The Steeplechase

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “…ride like a banshee, like your mother used to do?” The pretty matron tipped her head back and laughed. “No one could hunt like she could.”

  “And you, did you join them, too?”

  “Oh yes, indeed—but that was a long time ago, before I had children.” Mrs. Lightfoot’s eyes glimmered beneath her ruffled cap. “If only I’d had the gift of riding that my nephew has, though.”

  “Oh.” Which nephew did she mean?

  “Phillip is the premier horseman in all of Virginia. Some say the entire land.”

  “What?” And he was going to ride in the race. And he was the equestrian he’d referred to. She tried to recall what he’d said when they’d made their wager.

  Phillip, clean-shaven, entered the room attired in his same clothing but brushed clean.

  The tiny woman rose and rearranged the skirt of her striped gown. “I was just telling Miss Osborne what an accomplished rider you are. I thought everyone knew.”

  “Only those who’ve ridden with me,” he said dryly, “and been left in my dust.”

  Martha coughed. “Is that so?”

  “Indeed.”

  Ginger colored curls bobbed beneath Mrs. Lightfoot’s cap as she nodded in agreement.

  The savory scent of ham carried into the parlor.

  Phillip extended his hand to Martha. “Uncle says his invitation still stands and we shall have a formal dinner in a fortnight—crystal, china, and all.”

  In a fortnight, she’d have won the race, had her brother home, and not have to put up with nonsense about her brother being better off at the academy. For surely Phillip wouldn’t deliberately win, would he? He’d not have made that offer knowing she’d never beat him in the race, would he?

  Mrs. Lightfoot called over her shoulder, “But tonight we shall eat family style.” Then she exited the parlor, leaving Phillip and Martha momentarily alone.

  She tentatively accepted his hand and stood. “I hope the dining chairs aren’t as uncomfortable as this tiny wooden chair.” The embroidered cushion, on which she’d just sat, was ineffectual. Was her plan to join the race just as ridiculous?

  From somewhere in the large house, the laughter of children carried.

  “I should have told you of my prowess, Martha, but I feared I would sound like a braggart.”

  “Yet you allowed me to make such a claim!” She released his hand and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I had my reasons.”

  Martha tried to tamp down her irritation. “Such as?”

  “What if leaving Johnny at the academy is a safer…a better alternative?”

  Safer? Better? She resisted the urge to snort out her rebuke. Instead, she drew in a slow breath. “Since I cannot imagine that ever being the case, I can’t even remark.” She smiled up at him in what she wished was a charming manner, although she felt anything but at the moment.

  He ran his thumb over his lower lip. “There may be situations. Events. That might change your mind.”

  Infuriated, she squeezed her hands until her fingernails dug into her palms. She must speak with Phillip and bring him back around to her way of thinking. And she mustn’t let him distract her from preparing for the race and from anticipating that she would indeed win.

  Mr. Lightfoot’s silver head appeared in the parlor doorway as he peeked in. “Come along now or we’ll be eating cold food like I had to endure in the army.”

  His wife ducked her head beneath her husband’s arm and rolled her blue eyes. “In the army. In the army. I imagine we shall be regaled with tales of all your deprivations, again, since we have a new guest.”

  Laughing heartily, he turned, took his wife’s arm, and steered her out the door, calling over his shoulder, “The children are already seated.”

  Phillip closed the distance between them and offered his hand. “We shan’t have anything to eat if my cousins take a first crack at dinner.”

  Although she wanted to remain angry with him, Martha couldn’t help smiling.

  But by the end of the evening, Martha’s nerves were frayed. Was it her imagination, or did both Mr. and Mrs. Lightfoot inquire just a little too much about Letitia? Stepmother was a beautiful woman and while Martha didn’t want to believe the recent rumors that she may have a lover in England, something about their questions, as well as Phillip’s earlier ones, made her suspect there could be truth in the suspicion. Had Letitia also kept paramours in Williamsburg? Surely not beneath her father’s nose.

  Chapter 8

  The fragrant spicy scent of pumpkin soup carried as Dicey entered the parlor where Martha was doing handwork near the window. The servant deftly pressed down the top of the tilt-top cherrywood parlor table, secured the latch, and set a cup atop the shiny surface. “You got to eat, Miss Martha.”

  “I know.” But how could she when she’d received no word from Phillip in a week? Had her worst fears proved true? Was he simply playing with her heart?

  “Thank you, Dicey.”

  “Yes’m. Now you eat up.”

  After she set her tatting aside, Martha forced herself to taste a spoonful. Delightful. But not nearly as wonderful as it would be to view Phillip’s handsome face across the table. She’d risk breaking her teeth and eat a dozen of Mrs. Lightfoot’s tasteless rolls if only she could sup with Phillip. She sighed, pushed the cup away, and lifted the tatted star she’d begun.

  When Mother was alive, the two of them would work together and create stars to give to friends at Christmas. Would Martha ever marry and have the chance to pass on this tradition? After wiping a tear away, she resumed her work, soon lost in memories of the many years she’d sat in this parlor with her loving mother.

  The clock chimed the hour and Martha looked up from her cushioned chair, sensing someone watching.

  Graham Tarleton leaned lazily against the doorframe of the Osborne’s parlor. “All alone, are we?”

  Martha startled, and dropped her work. “No. Father is in his study.”

  “Ah, just as well, for Lady Mother invites you for tea—now, if you are able.”

  Martha couldn’t exactly say she was unable as she was dressed.

  He arched an eyebrow “Your brother, too—if he’s up to it.”

  Had he just referred to Christopher as her brother, and not as Chris, his pet name? Perhaps the two had not overcome their disagreement, after all.

  How slack his body seemed compared to the taught energy in Phillip’s. How disingenuous Graham’s smile in comparison with the teacher’s easy grin. Yet Phillip wished to now keep her brother from her. Wasn’t that what he implied by saying Johnny might be safer there? Martha clenched her fists.

  Her father joined them. “Good to see you, Graham.”

  He clapped Graham on the shoulder and offered his hand. The two men shook. “Good to see you, Professor.”

  Was Father oblivious to the rift that had borne out between Christopher and Graham? Was his mind so cluttered by the detritus of his philosophical ponderings that he truly didn’t notice the emotional status of his children?

  A sad, sickening truth landed in the pit of her stomach. Her father really didn’t care. Not in the paternal way he should. Not in love and protection. Not like Phillip seemed to do. But hadn’t her beau, if he was indeed that, now changed his tune and wanted to keep Johnny from home?

  “Martha, you should take Graham up on his mother’s offer. Would do you a world of good to get out in polite society for a change.”

  “And you are not polite society, sir?” Graham laughed, but her father only stared at him blankly for a minute.

  Then dawning of understanding showed on Father’s face. “Well, you know how it is when the men outnumber the women in a house, don’t you?”

  “Indeed, I do sir. With my sisters married, my mother seems desperate for me to bring another young woman into our household.” He grinned at Martha. “Perhaps a wife and another daughter for her to spoil, as she did my sisters.”

  Spoiled they were, for no two more ro
tten young women had Martha ever met. As far as a wife for Graham, she would never be that woman. Still, she was so perturbed with both Phillip and her father that she could use a change of pace. “Let me at least help ease part of your mother’s distress by giving her company.”

  Graham bowed at the waist.

  She couldn’t help adding, “By providing female companionship, mayhap I’ll relieve you of your perceived obligation to thrust a new daughter-in-law upon your mother.”

  Her stepmother and Mrs. Tarleton had been very close friends, both being daughters of British descent and married to much older husbands. The two reminded her of twin Siamese cats for some reason. She could almost sense claws crawling up her spine and she shivered.

  A spicy scent permeated the air in the Osborne’s vestibule, clashing with the warmth of the October day. Phillip stood, clutching his hat, awaiting the servant’s return.

  Professor Osborne emerged from a nearby doorway and strode toward him. “Mr. Paulson?”

  “Johnny is quite well, sir.” Phillip straightened his shoulders, straining the fabric of his greatcoat. “I’ve come to see your daughter.”

  “Very good about Johnny.” He scratched his jaw. “But I fear Martha is out.”

  Nearby, a female servant passed, casting a furtive glance their way.

  “Do you know when she’ll return?”

  “She’s gone to the Tarleton’s home. Likely not back for many hours, since Mrs. Tarleton takes elaborate teas.”

  “I see.” The Tarleton’s imposing home was situated many blocks away. “I shan’t keep you then, sir. Thank you.”

  Once outside, Phillip pulled his pocket watch from his vest pocket. He drew in a lungful of air saturated with moisture. The skies portended a downpour if he was correct. As though in answer, three fat raindrops fell in succession on his nose. He lowered his head and barreled on to where he’d left his conveyance and horse. He would see Martha. He had to. Even if that meant they risked getting rained on in the open carriage.

  Finally, he arrived at the Tarleton’s Georgian brick manor. The bitter scent of recently trimmed boxwoods assaulted his nose. He hurried up the steps to a small porch over which hung an oval portico. A warm gust of wind blew the rain at him as the door opened and a coffee-skinned manservant opened the door. No, not a servant—a slave—for Mrs. Tarleton kept a contingent of them, a bevy for the household and stables, as though she were still a noblewoman in Britain.

  The dark-eyed man waved Phillip in and took his hat. Numerous candelabras’ flickering lights illuminated the grand foyer, decorated in traditional marble tile. Men’s laughter and deep voices echoed from nearby. Mahogany paneling and a pleasant curved stairway, whose walls were dominated by aristocrats’ portraits, drew Phillip’s attention.

  The servant swiveled to face him. “Mr. Tarleton has guests, sir. May I announce you?” The man’s diction was proper high class British. Phillip blinked at him.

  “No, I’m here for Miss Osborne. I believe she’s having tea with Mrs. Tarleton?”

  “Lady Tarleton, you mean.” The rebuke didn’t go unnoticed, and Phillip flexed his hands, considering whether he should correct the servant or not. Lady or not, this was America and she held no title here.

  “Please tell her that Phillip Paulson is here for Miss Osborne.”

  Giving him a wary eye, the man removed himself to the nearby parlor.

  A portrait at the bottom of the stairs caught his eye. Both the man and the woman looked familiar. Dressed in a British admiralty uniform, a dark-haired man stood next to a beautiful young woman whose auburn tresses were arranged in piles atop her head, a tiara securing the curls in place. Above, and to the left, hung an image of Johnny Osborne, dressed in old-fashioned clothing. Phillip coughed. It wasn’t the child, couldn’t be—not in the decades-old breeches and tunic he wore, a sash draped across his chest.

  From the other room, Mr. Tarleton’s voice boomed, “Admiral, you have a wicked sense of humor.”

  Admiral Pemberley? A British naval officer welcomed at a home in Virginia? “Lady” Tarleton may be the military man’s cousin, but in these trying times, was such a visit even allowed? Shouldn’t Pemberley be out there chasing after Napoleon? Phillip’s skin crawled. He drew in a steadying breath. What had he stumbled upon? And Martha was here, too? Was she conspiring with them?

  Another man’s voice rumbled something and suddenly Mr. Tarleton appeared in the doorway of a room on the left. “Oh, it’s you, Paulson. I fear I have guests and cannot receive you.”

  “Yes, sir, but I understand my sweetheart is here. Came to retrieve her. Poor thing must have forgotten we had an engagement tonight…” Phillip strained to recall what was being performed but couldn’t remember the name, perhaps because he wasn’t being quite honest. He hadn’t yet even asked Martha. “At the theater.”

  Confusion flickered over the man’s thick features. Then he blinked. “Ah, yes, one of Shakespeare’s finest! A fine play. Mrs. Tarleton and I saw it two night’s past. But whom is this sweetheart you speak of? Thought all the young ladies abandoned you for George.”

  Martha eased as far forward in her seat as she could, having overheard Phillip’s voice in the hallway. She’d searched for a way to leave ever since she’d arrived to discover that her host had welcomed British naval officers into his home.

  “Do try the watercress. It’s all the rage in London.” Mrs. Tarleton lifted one finger, directing one of her slaves to carry a tray of tiny sandwiches to Martha, and used an elaborately engraved silver serving piece to slide several onto her plate.

  “Thank you.”

  Her hostess arched an eyebrow. “Surely your mother doesn’t have you thank your servants, does she?”

  Martha bit back her retort that Letitia wasn’t her mother. She might as well ask what she was wondering. “Mrs. Tarleton, are those indeed British naval officers I saw with your husband?”

  Even Martha knew harboring such persons was terribly inappropriate, if not illegal. So many young men had disappeared along America’s coastline, impressed into service with the British navy.

  Was Phillip here to sell horses to the British navy? And if so, what did that mean? Bile rose in her throat, but she raised the cup of Bohea tea to her lips and sipped slowly, the steam from the porcelain cup warming her face.

  Dear God, have you put me here to allow me to see this? So I can warn others? Please steady my nerves. Who could she tell? Who could she trust? Her brother would know. She must get home, where Christopher rested in bed. Perhaps this information would rouse him enough to get up and make some effort to recover.

  The men continued to converse but their words no longer carried. Then she heard Mr. Tarleton’s mocking laugh.

  “Excuse me.” Martha pushed back from the table.

  At the senior Tarleton’s insult, Phillip’s cheeks burned. He’d better depart before his fist could connect with the man’s narrow jaw.

  What had he seen here? Perhaps rumors were true — the professor’s family was in favor of British rule and would support them in the case of invasion.

  Martha, wearing a pretty dress that brought out the jade color of her eyes, emerged from a nearby room. “Phillip! What are you doing here?”

  He exhaled a puff of air. “To court one’s sweetheart, one must first come retrieve her from the neighbor’s, it appears.”

  Blinking up at him, a smile suddenly lit her features. “I believe so.”

  She turned to one of the Tarleton’s slaves. “Could you retrieve my pelisse, please?”

  Mr. Tarleton’s large features puckered in distaste. “I’ll leave you two to your own devices. I have guests to entertain. Good day.”

  Phillip moved to her side, took Martha’s hand, and raised it to his lips. When he looked up, satisfaction flowed through him at the pink that stained her cheeks. Miss Osborne did share his affection. “We have some appointments to keep, my love.”

  She raised her eyebrows. Soon the coat was brought and Phillip assist
ed her into it. He lifted tendrils of silky red curls from her neck, wishing he could press kisses there. But he indeed did have errands. Within one hour he was to meet with his contact, the garrison commander, who was riding in from Charles City to report to the committee about James River traffic and concerns.

  He had to speak with Martha about what her friends were up to by having British naval officers at their home. Once outside, he assisted her up into the carriage and draped a heavy blanket across her lap.

  “Where are we going?”

  He got in beside her and took the reins. “The Nesting Heron.”

  “That den of iniquity?” The disreputable tavern sat at the northwest outskirts of Williamsburg. She licked her dry lips. “You jest?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Why would you take me there?” First he shows up after no word and now what?

  He grinned at her as he directed the horses to turn onto the road to Charles City. “Perhaps I’m going to hand you over to pirates.”

  “I think you mean those watermen who claim they were privateers but are no better than pirates.” She clasped her hands together wishing she could wring an apology out of Phillip for failing to contact her. He'd gotten her hopes up and then left her waiting.

  “Either way. But it seems that since you were having a rendezvous with the British navy, perhaps those fine officers will rescue you.”

  “Not I! The Tarletons are playing a dangerous game inviting those men into their home.” Her fingernails bit into her palms. "And you engage in a risky match with me if you believe you can show up with no explanation...”

  Phillip directed the horses to pass another carriage on the road. "I take it you didn't receive my message."

  “No.”

  “Ah. My apologies.”

  They passed the glossy burgundy brougham and Phillip passed the reins into one hand. He covered hers with the other. "One of my uncle's men was to get word to you."

  A weight seemed to lift from her heart.

  They rode on discussing what they knew of the Tarletons and the relationship between Christopher and Graham. It was hard for Martha to concentrate, being so close to Phillip and inhaling the spicy scent of his cologne.