She loved Mac's photographs: her room here was plastered with them. After Papa died, Mac had collected all the old photographs they'd found in the flat in Sandown, pictures of her and Nana, old sepia-tinted images of Papa on Gerontius, and he had copied them, doing something clever digitally so that the images were clearer, larger, Papa's face more visible. The day of the funeral, he and Natasha had framed a few, placing them in her room so that she had found them when they'd returned to the house. 'We know we're not your original family,' they had told her that night, 'but we'd like to be your second one.'
She had never asked why they had named the baby Henry, but she guessed she knew. He knitted the two sides of her life together. Sometimes she even thought she saw a bit of Papa in him. Even if that didn't make sense. She still saw Papa everywhere - in the things Boo was taught to do; she heard his voice in her head whenever she rode. Watch me now, Papa, she would tell him silently.
The evening air was thick with the scent of newly mown grass, a faint hint of strawberries from the tea tent that had been set up behind the arena. There was a brief hush, then the orchestra began to play, the violin music to which they had spent weeks practising. She saw Boo's ears prick as he recognised the sound, felt his weight shift beneath her as he readied himself for the task ahead.
Tonight they would probably share a takeaway in the little cottage on the other side of the village. Mac would tease her about boys, and Natasha would ask if she'd help to bathe Henry. She always said it as if Sarah would be doing her a huge favour, even though they both knew she loved it. In two months she would be in France.
She had a sudden sense of being . . . if not where she was meant to be then somewhere she belonged. It was as much as anyone could ask for.
She glanced at Mr Warburton, her riding instructor, who was muttering beats under his breath as he held Boo's rein.
'You ready?' he said, looking up. 'Remember what I told you. Calm, forward, straight and light.'
Sarah sat up a little straighter, closed her legs around her horse and rode out.
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the technical help and support of a number of people. I would like particularly to thank Nicola McCahill, and solicitor John Bolch. Any legal mistakes are completely my own, or tweaked to adjust the needs of the plot.
I am also grateful to Yolaine and Thierry Auger of Chateau de Verrieres in Saumur, photographers Mark Molloy and Andrew Buurman, Sheila Crowley of Curtis Brown, Carolyn Mays, Auriol Bishop, Eleni Fostiropolous, Lucy Hale of Hachette UK, Linda Shaughnessy and Rob Kraitt of AP Watt.
Thanks also to Annabel Robinson of FMCM, Hazel Orme, and Francesca Best. Cathy Runciman for French translation, wine pouring and endless friendship, and Hannah Mays, Chris Luckley and Sonya Penney for a definite education during the first trip to Le Cadre Noir.
Further thanks to Drew Hazell, Cathy Scotland and Jeannie Brice, as well as Barbara Ralph and John Alexander.
To the various members of Writersblock; you know who you are.
Thanks also to Simon and Charlotte Kelvin, whose generous donation to charity means they will be popping up in some form in my next novel.
To my family, Lizzie and Brian Sanders and Jim Moyes, and most of all to Charles, Saskia, Harry and Lockie. Horse riding is research. Honest.
In 2007 I read a piece in Philadelphia Weekly magazine by journalist Steve Volk about a 14 year old girl called Mecca Harris. She spent all her time outside school hours at an urban stables in Philadelphia, taught a love of horses, and skill at riding, by the Philadelphia Black Cowboys, an institution that offers children in the city's toughest neighbourhoods a chance, through horses, to seek a different way of life.
She had a natural ability, and determination, and was chosen to play polo against Yale, with the all-black Work to Ride team. In autumn 2003 she received application forms from a prestigious Polo school in California, but she never got as far as filling them out.
On October 15, 2003 Mecca Harris, her mother and her mother's boyfriend were found murdered in their home, victims of an alleged drug killing.
This story stuck in my mind not because of the compelling pictures of Mecca, a skinny little jockey, her braids visible under her riding hat. But because, while my life was never underprivileged as hers was, I could have been that girl. My teenage years were spent at urban stables dotted around London backstreets; my arenas the local parks. Horses kept me out of trouble (although my parents may disagree) and gave me a passion that has lasted thirty years.
I now live on a farm. I get to keep a horse in green fields, instead of under a railway arch. Mecca Harris should have had her green fields. This book is dedicated to her, and children like her, for whom horses can be a way out.
About the Author Jojo Moyes was born in 1969 and was brought up in London. A journalist and writer, she worked for the Independent newspaper until 2001. She lives in East Anglia with her husband and three children.
She is the author of Sheltering Rain, Foreign Fruit, which won the RNA Novel of the Year award for 2003, The Peacock Emporium and The Ship of Brides, shortlisted for the 2005 RNA award.
Table of Contents
The Horse Dancer
Also by Jojo Moyes
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Jojo Moyes, The Horse Dancer
(Series: # )
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends