Lily laughed. “I will let the both of you alone, then. Welcome, Susannah. Enjoy your husband. He is really quite an excellent man. The good Lord knows, there aren’t all that many of them running about loose.”
“He’s not loose,” said Susannah.
Rohan laughed again and hugged her tighter.
Susannah said against his neck once Lily had quit the drawing room, “How long have you known Lily?”
“Hmmm, let’s see. About seven years, I think. She was my mistress, and then we simply became quite used to each other. She’s a very good friend and helps me maintain my satyr’s reputation.”
“Rohan, will you ever tell Charlotte that you’re not a philanderer?”
“I’ve thought about it, but I decided not to. Why make her miserable? There’s too much misery already with her other two sons. You won’t mind, will you, Susannah?”
Susannah gave a deep sigh. “I will maintain your fiction. Charlotte will perhaps come to admire my tenacity since she will see that I’m obviously keeping you happy. But you know she will console you because you don’t have a dozen mistresses. You must not laugh, Rohan.”
“Never,” he said. “Now, let me show you where I’m putting my bearded irises, my spiderwort, and my Canterbury bells. Ah, would you like some candytuft? It’s a lovely flower—”
“Candytuft is what I was admiring in my own garden when you first came to Mulberry House! Oh, goodness, Ro-han, this will be such fun. I hope my candytuft is still flourishing.”
“Possibly not. It requires a lot of care. If you like, you can oversee its planting yourself. Do you think our children will take after my parents or after us?”
“Maybe, my lord,” she said, kissing his chin, “if we are very lucky, they will be a little of both. Oh, Rohan, shall we try some running myrtle? I never had a bit of luck with it, but perhaps at Lord Dackery’s estate—”
“If not, we will try to see if the myrtle will run at Mountvale House. If not, we’ll try devil’s guts—now there’s a dandy flower.”
She hugged him close and said against his chin, “I wonder how Charlotte is faring with Augustus.”
“With any luck at all, he’s not dead of exhaustion yet.”
36
The Monthly Cat Races
The McCaulty Racetrack, near Eastbourne
A bright, sunny Saturday afternoon, August 1811
GILLY STRAINED TO BREAK FREE OF SUSANNAH’S ARMS. SHE kissed the top of his head, whispering, “No, no, not just yet, not just yet. Be patient. Soon you can run your paws off.”
Squire Bittle, next to her, had his cat, Ornery, on a leash. The calico looked bored. Squire Bittle looked worried. “He’s been a mite off his feed,” the squire said to Susannah, who looked properly saddened, but was, in fact, quite pleased with this news.
Mrs. Lovelace, owner of the Pride of the Valley Inn, as broad as she was tall, had tucked her gray tom, Louis, between her immense breasts. Susannah wondered how the poor cat could breathe. Mrs. Lovelace was humming to her cat.
Horatio Blummer, the local butcher, his huge middle straining against his waistcoat, held Glenda, muscled, black, and spitting, close to his leg, his hand around her neck.
Mr. Goodgame, who traced his ancestors back directly to William the Conqueror, was whistling as loud as he could to Horace, to distract him, Susannah supposed. Horace was a long, skinny white cat that looked more like a cannon than a cat. Horace was ready to run.
The Harker brothers were more worried about Horace than any of the others.
“A lot of experience ’as old ’orace,” Ozzy said, shaking his head. “Fast littil bugger.”
“Aye, but ’e’s got this funny nose. Always smelling things, and can’t stand not to find out wot’s causing the smell. Always sends ’im off track. Leastwise it usually does.”
“At least Blinker won’t be racing today,” Ozzy said. “Ole boy’s got a sprained back leg. Too much training Grimsby gave ’im, the ass. I told ’im long time ago no more than ten laps a day with Blinker. ’Is legs be too short.”
“Gilly will take all of them,” Toby said. “Just wait. We have a Secret Weapon.”
Both Harker brothers raised bushy eyebrows. Secret Weapon? What was this? They had overseen Gilly’s training. What was this about a Secret Weapon? Toby just grinned at them, saying nothing.
The track was a third of a mile in length and very wide—a good ten feet—because the cats tended to rove back and forth a bit when they ran. There was a larger than usual crowd today since this was Gilly’s first race, representing the Mountvale mews, and there was heavy betting. The Harker brothers, it got out, had personally trained the cat. The ladies held parasols over their heads to protect themselves from the sun; the gentlemen laid wagers, smoked cheroots, and discussed the finer points of each racing cat. Everyone was looking forward to the first race.
It was said that occasionally there were corruption and cheating at the racetrack. The Harker brothers kept even a keener eye on the proceedings when this nasty rumor got out, ready to rout out any malefactors. To date the only miscreant they had caught cheating was old Mr. Babble, who’d tried to feed one of the racing cats fresh bass, so he would be too bloated to run fast. This was six months previous.
Lady Dauntry presided up on a narrow dais. She had been the Lady of Ceremonies for five years now, never missing a cat race, even in inclement weather. The cat racing season ran from April to October.
Lady Dauntry bellowed at the top of her lungs—which was not at all difficult for her—“Everyone ready!”
Every trainer or owner readied his cat.
“Everyone set!”
Cats pulled and heaved. Trainers and owners were tensed, ready for action.
“Free the cats!”
The race was on.
Ornery jumped three feet into the air at Mr. Bittle’s loud hand clapping right next to his ears. He jumped forward, running a good twenty feet, then stopped to look around at all the shouting people. Mr. Bittle, heaving, gasping for breath, finally reached Ornery. He clapped his hands again right next to Ornery’s ears. Ornery obliging raced as fast as the wind another twenty yards.
Mrs. Lovelace’s Louis raced after small Charles Lovelace, who was running as fast as he could, dangling a dead fish off a line. Since Louis could outrun Charles, the little boy, finding himself caught by the cat, had to go onto his tiptoes so Louis wouldn’t tear the dead fish off his line.
Mr. Goodgame’s long, sleek Horace pranced along the track, his green eyes ever forward, ignoring all the other cats around him, ignoring the crowd and the noise. He kept a steady pace. Mr. Goodgame simply stood at the finish line grinning and rubbing his hands.
Horatio Blummer’s Glenda ran for half the track, just behind Horace and well ahead of all the others. Then, suddenly, she pulled up and looked at a large woman who was cheering and jumping up and down. In a flash, Glenda ran beneath her wide skirts.
As for Gilly, he immediately bounded free of Susannah’s arms. But he stopped almost immediately, looking back to her, to see her hopping up and down, shouting, “Run, Gilly, run!” Then he looked over at Rohan, who was holding Marianne, shouting, “No dinner if you don’t run your legs off!”
Marianne shouted, “No dinner!”
But he didn’t move. If a cat could frown, Gilly frowned. He licked his right paw.
Then, quite suddenly, there came a loud, very sweet baritone singing from halfway along the track:
“There was a young man who was bitten
By twenty-two cats and a kitten.
Cried he, ‘It is clear
My end is quite near.
No matter! I’ll die like a Briton!’ ”
It was Jamie. Gilly reared up, his fur stiffening, his ears cocking forward. Then he was off, racing toward that voice, which was singing the limerick again, louder this time, the voice going higher into a falsetto, an angel’s voice.
Since Jamie had started a goodly distance away, he could keep trotting further
along the track, his voice clear and loud.
But it was Mr. Goodgame’s long, sleek white Horace who was the clear leader. Jamie sang louder. Gilly ran. He was gaining on Horace.
Susannah was yelling her head off. She screamed at Toby, “That wretched Horace, he’s faster than Marianne is at snagging a tart off Rohan’s plate.”
“He’ll do it,” Toby said.
“No dinner!” Marianne shouted.
“The Secret Weapon,” Ozzie Harker said in an awed voice, yanking on Tom’s sleeve. “A new racing device.”
“That ’orace is in fine fettle,” said Tom, shaking his head. “Jest look at ’ow ’e stretches out that long body o’ ’is. I don’t know if Gilly’s got enuf time to catch ’im.”
Gilly was nearly at Horace’s flying white tail. Jamie was singing so loud the entire crowd was now clapping to the beat.
Horace and Gilly were neck and neck. Then, with no warning, Horace whipped to the side, bit Gilly on the neck, and turned in his tracks. He was running the other way. He was running right at that dead fish at the end of little Charles Lovelace’s line. He cannoned into Louis, knocking him off his paws, leaped up and caught the fish, now a bit worse for wear. He broke the line free, sending Charles backward on his bottom, and ran faster than the wind through the crowd, carrying his prize between his teeth, Mrs. Lovelace and Mr. Goodgame screaming behind him.
Louis was running as fast as he could after Horace and his fish.
“I’ve ain’t niver seen Louis run so fast,” Ozzie said, shading his eyes against the glare of the sun. “ ’E might even catch ole ’orace. It’s ’is fish, after all.”
“Naw,” Tom said. “Mrs. Lovelace will get ’orace first. Then the fur will fly.”
Gilly didn’t slow. No, if anything, he ran faster.
Jamie was waiting at the finish line. When Gilly crossed it, the clear winner, beating Glenda by at least six lengths, Jamie was belting out, “No matter! I’ll die like a Briton!”
There was loud applause.
Marianne shouted, “Dinner for Gilly!”
Rohan shouted, “Dinner for Jamie!” Susannah swore she could hear Gulliver neighing loudly.
The Harker brothers shook their heads. They had seen many training methods over the years, but this was a first. A limerick.
Jamie was still singing, but very softly now. Gilly was sitting proudly on his shoulder while Jamie walked slowly and carefully to the winner’s circle.
Gulliver managed to nudge his way through the crowd to reach Jamie. He butted his great head into Jamie’s shoulder. Gilly yowled and jumped onto Gulliver’s back. Gulliver’s eyes narrowed. Jamie, desperate, broke into another limerick.
Marianne, so excited she was bouncing up and down, wet herself and her father’s shoulder, where she was perched.
This was the first time in southern England racing cat history that all the losing cats, their owners, and their trainers, were laughing and applauding and meowing to see the winning racer preen and bathe himself atop a huge horse that was neighing to the rhythm of a limerick.
Epilogue
CHARLOTTE CARRINGTON READ OVER THE FINAL WORDS she’d written. How to end the missive with subtlety, she wondered. That was surely necessary, wasn’t it? She would have to try. She chewed on the end of her quill. “ . . . my dearest, it has reached me through several sources that you and Susannah are devoted to each other. This I applaud. It bespeaks a respect and fondness that your father and I shared. But, dearest, there is also word that you haven’t resumed your proper ways, that Susannah is with you constantly, both she and Marianne, who is, naturally adorable, but still . . .”
“My beauty.”
She turned in her chair toward the bed. Augustus had just awakened. He was sitting up, the sheet only to his waist, looking tousled and utterly delicious. She loved a man with black hair on his chest, loved that black, silky line of hair that ran down his belly.
“My beauty,” he said again, his voice low and scratchy from sleep. “What are you writing?”
She rose and came to him. “A letter to Rohan.”
“You are not preaching at him again, are you?”
She laughed, easing herself down on top of him, smoothing down his dark eyebrows, kissing his beautiful mouth. “Well, I try not to, but he has changed utterly. He is a family man. Not that his father wasn’t everything a child could desire in a father, but there was more, so much more.” She paused and sighed. She kissed him again, then frowned at the bedpost. “Could it be that there is another way to live?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have begun to wonder if Rohan and Susannah may not have stumbled onto something that could be rather appealing.”
“And what is that?” He was combing his fingers through her hair. God, it was so smooth and silky. He never tired of the smell of her hair, the sweet smell of her body.
“That perhaps a man could really be happy with just one woman.” She paused, eyeing him to see if he would laugh.
Augustus wasn’t laughing. His large hand stilled on her hair. She leaned her head against his palm.
“That perhaps a woman could be happy with just one man.”
Augustus still didn’t laugh. One large hand was stroking the satin of her peignoir.
“Why would such a thing not be natural?” he asked, kissing her nose.
“I don’t know. Such a thing is just so utterly different from how I’ve lived my life, how I’ve thought of myself and others.”
Augustus pulled her down into his arms. He didn’t kiss her passionately. Instead, he pulled her against him as he would a child to be comforted. “Life,” he said against her hair, “life has given you to me, my beautiful Charlotte. I cannot imagine that I could be more greatly blessed than to have you with me forever. Perhaps you could consider that.”
“Perhaps,” she said, then raised her face for a kiss. As they kissed she heard the call of one gondolier to another, just outside the open windows that gave onto the Grand Canal. Venice was waking up. She thought the sound of the waves splashing gently against the pilings was like soft music. She found his kiss delicious. It felt like coming home.
Author's Note
I have always believed in the Holy Grail. Not just in the myth of it, the flamboyant romance of it, but that there was an actual physical cup that Christ drank from at the Last Supper. Was it really given into the safekeeping of Joseph of Arimathea after Christ’s death? I choose to think that it was.
As for the meaning of the Grail, I chose to make its core the sharp differentiation between good and evil. Because of its history, it was impossible for evil to gain power from it.
Many people believe the Holy Grail still exists. Perhaps there is another Bishops’ Society guarding the secret of its hiding place. Perhaps this Bishops’ Society, like its predecessor, calls the Holy Grail by another name to keep it safe.
The real Macbeth ruled Scotland wisely and well for seventeen years, from 1040 to 1057. He did travel to Rome, where he did meet with the pope. There was turmoil and rampant corruption surrounding the pope at that time. The real power behind the popes, during this period was Hildebrand or ‘Pure Flame,’ as he was known.
In my story, it is Hildebrand who convinces Pope Leo IX to give the Holy Grail to Macbeth for safekeeping, because he fears that evil men discovered that it is in the pope’s hands. Macbeth was a man of honor, a man of his word. He would naturally take the Grail and guard it to the best of his ability. A Knight Templar might have been his best choice for an accomplice in this mission.
Shakespeare immortalized Macbeth in his great play, and as a result, Macbeth is the best known of all the Scottish kings. It’s just a pity that Shakespeare’s Macbeth is nothing like the real Macbeth of history.
Can you begin to imagine drinking from the Holy Grail? I hope that, having read The Wild Baron, you can. But only, of course, if you are good.
Contents
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Epilogue
Author's Note
The Wild Baron Page 36