I ruthlessly turned on the cold tap. The sharp needles of water stung my breasts, and I turned my back on that. Neither Maisie or Sadie was I. Speaking of whom…
I was losing time ruminating again, and just as I stepped from the stall shower, there was a discreet tapping on the door. He was leaning against the jamb, a wistful expression on his face.
"I'm so sorry, Rafe. I get started thinking under a shower and lose all track of time."
"So long as you think of me," he said, pushing himself erect and speaking with an exaggeration that put me instantly in mind of a Rudolph Valentino movie.
"Of you, my lord, of you and no other," I replied with matching extravagance, and flourishing my hand to my brow, pretended to swoon.
"I have you in my power, my proud beauty! Must I be valet as well as lover?" quoth he, bending me back until my head nearly touched the floor. "But I won't have much power if I don't get my Cheerios!" he added petulantly, pulling me up and letting me go so suddenly I nearly fell. He steadied me, his eyes merry with our fooling.
We were both laughing as we went downstairs. I thought of last night's harrowing scenes and decided to forget them completely.
But there were too many reminders. Jerry, sleepy and disgusted, sipping coffee in the kitchen, waited to report that not a damned thing had happened last night. It was his opinion the blackmailer was just talking. Rafe reminded him that a slit girth, a blearing horn, and a barn fire couldn't be classed as "talk," and perhaps the absence of activity was designed to relax our vigilance.
"Ask Dennis to take over if these late hours are getting you down," Rafe suggested half-jokingly.
"His Sue Jan's baby-sitting this week for the Perdues," Mrs. Garrison said, turning from the pancakes she was watching.
Jerry grumbled something about a boy taking a man's job and said he'd sleep on it. I tried not to giggle, and heard Rafe clearing his throat, but Jerry wandered off, yawning, oblivious to the play on words.
After Rafe finished nine pancakes-and Mrs. Garrison's were not the chintzy restaurant size-I slyly suggested Cheerios and meekly endured her lecture on empty calorie foods and starving on a full stomach of such blown-up garbage. Rafe had to assure her I was teasing, and we both insisted that she sit down for coffee.
"Well, I could just tell something was going to happen last night, Mr. Rafe," she said, "and I was that scared it might be trouble for you and Miss Nialla."
Inadvertently my eyes met Rafe's.
"I don't mean to sound unfeeling about Mr. Marchmount-who's holding his own, I heard-but I guess it could have been worse. It's her's not well today."
Rafe's eyebrows rose in polite inquiry.
"Yes. Mamzelle said she was in a fine state of hysterics, carrying on about being disgraced and ruined all because Dr. Bauman insisted on taking Mr. Marchmount to Nassau County Hospital and making that Wellesley child go, too, and what would the Wellesleys think of her when they heard he'd been taken ill in her house. Taken ill!" Mrs. Garrison snorted contemptuously at the euphemism. "As if his people wouldn't know what that young feller's been doing, the way he dresses and all. As if they didn't know what she does now and again. My lands, how can people fool themselves… That photographer had left by then, hadn't he?"
We nodded.
"That's a mercy. And young Dennis had gone, too. I'm just as glad of that."
"And you think Dennis doesn't know about grass?" I asked before I stopped to think.
Mrs. Garrison looked at me, her lips firm with disapproval. "I expect he does, Miss Nialla, but he's got more sense than to use it. Grass is for horses to eat, not people to smoke."
I wondered if she had failed to catch an essential difference, but I wasn't the one and this wasn't the time to explain.
"I expect," Rafe said, grinning at me, "Dennis agrees with you, Garry."
"I should hope so. He's a nice boy. I know he was kept up pretty late bartending, but he was here right on time this morning. Oh, and Mr. Rafe, about those race types, Mrs. Palchi said there haven't been any at the house."
"Phone calls?'
"I told you about that, Mr. Rafe. Sam's to say Mr. Marchmount's not there, same as before."
"To work, to work," Rafe said, clapping his hands together. "We'll put the string through a quick workout and then run over to Locust Valley. Garry, can you put lunch forward to about one, one-thirty?"
"Of course, Mr. Rafe. It's going to be a scorcher, according to the weatherman"-and she wasn't too certain about his ability-"so I'd planned something cool and light, Miss Nialla. Doesn't pay to eat too heavy in hot weather."
"That sounds fine," I murmured, and Rafe and I left.
"While you were lost in that shower," Rafe said as we walked briskly through the still-cool morning air, "I called the hospital. Spoke to Urscoll and told him about your extortion call. His bosses can't fault him if Marchmount's involved, sidereally, as it were, and Marchmount, if he lives through this relapse, can't say they abrogated his confidence. But I'm not having my wife threatened, even as a fringe benefit for some ex-racetrack-tout. Meanwhile, back at the ranch"-and his arm tightened around my waist-"let's you and me concentrate on some steeds."
"Going to be a scorcher," Dennis said in greeting. He'd just finished grooming Orfeo in the passageway. Dice was watching, yawning sleepily. "He had a hard night, that one."
Rafe loosened the halter rope and led the gelding out into the sun, his hide gleaming with dark rosettes.
"He's stepping out well," Rafe remarked. "Dennis, move him about."
We stood and watched as Dennis ran with the gelding, but he was still, just a little, favoring the off-hind. Rafe took the lead from Dennis and gestured for me to look at the hoof. It was almost healed, the char all but gone from the sole and barely noticeable where the cinder had burned into the frog a little.
"He'll be as good as new in a few days," I allowed.
Rafe was communing with Orfeo; he didn't even seem aware I'd spoken. There was excitement in Rafe's eyes, and the hands that caressed my black gelding were as possessive and gentle as his hands on me. I felt a surge of conflicting emotions: jealousy, regret (Orfeo was my accomplishment), envy, irritation, impatience, unworthy feelings; I suppressed them. Orfeo was no less mine if Rafe rode and won on him, and I damned well couldn't chase him.
"Rafe, would you ride Phi Bete this morning for me? She needs some exercise, and I'd like you to try her," I heard myself saying.
Orfeo tossed his head, and I didn't see Rafe's expression.
"Well, since you ask me so nicely, I don't mind if I do," was what he said, and there was an odd ripple in his voice. And a kind of pleased smile on his face when Orfeo moved back.
Rocking Lady worked better for me this morning, though she seemed very spooky. Maybe it was me, for I was constantly craning my neck to see if Phi Bete was performing properly. (I mean, you can get awful silly about a horse you've trained, who's had only you on her back, to the point where it's absurd.)
"You ride that damned bay," Rafe muttered under his breath as we were walking the jumpers after a steady round, "and let me ride your precious darling." The deep smile on his face belied the words. He reached over impulsively and kissed me on the lips, right in front of the delighted Dennis. He patted Phi Bete's curved neck, too. "She's as beautifully trained a jumper as I've ever sat, Nialla. You can be proud of her. And stop worrying. I need you to take the rough edges off that bay bitch."
"You're sure… "
"Stop frowning. I goddamn well don't put the Clery seal of approval on any spavined ring-boned blown hack simply because I married her owner." What he didn't say-"It's Orfeo I want your permission to ride"-hung as clearly to me in the silence as if he had spoken the words. And, for the life of me, I couldn't see why I had any hesitation in offering.