Scheherazade knew better. She would not stand still when he put his foot to the stirrup, she wheeled in a nervous circle, her hooves sliding on the cobbles. She pulled at the bit while Dench was holding the reins, trying to steady her. She threw up her head and snorted. Richard, one foot up in the stirrup, one foot on the ground, hopped around trying to get up.

Grandpapa gave an unsympathetic ‘Tsk!’ under his breath and called to Dench, ‘Throw Master Richard up!’

Dench clapped two dirty hands under Richard’s hopping leg and threw him up with as little ceremony as if Richard were a sack of meal.

My grandpapa was mounted on his hunter, a beautiful dappled grey gelding which stood rock steady, like a statue of a horse in pale marble against the background of the green paddock and the rich whispering trees of the Havering-Wideacre woods.

‘Remember her mouth is soft,’ Grandpapa told Richard. ‘Think of the reins like silk ribbons. You must not pull too hard or you will break them. Use them to remind her what you want, but don’t pull. I said, “Don’t pull!”‘ he snapped as Scheherazade side-stepped nervously on the cobblestones and Richard jabbed at her mouth.

Dench put a hand out and held her above the bit without a word of prompting. I watched uncritically. I had never seen a novice rider before and I thought Richard looked as grand as a Sussex huntsman, as gallant as one of Arthur’s knights. I watched him with eyes glowing with adoration. Richard on his own could do no ill in my eyes; Richard on Scheherazade was a demigod.

‘Let’s walk out into the paddock,’ said my grandpapa. There was an edge to his voice.

Dench led Richard out behind Grandpapa, his steady hand on the reins. He was talking to Scheherazade as they went past me, and I sensed that Scheherazade was anxious and felt uneasy. Richard on her back felt insecure. His touch on the reins fidgeted her.

I waited until they were some paces ahead of me before following. I did not want Scheherazade unsettled by footsteps behind her. It was Richard’s first riding lesson and I wanted everything to be perfect for him.

But it was not. I sat on the ramshackle fence and watched my grandpapa riding his hunter around at a walk and a trot in a steady assured loop and circle, and then calling to Richard to follow him.

But Scheherazade would not go. When Dench released her she threw up her head as if Richard’s hands were heavy on the reins. When he squeezed her with his legs, she sidled, uneasy. When he touched, just touched, her flank with his whip, she backed infuriatingly, while Richard’s pallor turned to a scarlet flush with his rising temper. But she would not do as she was bid.

My grandpapa reined in his hunter and called instructions to Richard. ‘Be gentle with her! Gentle hands! Don’t touch her mouth! Squeeze with your legs, but don’t pull her back! No! Not like that! Relax your hands, Richard! Sit down deeper in the saddle! Be more certain with her! Tell her what you want! Oh, hell and damnation!’


He jumped down from his hunter then and strode towards Richard and Scheherazade, tugging his own horse behind him. He tossed his own reins to Dench, who stood stoical, his face showing nothing. Grandpapa pulled Richard down from Scheherazade like an angry landowner taking a village child out of an apple tree, and, spry as a young man, swung himself into the saddle.

‘Now, you listen here, Sally-me-girl,’ he said, his voice suddenly tender and warm again. ‘I won’t have this.’ And Scheherazade’s ears, which had been pointy and laid back, making her head all bony and ugly, suddenly swivelled around to face front again and her eyes glowed brown and stopped showing white rims.

‘Now, Richard,’ said Grandpapa, keeping his voice even. ‘Like I told you in the yard, if you pull on the reins, you mean “stop” or “back”.’ He lifted his hands a fraction and Scheherazade moved forward. He pulled his hands a shade back towards his body, and she stopped as soon as she felt the tension on the reins. He drew the reins towards him again and she placed one hoof behind the other, as pretty as a dancer, and backed for three or four steps.

‘If you squeeze her with your legs, that means “forward”,’ Grandpapa said. He dropped his hands and invisibly tensed his muscles. At once Scheherazade flowed forward in a smooth elegant gait. She was as lovely as a fountain in sunlight. She rippled over the ground in a wave of copper. I clasped my hands under my chin and watched her. I ached with love for her. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life.

‘But if you tell her to stop and go at once, then you will muddle her,’ Grandpapa said, letting her walk the circle while he spoke. ‘She feels you telling her to stop, and she feels you telling her to go. That upsets her. You should always be clear with animals – with people too!’ he said with a wry grin, taking his attention from her for a fraction of a moment. ‘She’s got a lovely pace,’ he said. ‘She’s a sweet goer. But she needs gentleness. Sit down deep in the saddle so that she can feel you there. And tell her clearly what you want. She’ll do anything in the world for you if you treat her well.’

He brought Scheherazade up to a mincing halt beside Richard and swung himself down from the saddle. ‘Up you go, lad,’ he said gently. ‘She knows her business. But you have to learn yours.’

He helped Richard into the saddle, and Richard got one foot into the stirrup, but he could not find the stirrup on the far side. He dug for it with his toe, trying to get his foot into the metal loop. Scheherazade at once side-stepped and bumped my grandpapa, who swore.

‘Calm down!’ he said to horse and rider. ‘You two will have to learn to calm down together. You are like a pair of violin strings wound too tight. What the hell’s the matter with your stirrup, Richard?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ Richard said; his voice was thin. It was the first thing I had heard him say since he had mounted, and with a shock I realized his voice was strained and he sounded afraid. ‘I could not find it at first,’ he said, ‘but I have it now.’

‘Well, learn to find it without digging your toe into her,’ Grandpapa said unsympathetically. ‘Don’t bother the animal. She needs to be gentled. Not kicked about.’ He twitched the reins out of Dench’s hands and a look passed between them which I was too far away to read. Dench turned and came towards me, his face as expressive as a lump of chalk.

‘Now,’ said Grandpapa, back in his own saddle. ‘Ride towards me.’

Richard dropped his hands in a stiff motion and Scheherazade minced forward. She walked as if she feared the earth were hollow, as if it might open up underneath her hooves. Seeing her gait, I sensed her unease and found I was clenching my hands in two fists under my chin, as wary as she was.

She did not like Richard.

That was the reason for the look between my grandpapa and Dench. That was why Scheherazade flinched when Richard was in the saddle’ That was why Richard sat awkwardly and his face was white. Something about him bothered the animal. She was as irritable as a cat with its fur rubbed up the wrong way from head to toe. She was sparky with her dislike. She was not easy, and I could smell her sweat, sharp with fear.

I could watch no more. When Richard stopped her with a short jab on the mouth and my grandpapa leaned over from his mount and loosened the reins between Richard’s fingers, I flinched in sympathy. When Scheherazade followed my grandpapa’s lead around the field, with Richard sitting stiffly on top of her, as awkward as though he were on a cart seat, I could feel my own shoulders slump as I willed him to be easy with her, to sink into the saddle so that she might feel his weight.

Then I could not stand to see any more of it. Richard’s face had lost its flush of temper and was pale again, his eyes narrowed with concentration, his face set. He did not look like a knight from a story book any more. He made me uneasy. I slid down from the fence, careful to guard my muslin dress from the splinters of the rotting timbers, and went back to the house, to the parlour, where ladies, in any case, should be.

I knew that Richard’s much heralded first lesson had not been a success, because I had seen it, but I would never have known it from Richard. When he came in for dinner, changed and washed, his smile was bright and his answers to Mama were confident. She believed him delighted with the mare, and I thought perhaps things had gone better after I had left my seat on the fence.

‘He’s heavy-handed,’ Grandpapa said dourly to Mama’s inquiry. ‘But riding’s in his blood. He should do well enough. And Harry Lacey – the old squire – had hands like mutton chops too. We used to laugh about it! I’d never let him touch one of my horses. But he taught Beatrice, y’know, and Harry. And Beatrice had the best pair of hands I’ve ever seen in this country. None to match ’em.’ He broke off, his smile reminiscent; perhaps he could see on the faded wallpaper of the parlour a bright redheaded girl who could whisper a horse out of a field. ‘She was a rider!’ he said. Odd that her son’s so awkward.’ He glanced over at Richard, who was straining to hear the conversation while he talked with Grandmama. ‘He’ll get accustomed,’ he said.


But Richard did not get accustomed. He had a round dozen of lessons from my grandpapa at Havering Hall and rode out with him in the Havering woods and up over the common. But he was never easy with Scheherazade. He sat on her back as if she were a tinder-box which might accidentally burst into flames. He and Scheherazade simply could not deal together. I saw it, and I wondered at it, but I could not have described it. Grandpapa was brutally frank.

‘Scots blood,’ he said to Mama. We were in the back garden of the Dower House, and Richard and Grandpapa had ridden over from the hall. Grandpapa judged that Richard might now keep his horse in the Dower House and ride without supervision whenever he wished. In any case, my grandpapa had wearied of teaching and was happy to hand over the job of coaching Richard to our groom Jem, or to Dench, the Havering man. Grandpapa was off back to London. He felt he had rusticated long enough.

‘Scots blood,’ he said ominously. ‘His papa, John MacAndrew, rides well enough, I grant you. But they’re not a nation of horsemen. No cavalry, damn small animals. No breeding, m’dear. On the distaff side he’s a Lacey, and there was never one of them who was not at home in a saddle; but he does not have the heart for it. He does not have the hands for it. He’s a good jobbing rider and he can get around safe enough. But he’ll never match his mama, Beatrice. God rest her soul!’

‘Well, I cannot regret that,’ my mama said in her soft voice, her face turned towards the orchard where Richard was trotting backwards and forwards. Scheherazade’s pace was steady and smooth, but her ears flickered warily. ‘Beatrice may have been a joy to watch on the hunting field, but she scared her family half to death with the horses she rode. And I cannot forget that her father died in a riding accident.’

‘Oh, nonsense!’ said Grandpapa impatiently. ‘You’re safer on horseback than walking down those damned uncarpeted stairs of yours, Celia. But have it as you will. The boy will never be a neck-or-nothing rider, he’ll never cut a dash. But I’ve done What I can for him. I’ve started him off and I’ll pay for his stabling.’

‘Yes,’ said Mama gratefully. ‘And we both thank you.’

Grandpapa nodded and blew a perfect circle of smoke out into the still afternoon air. ‘What about little missy?’ he asked. I was standing with my back to them at the orchard fence. And I gripped the paling of the fence post waiting for Mama’s answer.

‘I think we should leave it until she is older,’ she said. ‘She has no habit and we have no side-saddle.’

Grandpapa waved a careless hand. ‘Soon right that,’ he said.

Mama lowered her voice, but I could still hear her. ‘Julia has been raised too wild and too free,’ she said softly. ‘She is twelve now and she has to learn to be a young lady before she needs to learn to ride. I am happy that she should stay indoors with me.’

I said nothing, I did not turn my head. I felt my colour rising and I had a pain where my heart was thudding. Unless Grandpapa insisted, I should not be able to ride Scheherazade. Unless he declared that I was a Lacey and riding was in my blood and I must be taught to ride, I should be confined to the parlour and my only pleasure from Scheherazade would be to see Richard’s growing confidence with her. I was glad for Richard, of course, of course I was – but some little rebellious spark inside me said, ‘Not fair, Mama! Not fair!’