Книга - Showjumpers

Showjumpers
Stacy Gregg


The stakes are raised in the second book of this glamorous horse riding series set in the USA – winner takes all as the rivals compete for the showjumping cup! Don’t miss the latest instalment of pony adventures from the author of the UK’s bestselling pony series ‘Pony Club Secrets’.Georgie has secured her place at Blainford Academy for now, but knowing who to trust is tough when you’re all competing against each other. Some new-found friendships might already be close to breaking point as competition heats up in the showjumping arena.Is cute boy James about to become an ally or is his scheming sister Kennedy going to wreck Georgie’s dreams?And can she really trust her rivals? Find out in the exciting second term!







PONY CLUB

RIVALS

Showjumpers

STACY GREGG









Copyright (#ulink_e2b4e79b-5b81-5a39-bbc8-9aa3c5ecaf77)


First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2010

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF



Text copyright © Stacy Gregg 2010



Stacy Gregg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.



All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.



Source ISBN: 9780007333448

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007412372

Version: 2018-11-27


The Pony Club Rivals series:

1. The Auditions

2. Showjumpers

3. Riding Star




Contents


Cover (#ub7930b9f-c97f-59eb-ad19-2986c709e22f)

Title Page (#u4de1d585-ec4b-59dd-9a78-44b85f9c6bad)

Copyright (#u1167dd98-926f-54d6-92dc-10fc004db29b)

Chapter One (#uddf7ea6d-8d9d-5cb5-be16-131bd98df3ce)

Chapter Two (#u0551ad8f-e6df-50e7-9152-8bf8e4255ac7)

Chapter Three (#u34dd51ae-6f51-5652-9fd7-5d3cf6ad0151)

Chapter Four (#u994a0613-7c1e-55a1-b7c0-ce569da59259)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

About The Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


This book is dedicated with grateful thanks to Stan Govender, John Harman, Keith Barclay, Beverley Sweeten-Smith, Melissa, Lisa and the wonderful team at St Marks




Chapter One (#ulink_b6c84fdb-4ebd-5bf0-9c39-3c814dc9b950)


As Georgie Parker stepped aboard the plane, she felt like a total imposter. She was about to enter a world that was far too glamorous for a girl from Little Brampton – a tiny horsey village in the middle of rural Gloucestershire. Up until a couple of months ago when she had first arrived at the Blainford Academy, the closest she’d ever come to being taken anywhere by a boy was when Adrian Baxter had given her a double to the shops on the handlebars of his bike. Now, here she was, being whisked away on a private jet, about to spend the mid-term break with the impossibly gorgeous James Kirkwood.

Try to act casual, Georgie told herself. Pretend you spend all your time on board private jets.

“Sorry we got stuck with the little plane today,” James apologised as he threw their luggage into one of the overhead lockers. “Dad and The Stepmom are using the big one. I guess we’ll have to make do!”

Georgie took in the sleek interior of the jet and couldn’t keep up her act any longer. “Ohmygod, James,” she said as she sat down on one of the enormous white leather seats. “This is totally amazing!”

“Do you want a drink?” James said as he walked to the back of the plane and opened a wall cabinet to reveal a fridge. “There’s lemonade, Coke or juice.”

“Juice, please,” Georgie said. She peered out the window of the plane. The airstrip was located at the back of the school grounds, so from here she had a rear view of the red brick Georgian buildings of the academy. To the right, she could make out the roofline of the stable blocks in the distance, where earlier that morning she’d said a tearful goodbye to Belladonna.

She wouldn’t see her horse again until after the mid-term break. “You don’t know what it’s like,” Georgie had complained to her best friend Alice as she locked the loose-box door for the last time. “You’re so lucky – getting to take Will home with you for the holidays.”

“Oh, please!” Alice had laughed. “You cannot seriously tell me that you would rather stay here with Belle than go away with James for five days?”

No one had been more surprised than Georgie when James Kirkwood had asked her to spend mid-term break with him at his family’s mansion in Maryland. James was a whole year ahead of Georgie and even amongst the world-class riders at this exclusive equestrian boarding school he stood out. He was a gifted showjumper, handsome and talented, the shining star of the Burghley House polo team, and heir to the Kirkwood millions.

The only downside of spending the holidays with James was his sister. Kennedy Kirkwood was a first year at the school, just like Georgie. From the moment that Kennedy discovered Georgie had topped the UK auditions for Blainford she had been desperately competitive with her. And after losing dramatically to Georgie on the cross-country course during mid-term exams, Kennedy’s dislike of her rival had reached epic proportions. Georgie had spent the last week of school virtually in hiding so that she could avoid Kennedy and her gang – the showjumperettes. But so far James hadn’t mentioned his sister. There was still no sign of her and Georgie was beginning to hope that maybe Kennedy wasn’t coming.

“Here you go, an OJ cocktail before take-off.” James passed Georgie her juice and threw himself down in the seat next to her, sighing as he looked at his watch.

“Hey, Lance!” he called out.

In the cockpit, the pilot put down the newspaper he was reading.

“Yes, Mr Kirkwood?”

“What’s the weather like in Maryland?”

“Clear as a bell, Mr Kirkwood,” the pilot replied. “It should be a nice flight. We’re just waiting on the others and then we’ll depart.”

“What others?” Georgie asked nervously. Her question was answered with a dramatic whoosh as the gull-wing doors of the plane opened and a girl with glossy red hair wearing a white sundress and gold sunglasses stepped on board. She took one look at Georgie and her expression soured.

“What is she doing here?”

“I told you I was bringing someone,” James said, “and you’ve kept us waiting – which is typical!”

“It wasn’t me this time.” Kennedy Kirkwood dropped her bags before collapsing elegantly into one of the plane’s plush leather seats. “It was Arden. She took forever to pack.”

Georgie couldn’t believe it. Spending the break with Kennedy was bad enough without the equally toxic socialite Arden Mortimer in tow!

It got even worse when a pointy-faced blonde girl entered the cabin weighed down with several large Louis Vuitton bags.

“Kennedy! Can’t you tell the pilot to turn off those appalling plane engines? They’re ruining my blow dry!” The cut-glass British accent belonged to Tori Forsythe – the third member of the showjumperettes. She struggled up the stairs, while Arden Mortimer breezed in afterwards, her glossy dark mane tied back in a high ponytail and nothing but a make-up compact and a lip gloss in her hands.

“Where are your bags, Arden?” Kennedy asked. “Andrew’s got them,” Arden said airily as she took a seat. Behind her on the stairs a boy dressed in a Ralph Lauren mint green polo shirt was grunting as he struggled with Arden’s matching luggage.

“Man, Arden,” the boy groaned as he threw the bags down at her feet, “why am I carrying your stupid bags? And what have you got in here anyway?”

Arden gave him a dark look. “Andrew, you might be able to survive on your pastel polo shirt collection, but some of us need to accessorise to get through a five-day break.”

Andrew Hurley ignored this and strode over to help himself to a Coke out of the fridge, then he turned to James.

“Dude,” he frowned, refusing to acknowledge Georgie, “you didn’t tell us you were bringing her.”

“Her name is Georgie,” James said coolly. “Georgie – you know Andrew Hurley, right? He’s in Burghley House with me.”

“Hi, Andrew,” Georgie smiled at him.

“Whatever,” Andrew groaned as he slumped into his seat at the back of the plane.

The last passenger to board the plane was a boy with black wavy shoulder-length hair. His name was Damien Danforth. Georgie had seen him around the school with the rest of the second-year polo set. At school he dressed in the same uniform as the rest of the Blainford boys – black jodhpurs, brown boots and a navy shirt – but somehow managed to carry himself with a poetic flair that the others didn’t possess, wearing his navy shirt intentionally a size too large and leaving the buttons undone so that the cotton billowed as he strolled about the quad. Damien had a way of speaking, as if each word was an enormous effort. He had a transatlantic accent – neither American nor British, but somewhere in between.

“James,” he said as he shoved his bags up into the locker, “I couldn’t find my hunting stock. I’ll have to borrow one of yours…” Then he turned and spotted Georgie. “Hello! I didn’t realise Taylor Swift was coming with us.”

Georgie felt suddenly self-conscious about the fact that Alice had helped her to style her hair into ringlet curls instead of her usual plain blonde ponytail.

“Damien, this is Georgie Parker,” James said, “and before you say anything else rude to her, you should know that she’s my guest.”

“I wasn’t being rude!” Damien looked aghast. “I adore Taylor Swift!” He threw himself into the seat in the aisle opposite Georgie and leaned over to her.

“So Taylor, sweetheart, where did you come from?”

“Umm,” Georgie was thrown. “I’m from Little Brampton, in Gloucestershire.”

“Georgie is British eventing royalty,” James added. “She’s Ginny Parker’s daughter.”

“Is that true?” Damien looked impressed.

“Well, yes,” Georgie nodded, “but only the bit about my mum being Ginny Parker.”

“Oh, good,” Damien said with relief. “We’ve already got Kennedy on the plane – we don’t need another princess onboard.”

“Shut up, Damien!” Kennedy threw the pillow off her seat at him.

“Hey, no fighting! Buckle up, everyone,” James grinned.

“We’re taking off.”

As they’d been talking, the jet had done its short taxi to the end of the grassy airstrip and the engines were whining and thrumming. Suddenly Georgie was thrust back in her seat as the plane gathered speed, until it struck that moment of pure freedom as the wheels lifted off the ground and they were airborne in the clear blue sky, bound for Maryland.

Georgie thought it was ironic that James had introduced her as eventing royalty. Royalty implied being privileged, but that was the last thing that Georgie felt. Her mother, Ginny Parker had died in a tragic accident on the crosscountry course four years ago and since then it had just been Georgie and her dad. Their country life was hardly one of luxury and Georgie had been forced to sell her beloved black pony Tyro because she couldn’t afford to board him with her at Blainford. Instead, she had been allocated one of the Academy’s horses to ride. At Blainford, riding a school horse tainted you with a whiff of impoverishment – a fact that Kennedy was only too keen to point out.

Georgie hadn’t been exactly thrilled about her assigned horse at first either, but now she adored

Belladonna. She was a headstrong mare, but such a beauty with a jet-black mane and tail and coat of dark mahogany. Georgie was really beginning to bond with Belle. Their relationship felt so natural. Which was more than she could say about James. She wasn’t even sure where she stood with him. Were they officially dating? The way he looked at her now with those startling blue eyes was totally unnerving.

“Regretting coming with me?” James asked.

“No,” she lied.

“Ah, but you haven’t met my parents yet,” James deadpanned.

“I’m sure they’re not that bad,” Georgie said.

“No,” James replied, “they’re worse. Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll love you. Dad used to be a showjumper when he was at Blainford, so all you need to do is mention that you’ve made the team for the House Showjumping.”

“Your dad must have been proud when you made it into the Burghley team,” Georgie said.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” James gave her a wry smile. “It’s hard to tell with my father.”

The House Showjumping was an annual event at Blainford and just before mid-term break the try-outs had been held for the school teams – Georgie and James had both been chosen to represent their boarding houses.

When Georgie got back to school, there would be showjumping training to contend with – as well as a mountain of schoolwork. Despite being an equestrian academy, Blainford didn’t cut students any slack when it came to academic subjects like English and Maths. But it was cross-country class with Tara Kelly that really had Georgie stressed out. In their half-term exam, Georgie had finished halfway up the class rankings and so had avoided elimination. However, Tara had already promised that the next half-term would be even more challenging than the first.

“Tara is a total dragon. Her class is a nightmare,” James said. “Although you seem to cope.”

“I’m still alive, if that’s what you mean,” Georgie replied.

“All you cross-country students are the same,” James said. “You act like it’s so important…”

“But it is!” Georgie said. “James, I came here to become an eventer and Tara is the best instructor in the business. Being in her class matters to me more than anything.”

As the pilot had promised, the weather was good all the way to Maryland. Almost exactly an hour after they had taken off, the plane began its descent. They came down through the clouds and then suddenly the skies were clear and they were close enough for Georgie to see the tops of the trees and cattle grazing on velvet-green pastures.

“That’s the house down there,” James said, leaning over and pointing out the grey shingled roofline of a massive country mansion.

Alice had warned Georgie that the Kirkwoods owned the grandest house in Maryland, but even so, Georgie hadn’t really expected anything on this vast scale. The Kirkwood property was like an English country estate. Spanning out around the house in all directions were vast, formal gardens. From above, the hedges and topiary created an elaborate maze, dotted with fountains and statuary. Beyond the gardens, James pointed out guest cottages made from the same grey stone as the main house, and stable blocks for the horses, polo fields and dressage arenas.

Georgie could hear the clunk beneath the belly of the aircraft as the plane lowered its landing gear. She looked out of the window at the green, grassy airstrip rushing up at them and watched as a handful of black-faced sheep grazing the pasture below them scattered out of their path.

Seconds later the plane struck the ground with a vigorous bounce. There were a few more bumps and thuds as they bounced across the airstrip and then the plane was turning around and heading towards the hangar at the rear of the mansion.

As the others disembarked, Georgie reached for her bag.

“Leave it,” James instructed. “You don’t have to carry your own bags around here.”

If the Kirkwood mansion had looked like a grand affair from the sky, it was no less daunting when you were standing on the doorstep. From the front, the building had even more of a stately air, with dark ivy growing vigorously up the walls almost to the roofline and a beige pebbled forecourt at the front entrance, with a large fountain for the cars to drive around.

James rang the bell and a few moments later the front door swung wide open. Georgie was confronted with an attractive woman in a dark navy suit, her hair pulled back in a tight elegant bun that accentuated her wide blue eyes. She looked nothing like James, but Georgie wasn’t surprised by this. After all, James had told her that he had a stepmother.

“Georgie,” James said, “this is Frances.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Kirkwood,” Georgie said. Trying her hardest to be polite, she extended her hand to shake, but the woman made no effort to take it. Georgie thought that perhaps a curtsy might be more appropriate. She withdrew her hand and dipped down at the knees, doing a little bow. As she rose up again she saw that the woman was staring at her in utter bewilderment.

Kennedy gave a snicker. “Frances is our maid,” she informed Georgie as she barged past with Tori, Arden and the boys behind her. “The stepmom doesn’t answer the bell around here.”

“Where is Patricia?” James asked Frances.

“Your stepmother is on her way back from Paris,” the maid replied. “And your father—”

She was interrupted by the deep sonorous boom of a hunting horn that made Georgie spin around. Across the green lawns of the Kirkwood gardens, darting in between bushes and leaping over hedges, came the fox hounds. The pack was running with their tongues lolling out and tails held erect. They must have been at the end of a run because their tan, black and white coats were covered in burrs and mud.

When they reached the elegant fountain in the forecourt the hounds began to leap straight in, some of them lowering themselves to sink down beneath the water and cool off, others standing on all fours in the shallow fountain, lapping away at the water. The horn sounded again and Georgie saw a man appear astride a magnificent grey hunter. He wore a red jacket that signified that he was the master of the hounds. He had the horn in one hand and with the other he kept a light grasp on the reins as he rode directly down the middle of the carefully mown lawn, jumping metre-high topiary hedges as if they weren’t even there.

“Ohmygod!” Georgie was stunned.

“I know!” James nodded. “Just as well Patricia isn’t here. She’d give him a telling-off for galloping across the front lawn like that.”

The man cantered the horse across the pebbled forecourt and pulled his mount up right in front of Georgie and James. When he vaulted down to stand beside them, he towered over James. He was as solidly built as his hunter and his red hair was greying at the temples beneath his velvet riding hat. He pulled off his brown leather gloves and shook hands with James in a brisk fashion.

“The hounds had a good run today,” the man said. “They’re in good shape for the hunt tomorrow. I assume you’re joining us at ten to throw off?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” James confirmed.

“Hunting?” Georgie was horrified.

“You don’t hunt?” The hunt master frowned.

“I can’t even believe you’d ask me that!” Georgie said. “Chasing after a poor little fox on horseback and killing it like that! It’s cruel and barbaric.”

“Now wait a minute…” the man tried to say.

But Georgie was in full swing. “I think it’s pathetic. All those dogs set against one poor fox as some sort of ghastly entertainment.”

“But—” the hunt master tried again.

“It’s outlawed in Britain, you know,” Georgie continued. “I’d have thought America would ban it too – like any civilised society.”

This last sentence was something Georgie had heard in Social Studies the week before and she was quite pleased to be able to use it to bold effect.

The hunt master sighed. “Are you finished?”

Georgie nodded emphatically.

“Right,” the hunt master said. “Firstly, they’re not called dogs. They must always be referred to as hounds. Secondly, we are not hunting foxes. No fox has ever been hunted on Kirkwood land – we hunt an aniseed lure and no animals are killed for our pleasure. And as for being civilised, I find it is always good manners to greet your host before you begin to rain torrents of abuse on them for crimes they have not committed.”

Georgie felt her stomach do a flip-flop. She’d just made a major mistake.

“Georgie,” James sighed, “I didn’t get the chance to introduce you. This is my father.”

The huntsman extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, young lady,” he said in a tone that indicated it was anything but. “I’m Randolph Kirkwood.”




Chapter Two (#ulink_b3d8ddaf-738d-5498-bcd5-2bf24406b3dc)


Mrs Kirkwood arrived home from Paris late that afternoon. Georgie noticed that James and Kennedy greeted their stepmother in the same detached manner that James had used with his father on the front lawn, as if they were mere acquaintances rather than family.

Patricia Kirkwood swept into the house wearing high heels and a sharply tailored black suit, her jet-black hair swept up into a chignon and lengths of gold chains roped around her neck. She was a consultant for a major fashion house in Paris and divided her time between her office in France and the Maryland mansion.

“Working in fashion must be so glamorous,” Georgie said when they were introduced.

“It’s a juggling act,” Patricia replied. “I can be in jodhpurs on Friday riding across our estate, and back in haute couture gowns on Monday choosing fabrics for the new collections.”

Arden and Tori, who were both fashion-obsessed, made sure they were sitting next to Patricia at dinner and spent the whole time quizzing her about fashion trends.

Kennedy looked outrageously smug when Mrs Kirkwood announced that she would be taking her stepdaughter to see the runway shows next season. James however, seemed less impressed.

“I think she hates it really,” he told Georgie as he watched his stepmother flitting in and out of the dining room, her mobile phone glued to her ear, throughout the meal. “All the endless runway shows and high heels, the air kisses and back-stabbing. She works for Fabien, that French designer who wears the ridiculously big shoulder pads? Patricia is his muse. Apparently he adores her and can’t design the range without her – but the rest of his staff can’t stand her. They call her Hamburger Patty because she’s American. I think the only reason she keeps doing the job is to avoid us. She’s hardly ever home and when she is, she’s out hunting.”

It seemed that hunting was an obsession for the Kirkwoods. Patricia had returned from Paris to prepare for the hunt the next day and during dinner she was constantly distracted with preparations for tomorrow’s activities, snapping orders at various members of staff.

Mr Kirkwood, meanwhile, never appeared at dinner at all. “He’s down at the kennels with the hounds,” Frances told Mrs Kirkwood when she asked after her husband. Georgie was relieved to hear it. After her misguided outburst she didn’t really fancy sitting down to dinner with him.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was your dad?” she groaned to James.

“I was having too much fun watching you,” James grinned. “Dad was totally stunned to have someone disagree with him. It doesn’t happen very often.”

Neither Mr or Mrs Kirkwood seemed to show much interest in Georgie – or in any of the teenagers, including their own children.

“This house is so big,” James told Georgie, “I came home once for mid-term break and it took them the whole week to realise I was even here!”

He’d meant the story to be funny, but Georgie thought how awful it would be to come back to an empty mansion and for no one even to notice you were home.

James had given her a quick tour of the ground floor before dinner and Georgie had been overwhelmed by the luxury and size of the mansion.

“Don’t leave me behind,” she told James as she trailed after him. “I may never find my way out of here on my own.”

“Guests have been known to disappear,” James agreed with a wink.

The maze of corridors was so confusing that when it was time to go to bed, Georgie had to rely on Frances as a guide. Georgie followed the clack-clack of the maid’s court shoes on the parquet floor as she led the way. At the end of the main hall they climbed the grand staircase that led to the west wing of the house. Georgie’s guest room was the fifth on the left and had its own bathroom and dressing room.

“You’ll find some of Kennedy’s old hunting clothes in the wardrobe,” Frances said as she turned down the bed. “She told me you would need something to wear for tomorrow.”

Like the other rooms in the house, Georgie’s guest room was completely over the top. It was as if several interior designers had been hired at once and had fought it out with no clear winner. The chairs were cloaked in animal prints – leopard, zebra and tiger stripes, the cushions were floral, the furniture was French antique and there was baroque wallpaper hung with Chinese tapestry. If this was how Patricia Kirkwood decorated her house, Georgie shuddered to think what she might put on a catwalk!

In the dressing room she searched through jods and jackets hanging on the rails, choosing herself a suitable outfit for tomorrow. Georgie had never hunted before, but she knew that young riders were meant to wear tweeds and thankfully there were several suitable things to wear here. She selected a buff tweed hunting coat and cream jodhpurs, both of which looked like they would fit, then she rummaged around in the cupboard and found a hunting stock that was the same shade of cream as the jodhpurs. Georgie decided she would wear her long black boots to complete the outfit. Then she laid them all carefully on a zebra-print chair, ready and waiting for her.

A heavy mist hung over the estate the next morning. Georgie looked out her bedroom window and was greeted by the magical sight of horses and riders in scarlet coats milling about on the front lawn. By the time she had showered, pulled on her hunting clothes and raced downstairs there were already nearly a hundred riders gathered on the pebble forecourt, their horses breathing steam from their nostrils as they waited for the hunt to throw off.

The horses were classic hunters, stocky types with thick strong legs and chests that were deep through the girth. Georgie loved the way they had been clipped so that it looked as if their top and bottom halves actually belonged to two entirely different horses, joined together in the middle.

The riders all looked far more dressed up than Georgie had expected and despite the early morning hour they were drinking port, sipping away at the stirrup cups that were handed to them by servants carrying silver trays. Patricia Kirkwood, dressed in a black velvet hunting coat and lace cravat, was holding court amid a group of shrill and overbearing riders who were behaving more like they were at a cocktail party than a hunt.

“Avert your eyes!” There was a whisper in Georgie’s ear and she turned around to see Damien Danforth standing behind her. “If you stare at one of those gorgons directly you could turn to stone,” he deadpanned.

“Watch it – they might hear you!” Georgie was taken aback.

“Who cares?” Damien sniffed. “If you had to spend ten minutes in a room with Patricia’s awful friends you’d see I’m simply telling the truth.”

He gave Georgie a dark look. “I blame you, you know. You British were the ones who invented all this hunting nonsense and made it seem classy. Now every nouveau riche moron in Maryland wants to join the Kirkwood hunt. Honestly, I don’t think half of them know one end of a horse from the other.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Georgie smiled.

“I’m not!” Damien insisted. He pointed to a rider seated on an enormous dark brown hunter. “That’s Heatley Fletcher,” he said. “Local lawyer and multi-millionaire. Do you notice anything odd about his horse?”

Heatley’s big brown hunter stood out with its hot-pink leg bandages.

“A bit flamboyant,” Georgie admitted.

“You know why?” Damien whispered. “Heatley is famous for turning up at a hunt and not even recognising his own horse. He’s had to be asked twice this season to dismount because he got on the wrong one. Finally his groom came up with the solution of putting coloured bandages on Heatley’s hunter so he won’t embarrass himself any more.”

“Of course,” Damien added, “the bandages don’t stop Heatley from falling off. He usually plummets at the first hedge because he can’t actually ride.”

“He can’t ride?” Georgie was horrified. “Then what’s he doing hunting?”

Damien sighed. “Being invited on the Kirkwood hunt is like being invited to the Vanity Fair party at the Oscars. So they all come. And they all drop like flies at the first spar.”

“You seem to know this place and the Kirkwoods pretty well,” Georgie said.

Damien gave her a long-suffering look. “James and I met at boarding school when we were nine years old. He’s one of my best friends,” he paused, “although I often wonder how James turned out the way he did…”

“Talking about me?”

It was James. Georgie had no idea how long he’d been standing there behind them.

“I was just telling her the Kirkwood secrets,” Damien said.

“Don’t,” James warned him. “You’ll put her off!” Smiling at Georgie, he clasped his arms possessively around her waist. Georgie was shocked by this sudden public display of affection.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to the stables and I’ll introduce you to your horse.”

The stables turned out to be utterly beautiful. Patricia Kirkwood had clearly never thought of bringing her fashion sense outside so the interior was mercifully untouched. The stable block had bare flagstone floors and high-vaulted ceilings with wooden beams.

James led Georgie to one of the loose boxes on the far right-hand side. “You’ve been given Belvedere,” he told her, unbolting the top of the stall door.

Belvedere was a heavily built brown horse, part-draught with a broad white blaze and a face that was so immense and solid that the throat lash of his bridle could barely fit around his broad cheeks. Still, his eyes were bright and kind, and he met Georgie’s gaze keenly. His ears pricked forward as she approached him and took his reins.

“He’s lovely,” she said. “He has such an honest face.”

“Belvedere’s a reliable jumper,” James assured her as he legged her up. “I would have preferred to put you on something with a bit more class like Tinkerbell, but Dad said she’s not for first-timers.”

Georgie suspected that what Mr Kirkwood really meant was that he didn’t consider her good enough for his best horses, so he’d stuck her with a draught horse. Still, she wasn’t complaining. She really liked Belvedere, although sitting astride him felt weird after riding Belle. His heavy physique bulged out beneath her, the barrel of his belly forcing her legs to stick out like she was doing the splits.

As she lumbered back across the lawn trying to get used to Belvedere’s cumbersome trot, Georgie caught sight of the showjumperettes. Kennedy and her friends were mounted up on elegant, well-bred hunters and all of them wore sleek black riding coats with frilled stocks at their throats and top hats instead of helmets. Next to them on her draught horse in her borrowed country tweeds Georgie looked like an unsophisticated hick. She could see from Kennedy’s smirk that this had been her intention all along.

“Interesting choice of outfit,” she said to Georgie. “Beige is really your colour, isn’t it?”

“Thanks, Kennedy,” Georgie replied sarcastically. “Oh, and by the way, Abraham Lincoln called – he wants his top hat back.”

Kennedy’s expression turned fierce. “You obviously know nothing about hunting. If you get in Dad’s way today, he’ll feed you to the hounds.”

“Calm down, Kennedy,” James said, “I was just about to tell her the rules.”

He smiled at Georgie. “There’s really only one rule. My dad is the master of the hunt and you must never overtake him on the field. Those other guys with him in red coats are Dad’s henchmen – the whippers-in, and the field masters. They’ll try and boss you around, but don’t worry, just do as I say and no matter what, always stick with me.

OK?”

Georgie didn’t have time to reply. Randolph Kirkwood raised the horn to his lips, giving a long, low blast. Then he set off at a brisk trot, the hounds following obediently at the heels of his great, grey hunter. The pack scampered across the pebbled driveway, heading to the right of the house towards a low stone bridge that crossed a small stream, leading out into the pasture beyond. They kept alongside their master in tight formation until they reached the field, and then they began to fan out, casting for the scent.

Two hounds to the far left of the field began baying, and soon the others had joined in their howling chorus. Randolph Kirkwood gave another toot on his horn to alert the riders behind him and then the hunt was off and galloping.

The hounds covered the ground far more swiftly than Georgie had anticipated. They kept pace with Randolph Kirkwood’s hunter, who flew the first obstacle, a clipped hedge at the far end of the field, without hesitation. Dedicated to the pursuit of the scent, the hounds squirmed and thrashed their way through the hedge. Several men in red coats followed, along with Mrs Kirkwood, who jumped the fence with expert finesse.

With the competent riders over the hedge, the rest of the field surged in a mad rush. Just as Damien had predicted, Heatley Fletcher was one of the first to fall. Georgie saw his big brown hunter skid to a halt in front of the hedge so that Heatley flew over his mount’s neck, landing face-first in the mud.

Heatley’s horse caused a collision with three other riders, two of whom also promptly fell off. Georgie watched the pile-up in astonishment.

“Total carnage!” Damien said with a grin as he rode up alongside her.

“I told Dad we should ride at the front,” Kennedy whined. “Now we’re stuck behind the losers.”

“Out of the way, please!” James was yelling at the riders dithering about and blocking the path in front of the hedge. He rode his liver chestnut, a pretty mare named Bambi, at an astonishingly gutsy gallop. If things went wrong and he came to grief it would make for a very nasty fall, but James’ confident style made it clear that he had no intention of either stopping or falling. Damien, Andrew, Kennedy, Tori and Arden all followed his lead, pushing in to take their turns over the hedge until only Georgie was left. She looked at the hedge. It was a fair-sized jump, probably a metre high. “Hurry up, Georgie!” James called to her. “We’re going to lose the hounds at this rate!”

Georgie took a deep breath and shortened up the reins. “Come on, Belvedere,” she pressed the big brown hunter on and rode him hard at the hedge.

At the last minute Belvedere tried to swerve away, but Georgie held him steady with her legs, growling to urge him on again. The hesitation meant they were now on a bad stride and Georgie considered pulling the horse off. Then she remembered what her old riding instructor Lucinda Milwood always said at moments like this: “When in doubt, kick on!” And so she did, giving a firm dig with both heels. Belvedere pulled himself together, knowing that his rider meant business. He chipped in a last-minute stride and managed to get them over the hedge with Georgie securely on his back.

That first jump gave Georgie a jolt of adrenalin and she felt her confidence come upon her in a rush. She stood up in her stirrups in two-point position, keen and ready for the next obstacle.

At the next jump, a low dry-stone wall, Georgie didn’t need any encouragement and popped Belvedere over it on a lovely forward stride. She was enjoying herself now, feeling the wind in her face, the thunder of hooves beneath her.

James was right beside her, but the rest of the hunters were quite spread out. Mr and Mrs Kirkwood, the scarlet-coated huntsmen and hounds were far ahead in the distance. There were about a dozen hunters in hot pursuit of the front runners, and then behind them came the stragglers, many of them sporting muddy patches on their breeches and hunting jackets.

As they approached the next fence, a large hedge, Georgie was squaring up to take her turn when James called her name and peeled off in front of her, making a sharp turn and riding away from the other hunters.

Remembering his instructions, Georgie pulled hard on the left rein to turn Belvedere away from the hedge and set off in pursuit.

They were galloping towards a small glade of trees – Georgie guessed that James must have an alternative route in mind. Straight ahead of them was a four-barred post and rail fence. James didn’t even slow down. He rode Bambi over it without hesitation and Georgie felt her blood racing as she did the same. Belvedere’s massive frame made it feel like she was riding an elephant, but there was no doubt that this horse could jump!

Over two more fences they went – a low fallen log and another quite large hedge. She heard the noisy crackle of branches as Belvedere dragged his hooves through the top of the hedge like an experienced hunter. Then she heard the low call of the huntsman’s horn and looked back over her shoulder. They had left the hunt far behind. The hounds had veered in totally the opposite direction and were getting even further away. Still, she figured James must know what he was doing. He knew the hunt fields like the back of his hand, so surely he must have a plan.

Ahead of her, James had ridden into a clearing in the middle of the glade. He pulled Bambi abruptly to a stop and flung himself out of the saddle. Georgie saw him dismount and immediately assumed the worst. If he was getting off his horse then Bambi must have thrown a shoe.

“James!” She cantered Belvedere up alongside and quickly vaulted off. “Are you all right? Is Bambi OK?” “She’s fine,” James said.

‘Then why did you dismount? What’s wrong?” Georgie took the reins over Belvedere’s head and led him over to where James and Bambi stood.

Both of the horses were sweaty and heaving. She could feel her own heart racing from the exertion of the gallop. “Why are we here…?” she began to ask. And then suddenly he was standing so close to her that she could no longer tell if it was her own heart racing or his, pressed up against her.

“I think I can smell aniseed,” was all she managed to squeak out, as he moved his face even closer and met her lips with a kiss.




Chapter Three (#ulink_506611b4-c64d-5d1a-98d2-6a6112a3f424)


It had quickly become obvious that James had no intention of rejoining the hunt. Instead, he took Georgie on a tour of the estate. They followed a bridle path, riding through woodlands and open fields, and by lunchtime they were starving and miles away from the Kirkwood mansion.

Georgie thought she was going to faint from hunger when James finally led the way through a gate out on to the main road and they rode along the grass verge to the junction where a petrol station, general store and diner stood on the corner.

They tied the horses up there and bought burgers and fries and sat down to eat beside their horses on the grass. Georgie was horrified by James’ habit of dipping his fries in his chocolate thickshake.

“It’s a trick I learned at Blainford,” he admitted. “The food in the dining hall is so bad, you learn to improvise.”

On the way home they cantered over the fields, jumping low hedges and spars rather than bothering to stop and open the gates. It was almost dark when they finally made it back to the stables. Georgie took Belvedere to his stall and had started to untack when James stopped her. “You know we’ve got staff who do that,” he told her. “Leave him with the grooms and come up to the house.”

Georgie shook her head. “But I want to do it.” She couldn’t stand the thought of handing over her horse for someone else to do the dirty work. Exhausted as she was, she didn’t want to abandon Belvedere, leaving someone else to mix his hard feed and rug him up. “I’ll groom him myself,” she told James.

“Suit yourself.” James looked mildly amused, as if the idea had never occurred to him. Georgie realised at that moment that the Kirkwoods treated their horses as if they were just pieces of equipment – like a motorbike or a tennis racquet to be put away at the end of a game, rather than a living creature. The horses in this stable virtually had their price tags hanging off them. Which made it even more insulting that Mr Kirkwood had refused to give her Tinkerbell to ride. He didn’t trust her to ride his horse in the same way that he wouldn’t trust a one-armed juggler with a Ming vase.

“I’ll see you back up at the house,” James said. “I’d steer clear of the conservatory if I were you – that’s where Patricia and Dad will be having their post-hunt drinks. A lot of bores with mud on their breeches telling their lame war stories.” He smiled at her. “I’ll be in the games room hiding from them.”

Grooming Belvedere took Georgie longer than she’d expected and somehow all the mud and sweat that had been on the big, brown gelding managed to transfer itself on to her in the process. Her jods were covered in muck and she had the worst case of helmet-hair she’d ever had in her life. It was in this bedraggled state that Georgie entered the mansion. She had planned to go upstairs and get changed, but when she heard Mr Kirkwood’s voice on the landing she detoured immediately and headed to the games room in search of James.

In the games room Kennedy Kirkwood was playing pool. She had taken off her top hat and coat and was leant over the table dressed in her breeches and white blouse, her frilled hunting stock still tied at her throat. Beside her, also holding cues, were Tori, Andrew and Damien.

“And what happened to you on the hunt field today?” Damien raised an eyebrow and gave her a cheeky look. “You seemed to vanish.”

“We should be so lucky!” Kennedy commented as she took her shot and managed to sink the black ball mid-game by mistake.

Andrew swept his arm across the table to clear the remaining balls. He didn’t even acknowledge Georgie’s presence and seemed determined to pretend she wasn’t there as he racked up for another game.

“Where is my brother anyway?” Kennedy glared at Georgie. “You didn’t actually manage to lose him on the hunt field?”

“He told me he was going to be in here,” Georgie said. “I haven’t seen him since he left the stables…”

The large French doors in the games room opened straight out to the gardens and the sound of giggling and splashing could now be heard right outside.

“Well we know where he is now,” Damien said, peering out the window. “He’s out by the fountain with Arden.”

Georgie felt herself turn strangely cold. It was almost nightfall outside. Why was her boyfriend hanging out in the garden?

Her suspicions got even darker when James and Arden tumbled in through the French doors, giggling and panting, as if they’d been playing chase. James was still in his riding clothes, but Arden had got changed into a stunning emerald green chiffon dress. Her hair was blow-dried perfectly and tied back loosely and she’d taken off her strappy high heels and was carrying them delicately dangling in one hand, as if she’d just stepped out of Vogue.

“Georgie!” James seemed surprised to see her. “Finished mucking out the stables then?”

Georgie tried to take his teasing in her stride. “Yeah, well, Belvedere is a big horse – it takes a while to groom all of him,” she said. Then she added, “What were you and Arden doing outside?”

“None of your business!” Arden said airily, dropping her shoes on the floor and collapsing dramatically into a chair.

James gave Georgie a grin. “We weren’t doing anything,” he said. “Just hanging out.”

Frances entered the games room at that moment to announce it was time for dinner. Somehow Arden managed to manoeuvre herself closer to James as they walked to the dining room and snaffled the seat beside him at the table. She then spent the entire meal whispering in his ear, winding Georgie up even more. Unfortunately the Kirkwoods served dinner in six courses and it took forever. All the time, James hardly even bothered to look at Georgie and by the time dessert was being served she felt close to tears. Unable to stomach any more of Arden’s flirting, Georgie said she wasn’t hungry and left the table. She was heading for her room when she heard footsteps behind her in the hallway.

“Georgie! Wait!”

It was James. He ran to catch up with her. “Going to bed early?” he asked.

“I’m just tired, I guess,” Georgie said unconvincingly.

“Don’t go,” James said. “We can go back to the games room.”

“Why don’t you go and hang out with Arden?”

The words were out of her mouth before Georgie could stop herself. She looked at James’ face, and saw a brief smile cross his lips.

“Don’t be like that, Georgie,” he said sweetly. “We had fun today, didn’t we?”

Georgie wanted to say that it had been more than fun – it had been one of the best days she’d ever had. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted out. “It was an amazing day. It’s just… I’ve never felt like this about anybody before and I—”

And then she had to stop talking because, for the second time that day, James Kirkwood was kissing her.

As the light poured in through the curtains the next morning, Georgie’s first thought was of James Kirkwood and that kiss. As she got up and began to dress she heard the sound of the jet engines. It sounded as if a plane was taking off from the airfield behind the mansion. She didn’t give it too much thought at the time, and headed down to the dining room where Frances was serving breakfast. She’d dished herself up some scrambled eggs and was about to sit down to eat alone when Damien Danforth burst in through the dining-room door. He was dressed in jodhpurs and long boots and his cheeks were ruddy from the fresh air.

“Hello!” he said, looking rather surprised to see Georgie. “Are you still here?”

“Of course I’m still here!” Georgie replied. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, we’ve been for a morning ride,” Damien said, heading straight over to the buffet. “Frances!” he yelled out. “Got any of those field mushrooms?”

A moment later the rest of the party came rushing in. Andrew as usual didn’t bother to speak to Georgie, Tori and Arden came in giggling, and then Kennedy followed them. When she saw Georgie, her face dropped.

“Are you still here?”

Georgie frowned. “Yes! Still here. Why does everyone keep asking me that?” She looked behind Kennedy through the open doorway. “Where’s James? Is he with you?”

A look of dark delight appeared on Kennedy’s face. “You don’t know?” she said. “He didn’t tell you?”

“What are you talking about?” Georgie asked.

Kennedy purred with pleasure, “Oh, it’s too fabulous!”

Georgie suddenly felt awfully vulnerable. Kennedy clearly knew something that she didn’t.

“James has gone,” said Damien.

“Gone where?” Georgie was confused. Was he down at the kennels with his father? Out on the estate?

“He’s gone to New York with his dad,” Damien said. And then he added in a gentler tone. “I’m sorry, Georgie, I thought he’d taken you with him.”

“Well, when will he be back?” Georgie asked.

“He’s not coming back,” Kennedy said. “He’s gone with Dad and then he’s going straight to Blainford.” She gave Georgie a look of mock pity. “Looks like he’s left you behind.”

Georgie couldn’t believe it. “But there are still three more days until we’re due back at school. He can’t just leave me…”

“He just did,” Kennedy said. “This is so typical of James. Dumping you and making it our problem!”

Georgie would have burst into tears, but she didn’t want to give Kennedy the satisfaction. Instead, she put down her breakfast plate and left the room. She was halfway down the hall when she heard Damien calling after her.

“Are you OK?” he asked as he ran to catch her up.

“Not really.” Georgie shook her head, still struggling to hold back the tears. “Why did he go off like that without saying anything?”

Damien shrugged. “He was in a weird mood this morning. He said he had to get out of here and he’d tell me all about it when we got back to school. Then he left.”

Back in her room, Georgie sat down on the bed in despair. How could James abandon her at his house with Kennedy and her stuck-up friends? It was so unbelievably awful she couldn’t help but think there must be some mistake. She couldn’t believe that James would do this.

“That’s right, he’s gone to New York with his father,” Patricia Kirkwood confirmed. Georgie had looked everywhere and finally found James’ stepmother in the library. However, Mrs Kirkwood seemed to show scant interest in Georgie’s predicament.

“It’s just…” Georgie hesitated, “Well, he brought me here and now he’s gone and, umm, I’m still here.”

Patricia Kirkwood stood up and began to rearrange flowers in a vase on the mantelpiece. “So I see,” she said flatly. “You’re welcome to stay of course,” she added. “I’m sure you can get a lift back to Blainford on the weekend with Kennedy and the others when they go.”

“Thank you,” Georgie managed to stammer out, “only I wasn’t expecting to be, well, abandoned by James.”

Patricia Kirkwood froze, and suddenly her focus became quite resolutely fixed on the vase in front of her. “To be honest, Georgina, we weren’t really expecting James to bring home a girl… like you…”

She paused to withdraw a dead rose from the vase. “There’s a certain calibre of girl that is suitable for the Kirkwood household. I think perhaps James was forgetting his position when he asked you here in the first place.”

Looking back, Georgie would think of endless biting comebacks that she wished she had said to Patricia Kirkwood. But at the time, her jaw literally hung open in shock. No wonder the Kirkwoods had seemed aloof. They’d never wanted her here, because they didn’t think that she was good enough for James!

Patricia Kirkwood pulled out another dying rose and then turned on her heels and walked briskly out of the room. Georgie was reeling! What was she going to do now? She was stuck here without James, unwelcome and yet unable to leave for another three long unbearable days. Then she would be forced to get on that plane and fly back with Kennedy and her sidekicks, gloating and taunting her the whole way.

Back upstairs in her room she curled up in a ball on her bed, feeling utterly lost and alone. Why had she come here? She should have taken Alice up on her offer and gone to her house instead.

Alice! Of course. Georgie leapt off the bed and searched in her bag. With trembling fingers she dug through her things until she uncovered her mobile phone, and scrolled through to find Alice’s number. Alice lived in Maryland too, not far from the Kirkwoods.

Georgie listened to the dialling tone on her phone. Please pick up, Alice! she pleaded silently. She held her breath and waited and then, just as she was about to give up, there was a familiar voice at the other end of the line.

“Georgie!” Alice’s cheery voice almost made her burst into tears with relief. “Are you having a good time at the fabulous Kirkwood Mansion?”

“Not so much,” Georgie admitted. There were gasps of horror and disbelief from Alice as Georgie told her the ‘highlights’ so far.

“So where are you now?” Alice asked.

“I’m hiding in my bedroom,” Georgie said. “Which is probably where I’ll be staying for the next three days until I can leave.”

“No,” Alice said firmly. “You won’t be. I’m coming to get you right now. Get packed. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

It didn’t take Georgie long to throw her things in a bag. Once she was ready, she went back downstairs and told Frances she was leaving. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place. But there was one final goodbye that she had to say before she went.

“Belvedere,” Georgie cooed as she unbolted the door of the gelding’s stall and stepped inside. “I’ve got something for you.”

At the sound of Georgie’s voice, Belvedere came closer. Georgie reached out her hand and the big brown hunter spied a carrot in the outstretched palm. He stepped forward and used his soft lips to nuzzle the treat from her, crunching the carrot with his enormous jaws.

“Thank you for being such a super horse,” Georgie told him, patting his broad muzzle before slipping back out the stable door. “Bye, Belvedere,” she said sadly. “You were the nicest of all of them.”

As she walked through the gardens towards the house, Georgie half hoped that she might see a car in the driveway, but no one was here to collect her yet. Instead, she saw Kennedy standing on the steps to the front door with Arden and Tori. They were holding racquets and waiting for Tori to do up the laces on her tennis shoes.

“We’re going down to the courts,” Kennedy told Georgie. “We’d have asked you to come – except we didn’t.”

“That’s OK, Kennedy,” Georgie replied. “I’m leaving in a minute anyway.”

Kennedy looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”

At that moment there was the low rumble of a lorry engine and heavy wheels crushing the pebbles on the driveway. Then the deep honk of a horn sounded as the Duprees’ horse transporter pulled into view.

“Georgie!” Alice was waving frantically out of the passenger window as her big sister Kendal swung the wheel of the massive lorry to turn it around the fountain.

“I’d love to stay and chat,” Georgie said, amused by the look of total shock on the showjumperettes’ faces, “but my ride is here.”

She looked over at Alice, who was beaming as she swung open the door. Georgie threw her bag in and climbed onboard. “See you back at Blainford,” Georgie said, slamming the door. She squeezed in next to Alice, doing up her seatbelt as Kendal put the lorry into gear.

“Go round the fountain once more!” Alice begged her sister. Kendal’s skinny arms swung the wheel hard as she did a 360-degree turn to circle the fountain for a second time while Georgie and Alice raised their hands to the window and pretended to wave like the Queen as they bid the stunned showjumperettes goodbye.




Chapter Four (#ulink_3caebb24-28c1-55fa-a511-f4de6d049f70)


Kendal Dupree was a senior at Blainford and the older sister by three years – which in her books meant she should be in charge. Alice Dupree, however, had other ideas.

“Hey! Don’t touch the CD player!” Kendal snapped. “I’m listening to that!”

“It’s old ladies’ music!” Alice pouted.

“It’s Joni Mitchell,” Kendal replied. “She’s one of the coolest female singers ever.”

“Boring old hippie,” Alice grumbled. “Put on the new Foals album!”

She reached out a hand towards the CD player, but Kendal grabbed her wrist to stop her.

“Ow! Let me go!”

“Alice! Stop it. I’m trying to drive.” Kendal flicked her long blonde hair back out of her eyes and focused on the road ahead. “I’m warning you. Touch it again and you’re dead.”

Alice scowled at her big sister, her dark eyes half hidden beneath her jet-black fringe. “You’re lucky you’re an only child!” she said pointedly to Georgie. “It’s awful having a big sister.”

“Hey!” Kendal shot a sideways look at Alice. “You dragged me out on this crazy rescue mission. How about a bit of gratitude?”

“Thank you, Kendal,” Georgie said with sincerity.

“As if you had anything better to do!” Alice mumbled.

The bickering between the sisters carried on pretty much like this all the way to the Dupree ranch. Georgie marvelled at how the sisters constantly taunted each other without actually meaning anything by it.

In between arguing, Alice quizzed Georgie, until she had heard the whole story of what had happened with James.

“I always knew he was toxic,” Alice said. “He’s so vain and arrogant.”

“He’s not,” Georgie insisted. “Not once you know him.”

She didn’t know why she was standing up for James or why, despite what he’d done, she still felt a desperate need to see him again. All she knew was that she wasn’t ready to hate James Kirkwood. Not just yet.

The Dupree house was two-storeyed and painted white with a massive kidney-shaped swimming pool set into the lawn. Kendal swung the wheel of the lorry and eased the vehicle down the tree-lined driveway towards the front of the house. Georgie expected Kendal to pull up and stop, but she kept on driving.

“Mom and Dad are down at the stables,” Alice explained.

As they arrived outside the stable block, two enormous American Staffordshire terriers bounded out, followed by a small but yappy Jack Russell.

“Hey, Spike!” Alice said, swinging open the lorry door and leaping down to pat the brindle-coloured Staffordshire terrier, while the black and white spotted one leapt up to get her attention. “That one is Lulu,” Alice said, “and the Jack Russell is Ralph.”

Even though Ralph was the smallest, he did all the barking. He’d obviously made enough noise to announce their arrival because the Duprees came out of the stables a moment later to greet them.

“You must be Georgie,” Mr Dupree said, reaching out his huge bear paw to clasp her hand, a broad smile on his face. “I’m Charlie. Lovely to have you here. Alice has told us so much about you. I hear both of you girls made the House Showjumping team this term!”

“Hi, hon!” Mrs Dupree had a Maryland accent that was much stronger than Alice and Kendal’s. She was tanned and lean like her husband and wore her black hair back in a ponytail. She had the same bubbly personality as Alice and she didn’t hesitate to give Georgie a vigorous hug.

“Where’s Cherry?” Alice asked.

“She’s working the horses out back,” Mrs Dupree said and smiled at Georgie. “Do you need anything to eat, hon? Maybe some lemonade?”

“No, thanks,” Georgie said, “I’m fine.”

“Well come out to the arena then,” Mrs Dupree said, “and see what you think of this five-year-old that Cherry convinced us to buy.”

The Duprees were the sort of family that Georgie’s old instructor Lucinda would have classified as “true-blood horsey". It was so clear that all of them adored horses, and more than that, they understood them too.

Cherry, the oldest of the Dupree sisters, was a Blainford graduate who was now riding the professional showjumping circuit. Like Alice and Kendal, she was lean and delicately built like a ballerina. The five-year-old in question was a Hanoverian called Doodlebug. He was sixteen-two and had the temperament of a volcano. When Georgie arrived, Cherry was having trouble settling him down and he kept doing little bucks as he went over the jumps. Cherry didn’t look at all perturbed by this, even though she was jumping him bareback!





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