by Joan Wolf
Adrian was standing on the graveled drive talking to Richard Bellerton. We drew up and I heard his voice say, “Has something happened, Paddy?”
I was squeezed in the middle of Louisa and Paddy, and it was Louisa who answered, “We stopped by the grave of Kate’s papa and it upset her.”
“Ah,” he said. Then, quietly., “Let me help you down, Louisa.”
Louisa disappeared from the phaeton’s seat and I slid over to take her place. Then Adrian was reaching his arms up for me. I put my hands on his shoulders and felt him lift me from the phaeton, out into the air, and then down to the ground in front of him. To my utter dismay, I felt a sob rising from deep in my chest.
“Oh, Adrian,” I said. “Oh, Adrian.”
He didn’t reply, he simply picked me up as if I were a child and carried me up the front steps of Harley Hall. I buried my face in his shoulder so that no one could see my tears. The butler let us in. I heard his voice, and then we were going up another flight of stairs. Adrian bent a little to open a door, and at last we were safely inside in our own room. He kicked the door shut behind us and carried me over to the rocking chair in front of the fireplace. He sat down with me in his lap.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said gently, “now you can cry.”
And I did. I sobbed as I had never sobbed before, deeply, uncontrollably, and he held me until the storm was over and I was limp with exhaustion.
I lay against him, and listened to the steady beat of his heart against my cheek, and felt the strength of his arms cradling me, and knew that at last I had come home.
I said in a voice that was still woefully unsteady, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to me. I never cry like that.”
“There is nothing to apologize for in crying, Kate,” he said.
I didn’t agree. “Crying doesn’t change anything,” I said. “All it does is waste energy.”
“That’s not true,” he said.
“Yes, it is.”
He was silent.
“You don’t cry about things, Adrian,” I said.
I felt his chest expand and contract as he took a deep breath. He did it again. Then he said, speaking very slowly, as if the words were being dragged out of him, “Do you know how many men I killed in that famous charge of mine, Kate?”
I was so surprised at this change of subject that I lifted my head. “You took out the whole of the French left center,” I said.
There was an oddly strained look on his face, and suddenly the strangeness of his phraseology struck me. “Do you know how many men I killed,” he had said.
“Did you lose a lot of your own men, Adrian?” I whispered.
He said, “I made the decision to push on well beyond the British position. I made the decision to go for the guns. And on the way back we were caught by a company of French lancers. Our losses were severe.”
He looked so bleak. I hated to see him look that way. “No one blames you for that, Adrian.”
He shook his head impatiently. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
I ran my finger between his brows, trying to smooth away the tense line that had appeared there, and wondered why he was telling me this story. He began slowly to rock the chair in which we were sitting, and once more I rested my head against him.
He said, “When at last the battle was over, I decided to ride back across the field to the place where we had been caught—to see if there was anyone left alive whom I could help.” I could feel the tension in his voice and in his body as he faced the horror of this memory. “How can I describe the sight of that field? There were thousands of dead men lying there, and thousands more of the wounded, calling out in agony. It was like a vision of hell, Kate.” I felt his mouth touch the top of my head, and his breath stirred my hair as he said harshly, “I cried. I could scarcely see where I was going for the tears that were pouring down my face.”
The rocking chair continued its slow, regular, soothing rhythm. I lay against his warmth and strength, and thought about what he was telling me. He said, “So you see, I do cry, Kate. And I am not ashamed of it. Just as you should not be ashamed of crying for your father.” He put a finger under my chin and tipped my face up so he could look at me. “There are some things that deserve that kind of emotion,” he said.
He was a man of incomparable generosity. I loved him so much. I gazed back into his eyes and almost blurted out just how I felt. I don’t know what stopped me. Well, actually, I suppose I do know. It was pride.
It was inevitable that I would tell him one day, but not just now.
I said instead, “Thank you, Adrian.” I rested my head back against his chest. “You have made me feel much better.”
We continued to rock.
Chapter Twenty-three
Friday morning dawned bright with the promise of another brilliantly clear spring day. The Guineas would go off in perfect weather over a perfectly conditioned track. Louisa and I drove to Newmarket under an almost cloudless sky, and all along the road the early-blooming cherry trees were a froth of white, and bluebells and violets were sprinkled through the grass at the edges of the road.
Louisa chatted cheerfully as the phaeton rolled along, and I knew that Paddy had not told her about his projected business. I answered her as best I could, but my own mind was not easy. I could not forget what had happened the last time someone had tried to ascertain the real identity of Alcazar.
Dear God, keep Paddy safe, I prayed. Please, please, keep him safe,
The racetrack was as crowded as I’ve ever seen it, and all the talk was about the Guineas and the chances of Castle Rook. Stade’s colt was the overwhelming favorite, a situation that was a perfect setup for a leg to try to nobble him. Much as I hated Stade, I didn’t want to see anything happen to the colt, and I hoped Castle Rook had been well-watched these last twenty-four hours.
I looked for Stade all morning, but I didn’t see him until after the second race had finished, and then I spied him in the company of Sir Charles Barbury.
Harry saw him at the same time I did. “There’s the bounder now,” he muttered. Harry had not gone off with friends as he had the previous two days, but was sticking close by the side of my phaeton.
“I haven’t seen Paddy yet,” Louisa remarked.
Harry and I exchanged a look. Then Harry said casually, “He mentioned something to me yesterday about going to see a horse this morning.”
“Goodness,” said Louisa. “I hope he is back in time to watch the running of the Guineas.”
I forced a laugh. “You sound like an inveterate racing buff, Louisa. One would never know that this was your first meet.”
Louisa looked pleased. “It’s fun,” she said.
“Have you won any money, Louisa?” Harry asked.
My cousin shook her head. “I haven’t bet.”
I felt a pang of guilt as I realized that the probable reason Louisa hadn’t bet was that she hadn’t any money. I had planned to share my allowance with her, but before I could do so I had squandered it all at that wretched gaming hell.
“Broke like Kate and me, eh?” Harry said sympathetically.
To my surprise, Louisa shook her head. “I have scarcely touched the allowance Greystone made me,” she said. “I just think it’s foolish to put money down upon a horse.”
Adrian rides to the rescue again, I thought ruefully.
“If people didn’t bet, there wouldn’t be any racing,” Harry said.
I sighed. “Unfortunately, that is true.”
A man on a bay Thoroughbred mare was picking his way through the crowd, and I remarked to Harry, “Isn’t that a pretty mare, Harry? She reminds me a little of Elsa.”
Harry grunted.
“I hope she will be all right cooped up in that stable in London,” I worried.
Harry hooted. “Cooped up! I heard the orders you were barking before we left.” He imitated what he thought was my voice: “Now make sure she is hand-walked for an hour at least three times
a day, Georgie. And don’t forget to give her her treats.” He snorted. “Between your orders for Elsa, and Adrian’s equally extensive orders for Euclide, the grooms won’t have time to see to any of the other animals.”
I gave an unwilling grin.
“Here comes Adrian now,” Harry said, and we all turned to watch the bareheaded rider on the big chestnut gelding as he maneuvered his way through the crowd in our direction.
* * * *
Castle Rook won the Guineas. He got caught behind a wall of horses when he tried to go inside, and his jockey had to drop back and bring him around the outside. A groan had gone up from the crowd when this happened, as most of the people there had visions of their money going down the sewer. But once the colt had open track in front of him, he ignited.
It was a monumental performance. The dark bay colt’s powerful driving strides seemed to eat up the ground beneath him. He passed first one horse and then another as if they were standing still.. He swept into the lead at an eighth of a mile from the finish, and by the time he passed in front of us at the finish line he was ten horse-lengths ahead of the colt in second place.
Chills were running up and down my spine as I watched him run.
Pandemonium reigned among the spectators.
Adrian’s eyes were blazing. “What a magnificent performance!” he said to me. “Have you ever seen anything to equal that, Kate?”
I could only shake my head. I had never seen anything like it before. No one had.
The intense blue sky of East Anglia looked down upon the splendid bay colt as he was ridden in triumph back up the track. The spectators cheered themselves hoarse as he went by. The Marquis of Stade, his owner, was hidden from sight by the congratulatory crowd that had mobbed him.
Let him enjoy his moment in the sun, I thought grimly. He was going to find his face in the mud soon enough.
* * * *
By the end of the day, Louisa was fretting at Paddy’s absence. I was more than fretting; I was terrified that something had gone wrong. At least half the spectators had left the course by the time Paddy finally put in an appearance. Louisa and I were so glad to see him that we almost fell out of the phaeton into his arms.
He spun Louisa a charming tale about a horse that he had almost bought, and then Harry dragged him away from the phaeton to have a private word. I had my eyes glued to their faces, and when I saw Harry break into a smile, I knew that Paddy had been successful, that Sean had identified the stallion as Finn MacCool.
I had to wait until the following morning before I was able to hear for myself what had transpired. Harry arranged for us to meet Paddy and Sean near a little bridge that went over the stream at a spot halfway between Harley Hall and the village. The morning was still not a good time of the day for me, but I was getting a little better. I thought that perhaps the country air was agreeing with me.
Fortunately, Adrian had gone out ahead of me to take the hounds for a run with Sir Charles, so I did not have to make up an excuse for him as to why I wanted to be out so early.
Harry and I reached the appointed place first, and we dismounted and let the horses graze as we waited on the stream’s flat, grassy bank. Behind us the bank grew steeper, and the green grass was liberally sprinkled with cuckooflowers and marsh orchids and cowslips. It was another impossibly beautiful spring morning. I watched as a few sheep grazed their way across the hillside. Cuckoos were shouting somewhere in the distance, and from the steep, wooded bank on the other side of the stream there came the steady tapping sound of a woodpecker busily at work.
We waited for perhaps fifteen minutes, and then we were joined by Paddy and the small, wiry, black-haired man whom I knew to be Sean MacBride.
“That stallion is Finn MacCool himself,” Sean said. “He was stolen away from Mr. Farrell during the fire.” The man’s greenish eyes were blazing with anger. “I’ll have him back,” he said. “I’ll have him back in Ireland, where he belongs.”
“That you will, boyo,” Paddy said. “We must just decide now how best to do it.”
“And stud fees!” Sean said fiercely. “He will be owing stud fees for all those mares he bred to our stallion!”
I hadn’t thought about stud fees. I nodded emphatically. “You are right, Sean. Mr. Farrell is certainly owed stud fees.”
“Sean took a good look at the Marquis of Stade yesterday while he was peacocking around after he won the Guineas,” Paddy said. “Sean identified him as the man who tried to buy Finn MacCool before the fire.”
This was getting better and better. I almost rubbed my hands.
“Lord Barbury is the president of the Jockey Club,” I said. “I think our next step is to lay this evidence before him.”
“Stade will deny it,” Paddy said. “And I’m after thinking that the word of an Irish stable lad will not count for much against the word of a fine English marquis.”
I disagreed. “There has been a great deal of speculation about the amazing success of Alcazar as a sire,” I said. “They will have to investigate these charges.”
“And how will they be doing that?” Sean asked.
“Someone from the Jockey Club will have to go to Ireland to take a look at Mr. Farrell’s horses. He must still have some of Finn MacCool’s get in his stables.”
“That he does,” Sean said with satisfaction. “There is Conchubar, and hasn’t he won the Galway Cup the last five years running?”
“If he’s the horse I saw run two years ago,” I said, “you cannot miss the resemblance to Castle Rook.”
“They’re all the image of their da,” Sean said. “He throws true, does Finn MacCool.”
“What about Mr. Daniel?” Paddy said. “Is there no way we can charge Stade with his murder?”
Something of what I was feeling must have shown on my face, because Harry put his arm around my shoulders. I leaned against him gratefully. “I don’t think there is, Paddy,” I said. “Of course, we can mention our suspicions to Lord Barbury, and I think that they will weigh with the Jockey Club, but we have not enough evidence to bring Stade to public justice.”
“It is not enough that he should just suffer the banning of the Jockey Club,” Paddy insisted. “He should be made to pay for Mr. Daniel. A life for a life.”
“I agree,” I said. “But I don’t think we can bring it off.”
Harry had been uncharacteristically silent this whole time. Now he said, “Paddy, for a man like Stade to be ostracized by his own kind, well, that is an even worse punishment than death. He will be a pariah.”
“In the racing world he will be a pariah maybe,” Paddy said. “But what will the rest of the world care about such a thing when even the Regent himself has been banned from the track by the Jockey Club?”
“The offenses are not the same,” I said. “The Prince was suspected of telling his jockey to stop a horse. Once. And a great number of people think that the jockey most likely acted on his own. Stade stole a valuable stallion and quite probably killed a man to keep from being found out. Harry is right. He will be a pariah. He will never be able to show his face in good society again.”
Paddy looked unconvinced.
I said passionately, “Paddy, don’t you think I would like to see him drawn and quartered? Don’t you think I would like to see his head stuck up on London Bridge?” I drew a deep, unsteady breath. “But I do not think we have the evidence.”
No one spoke. The woodpecker had fallen silent, but the cuckoos were still calling to each other from the woods on the other side of the stream. Two ewes followed by their lambs had made their way down from the hillside and were taking a drink from the stream. The sweet-smelling early-morning breeze stirred the hair at my temples and rippled through the grass.
The world looked so very beautiful. It wasn’t fair that Papa could no longer see it, and that Stade could.
Paddy sighed. “I suppose you are right, girl. But it’s a strange kind of justice.”
Sean returned us to the business at hand. “We
will be getting back Finn MacCool?”
“That you will, lad,” Paddy said grimly. “That you will.”
* * * *
Sir Charles, Adrian and two other gentlemen were having breakfast when Harry and I returned to Harley Hall. Adrian looked surprised when he saw me walk into the breakfast room. Since my morning-sickness problems had begun, I had been taking tea in my room like all the other ladies.
Harry said to Sir Charles, “After you have breakfasted, I wonder if we might speak to you for a moment, sir.”
Sir Charles looked mystified, but he replied with perfect courtesy, “Of course.” He drained his teacup. “I am finished now. Come and we’ll go into my office.”
I could feel Adrian’s eyes on me as we followed Sir Charles out of the room.
Sir Charles’s office was off the library and contained a mahogany secretaire and two chairs. The bookshelf part of the secretaire was filled with assorted copies of the Racing Calendar, Baify’s Racing Register, The Turf Register, Sporting magazine, and, of course, the Stud Book; the desk part contained a pile of papers, a quill pen, a Sheffield plate wax jack for melting sealing wax, and a pair of spectacles. Sir Charles and I took the chairs and Harry leaned against the carved mahogany mantelpiece. Sir Charles moved his spectacles a few inches, then looked at us inquiringly.
Harry didn’t mince words. “We would like you to convene a meeting of the Jockey Club as soon as possible, sir,” he said. “We have charges to bring against the Marquis of Stade.”
Sir Charles looked thunderstruck. “What?”
Harry repeated himself.
“What are these charges?” Sir Charles demanded. He did not seem pleased with us.
Harry and I exchanged glances, and then Harry proceeded to relate to Sir Charles all that we had discovered.
When Harry had finished his saga of greed, theft, and murder, the Jockey Club president said, “It is possible, of course, that this Irish groom is lying, that he is hoping to steal a great stallion for his master.”
This made me angry, and I spoke for the first time. “Sir Charles, I saw Mr. Farrell’s horse run in Ireland. He is unmistakably of the same blood as the horse that won the Guineas yesterday. If you, or any other of the Jockey Club stewards, will travel to Galway, you will see this for yourself. Furthermore, I suggest that you try to trace Alcazar’s old grooms. I think you will find that they will confirm the fact that the horse Stade is trying to pass off as Alcazar now is not the same horse that they were looking after.”