Outsider

Outsider

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

OUTLINED ON THE hillside against the morning sky, horse and rider looked as if they had been carved from stone. Only the errant breeze, ruffling the mare’s mane, and blowing a tress of copper hair across the girl’s cheek, revealed that the silhouette was composed of flesh and blood.

Below, in the valley, it was business as usual at the Wintersgarth racing stables. From her eyrie, Natalie Drummond could see the second string going out for exercise. It was a world in miniature, operating as if by clockwork. She drew a swift, satisfied sigh.

My world, she thought. My world as it’s never been before.

She would have been down there, riding out with the horses, under normal circumstances, but today she had begged off, told Wes Lovett the head lad to handle the exercising himself. She was too excited, too much on edge to be around highly strung and volatile thoroughbreds. Some of her unease would undoubtedly have communicated itself to them, and caused problems.

She ran an affectionate hand down the mare’s neck. Whereas dear old Jasmine, of course, was too mature and too equable to care, she thought, smiling, as she glanced at her watch.

It was time she was getting back. They might already have phoned from the clinic to say her father was on his way back, and she wanted to be there when he arrived. It would probably be tactful to change out of her riding gear too, she acknowledged wryly. They would have a leisurely lunch to celebrate the fact that Grantham Slater’s heart attack had only been a mild one—a warning shot, Doctor Ellis had called it—and that he was home and safe again, and afterwards, when he was feeling warm and mellow with her stepmother’s incredible cooking, she would talk to him about what the consultant had said.

I can do it, she thought, as she turned Jasmine on to the track which led back to the stables. I’ve proved I can over these past weeks. Grantham can’t just dismiss me as an office clerk any more.

Somehow she would make him see that his absurd prejudice about making her his full partner had to be abandoned.

The consultant had been forthright when he’d talked to Beattie and herself. ‘He’s made an excellent recovery.’ He flicked his pen against the blotter on his desk. ‘But, inevitably, there are going to have to be some changes in his regimen, changes which he won’t like. He’s a determined man, and a successful one—a brilliant trainer of steeplechasers, they tell me. Well, I’m not suggesting he retires, but he has to find a way of taking life very much more easily than he has been doing if he wants to avoid a recurrence of his problem.’ He looked at Natalie. ‘You’re his only child, Mrs Drummond?’

She nodded. ‘My mother died when I was small. She was expecting another baby, but there were complications.’

‘But you do work for your father?’

‘Yes, but up to his illness, I was only a secretary. I did the correspondence, manned the phone, and did the bookkeeping and accounts.’ She looked down at her hands, tightly clasped together in her lap. ‘Grantham’s rather—old-fashioned. He’s never allowed me to be involved in the training side at all. He never even encouraged me to ride—I had to have lessons at school.’ She gave a constricted smile. ‘But you can’t be born and brought up in a racing stable without absorbing a certain amount of expertise. I’ve managed to put mine to good use while my father’s been ill.’

He smiled at her. ‘I’m sure you have.’ He turned to Beattie. ‘And you, Mrs Slater. Are you involved in the running of the stables as well?’

If she hadn’t been so worried, Natalie could have collapsed in gales of giggles at the look of sheer horror on Beattie’s face. Her stepmother was a warm and lovely lady, but she regarded all horseflesh with acute misgivings, and never went anywhere near the stables if she could help it.

Beattie accompanied her husband to race meetings, knowing that her elegant, expensively clad presence beside him was an affirmation of his prosperity, but she usually stayed away from the paddock.

Now she said weakly, ‘I’m afraid not. Do—do you think I should be?’

‘I think someone will have to be,’ the consultant returned. ‘It’s essential that your husband starts to share some of his responsibilities.’ He looked again at Natalie. ‘It would seem, Mrs Drummond, that you’re in the ideal position to do this—your family commitments allowing, of course.’

Natalie lifted her chin. ‘I’m a widow,’ she said quietly. ‘Apart from Beattie and my father, I have no family. I’ll be glad to do whatever I can to help Grantham.’

‘If he’ll let you,’ Beattie observed frankly as they drove home.

‘“If” is right,’ Natalie agreed, her fine brows drawing together as she slowed for a traffic light. ‘Ever since they allowed him access to a phone, he’s been calling Wes with instructions each morning.’ She grimaced. ‘Fortunately they’ve invariably been the same instructions that I’d already issued, so Wes just agrees to everything—and on we go.’ She sighed. ‘One of these days I’ll have to tell Grantham I’ve been running things while he’s been away, but I’m not looking forward to it.’

‘I don’t suppose you are.’ Beattie was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve never been able to understand why Grantham keeps you chained to that office desk. Doesn’t he realise you have the same feeling for those four-legged monsters that he has himself?’

‘He knows.’ Natalie let out the clutch and they moved off again. ‘I thought at first when he refused point blank to let me work with the horses that it was just plain sexism. He’s never employed girls in the stables in any capacity, after all. But it seems to go deeper than that.’ She paused. ‘I hoped—when I married Tony—that his attitude might soften, but he seemed more determined than ever to keep me out of things. It took me quite a while to realise that he saw in Tony the son he’d always wanted—an heir apparent for Wintersgarth. All I was needed for was to—carry on the succession.’

‘Nat, my dear!’ There was shock as well as compassion in Beattie’s soft voice.

‘Do I sound bitter?’ Natalie asked ruefully. ‘Well, I was, even after Tony was killed. Father seemed to blame me for not being pregnant.’ She forced a smile. ‘If I’d been a mare, I think he’d have sold me.’

‘Or found a better stallion,’ said Beattie thoughtfully.

Natalie nearly stalled the car.

‘Or even that,’ she agreed, her voice quivering a little. ‘As it is, there’s no one left but me, and somehow I have to persuade him to make the best of it, and take me into full partnership. My God, good women trainers aren’t exactly unknown in steeplechasing! And I could be good—I know it.’ She sighed. ‘It isn’t my fault I was born female.’

Beattie shot her a dry look. ‘Some people might regard it as a distinct advantage.’

‘But then you’re prejudiced,’ Natalie returned affectionately.

The memory of the exchange made her smile as she rode Jasmine sedately under the archway into the stableyard, glancing around her as she did so. Everything as far as she could see had been honed to its usual pristine state. The boxes were gleaming, the gravel had been raked, and there was a busy, excited hum round the place.

All the lads, she knew, were looking forward to seeing her father restored to health, and back where he belonged. Grantham Slater had the reputation of being a hard man in many ways, and an exacting employer, but he was also fair, and paid good wages for good work.

‘We know where we stand with the boss,’ Wes had once explained it simply to her.

Well, the boss would have nothing to complain of when he did his round at evening stables, as he undoubtedly would, thought Natalie as she rode Jasmine into the second, smaller yard and dismounted.

Beattie was talking optimistically of persuading her husband to take it easy, but Natalie was sure he’d have other ideas.

She led Jasmine into her stall and began to unsaddle her. It had done her good to ride out, helping her to get things into perspective, see how best to tackle her father.

He was a logical man, she thought, as she began to brush Jasmine down. When he realised how well she’d coped in his absence, he’d change his mind about having her as a partner. Besides, what real choice did he have? For once in his life, Grantham Slater would have to bow to circumstance, instead of bending it to his will as he usually did.

‘Excuse me, Miss Natalie.’ The voice behind her made her jump. She’d been too preoccupied with her own thoughts to hear Ben Watson’s approach. ‘Mrs Slater’s been on the phone, asking for you. I can finish off Jasmine if you want to get up to the house.’

Natalie forced a smile. ‘It’s all right, I’ll see to her myself, thanks.’

Watson lingered. ‘I thought you might be in a bit of a hurry. It’s a great day, after all.’

She nodded, and concentrated her attention on Jasmine, hoping he would take the hint and go. She’d no idea why she didn’t like Ben Watson. He was quiet and polite, and Wes had no complaints about his work, but there was something … something about the way he looked at her which had made Natalie wish more than once that she was several inches taller, and a couple of stone heavier, and looked like one of the horses. At the same time, she told herself she was probably imagining things. His attitude to her was always respectful—even deferential.

I’ve just taken agin him, she thought ruefully, and knew by the sudden slackening of some inner tension that he had departed.

When she got to the house, Beattie was rushing into the dining room with a vase of flowers.

‘Would you believe it?’ she flung at Natalie. ‘Grantham’s just rung to say he’s invited two extra people to lunch. Bang goes our quiet family party!’

‘Oh, Beattie!’ Natalie was taken aback. ‘That’s too bad of him, it really is! Did he say who they were?’

Beattie flapped an agitated hand. ‘Well, there’s Andrew Bentley, for one—and he did mention the other name, but I’ve forgotten.’ She paused. ‘I just hope there’s enough food.’

Natalie sent her an affectionate grin. ‘Of course there will be. Judging by last night’s preparations, you could feed the entire membership of the Jockey Club, if they turned up, let alone Dad’s solicitor and some unknown quantity. Is there anything I can do?’

‘Not really.’ Beattie secretly revelled in domestic crises, her stepdaughter suspected. ‘Although—darling, you might put on a dress.’

‘I’d already planned to.’ Natalie grimaced. ‘I don’t want to give Dad any cause for complaint, today of all days.’

She was thoughtful as she went up to her room. It seemed odd that Andrew Bentley was coming to lunch on Grantham’s first day out of the clinic. Was he coming as legal adviser, or family friend? she wondered. If it was purely a social visit, then Liz would probably be coming with him, and that would explain the extra person. But that can’t be, she thought rather restively. Beattie and Liz are friends. She wouldn’t forget the name of Andrew’s wife, no matter how much of a flap she was in.

She showered swiftly, then dressed in a simple navy shirtwaister—a compromise, she thought as she tugged a comb through her tangle of copper hair, between the ultra-feminine clothes Grantham preferred her to wear, and the businesslike exterior she wished to present. She toyed with the idea of putting her hair up, but decided that would be carrying the new efficient image too far.

Excitement always made her pale, so she added a judicious amount of blusher to her cheeks, and a modicum of shadow to emphasise the lustre of her green eyes under their sweep of dark lashes.

Daddy’s pretty little daughter, she thought with irony as she surveyed the results of her labours. Only not a cipher any more, but a force to be reckoned with.

She heard the sound of a car on the drive, and flew to the window. It was the hired vehicle Grantham had insisted on, having explosively turned down his wife and daughter’s offers to drive him home themselves.

‘Women drivers!’ he’d snorted. ‘I’m not in line for another heart attack, thank you!’

‘Chauvinist,’ Beattie had teased, squeezing his hand with love, but Natalie found her own smile rather fixed.

Now she hung back a little, waiting for her father and his wife to enjoy their reunion in a certain amount of privacy. Or was that an excuse, because the thought of facing Grantham on his own ground was suddenly a daunting one?

Natalie squared her shoulders and went downstairs.

Grantham was ensconced in his favourite chair in the drawing room. He was a big man still, although he had lost weight since his illness. Here and there in his thick grey thatch of hair, a few streaks of copper like Natalie’s own still lingered. He had a strong face which could look harsh, but was now relaxed in the pleasure of seeing his home, and his wife again. His smile widened for Natalie.

‘Well, my girl?’

‘Very well, thanks.’ She stooped and kissed him. ‘And you look fine yourself.’

He gave her a derisive look. ‘A dramatic improvement on last night, eh?’

‘A dramatic improvement every day from now on,’ she told him steadily. ‘As long …’

‘As long as I do what the doctor tells me,’ he finished for her, his tone quite amiable. ‘Well, I intend to, lass, I intend to. I’ve had a shock, and I don’t mind admitting it. I didn’t think it would happen to me. So there’ll have to be some changes.’ He gave her an enigmatic look. ‘And they’ll involve you.’

Natalie’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her voice level. No girlish excitement, she told herself fiercely, and no grovelling gratitude either. I’ve worked for this moment, and I’ve deserved it. ‘I thought perhaps we might talk after lunch,’ she said.

‘I can say what I’ve got to say now.’ He paused. ‘I suppose Beattie told you I’ve asked Andrew to lunch.’

‘Yes, she did.’ Natalie ruffled his hair. ‘Bit of a dirty trick, landing her with last-minute guests.’

‘She can manage,’ said Grantham calmly. ‘And I wanted to get things settled—put on a proper footing without delay. Owners are queer folk. They don’t like uncertainty.’

Don’t I know it! Natalie said silently. The hours I’ve spent on the phone reassuring a whole list of them that it’s business as usual, and that there’s no need to take their horses away so close to the start of the jumping season.

Aloud, she said, ‘There haven’t been any real problems.’

‘I should think not,’ he said with a touch of his old asperity. ‘They know when they’re well off, most of them. I train winners in this yard, not also-bloody-rans.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Where’s Andrew? I told him to be here by twelve. It’s these damned motorways—they’re always digging them up.’

Natalie’s brows shot up. ‘But Andrew doesn’t have to use the motorway,’ she pointed out mildly. ‘He’s coming from Harrogate.’

‘I know he is. It’s t’other one, driving up from Lambourn. Andrew’s bringing him here.’ Grantham’s tone was short.

‘From Lambourn?’ echoed Natalie, frowning. ‘Who in the world’s coming all that distance?’

‘Eliot Lang.’

‘Good God,’ Natalie said slowly. ‘The playboy of National Hunt racing, no less! And why is he venturing this far north?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Is he going to ride for us?’

Grantham snorted. ‘Of course not. He’s retired. It was all over the papers two months since.’

She remembered now. It had caused quite a sensation—one of the country’s top steeplechase riders and a former champion jockey retiring in his early thirties. She’d absorbed the information and then discarded it as having no significance to her.

Now, suddenly, she wasn’t so sure.

She said, ‘Then what is he coming for?’

‘He’s coming because I’ve asked him to,’ said her father. ‘It isn’t a decision I’ve made lightly. If I were still on my own in life, I’d probably have said hang the doctors, and carried on as usual. But there’s Beattie to think of now.’ His face softened. ‘We’ve only been married two years, and I don’t reckon on making her a widow quite yet, so I’m going to behave myself, and take the advice I’ve been given as if I was grateful for it—which I’m not. These are my stables, and I built them up from what your grandfather left, and I’d no thought to share them with anyone except my own kith and kin. But with Tony gone, and no grandchild to think of, I had to reconsider. And they tell me I need a partner to take the weight of this place off my shoulders.’

Natalie knew what was coming, and was terrified by it. She said urgently, ‘Dad, I could …’

‘That you couldn’t.’ One brief phrase smashed her dreams to smithereens. ‘You know my views, and they haven’t changed. I need a man—someone who knows jump racing, and can stand shoulder to shoulder with me. Lang’s never ridden for me, but I’ve always respected him, even if he did get his name into the gossip columns more than I care for. Well, a lad must sow his wild oats, I suppose. Anyway, the papers said he was thinking of going into training, so I got Andrew to contact him, and we’ve agreed terms. He’s buying a half share in Wintersgarth.’

She felt numb. There was a fold of her dress between her fingers, and she was pleating and unpleating it endlessly as she tried to assimilate what he had been saying.

The weeks of struggle, of trying to prove herself, had all been in vain. While she’d been working her guts out through all the hours God sent to keep Wintersgarth together, Grantham had been making his own plans. Plans which totally excluded her, she realised.

She ran the tip of her tongue round dry lips. ‘And what’s going to happen to me?’

Her father looked at her as if the question surprised him. ‘Well, you’ll do your normal job, same as always. He’s quite amenable to that.’

She said thickly, ‘How good—how very good of him.’

‘And you’ll be provided for in the long term, naturally, if there’s need.’

If there was need … Natalie’s head reeled. All her life she’d been totally dependent on her father. At school, she’d opted for a commercial course rather than pursue an academic career so that she could work in the stables office. Because in those days, naïvely, she’d thought that might be a foot in the door to better things.

And marriage had changed nothing. She had met Tony shortly after her father had employed him as stable jockey on a retainer, and the wedding had taken place two months later, which meant there were two of them dependent on Grantham Slater instead of one. Tony had been a more than promising jockey, and he had enjoyed the fruits of his success, living for the present. After he had been killed, she discovered he’d been living on overdraft. She had paid it off, but the way the debts had been incurred still rankled … She closed her mind abruptly, and focused on what was happening here in this room, right now.

‘I suppose I must be grateful for small mercies. At least I still have a roof over my head.’

‘There’s no need to take that tone.’ His voice was repressive. ‘And don’t tell me you’d thoughts of filling my shoes here, because I know it already. And you know my opinion on the subject. Or did you think a heart attack would soften my brain as well? The stables are no place for you, Natalie. They never were, and they never will be, so make your mind up to it. And keep off the backs of my thoroughbreds,’ he added. ‘A time or two I phoned here to be told you were out with one of the strings. That stops as of now, although I won’t deny you the exercise you need. Maybe old Jasmine’s bit tame for you. I’ll find you a good hack …’

‘No, thanks.’ Natalie shook her head. ‘Jasmine suits me very well.’

An hour ago, barely more, she had sat on that hill with the world at her feet. Now, everything she had ever wanted had been snatched away from her and given to a stranger, although that was surely a misnomer applied to Eliot Lang. His career and lifestyle had been described so often in the newspapers as to make them totally familiar.

Unlike Tony, who had been an apprentice, Eliot Lang had started his racing career as an amateur. He’d enjoyed a meteoric success, which hadn’t prevented his wealthy family protesting volubly when he became a professional. And he had been making headlines ever since. He’d spent several seasons riding for Kevin Laidlaw, and then had left in a blaze of publicity and innuendo which said that Laidlaw had dismissed him because he couldn’t keep his hands off his wife. The Laidlaws had vehemently denied the rumours, but Eliot Lang had said ‘No comment’ and gone to ride for Duncan Sanders, who was divorced. At least from then on he’d seemed to keep away from married women, perhaps because of the horsewhipping Kevin Laidlaw was alleged to have threated him with. But he had never maintained a low profile. The good life was there, and he enjoyed it, in the company of a succession of models and actresses, few of them distinguishable from their predecessors. And at the same time, he took more winners past the post than his rivals thought decent. His cottage in Lambourn had been the subject of a colour spread in a Sunday supplement.

Her mouth curling in distaste, Natalie thought, He’ll find Wintersgarth dull.

Aloud she asked, ‘Does Beattie know what you intend?’

She was thankful when her father shook his head. If Beattie had known, and not told her, that would have been another betrayal, and she felt bruised enough.

She got to her feet. ‘I’ll go and see if we’ve got any of Andrew’s favourite sherry.’

‘That’s a good lass.’

That was what he approved of, she thought bitterly as she went out into the hall—her ability to deal with small domestic details, to shelter him from unwanted phone calls from querulous owners.

In the kitchen, Beattie was stirring a pan of soup on the Aga. She said over a shoulder, ‘Have a look at the dining-room, and tell me if it’s all right.’ Then she saw Natalie’s white face and blazing eyes, and her tone sharpened. ‘Nat darling, whatever’s the matter?’

‘Eliot Lang,’ said Natalie. ‘The man whose name you forgot.’

‘Why, so it is.’ Beattie shook her head. ‘I knew it was something familiar. He’s some kind of jockey, isn’t he?’

‘He certainly was,’ Natalie said grittily. ‘Now he’s going to be some kind of trainer—here.’

Beattie’s lips parted in a soundless gasp, then she turned back to her soup. There was a prolonged silence, then she said, ‘But where does that leave you?’

‘Back at square one, where I apparently belong. Only I now have two bosses.’

Beattie said half to herself, ‘He told me he had a surprise, but it never occurred to me …’ She stopped. ‘Oh, my dear child, I’m so sorry! It’s so cruel—so unnecessary.’

‘So unacceptable,’ Natalie completed. ‘If I’m going to be a dogsbody, I can find another office somewhere—preferably as far from racing as possible.’