"Once, last season, we saw him," she said with a sniff. But at his hooray friends.

There was a great deal of larking and whooping and swigging from hip flasks going on, even though there was plenty of port on offer, which they were also helping themselves to, as it came round on trays.

"Oh, you'll probably find they were born in the saddle. That one on the roan can certainly ride."

“The one on the gray I was on can't."

I frowned. "What d’you . . . ?"

But Iris was already between us, asking the same question, on her sensible Irish gelding, a frown on her face. “Shona, I thought I gave you the gray mare to ride this morning?"

"I know you did, Miss Bellingdon, but that friend of Hugo's asked me to swap."

"Oh, did he now? Well, we'll soon see about that." She began to turn about.

"Oh no — please don't, honestly, I don't mind at all. I love Barney."

"Yes, but in the first place it's rude, and in the second place, is he up to the mare?"

"I think he thought I'd have a better day on this one."

"Nonsense," Iris snorted derisively. "He wasn't thinking of you at all! He just didn't want to be on a pony when his friends were on much bigger mounts." She rode away towards them.

"Oh no . . ." Shona said faintly. "Please don't let her make him swap back. He'll think it's me."

I silently implored along with her. The local state-school girls making a fuss, when of course all the horses actually belonged to Hugo's father. We held our breath, eyes glued, as she talked to the red-headed boy on the iron-gray, who was now the epitome of good manners and charm, even at this distance. Iris listened and nodded.

The moment she'd turned and was riding back towards us, out of earshot, a remark was passed and one of them stifled a laugh. Not Hugo, though. After a moment, he rode across, threading his way competently through the field on his nonetheless prancing bay, his eyes on my friend.

“Thanks, Shona. Iris says you asked not to swap back."

"Oh . . . that's OK."

It was all Shona could manage, so flabbergasted were we to be spoken to.

“Still, it was decent of you. Barney's a good ride, but he's a bit ‘where's-the-cart?’” He grinned.

Shona and I laughed, knowing exactly what he meant. Barney could jump anything he came across, but looks-wise he could also be pulling a gypsy caravan, with his thick, shaggy mane and flowing fetlocks.

"Nervous?" he asked, ice broken.

“Oh, yes," we chorused.

"It's the opening meet. Aren't you?" Shona asked.

“Terrified," he admitted. "I haven't ridden for six months, and this one's properly revved up." As if to demonstrate, his horse snatched irritably at his rather serious bit, mouth frothing already. "And there are a load of idiots out today, as ever. Cut you up at the first fence if you're not careful."