Chapter Text
Rupert had always told himself he would never leave the BBC. He was a legacy, it was practically his channel .
That was until they refused to let him host live, citing his unpredictability and tabloid presence as “distractions” from the overall prestige of the company.
Fuck them. Fuck the legacy. His father was a wanker anyways, and the only good his grandfather had ever done was leave him a dusty old estate in the Cotswolds. Rupert had always preferred his Mayfair townhouse over the large, empty estate, but when Tony Baddingham approached him with a blank cheque and the opportunity for a prime time show, he found himself packing himself and his dogs up for the countryside.
Who knows, maybe a romp with a farmer’s daughter (or two) would give him the inspiration he needed to stick it to his former network.
Taggie O’Hara had always told herself she would never live up to the legacy of her father. Declan had been the first athlete under the Irish flag to win a gold medal for showjumping in 1976, making history despite injuring his shoulder only minutes before his round. She had been ten at the time, she vividly remembered staying up late and watching her da on the television, her mother screeching with joy when he was announced the Olympic Champion. He had come home in a blaze of glory, promptly moving the family to the country where he could focus on training full-time, without the distractions that existed in London.
When he didn’t make the Olympic team in 1980, he buried himself deep in a bottle of whisky. It later turned out that in response, his wife buried herself in an affair with his friend and former teammate, Malhar.
Taggie had seen what success did to riders, like her father and his teammates. When they couldn’t reach any farther, they fizzled out and turned to new vices. She wanted none of it, happy to teach the spoiled youth of Rutshire the basics of English style riding and dressage for the rest of her days. As long as she had her horses, she was happy.
If she had known that Penscombe Court was finally being inhabited, Taggie would have chosen a different route for her ride. Her afternoon lesson had been canceled, giving her a well-deserved few hours to herself. That’s what she told herself, at least, as she singlehandedly managed the O’Hara stables, organized lessons, and advertised boarding opportunities. It was a lot of work, which left her exhausted most days, but she wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Her companions each day were horses, and her beloved Gertrude, who had been basically raised in the barn and was smart enough to avoid hooves as she danced through the horses legs.
Taggie had taken the opportunity to take out Diana, an Irish Sport that she had bottle fed as a filly. She wasn’t supposed to have a favourite, but Diana easily was. Even-tempered and steadfast with a glossy mahogany coat, the mare had been rejected by her mother after birth and needed intervention to stay alive. At sixteen, Taggie had jumped at the chance. Despite owning a working stable, the O’Hara’s only ‘owned’ one horse—Declan’s gold medal mount, Kilkenny—and simply boarded others from breeders across the Cotswolds with the bonus that they were to be trained by Declan and his family. The breeder who technically owned Diana had no interest in her, so in all but name she was Taggie’s.
There was nothing like the breeze running through her hair as Taggie rode through the countryside. Before her father’s Olympic victory, she had grown up in London and only rode in posh clubs with minimal space to ride outdoors. Once they moved, she fell in love with riding through the woods that bordered on their property and the open fields beyond that. Unfortunately, that’s how she finds herself introduced to her newest neighbour.
“What are you doing here,” the man asked angrily as she came to a stop at the edge of the wood. He was surrounded by a small pack of dogs of various sizes, seemingly out for a walk. “This is my property.”
“I’m s-so sorry, sir,” she stuttered, quickly dismounting from Diana and holding out a hand. “My name’s Taggie, Taggie O’Hara. I live across the wood, at th-the Priory.”
Despite the anger on his face, the man was handsome and looked oddly familiar. She couldn’t quite place where she knew him from, but as he shook her hand, she hoped he wouldn’t be too cross with her.
“Trespassing is a crime, Miss O’Hara,” he murmured. A smirk bloomed across his face, as he drew his hand back and slid it into the pocket of his trousers. “Luckily for you, I don’t call the police on pretty girls.”
Taggie couldn’t help it, she barked out a laugh. “Does that line usually work on women?”
He looked startled, as if that type of line did tend to work. “Well, what does impress you, darling? Diamonds? Rubies?”
With a roll of her eyes, Taggie turned away and mounted her horse. “Not impressed by much, sir, unless you’re hiding an Andalusian in that big house.”
“Of course,” he crowed. “Pretty girl likes pretty horses. I’ll see what I can do, angel.”
“It’s Taggie, sir. Just Taggie.”
“Well, Taggie, you can call me Rupert. None of this sir nonsense, I’m not a knight.”
She gave a small laugh, directing Diana to turn around and head home. “You could be, if you had a horse,” she called over her shoulder.
The next morning, Taggie woke to her father cursing up a storm. She rushed out of bed and down the stairs, praying that it was simply because he stubbed his toe or couldn’t find his favourite mug.
She hurried into the kitchen, where her father sat at the table, muttering under his breath.
“Everything ok, daddy?” she asked, puttering over to the stove to put the kettle on. Gertrude, who had followed her out of bed, sat by her feet, waiting for an inevitable bite of Taggie’s breakfast.
“Well I’m not sure, Tag,” he started, fury roaring in his eyes. “Can you explain why I just got off the phone with fecking Rupert Campbell-Black, the man who singlehandedly ruined my fecking career, saying he wants YOU to take in his horses?”
God. Of course she knew him, she had heard more warnings about Rupert Campbell-Black than she had about stranger danger or crossing the street combined.
Rupert Campbell-Black, the BBC reporter. The one whose most famous story was the exposé of an Irish show-jumping gold medalist who was caught doping his horse in advance of the 1980 Olympic Trials.
Of course. Their new neighbour was the cause of her father’s downfall and self-proclaimed rival.