Copyright © 2002 Shelley Peterson
Illustrations © 2002 Marybeth Drake
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Peterson, Shelley, 1952-
Stagestruck/Shelley Peterson
ISBN 978-1-77086-075-9
I. Title.
PS8581.E8417S73 2010 jC813’.54 c2010-901893-1
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To my mother, Joyce Drake Matthews,
who imparted to me her great love of literature
and inspired the character of Joy Featherstone.
To my deceased grandmother, Mary Snodgrass Drake,
who had a dramatic heart and encouraged
my every step upon the stage.
DAUPHIN:
. . . When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he
trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the
basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the
pipe of Hermes. . . .his neigh is like the bidding of a
monarch, and his countenance enforces homage.
—Henry V, Act III, Scene vii
If you stand high on the cliffs behind Saddle Creek Farm, the shape of the river below forms the outline of a saddle. The water twists and winds its way through the rocky, dramatic landscape of the Niagara Escarpment in Caledon, connecting all who cross its well-worn path.
Wild animals—deer, raccoons, squirrels, porcupines, coyotes, and fox—come to drink. Hawks and owls compete for field mice, and songbirds trill in the treetops. Beavers dam off sections to build their homes, and fish are plentiful in the cold, deep pools.
If you were to paddle a canoe down the creek from the Grange to King Road, you’d pass Owen Enterprises, Merry Fields, the Malones, Hogscroft, Bradley Stables, and, of course, Saddle Creek Farm. It is a tightly knit community—a place where people care deeply for one another, and for the land around them. It is also a community that is passionate about its horses.
And what horses! Those in the area are famed for their talent and strength: the legendary Dancer; Sundancer; Moonlight Sonata. All were foaled within walking distance of Saddle Creek, and all have carried themselves and their riders to victory—both in the ring, and beyond. Some wonder what secret the area holds, to bring forth such amazing creatures. Some say it’s in the water.
PROLOGUE
DANCER
DANCER WANTED ACTION. He paced back and forth along the fence in the field behind Hogscroft. There was sweet spring grass, a new blue salt lick, and a full water trough, but the once-mighty chestnut stallion was restless. Dancer filled his lungs with moist air, then snorted aloud. Tossing his magnificent head proudly, he swept his tangled mane over his arched neck. He bucked and bucked again, kicking high and punching out his back legs savagely. Pawing the ground with his front right hoof, he shook his head in frustration.
Dancer yearned for something more than these peaceful surroundings. He remembered the days when his mistress exercised him daily, practised challenging courses of jumps, and hacked him for miles down the roads to keep him fit.
She didn’t come to ride him anymore.
Up Dancer reared, thrusting and jabbing with his front legs, hopping on his powerful rear legs. Angry and agitated, he let out a deep and resonant bellow that echoed through the Caledon hills. Down he dropped with a heavy thud. He tore off at full speed, tail high and head down, bucking like a rodeo bronco.
Christine James watched anxiously from the barn, where she’d been cleaning tack. The leather on the saddles and bridles was turning green from disuse. The slim, attractive, fifty-year-old woman held her breath as Dancer raced toward the highest part of the stone wall that separated the fields. It measured almost five feet tall and he was going far too fast on rocky ground. Christine could hardly watch. She was sure that she was about to witness the last action of her daughter’s charismatic jumping star, and there was nothing she could do.
On Dancer sped, raging and reckless. At the last possible second, he lifted, legs tucked, neck stretched, muddy chestnut coat dull in the pale April sun. He soared high over the wall and landed lightly in a patch of weeds, rocks, and thistles.
Christine let out her breath in a rush and unclenched her hands. She ran her fingers through her dark, chin-length hair. What a daredevil, she thought. Christine spoke aloud. “This can’t go on. I must call Mousie.”
1
THE OLD THEATRE
ABBY MALONE RODE her elegant bay mare, Moonlight Sonata, to the top of the ridge. She looked down at Saddle Creek, and observed that the grey water, as it rushed over the rocks, mirrored the turbulence of the darkening skies.
At sixteen years of age, Abby was pretty and long-legged. Her silky blond hair was pulled into a low ponytail under her old black riding cap, and her cheeks were ruddy with health and energy. Her shape was fast
