15. Maximillian #2
“Giselle had about nine weeks of basic lessons before that exhibition.” I picture the simplified pattern we practiced and the hours I gave it.
“She completed a simplified pattern we had practiced. She’s a beginner who did well for a beginner.
Sovrano is an experienced horse. Much of what people admired was the result of his years of work with Georgina. ”
“So you wouldn’t call her a natural replacement as a riding partner?” She looks up at me. The word makes my hand tighten on the edge of the bench.
“There’s no replacement for my wife.” I feel the truth of it settle in my chest. “Georgina is a better rider than I am. She has instincts I’ve spent years trying to develop, a feel for horses that can’t be taught.
Recently she pointed out something I had missed with a horse in my yard.
Acting on her advice helped him. I should have asked for her opinion more often. ”
“That’s high praise.” The reporter looks down to write it, and I have to wait for her to finish. I wonder how often Elle has heard other people praise my judgment while I kept her part in it to myself.
“It’s the truth.” I think about Elle on a borrowed mare, the morning we met.
She beat me by half a length and called me an amateur.
I’ve never forgotten how it felt to watch her ride away.
“She’s never competed professionally, but that’s a choice, not a limitation.
She gave me reasons to push myself that had nothing to do with another trophy. Riding with her made me better.”
“It sounds like you admire her.” The reporter leaves her pen on the page and waits for my answer.
“I love her.” My own face is visible in the corner of the screen, and I look away from it. “And I failed to show it when it mattered. I let her be pushed aside, and I told myself it was kindness. It wasn’t.”
“You mentioned your sister-in-law was a student.” The reporter checks another line on her page. “Is she still training with you?”
“No.” I rest my hands flat on my knees. “The lessons ended the morning after the championship. Giselle was a student, nothing more. Whatever story has circulated about her being my new partner, in any sense, is false.”
“Some viewers might wonder why you’re making this statement now, weeks after the championship.” She pauses over the question. I have no answer that will make the delay look better.
“Because I should have made it then.” I look directly at the camera. “I let the description stand because I was pleased with the performance. I wasn’t thinking about what it meant for her. Waiting this long to correct it was another mistake.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to say?” She sets her notes aside, and for a moment I imagine Elle watching this later. There is so much I want to say to her that has no place here.
“Only that the failure was mine.” I think about Elle in the arena yesterday, finally letting herself touch Sovrano. “Georgina Emanuelle della Rovere-Costanzo was never someone whose place I was entitled to give away. Whatever happens in my career, that remains true.”
The call ends, and I sit in the quiet tack room, looking at my phone. The coordinator said the clip would be posted by early afternoon. People who watched the exhibition will be able to hear the correction from me.
I go back to the morning’s work.
***
By early afternoon, Deus finds me finishing a box at the end of the row. Its occupant is still out in the paddock; I have left the clean bedding stacked by the door.
“I’m heading to Ascoli.” He leans against the door frame, watching me work. “Meeting with that breeder about the yearling. I’ll be back before evening feed.”
I set down the pitchfork. “Anything you need me to handle while you’re gone?”
“Just the usual.” He pauses, something shifting in his expression. “You’re doing fine here, Costanzo. I’ll admit I wasn’t sure you would be.”
“Thank you.” I lift the clean bedding onto the barrow, giving myself a moment before I look at him. He hasn’t asked how yesterday went with Elle. I appreciate that more than I know how to say.
He turns to go, then stops. “There’s coffee in the thermos on the bench outside. Help yourself.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m alone in the stable with the horses and the afternoon light. I stack the last bundle of clean bedding inside the empty box, then pour myself a cup of coffee, sitting on the bench outside the stable door.
The hills roll away toward the coast, gold and green under the autumn sun. Somewhere in the house, Elle is going about her day. I haven’t seen her since yesterday, haven’t told her about the withdrawal or the interview.
The interview is due to go up around now. I take out my phone to tell her about it, then hesitate over the message. Asking whether she has a moment feels strangely difficult now that I can’t follow it with the usual kiss and assume she’ll hear me out.
Before I finish typing, she appears in the courtyard, her phone in her hand.
She walks toward me with an expression I can’t quite read. Not anger. Something more complicated.
“Felicity sent me a video.” She stops a few feet away. “An interview.”
I set down my coffee. “I was going to tell you.”
“Your mother beat you to it.” She turns the screen toward me, where the interview is paused. “She thought I should hear what you said.”
“I should have told you it was being published.” I put my own phone on the bench beside the cup. “I’m sorry you were surprised by it.”
She’s quiet for a moment, looking down at the phone. “You told them I was there. At the championship.”