Her mother encouraged her riding but her father thought his daughter should be doing something better with her life. Not that he offered her any ideas, just criticism and comments about his acquaintances and their daughters, who all seemed to have jobs in the money market or the arts, not on top of a horse.
Carlotta’s dream was to make the US Equestrian Team and ride in the Olympics but she wasn’t quite good enough, which Leon never failed to mention to her. For the past two years she had devoted herself to organising equestrian events and horse festivals along the east coast. At twenty-five years old, she had no skills to get a job anyway. She had avoided college, much to Birdie’s disappointment, and had headed to the family villa in Andalucía to learn dressage and bed the stable boy, until Leon arrived unannounced with his mistress and found Carlotta and Juan in the master bedroom, Carlotta on all fours, being whipped lightly him.
Carlotta smiled, recalling the look on Leon’s face when he burst in. He never mentioned it to Birdie and she never mentioned Leon’s mistress to her mother. She loved her too much to hurt her any more than her philandering husband already had.
The groom walked out with Carlotta’s pride and joy, her horse Amante. A thoroughbred, he was capricious like Carlotta but stunning.
Carlotta took the reins from the man without a word of greeting or thanks. Carlotta didn’t like people, only horses. The groom expected no thanks. He was used to Carlotta’s rudeness, as were all the staff at the de Santoval stables.
Carlotta saved her affection for Amante. She rubbed her forehead on Amante’s muzzle. ‘Hello darling,’ she cooed, and the groom walked away rolling his eyes.
She felt her phone vibrate again in her pocket but she ignored it. Taking an apple from the horses’ feed supply, she mounted Amante and adjusted the reins. As the large horse walked out into the sunlight from the dark stables with Carlotta astride, Carlotta bit into the apple and Birdie’s face popped into her head. I’ll call her later, she thought, and gently nudged Amante into a canter.
*
‘Thank you, Mrs Calthorpe.’
Grace accepted tea in a Coalport cup and saucer from the older woman. As Grace held the delicate cup, she thought about how much Birdie would love this tea set.
‘Please, call me Dominique,’ said the elegant older woman.
Grace heard her phone ring in her bag. Shit, she thought, I forgot to turn it off. She reached into her Chanel tote and saw it was Thea calling. I’ll call her back, she thought, she probably wants to know if I’m coming down for the weekend. She switched her phone to silent.
‘Excuse me,’ Grace said to Dominique.
‘That’s fine, dear. I expect you are very busy.’
‘No, no, I have time,’ Grace replied.
She looked around the room. It was filled to the brim with antiques, paintings, and objects de art. Grace had worked for three months to get Dominique Calthorpe, the wife of a recently deceased media scion, to grant her an interview. Grace’s firm, Cranfields, wanted to manage the sale of her estate. Dominique was moving to France to be with her daughter and everything, she informed Grace, was to be sold.
Grace knew that the other auction houses had already been to see her. Cranfields was the smallest house but Grace’s reputation as having the best taste in the industry, as well as innovative ways to market the estates, had allowed her to get half an hour with Dominique. Also Birdie’s phone call to Dominique had no doubt helped. The network was always there to fall back on, Birdie had reminded Grace when she complained that Dominique wouldn’t return her calls.
Graciela de Santoval was the most like her mother. Elegant, refined, the most beautiful of the triplets, she harboured a taste for the best things in life. Never in a gauche way, of course, but more bespoke. She read the restaurant reviews before she made any booking, she knew the best new artists and the most valuable old ones. She never wanted any surprises, and carefully curated her life to avoid any sense of the ugly. She always wanted to be surrounded by beauty, as a shield from the ugly world that existed.
This control of her decisions gave her a sense of security. Grace, as she preferred to be known as, had never done a spontaneous thing in her life. She dated the most eligible men, had only had three lovers and made love with the light out. Her orange Hermes day planner was filled with small ticks written with a small gold pencil, and her well organised iPhone was snug in its matching leather, her monogram in gold on the back.
‘Come and see the art, my dear,’ Dominique said.
Grace followed her into the large foyer. On almost every part of the wall up the stairs hung paintings, all different frames and styles. Modern sat next to old masters and Grace felt herself take a sharp breath inwards.
Dominique looked up at the works. ‘I like to look at the art. When we first moved in here, I took all the paintings and a hammer and nails and hung them myself.’
‘A mosaic hang,’ Grace said, as she looked up the stairwell.
‘Yes!’ said Dominique, seemingly pleased that Grace understood her style. ‘Not popular here but in Paris, where the apartments are small but the taste is grand, one must do what one can with the limited space. It was not like we didn’t have the room here but I wanted to make the house seem smaller. It is very large.’
Dominique gestured towards the stairs. ‘Go and look, I think you will find some little masterpieces among them. There are even a few of Henry’s that I hung after he retired and took up painting.’
Grace was silent as she walked the stairs. There were Sargents and a divine Mary Cassatt that Grace would have liked for herself. A few Rockwells, several Turners, two Jessie WiIlcox Smiths, a Walter Gay and many more. Grace was overwhelmed. Interspersed were canvases of Henry’s art, modest and impressionistic in style, of the harbour and the gardens at the Calthorpe estate. They were sweet, if a little amateur, but they had an innocence about them that Grace admired. Grace had studied art at Wellesley, majoring in Modern Art and American Art. She was excited by the collection that Dominique had put before her and felt herself trying not to show too much enthusiasm in front of Dominique’s calm demeanour.
‘I like your husband’s work very much,’ Grace said truthfully.
‘He was good,’ said Dominique. ‘You wouldn’t sell that though, would you?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Not unless you wanted us to,’ said Grace gently.
‘No, but the other auction houses said they wouldn’t get anything for his work. I found that rather insulting.’ Grace covered her smile as they walked back to the overstuffed sitting room. She moved her bag and saw her mother had rung again. Probably checking to see how it had gone with Dominique. Grace stifled an urge to text Birdie to leave her alone and instead focused on Dominique.
