? Would you? Would you like that?’

The horse lifted a leg and hoofed the ground.

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ she whispered.

Checking that she wasn’t being observed, she undid the reins from the ring, and easily lifted her left, strongest foot up to waist height and into the stirrup. She had no problems hoisting
herself up. She was fast getting back to performance strength and her muscles felt primed. She instinctively placed her right plastered leg around the pommel on the side saddle. It was both rested
and protected there.

With a quick click of her tongue, she deftly turned the horse around and walked her down the lane. Nobody noticed the clip-clop of her hooves over the cobbles. There was too much commotion
elsewhere. Although there weren’t hounds – this was a drag hunt – some of the foot supporters had brought their pet dogs with them, and their barks were adding to the cacophony of
yells, whinnies and laughter.

Pia felt a surge of triumph bubble up within her as she rounded the corner and broke into a stylish trot that would have shown Violet she knew a whole lot more about horses than merely which way
was up. She half wished she could hang around to watch Violet’s face, but in only three turns she was out of the tiny village and back on the road she had come in on, bordered on both sides
by open farmland. A gate with rider’s access was to her right. She looked at it for a moment and then grinned. What the hell!

Violet came back from the loos, a smug smile all over her face, not least because she knew the men in the hunt couldn’t take their eyes off her. They’d fall off
their horses if they knew she wasn’t wearing knickers beneath her habit. She couldn’t wait to surprise Tanner later.

She looked around for him. He was in his pink, the ribbons on his black velvet hat sewn up. As field master he was responsible for keeping the hunt in line and was spelling out the nuances of
etiquette to some new riders while reining in Conker, his chestnut stallion, who was beginning to move friskily and was clearly impatient to get going. They’d been delayed half an hour as it
was, waiting for the master, who was in delicate, last-minute negotiations with an aggrieved farmer who was withholding access to his land because his hedges hadn’t been properly restored
from the last meet. Violet caught his eye and winked at him as she walked to the side of the pub.

It took a good ten seconds to really register what she was seeing – that Ebony had actually gone. She ran through possible scenarios in her mind – the knot on the reins had been
worked loose, Kit and Minky had hidden her as a joke – but nothing seemed to fit.

‘Tanner!’ she gasped, running over to him. ‘Ebony’s gone. She’s run off.’

‘What? What do you mean?’ he asked, looking down at her, trying to control Conker, who was now raring to go.

‘I left her tied up at the side there while I went to the loo. When I came back, she’d gone.’

‘Did anyone see Ebony come back through here?’ Tanner demanded in a loud voice. ‘Someone must have noticed a loose horse.’ But everyone just shook their heads and
shrugged.

‘Then that means she’s gone down there,’ Tanner said, heading Conker down the lane. ‘I’ll try to catch her before she hits the main roads and causes an
accident.’

He trotted frustratingly slowly down the village lanes for fear of riding down pedestrians, but as he turned into the open countryside he jumped Conker off the road into the nearest field, and
scanned the horizon. Thankfully there wasn’t a covert for half a mile or so and he could get a clear view.

He looked first to the left, towards the distant dual carriageway, before swinging round. There she was!

He narrowed his eyes at the sight of her. And she hadn’t escaped. She had been stolen. There was someone riding her. A woman, her hair flying behind her as she cantered. No hat on either.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he fumed, the anger flushing through him. With a jerk of the reins, he gee’d Conker into a gallop and tore after her. With any luck she wouldn’t know
anything about him giving chase until he was on top of her.

The fields ripped out beneath Conker’s feet as he was finally allowed to fly, and in just under four minutes there were only two fields left between them. Tanner clenched his jaw
furiously, his eyes piercing the narrow back that was rising and falling gracefully on the sedate canter. Whoever she was, she knew how to ride.

A huge hedge was looming in front of him. The woman had used the gate at the corner of the field, but he didn’t have time for that. He knew these fields like the back of his hand. After
all, they used to be his. He jumped Conker bullishly over the blackthorn hedge. It was five feet high at least, and nearly as wide, but Conker trusted him and his bandages protected his fetlocks
from scratches. He landed well, but neither could have foreseen that he landed only inches away from two pheasants.

They tore into the air in a torrent of squawks and beating wings. Conker, spooked by the commotion, reared up, sending Tanner – who was as startled as his mount – flying back into
the hedge.

Pia, hearing them, turned and watched as the man pulled himself out of the hedge. He was shouting and swearing so loudly she could hear him from across the other side of the neighbouring field,
but he appeared unharmed. She took in his hunting jacket and realized he was chasing her.

Her heart began to pound, the adrenalin to flash-flood, and her fingers tightened their grip around the reins, getting ready to flee. Ebony flattened her ears down and started walking backwards,
unsettled by Conker’s antics. Pia soothed her, rubbing her neck calmly. She knew she should get the hell out of there. She watched the man grab Conker’s reins and look back at her. He
was shouting something at her. She couldn’t hear what, but it was pretty obvious he wanted her to stop. She looked at him more closely – she’d know that high colour anywhere. She
didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Tanner recognized Pia at the exact same moment and he straightened up, knowing instantly he had a battle on his hands. She wasn’t going to hand the horse over to him.

Throwing the reins over Conker’s head, he jumped back into the saddle, but Pia had already turned and was jumping Ebony over the gate. She was six fields away from Plumbridge House.
She’d be damned if she’d let him stop her.

Tanner took after her, riding harder than he’d ever ridden in his life. She was the fox and he was going to hunt her down. She’d never make it. Conker was seventeen hands and in his
prime. He could outrun Ebony any day of the week. They raced over one field, then another. Just four more. Come on!

Pia looked under her arm, terrified. He was gaining ground. There was only a field and a half between them. She hadn’t ridden this fast for years. She hadn’t ridden,
full
stop
, for years. She didn’t know this horse. She didn’t know this land or what was over the next hedge – how wide it was or whether or not there was a ditch on the far side.
She’d been using the gates before, but she didn’t have that luxury now. She had to get back before he caught her up.

Two more fields to go. Over this one, then just one more hedge, another field and then it was post-and-rail fencing onto Will’s land. Would he follow her onto Will’s property?

She urged Ebony on, speaking solidly in Portuguese as panic pushed everything other than survival and winning – which were one and the same to her – out of her brain.

The last hedge rose up before her. It was enormous, far bigger than any of the others.

Tanner watched her in disbelief. ‘Stop!’ he shouted, hardly able to believe she would – could – jump it. ‘Stop! You’ll kill yourself!’ He’d grown
this hedge particularly high, out of spite, to block Will’s view of the rolling countryside.