Free Spearfield's Daughter by Jon Cleary Page B

Windsor Castle or Buckingham Palace on the strength of the win, but one of the lesser dukes had patted his winning horses, then given Cruze an encouraging nod. “Well done, old chap. Jolly good show.” It was almost as much a welcome as being admitted to the Order of the Garter.
    He was accepted now. His horses were one of the three best teams in the country: they would have been invited to the Castle or the Palace if they could have been seated at table. In their stead, he had been invited and now he had no worries about his acceptance. Of course he was not and never would be a full member of the Establishment. He had enough horse-sense to realize that.
    He settled his bowler firmly on his head, spread his driving-apron neatly about his legs and flexed his fingers inside the yellow gloves. He sat stiffly in his seat, the whip held at the proper angle in his right hand, all ready to go, Phaethon in a bowler hat. But he knew he was no Greek god and out of the corner of his eye he could see Miss Spearfield smiling at him, tongue well in cheek now.
    When his number was called he started the horses off too fast. His left hand was all thumbs; the two lead horses and the two wheelers behind them felt in his hand as if they might gallop off in different directions. He got them under control while he stood at the Halt for inspection by the judges, but he knew he had already lost points. Then he started them off on the Walk, but they could feel the tension in his hand; he lost more points on that section. Behind him he could feel the restlessness of his grooms, though he knew they would be sitting as stiffly formal as always. He put the horses into the Working Trot, still trying to take the tension out of his fingers. But the reins—near-lead over his left forefinger; off-lead between forefinger and middle finger; near-wheel between the same fingers and under the off-lead rein; off-wheel between middle and third fingers—felt as tangled and unresponsive as spaghetti. When he put the horses into the Collected Trot he knew at once that he had not got it right. They should have had their necks raised, should be taking shorter steps, but he could see that they all seemed to have their heads at different levels and he could feel the off-lead horse, with a longer stride, pulling slightly to one side. He finished the course doing the Extended Trot and the Rein Back, but he knew he had never driven so badly.
    He had no control over the horses, but worse, he had lost control of himself.
    III
    Cleo’s story appeared in the Examiner two days later, as if she had taken her time taking aim and getting her shots right. It was written tongue-in-cheek, a gentle horse-laugh at the horsey set. Cruze was mentioned only once, in the last line: “Lord Cruze was amongst the also-rans.”
    He rang Quentin Massey-Folkes, the Examiner’s editor. “I want to see that Miss Spearfield. Tell her to come to lunch at the flat tomorrow, one o’clock sharp.”
    Massey-Folkes had a name that should have had him working on The Times or the Tatler, but he was a tabloid man, happy with big headlines and near-nudes on Page Three. He had known Cruze when the latter had been no more than a knight and a new one at that; he had never called him Sir John and now he never called him m’Lord, except in front of underlings. “Jack, you’re not going to fire her, are you? That’s one of the best stories she’s ever done. I’ve just offered her the job as women’s editor. Felicity has resigned. But I suppose you know that?”
    â€œI guessed she might,” he said cryptically; he knew his affairs were gossip fodder at the Examiner. “Are you trying to turn the women’s page into Private Eye or something? No wonder she’s called the Hatchet Lady. I think the Duke will horse-whip me next time he sees me.”
    â€œJack, she’s one of the best writers I’ve got. If I let her go, someone