by Joan Aiken
‘It would be of no use, ma’am. She’d not have me. And, you know, we would not suit,’ Tom added fairly. ‘I’m not bookish enough for Emma. And she’d soon grow tired of my horses.’
‘Speaking of the horses,’ said Aunt Maria, ‘listen, Tom, whatever you do, do not let Lost Hope get the colic. That horse has a very colicky disposition. Laudanum – turpentine – linseed oil – hot fomentations – Barbados aloes, croton bean, calomel! But, in the first place, do not let it happen! It is a thousand pities we are so far, here, from the sea – the very best thing for those horses would be to gallop them a few days up to their hocks in salt water – but, a forty-mile journey – no, I fear it is not to be thought of. So, Tom, you do not think Emma will marry Mr Howard?’
‘No, I certainly do not, Aunt Maria. I think she has already rebuffed him – made it plain that his attentions would not be welcome. And I think he is now making overtures to Miss Osborne.’
‘And Emma would not marry Osborne?’
‘Ah, she’d never have him, ma’am. He is neither active nor resolute enough for Miss Emma. I’m fond of the fellow, he’s good-hearted enough – and has a sensible way with horses – but no. No. No, that would not do.’
‘Then what shall we do with her?’ lamented Mrs O’Brien. ‘Mouldy hay, Tom! You are taking the very greatest care, are you not, Tom, to see that those horses get only the very best quality hay? The slightest tinge of mould, and you will have broken wind to contend with. And then you will be requiring linseed meal, hog’s lard, and tar; but let us hope that you never need have recourse to those medicaments.’
‘No, indeed, ma’am. Though I thank you heartily for thinking of it.’
‘Oh, dear me! What are we to do about my poor Emma? To give her thoughts a more cheerful turn?’
Tom scratched his head.
‘Well,’ he offered, after a longish pause, ‘we could take her to see the Derby race. Do you think she would enjoy that? After all, ’tis no more than a step up the hill from here. And I’d like for you to see my horses run, Aunt Maria, after you have had so much say in their management. ’Twould be only fair. They are almost as much yours as mine.’
‘Well,’ Aunt Maria considered, ‘that could do no harm.’
So the outing was arranged.
***
The day of the Derby dawned grey, windy, and icy cold. National spirits, throughout England, were desperately low at the time, for Napoleon had just dealt a crushing defeat to the Russians, who were in full retreat, with the loss of half their force, and were about to sign a peace treaty with their conquerors. Britain seemed, at that moment, to stand entirely alone against the huge French menace.
All the more reason, then, for celebrating the Epsom races with flags, bands, and festivities. The streets of the little town were gay with bunting, and from early dawn Londoners had been pouring southwards in carriages, phaetons, curricles and farm carts. The Downs up above the town were black with thousands of spectators, who had brought their own entertainments with them – fortune-tellers, stilt-walkers, Punch-and-Judy shows, marionettes, morris dancers. Despite the cold, almost wintry weather, people were enjoying the coconut shies, roundabouts, and swings. Gypsies with baskets sold nosegays and told fortunes. Family parties in carriages had encamped themselves all around above the huge oval dip in the Downs where the race-track ran, and were busy opening bottles of champagne and unpacking picnic baskets. Hams were carved and pies were broached. Ladies wore their warmest pelisses and gentlemen had fur collars fastened below their top hats. Hot bricks were on hire from enterprising vendors.
The stables near the starting gate were the scene of frenzied activity. Tom Musgrave was nowhere to be seen when Emma, Mrs O’Brien, Sam, and Mary Edwards drove up Burgh Heath Road and on to the open Downs.
‘Let us pick a spot near Tattenham Corner,’ said Sam. ‘Then we shall be able to see the run-in for the finish.’
It was lucky that they had arrived quite early, for soon there was not a space to be had on this favoured area. Sam was able to point out several prominent members of society – Mr Canning, the Duke of York, Lady D— and the Duchess of B—; then he sighted a friend of his, a clever young London apothecary, a Mr Haden, and brought him over to be introduced. Mr Haden and Emma soon discovered a natural affinity in their fondness for music, and fell into animated conversation; then it somehow emerged that the father of Sam and Emma had written Discourses of a Rural Divine.
‘Why!’ said Mr Haden. ‘I have a friend, the Reverend James Clarke, who considers that the most wonderful book in the world—’
‘Not the Mr Clarke, the Librarian to the Prince?’
‘He wrote my sister a letter!’ said Sam, bursting with pride.
‘Mr Clarke will be here today; will you permit me to introduce him to you, Miss Watson?’
‘Of course,’ said Emma. ‘I shall be most honoured.’
‘So you are playing truant from your patients today, hey, Haden?’ said Sam.
‘Indeed I am not! One of my patients – the very foremost – is coming here. In fact – excuse me—’ He darted away.
In the distance a band could be heard playing ‘Rule Britannia.’
Tom Musgrave presently appeared with a broad smile, his cravat half undone, and straw clinging to his jacket.
‘Well!’ he said proudly to Sam, ‘have you placed a bet on Lost Hope? At a hundred to one you can hardly go wrong.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Emma. ‘A hundred to one?’
‘It means, you ignorant girl, that if you place a bet of £1 on the horse and it wins, you get a hundred pounds back,’ Sam kindly told her.
‘Gracious! We must all go and bet. We shall make our fortunes.’
‘Only if the horse should win. The odds are an indication that the public do not think highly of its chances.’
‘Which horse is the favourite?’
‘The Prince’s horse Panjandrum. Odds at three to one.’
There were a number of bookmakers down by the fence that railed off the racecourse, shouting their odds and flourishing them on slates which they waved above their heads.
Several minor races must take place before the main one of the day in which Lost Hope was to run. While these were going forward, Emma strolled about with Mrs O’Brien and Mary Edwards, thoroughly enjoying the scene. In the course of their rambles they encountered Lord Osborne, with his sister wearing a delicious pink bonnet, lined with what appeared to be thistledown, and Mr Howard. Miss Osborne gave a cry of delight at seeing Emma, and ran up to greet her affectionately.
‘Oh, I am so happy to see you, Miss Emma! For Mamma says I am not to speak to you, or call on you, that you are beneath the notice of good society, so this is a most lucky chance to disobey her. She is here, but fortunately far off at the other end of the course; she keeps as close as she can scrape to the Prince’s carriage, you know, in the hope that he may wish to speak to Rufus Bungay, our cousin, who once performed some small task for the Prince and never lets us forget it. Oh, I am so glad to see you, dear Miss Emma, and so angry with Mamma about this stupid breach. For what fault is it of yours, if our Papa sowed his wild oats? And let me tell you’ (in a whisper in Emma’s ear), ‘Brother Osborne is amazingly grateful to you, since he had no wish at all to marry Miss Edwards and was happy to be able to cry off with a good conscience. Were you not, Brother?’
Lord Osborne gave Emma an awkward bow and smile. ‘Very happy – greatly obliged,’ he mumbled.
‘We are going to move out of Osborne Castle, my brothers and I. We shall let it – had you heard that?’ Miss Osborne went on. ‘So soon as Mamma is married to Rufus we shall do that, move to the dower house and live much more comfortably on the castle rent. Or, possibly, Osborne plans to move into the dower house with Tom Musgrave and they will run a stable together; that is also under consideration. But the rental of the castle is all a
rranged – to an exceedingly wealthy admiral, Admiral Crawford and his nephew. Admirals are always the best tenants, you know, for they are naturally so neat and orderly. And I’ (breathing even lower into Emma’s ear), ‘he does not know it yet, but I am going to marry Mr Howard. Is not that an excellent plan?’
Emma nodded, smiling up into the speedwell-blue eyes that were sparkling down into her own.
‘An excellent plan!’ she concurred. ‘Miss Osborne, do you by any chance know whether Mr Howard’s cousin Captain Fremantle has—’
A huge blast of sound almost deafened them. Men were shouting the results of the first race.
Miss Osborne nodded vigorously. Her lips framed something which appeared to end in ’ound.’ Found? Drowned? Homeward bound? Ten thousand pound?
‘Hetty – er – ahem – I think we should be returning to our carriage,’ enunciated Lord Osborne above the noise. His sister bent and kissed Emma’s cheek. The two men bowed and led her away.
‘Come, my love,’ said Mrs O’Brien, returning from some errand of her own, ‘I think we should follow their example.’
But before they could proceed to their own vehicle, young Mr Haden intercepted them, running eagerly across the trampled grass.
‘Miss Watson!’ he panted out. ‘May I trouble you just for one moment? Mr Clarke here so much wishes to speak to you.’
Mr Clarke, a tall, spoon-faced man wearing dark clothes and a consequential air, said, ‘Do I have the honour to address Miss Emma Watson? Daughter of the Reverend Henry Watson, late of Stanton Parsonage in the county of Surrey? My royal master, His Highness the Prince of Wales, greatly wishes to make your acquaintance – if you do not object to do so in this informal setting it would much facilitate – make a pleasant occasion even more so—’
‘Of course I have not the least objection in the world,’ said Emma, immensely startled.
‘Follow me then, if you please.’
They followed, and had much ado to keep up with him; in spite of his bulky frame he moved nimbly among the parked gigs, phaetons, and landaulettes. At last they arrived close to an exceedingly grand carriage, stationed where it would obtain the best view of all. In it sat an exceedingly fat personage in a tight blue jacket; Emma, confused, curtseying as low as she could, received a fleeting impression of a large red face, many chins over a tight stock, and a huge diamond glittering among the snowy folds of linen. Above were two surprisingly intelligent grey eyes.
A voice said, ‘Ma’am, your father’s sermons have been my preferred bedside reading this last month. Ask Clarke if it is not so! Their clarity, their dignity, their luminosity – in short, words fail me to express how delighted I am to meet the daughter of the remarkable and saintly man who penned them. I am only sorry that I never had the opportunity to meet himself . . .’
Good gracious, thought Emma, he really means it!
She said, ‘Sir, I am inexpressibly touched that you should feel so – and I know how happy my father would have been—’
Mr Clarke’s hand plucked hers, the audience was ended. She curtseyed low again, and withdrew to the side of Mrs O’Brien, who was waiting a few paces away. As she rose from her curtsey Emma was startled to meet the glaring, outraged eyes of Lady Osborne, who sat in a carriage near at hand beside a man with a tremendous growth of red bushy beard and whiskers. Lord Rufus Bungay, no doubt.
Emma inclined her head to them politely, and then withdrew, clasping Aunt Maria’s arm.
‘Well!’ said Aunt Maria. ‘Let her put that in her pipe and smoke it!’
Emma burst out laughing.
‘Aunt Maria! I am surprised at you!’
‘Come quickly, we had best get back to our curricle, the big race is about to begin.’
From where they sat, they were unable to see the start, but had a glimpse of the whole field – a great tangled mass of men and horses – as they surged round Tattenham Corner.
‘It is twice around the course,’ said Mrs O’Brien, who had imbibed a great deal of information from Tom. ‘The first circuit sorts out the sheep from the goats. Next time around, we should be able to see if Tom’s horse has any kind of chance.’
‘What colour is it?’
‘Emma! I am surprised at you! It is a grey horse. Black and yellow colours. Greys, on the whole, are supposed not to be so speedy as bay or dun – Now: let us see—’
The struggling mass of horses approached again, but now many had fallen behind. And two or three were out in front.
‘Good heavens!’ said Aunt Maria, who had very keen eyesight. ‘I do believe – yes, yes, it is – Lost Hope is one of the three in the lead. Black and yellow colours!’
The crowd was yelling its head off. An outsider at the head of a race cannot fail to win the popular esteem. They were shouting:
‘Lost Hope! Go it, go it, go it, boy! Hope, Hope, Hope!’
And Lost Hope fulfilled their demands by rocketing ahead of the rest and winning the race by a clear five lengths from the second horse, which was the Prince’s Panjandrum.
‘Good heavens!’ said Mrs O’Brien again in a weak voice. ‘I had a hundred pounds on that horse.’
‘Aunt! You are not to faint! Where in the world did you get the money from?’ demanded Emma, outraged.
‘I borrowed it from Tom!’
‘Hope wins!’ yelled the crowd.
‘Aunt!’ called Sam. ‘Tom asks if you will come and lead in the winner!’
‘And it is certainly right that you should,’ said Emma, ‘considering all the advice that you gave Tom about colic and how to stuff hoofs with cow-dung.’
So Aunt Maria led in the winner, laughing and crying.
Afterwards she said to Emma, ‘Oh, if only Captain O’Brien could have been there! But perhaps he was watching?’
‘I daresay he and Papa have better things to do, up in heaven?’ suggested Emma. But Aunt Maria looked as if she would have liked to dispute this statement.
She said, ‘Emma, my dear, Tom Musgrave has asked me if I would consider going to preside over his establishment: he and Lord Osborne plan to set up a racing stable together. I think this is certainly an idea worth taking into consideration. He says it is all thanks to my advice that he has won this race – but what do you think?’
‘Dear Aunt Maria, I think that is an excellent plan,’ said Emma, hugging her aunt. ‘You and Tom may be able to keep each other in order.’
Sam came up to them, his fists full of banknotes.
‘Sam! What have you been up to? You have not been betting and gambling?’
‘Half of these are yours, Aunt Maria, and the other half for me.’
‘Sam! What would Papa say?’
‘I will never never do it again,’ Sam confessed. ‘It was too terrifying. The last of my father’s legacy . . . But at least it means that I can contribute five thousand to Mary’s housekeeping.’
Emma was indignant.
‘You might have put on a few pounds for me!’
‘Don’t forget,’ Sam said, ‘that Tom has another horse running in the Oaks tomorrow.’
Aunt Maria said, ‘But Emma, my dear. Listen. If I should go to housekeep for Tom and Osborne – what would you wish to do? You could, of course, go to Clissocks – live with Sam and Mary, or, I am sure, Elizabeth and Purvis would be happy to have you at Leith Hill . . .’
Lord Osborne now came up to congratulate Tom Musgrave, who was the centre of a group of laughing, applauding friends. Encountering Emma, Osborne said to her, ‘By the bye, Miss Watson, our tenant, Admiral Crawford, has a friend, who was looking for you – or, rather, the friend is not his friend, but the friend of a friend of the admiral’s nephew – Mr Henry Crawford – do I make myself plain?’
Not very, thought Emma, but she looked attentive and waited.
‘He said that he knew you – a Captain – Captain Freeborn – rec
ently returned from the Dardanelles – or was it the Seychelles – Captain Free-something – In fact I think – I fancy – I understand – ’
‘Aunt Maria?’ said Emma. ‘I do not believe you need concern yourself about where I am to live.’
She looked over Aunt Maria’s shoulder at the thin figure in naval uniform which had now detached itself from a large group of other officers and was coming towards her with long strides over the grass . . .
Postscript
Tom Musgrave’s other horse, Forlorn Hope, won the Oaks race, but the odds on it were much shortened after the success of its stable-mate. However, some of our friends contrived to make a little money on the event. Elizabeth married Purvis and lived happily with him at Leith Hill, where she was a kind stepmother to his orphan child. Later, he became a Rural Dean. Lady Osborne married Lord Rufus Bungay and removed with him to Antigua. Miss Osborne married Mr Howard, and cared lovingly for his orphaned nephews and niece, Captain Blake having died of a bullet wound in an engagement off the coast of Portugal. Penelope and Dr Harding settled in Dorking, but he died nine months later of a syncope and she inherited his greatly reduced fortune. She did not marry again, but contrived to live agreeably enough, with card parties, and morning calls, and a number of friends widowed like herself. Nothing was ever heard of Margaret and Thickstaffe, but a man named Percy Crutchley was, three years later, reported in the Philadelphia Inquirer as having been imprisoned for passing false bills. Robert Watson unsuccessfully sued his sister Emma for possession of the Rev. Watson’s papers, contending that a female was not entitled to inherit such documents in preference to her elder brothers; but he lost his case and a great deal of money. Tom Musgrave, Lord Osborne, and Aunt Maria had remarkable success with their racing stable and contrived, at one time or another, to win all the classic races. Tom and his friend found they had their work cut out attempting to curb Aunt Maria’s propensity to gamble, but it was finally arranged that, with Sam Watson, they made her a joint allowance which she knew she might not exceed in her bets. From time to time she did so, but only, as she always explained, ‘on a sure thing.’ They were indulgent to her, since it was principally due to her shrewd advice and excellent eye for horseflesh that the stable did so well. Sam Watson and his wife Mary lived happily for many years at Clissocks and had nine children.