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Authors: Susanna Kearsley
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swinging gate set into the low stone wall on my left led into the churchyard, offering a ready shortcut back to the High Street.
To my right, a long, low building with a stone-tiled roof stretched out level with the front of the imposing garden gate. The pleasantly pungent smell that drifted through its wide-open doorway identified it immediately as the stables for the Hall. My hesitation was only momentary. I never had been able to resist the almost magnetic lure of the presence of horses. Forgetting all about the manor house itself, I wandered toward the big boarded doors, swatting idly at a fly that buzzed about my ear.
The stables were unmistakably old, built of rough gray stone that looked identical to that used to build my house. Sarsen stone, Vivien had called it. The fly buzzed past again, louder this time, and again I brushed it away. Inside, the stables were warm, and fragrant, and I paused for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting.
There were seven window bays, and most of the two-light timber windows held the original leaded glazing, with blue flies humming contentedly against the glass. Of the nine straight stalls, six contained horses, ranging in colour from a pure midnight black to a sleek golden chestnut. But it was the gray horse, in the far corner stall, that caught and held my attention.
It was a stallion, standing fully sixteen hands high, with a proudly arched neck and regal face that spoke of blistering, windswept sands and the far-off kingdoms of the infidel. As I drew closer, the gray turned his head toward me, his dark eyes mildly inquisitive, and snorted softly. I reached out a hand to rub his velvet nose, and the finely drawn nostrils quivered slightly in response, inhaling my scent.
'Hello, Navarre,' I greeted him lovingly, 'you beautiful thing.'
The stallion nuzzled my hand, searching for an illicit treat. And he might have received one, had I not at that moment heard the sound of footsteps approaching—heavy, confident footsteps accompanied by a cheerful and tuneless whistling. I spun round guiltily, and stood facing the doorway with my hands held behind me like an errant schoolgirl.
But no one came in.
The flies sang more noisily in the windowpanes, drowning out the sound of my rapidly beating heart as I blinked my eyes against the suddenly bright electric lights that had not been there a moment ago. Gone were the leaded windows, replaced by energy-efficient double glazing. Gone, too, were the straight stalls, and in their place were five larger, immaculately kept box stalls. And the horse behind me, when I summoned the courage to look, was no longer a gray, but a dark cherry bay, eyeing me curiously from the safety of the far wall.
I did not take time to analyze what had just occurred. I ran. I ran out of the stables, across the lane, and through the swinging gate into the silent sanctuary of the churchyard, and if I hadn't caught my foot on a snaking tree root, I would very probably have kept right on running.
As it was, I fell in a sprawling, inglorious heap among the tangle of weeds that grew against the churchyard wall, knocking the breath from my body so that I was forced to lie quite still for several moments. And as I lay there, gasping, hoping against hope that no one would see me in this undignified position, my gaze fell wildly on a weathered headstone a short distance from my hand.
It was an old stone, set at an impossible angle and thickly wreathed in ivy, the vine having encircled the stone so completely that one could only read the first name of the person who lay buried beneath it:
Mariana ...
Seven
The approach to Vivien's private rooms at the back of the Red Lion wound through one of the loveliest gardens I had ever seen—the sort of garden one comes across in the travel brochures above the caption 'An English Country Garden.' Or at least it would be that summer, in full bloom. Even now, in the middle of May, the garden was deliciously twisted
To my right, a long, low building with a stone-tiled roof stretched out level with the front of the imposing garden gate. The pleasantly pungent smell that drifted through its wide-open doorway identified it immediately as the stables for the Hall. My hesitation was only momentary. I never had been able to resist the almost magnetic lure of the presence of horses. Forgetting all about the manor house itself, I wandered toward the big boarded doors, swatting idly at a fly that buzzed about my ear.
The stables were unmistakably old, built of rough gray stone that looked identical to that used to build my house. Sarsen stone, Vivien had called it. The fly buzzed past again, louder this time, and again I brushed it away. Inside, the stables were warm, and fragrant, and I paused for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting.
There were seven window bays, and most of the two-light timber windows held the original leaded glazing, with blue flies humming contentedly against the glass. Of the nine straight stalls, six contained horses, ranging in colour from a pure midnight black to a sleek golden chestnut. But it was the gray horse, in the far corner stall, that caught and held my attention.
It was a stallion, standing fully sixteen hands high, with a proudly arched neck and regal face that spoke of blistering, windswept sands and the far-off kingdoms of the infidel. As I drew closer, the gray turned his head toward me, his dark eyes mildly inquisitive, and snorted softly. I reached out a hand to rub his velvet nose, and the finely drawn nostrils quivered slightly in response, inhaling my scent.
'Hello, Navarre,' I greeted him lovingly, 'you beautiful thing.'
The stallion nuzzled my hand, searching for an illicit treat. And he might have received one, had I not at that moment heard the sound of footsteps approaching—heavy, confident footsteps accompanied by a cheerful and tuneless whistling. I spun round guiltily, and stood facing the doorway with my hands held behind me like an errant schoolgirl.
But no one came in.
The flies sang more noisily in the windowpanes, drowning out the sound of my rapidly beating heart as I blinked my eyes against the suddenly bright electric lights that had not been there a moment ago. Gone were the leaded windows, replaced by energy-efficient double glazing. Gone, too, were the straight stalls, and in their place were five larger, immaculately kept box stalls. And the horse behind me, when I summoned the courage to look, was no longer a gray, but a dark cherry bay, eyeing me curiously from the safety of the far wall.
I did not take time to analyze what had just occurred. I ran. I ran out of the stables, across the lane, and through the swinging gate into the silent sanctuary of the churchyard, and if I hadn't caught my foot on a snaking tree root, I would very probably have kept right on running.
As it was, I fell in a sprawling, inglorious heap among the tangle of weeds that grew against the churchyard wall, knocking the breath from my body so that I was forced to lie quite still for several moments. And as I lay there, gasping, hoping against hope that no one would see me in this undignified position, my gaze fell wildly on a weathered headstone a short distance from my hand.
It was an old stone, set at an impossible angle and thickly wreathed in ivy, the vine having encircled the stone so completely that one could only read the first name of the person who lay buried beneath it:
Mariana ...
Seven
The approach to Vivien's private rooms at the back of the Red Lion wound through one of the loveliest gardens I had ever seen—the sort of garden one comes across in the travel brochures above the caption 'An English Country Garden.' Or at least it would be that summer, in full bloom. Even now, in the middle of May, the garden was deliciously twisted
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