Bow. What do you think Blackie would say if I entered her in the Grand National next year?’
A surprised look flashed across Shane’s face and he sat up straighter. ‘He’d be thrilled, surely you know that. But would she have a chance? I know she’s a fine mare, but the Aintree course … Jaysus! as Blackie would say.’
Randolph nodded, stood up, took a pipe and began to pack it with tobacco. ‘Yes, it is a demanding course, the supreme test for a man and his horse. But I really do think Emerald Bow has a chance of winning the greatest steeplechase in the world. The breeding is there, and the stamina. She’s done extremely well lately, won a few point-to-points, and most impressively.’ Randolph paused to light his pipe, then remarked, with a twinkle, ‘I believe that that lady has hidden charms. But, seriously, she is turning out to be one of the best jumpers I’ve ever trained.’
‘Oh my God, this is wonderful news!’ Shane cried, excitement running through him. ‘It’s always been Grandfather’s dream to win the National. Which jockey, Randolph?’
‘Steve Lamer. He’s a tough sod, just what we need to take Emerald Bow around Aintree. If anyone can negotiate her over Beecher’s Brook twice it’s Steve. He’s a brilliant horseman.’
‘Why haven’t you mentioned it to Grandfather?’
‘I wanted to get your reaction first. You’re the closest to him.’
‘You know he always takes your advice. You’re his trusted trainer, and the best in the business, as far as we’re concerned.’
‘Thanks, Shane. Appreciate the confidence. But to be honest, old chap, I’ve never seen Blackie fuss over any of his horses the way he does that mare. He’d like to keep her wrapped in cotton wool, if you ask me. He was out here last week, and he was treating her as if she was his great lady love.’
A grin tugged at Shane’s mouth. ‘Don’t forget, she was a gift from his favourite lady. And talking of Emma, did I hear a hint of annoyance when you mentioned her earlier?’
‘Not really. I was a bit irritated with her last night, but …’ Randolph broke off, and smiled genially. ‘Well, I never harbour a grudge where she’s concerned, and she is the matriarch of our clan, and she’s so good to us all. It’s just that she can be so bloody bossy. She makes me feel this high.’ He held his hand six inches off the ground, and grinned. ‘Anyway, getting back to Emerald Bow, I’d intended to mention it to Blackie tomorrow. What do you think about my timing? Should I wait until next week perhaps?’
‘No, tell him tomorrow, Randolph. It’ll make his day, and Aunt Emma will be delighted.’ Shane finished his drink and stood Up. ‘I don’t mind telling you, I for one am thrilled about this decision of yours. Now, I’m afraid I really have to leave. I want to stop by the stables for a second, to say goodbye to my horses.’ Shane smiled a trifle ruefully. ‘I’m going away again, Randolph. I’m leaving Monday morning.’
‘But you just got back!’ Randolph exclaimed. ‘Where are you off to this time?’
‘Jamaica, then Barbados, where we’ve recently bought a new hotel,’ Shane explained as they left the study together. ‘I’ve a great deal of work there, and I’ll be gone for quite a few months.’ He fell silent as they crossed the stable yard, and Randolph made no further comment either.
Shane went into the stalls, where he spent a few moments with each of his horses, fondling them, murmuring to them affectionately.
Randolph hung back, watching him intently, and suddenly he experienced a stab of pity for the younger man, although he was not certain what engendered this feeling in him. Unless it was something to do with Shane’s demeanour at this moment, the look of infinite sadness in his black eyes. Randolph had retained a soft spot for Shane O’Neill since he had been a child, and had once even hoped that he might take a fancy to Sally or Vivienne. But the boy had always been patently uninterested in his two daughters, had remained slightly aloof from them. It was his son, Winston, who was Shane’s closest friend and boon companion. A few eyebrows had been raised two years ago when Winston and Shane had bought a broken-down old manor, Beck House, in nearby West Tanfield, remodelled it and moved in together. But Randolph had never questioned the sexual predilections of his son or Shane. He had no need to do so. He knew them both to be the most notorious womanizers, forever chasing skirts up and down the countryside. When his wife, Georgina, had been alive she had often had to comfort more than one broken-hearted young woman, who showed up at the Hall in search of Winston or Shane. Thankfully this no longer happened. He wouldn’t have known how to cope with such situations. He presumed that if there were any disgruntled young ladies they beat a track directly to Beck House. Randolph smiled inwardly. Those two were a couple of scallywags, but he did love them both very dearly.
Shane finally took leave of his horses and walked slowly back to Randolph standing at the entrance to the stalls. As always, and especially when he had not seen him for a while, Randolph was struck by Shane’s unique good looks. He’s a handsome son-of-a-gun, Randolph commented silently. Blackie must have looked exactly like Shane fifty years ago.
Putting his arm around the older man’s shoulder, Shane said, ‘Thanks for everything, Randolph.’
‘Oh lad, it’s a pleasure. And don’t worry about the horses. They’ll be well cared for, but then you should know that by now. Oh and Shane, please ask Winston to call me later.’
‘I will.’
Randolph’s eyes followed Shane O’Neill as he strode off to his car, and there was a thoughtful look on his face. There goes one unhappy young man, he muttered under his breath, shaking his head in bafflement. He has everything anybody could ever want. Health, looks, position, great wealth. He tries to conceal it, but I’m convinced he’s miserable inside. And I’m damned if I know the reason why.
Beck House, so called because a pretty little stream ran through the grounds, stood at the bottom of a small hill, at the edge of the village of West Tanfield, about halfway between Allington Hall and Pennistone Royal.
Situated in a dell, shaded at the rear by a number of huge old oaks and sycamores, the manor dated back to the late Elizabethan period. It was a charming house, low and rambling, made of local stone supposedly from Fountains Abbey, and it had a half-timbered front façade, tall chimneys and many leaded windows.
Winston and Shane had originally bought the old manor with the intention of selling it once they had rebuilt the ruined parts, remodelled the old-fashioned kitchen and bathrooms, added garages, and cleared away the wilderness which covered the neglected grounds. However, they had devoted so much time and energy and loving care on the house, had become so attached to the manor during the renovations, they had finally decided to keep it for themselves. They were the same age, had been at Oxford together, and had been close since their salad days. They enjoyed sharing the house, which they used mainly at weekends, since they both maintained flats in the Leeds area to be near their respective offices.
Winston Harte was the only grandson of Emma’s brother Winston, and her great-nephew, and he had worked for the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company since he had come down from Oxford. He did not have a specific job, nor a title. Emma called him her ‘minister without portfolio’, which, translated, meant troubleshooter to most people. He was, in a sense, her ambassador-at-large within the company, and her eyes and ears and very frequently her voice as well. His word on most things was the final word and he answered only to Emma. Behind his back the other executives called him ‘God’, and Winston knew this and generally smiled to himself knowingly. He was well aware who ‘God’
