On stage in a party marquee on the Berkshire downs, for the first time ever, rock legend Pete Rafferty was dueting with his son Dillon, accompanied by a lot of very drunken, crooning event riders.
‘We could ask them to sing that at our wedding.’ Rory smiled down at her, lips diving in.
They kissed through three verses, rapturous applause and an encore.
When the Denver hit had reached its culmination with another huge, explosive cheer from the marquee, the piano struck up with Dillon still at its keys and his father at the microphone, a song so suited to his sexy timbre that all the hairs in their already goose-bumped bodies stood on end. This time, he was joined in the duet by a female voice of immense, spell-binding power, possibly even more ravaged and sexual than the Rockfather himself.
It was so good that even Faith and Rory had to stop kissing to listen.
‘
Who the
…?’ Faith laughed in wonder as the woman, her tone so sultry and lived-in that Janis Joplin could have come back to life for one night, told her audience all about making whoopee.
‘Who cares?’ Rory’s lips traced her throat again. ‘You heard the song …’
Watching the couple grouchily from his budged-up spot alongside the warm fender, a stars and stripes handkerchief around his neck as his master’s concession to the hoedown, Twitch crossed his paws in front of him and rested his chin on top of them, unaware that before very much longer he would be swapping the rats and squirrels of West Berkshire for the opossums, raccoons and chipmunks of West Virginia while his master made whoopee a lot.
Hugo and Tash had wandered out of the light spilling from the marquee to the shadows of the gardens, stopping behind every tree to kiss and ending up against the metal rails alongside Flat Pad, where they stopped by the second bronze horse.
‘I think your mother’s singing on stage,’ Tash said, inclining her head to listen to the distant duet.
Not caring, Hugo kissed her again until her ears were muffled by heartbeats. When she resurfaced, the band was playing ‘Wonderful Tonight’.
Slipping his hands to her waist, Hugo lifted his wife aboard the bronze horse, and then hoisted himself up behind her.
‘Want to ride against me?’ he breathed in her ear.
She swivelled around until she was facing him. ‘I’d rather ride with you.’
Pau Three Day Event, a year later
The bay gelding was a notoriously difficult ride, particularly show-jumping. He charged into fences as though he wanted to break through them rather than leap over them, then at the last minute crouched and sprang like a big-cat attack. It was nerve-racking stuff for spectators and jockey alike, particularly with so much riding on it.
Charge, crouch, ping. Charge, crouch, whoof!
He rattled poles and made the crowds in the stands gasp.
They were the last combination to jump, the overnight leaders with less than a fence in hand to secure victory. The FEI Classics series had gone right to the wire too, and everything was riding on this round. If they went clear they would win the series after the closely contended battle that had been running throughout the season between the two best known rivals in eventing.
Charge, crouch, spring.
They turned for the final fence, the whites of the horse’s eyes gleaming, nostrils two red furnaces set in that smoky muzzle, his distinctive heart-shaped star lifting higher as his head shot up and he locked on to the striped poles and charged, pulling the reins from his rider’s hands and taking off almost a stride too early.
The surge of power was spectacular, the muscles in his gleaming haunches shifting beneath the copper skin like polished pennies pouring from a slot machine. But it still seemed an impossible leap.
Tash closed her eyes and waited for the sound of thudding poles. Instead she heard cheering.
‘He’s won?’ She opened her eyes again. ‘He’s won!’
Despite having a baby in a papoose and a toddler to each side of her, she started to run round in excited circles, cheering gleefully. Then she rushed forwards to kiss the winner as he exited the arena after a lap of honour and jumped from the horse to claim her.
Julia Ditton was on hand with her microphone, now reporting for Eurosport after a rather ignoble departure from the BBC following the now infamous Burghley Bollocks incident.
She tried to get a word with the man who had just won the biggest eventing prize of the year, but couldn’t get past the mass of supporters, well-wishers, family and connections crowding round him, not least his wife, who appeared to have leaped aboard him like Meg Ryan in
Top Gun
, baby papoose and all, both laughing and kissing delightedly.
Giving up, she turned to the runner-up who was standing near by, waiting to add his congratulations, and she thrust the microphone at him. ‘You won the Olympic silver to Hugo’s gold, and now you’ve just lost out here at Pau,’ she pointed out rather ungraciously. ‘So tell us, Lough, how does it feel to be the bridesmaid but never the bride?’
Lough rarely laughed, especially in public, but today a delicious, deep rumble of noise bubbled up like a hot spring and he gave Julia and the camera the benefit of his rare and delectable smile. ‘Actually, I’m marrying the groom next week …’ He glanced over his shoulder.
Leading his horse around behind him the groom in question blew him a kiss.
When Beccy Sergeant and Lough Strachan married in All Saints Church in Ascot it was a quiet family affair. Lough’s mother and sister travelled from New Zealand; James gave his stepdaughter away with tremendous pride; Henrietta, Em and Tash cried happily nonstop; the Beauchamps’ new baby Winifred – known to all as Whoopee – cried for five minutes before being removed by a doting Hugo. And Sophia, sharing quiet asides with her mother throughout the ceremony, was so swept away by the simplicity and romance of the occasion that she didn’t make one bitchy comment.
Afterwards, they had a wedding party at Benedict, mostly close eventing friends, the Haydown and Lime Tree crowds, Lough’s New Zealand team-mates and new friends from their Salisbury base.
The couple delayed their honeymoon by a week because they wanted to spend time with Lough’s visiting family, and because they had another wedding to go to …
*
A week later, Faith and Rory married in the chapel at Fox Oddfield Abbey, which had been granted a special licence when Pete and Sylva had married there earlier in the year, in an extravaganza that had lasted for three days, three
Cheers!
spreads and three episodes of
Sylva’s Shadow
.
A hundred guests crammed in for the ceremony. Rory’s mother and sister wore rival hats of such magnificent proportions that nobody on the groom’s side could see past them; Faith was given away by all four of her fathers; Anke and Tash cried happily throughout; baby Whoopee cried unhappily for five minutes before being removed by a doting Hugo.
Afterwards, they held a reception with two hundred additional guests in the main house. It was a joyful, raucous, debauched party typical of the eventing crowd, the highlight of which was a one-night-only repeat performance by the Rockfather and his son.
As the first bars of ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’ struck up, the newly married couple took to the dancefloor.
‘I’m home.’ Rory buried his face in his wife’s sweet-smelling neck.
Faith threaded her fingers through her husband’s hair and felt her heartstrings knot ever tighter to his. ‘And dry.’
They swayed deliciously to the beat, Rory’s hipflask jabbing into her ribs through his morning suit. She pulled it out and unscrewed the top.
Rory’s cheeks coloured. ‘I’ll always be a badly behaved event rider …’
‘Me too.’ She lifted the flask to her lips, a smile breaking there as she tasted nothing but lemon barley water.