Once in a Blue Moon

by Penelope Williamson

  In spite of all her hard-won control, she felt the walls crumble some more. She looked into his eyes, to see if he remembered, too, and saw nothing there but shadows. "I named him Blue Moon because he's rare and special," she said, the words matter-of-fact, telling the truth, but only part of it. "This one will do it, my lord. He is going to win the Derby for us, for Gram and me. Now if you will please be so kind as to take your hands off me. I dislike being touched by people I scarcely know."

  He opened his hands, fingers spread wide, and lifted them off her shoulders in an exaggerated motion. "I do beg your pardon, Miss Letty. I shall try to refrain from touching you in the future." He brought his face so close to hers his breath disturbed strands of her hair, and Jessalyn's heart thrust hard like a fist against her breast. "At least," he said, "until we come to know each other again."

  She felt the shock of his words deep in her belly. Again... Unconsciously, her hands clenched. No, not again. Never again.

  He hadn't moved, nor did he take his eyes off her face. The sleeve of his greatcoat brushed her arm. The wind whipped the bottom of her redingote open, slapping it against his leg. She heard him take a breath; she imagined she could feel his heartbeat.

  "I hope your Blue Moon wins you many races," he said, and there was still an edge of rough anger to his voice. "But not today's. I already have a coper interested in buying my Rum Chaser, and he'll be worth far more as a stud if he can go out a winner. Not to mention the fact that I have a bloody fortune riding on his hide."

  "You should not have plunged so deeply, my lord. For he'll have a hard time beating Blue Moon. Especially in this weather."

  "A mudder, is he?" The creases alongside his mouth deepened into a sudden and unexpected smile, and Jessalyn's treacherous heart pitched and dipped.

  "Blue Moon runs like the wind on anything."

  He stared at her, his eyes on her mouth. The air vibrated between them like the strings of a viola tuned too tightly. She stared back at him, at the taut set of his face. She felt his heat, smelled him.

  She stepped back and turned aside, suddenly afraid. Tension thickened the air until she couldn't breathe. Her chest felt heavy with a quiet despair, yet her heart was racing. It was as if she were falling down a mine shaft and her scrabbling fingers could find no purchase. Falling down, down, until she was back again in that bittersweet summer, not herself anymore but the girl she had been. Poor silly Miss Letty, loving him, needing him. Losing him. The first time had almost killed her, but she had survived. Again... again... She would never let herself be hurt like that again.

  She licked her lips, tasting the rain, which was cool and tinged with smoke. I must be going," she said on an expulsion of pent-up breath, already turning away. "Gram will be wondering—"

  "Wait!" The urgency in his tone stopped her. But when she looked back, his eyes were empty and as unfathomable as the sea. "The race is about to start," he said.

  She looked to see if what he said was true. The runners were still lining up, a procedure that had been known to take up to an hour. She searched for Blue Moon and his jockey, Topper, and spotted them easily. The boy in the Letty colors of black and scarlet; the horse's bay coat looking almost bloodred in the murky light. The field was large, and the jockeys had to fight for a place in the lead, kicking and hitting one another in the face with the butt ends of their whips. The horses pranced and lashed out with their hooves. The jockeys bounced on their backs, their bright taffeta-covered skullcaps bobbing like fishing corks.

  He was standing close to her again. She sucked in a deep breath. The wet, mulchy smell of the turf seemed to wash over her like a wave, then receded. "Which one is your brother's horse—"

  "My horse."

  "Yes... I'm sorry."

  "You needn't feel sorry for Rum Chaser. I assure you that while I have many vices, I am invariably kind to animals. It is my one soft spot."

  He had done this the first time they'd met, talked in circles around her so that she'd emerged from a conversation with him feeling dizzier than a top. "I meant that I am sorry to learn of your brother's death," she said.

  "Why should you be sorry? No one else is. He put a pistol in his mouth and blew his brains all over the pink-flocked wallpaper, leaving me not only his title and champion racehorse but all his bloody debts as well. And further upholding the proud Trelawny tradition of dying young, violently, and in disgrace."

  She looked up into his face, noting the bitter slant to his hard mouth. "And will you uphold the tradition now that you are the earl of Caerhays?"

  He pinned her with his gaze. "Probably."

  For a moment she thought she saw real pain smothered behind the shadows of those dark eyes. She turned abruptly away from him. "You never said which one is your horse. My lord."

  "Rum Chaser's knight is wearing green and yellow. Miss Letty."

  Around the Turf the jockeys were called knights of the pigskin. Jessalyn had always loved the fanciful expression, which came from the pigskin saddles the jockeys rode on. She spotted the green and yellow taffeta of Rum Chaser's knight mounted on a dark chestnut with four white socks. The jockey seemed to be having trouble holding the horse in check. The big chestnut was curvetting and rearing and tossing his head. His massive hindquarters revealed his power and speed, and his arched neck his pride. Black Charlie had been right: Rum Chaser was of a showy turn. Jessalyn could only hope the leg's touts were also right about his not being fit.

  The wind blew, bringing with it not the smell of the turf this time but the scent of the man beside her—of maleness and danger and of something that fanned a flame low in her belly. He had the whole wide heath to move about in, yet he was standing so close to her that they could have shared the same coffin. She smiled at the absurd thought.

  "I still hate it when you do that," he said.

  Her head snapped around. "Do what?"

  "Smile as if you know something I don't know."

  But I love you.

  Too bloody bad, Miss Letty. Because I don't love you.

  "Since you ask, I was thinking I really ought to thank you for turning down my rash and thoughtless proposal of marriage all those years ago," she said with a bright, careless smile, although inside she was aching, aching. "It is amazing—is it not?—the mistakes one makes when one is young and foolish."

  His face did not change expression; he didn't even blink. His eyes were empty, dark, and still as an underground pool. "But we must have a care," he said, "not to make the same mistake twice."

  Whose mistake was he talking about? she wondered. Hers or his? She felt an unwanted tightening in her chest.

  In that moment if there had been any softening in his eyes, any indication at all that he had cared for her that summer, even a little, she might have forgiven him everything.

  But his gaze remained flat and impenetrable, and she had taken to heart the bitter lesson learned the day he had left her. That loving someone is not enough if he refuses to love you back.

  The starting bell clanged. They both whipped around as a flag flashed beside the distant post, white like a gull's wing against the green turf, and suddenly the horses were off.

  The screams of the spectators slammed against Jessalyn's ears like the roar of a hundred hungry lions. But she didn't even breathe. Her eyes were riveted on black and scarlet colors and Blue Moon's distinctive ungainly stride.

  They were well in the back of the pack. For all his courage, Blue Moon had a disconcerting habit of trailing lazily along in the rear, waiting until the last possible second to put on his tremendous burst of speed. His crafty mind understood that to have his head in front was enough; he saw no point in exerting himself to win by a furlough when a whisker would do. But this made for some excruciatingly nerve-racking moments for those who had their hopes and their money riding on his blood bay hide.

  Jessalyn swayed on her feet, as if the cheers of the crowd were buffeting her. The course was an undulating mile and a half long, twisted and cruel as the devil's hea
rt. The horses' hooves flashed silver, tearing like scythes into the sloggy turf. The jockeys' bright taffetas wavered in and out of the driving mist, blurring into streaks of living fire.

  A black gelding named Candy Dancer had quickly taken the lead and was holding it. Jessalyn reminded herself that the touts had Candy Dancer pegged as a fast starter that often had no pluck for the hard finish.

  They were now at the far end of the course, where it curved sharply back around like a bent elbow. Shrouded by the rain, the horses were black shadows, indistinguishable.

  Suddenly they burst out of the white mist like arrows shooting through a gauzy curtain. The man beside her stiffened as Rum Chaser emerged from the pack along the inside to challenge Candy Dancer.

  Hooves pounded the turf like a thousand drums, vibrating the ground beneath Jessalyn's feet. She looked for Topper's black and red skullcap and spotted it, bobbing a full five lengths behind the leaders. Too late, she thought. He's left it until too late. Then, just when it seemed the race was lost, Blue Moon put on his flying speed, coming around the outside, gaining, gaining, gaining.... Five hundred yards stretched before them to the winning post, and the three Thoroughbreds, black and bay and chestnut, were now running stride for stride, straining every muscle and sinew toward victory.

  As was the custom, many of the spectators on horseback galloped onto the course to join the runners. Without the bright colors of the jockeys' skullcaps it would now have been impossible to distinguish which horses were actually a part of the race. Jessalyn began bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. She knew she was wriggling like a pilchard, but she didn't care.

  "Come on, Blue Moon. Come on, come on..." she chanted, as if the words were an incantation, her voice rising to a crescendo along with her excitement.

  She glanced at the man beside her. He watched with a controlled intensity, only the tight set of his mouth revealing how much he had invested in this race. She was lost a moment in looking at him, and so she missed seeing the beginning of what happened. Only the horrible finish.

  The crowd's cheers of excitement shattered into screams as Rum Chaser went down in a tangle of white socks and hooves. Blue Moon swerved, his legs slipping sideways out from under him in the mud. He slid along on his belly, unable to collect his crazily skating feet, then overbalanced onto his nose...

  And lay absolutely still.

  CHAPTER 13

  Jessalyn stood frozen in horror as men and horses surged around her, spilling onto the track. She took one stumbling step, and then another. It felt as if she were in a nightmare, running through the boggy turf and getting nowhere. Blue Moon still lay on the ground, unmoving. God, oh, God, he's dead, Jessalyn thought. Topper was crawling through the mud toward the horse, his mouth open in a shout that Jessalyn couldn't hear over the shrieks and the pounding of hooves, over the pounding of her own heart.

  Suddenly Blue Moon jerked into movement, struggling back onto his feet. Jessalyn sobbed with relief. He'd only had the wind knocked out of him by the fall. But Rum Chaser still rolled on the ground, thrashing and neighing in pain. His jockey, bright green and yellow taffeta now smeared with mud, swayed groggily to his feet. The earl of Caerhays stood stiff and still beside him, his head bent beneath the pelting rain.

  The clang of the referee's bell rent the wet air, announcing Candy Dancer the winner. Followed seconds later by a flapping noise, like sheets in the wind, of the pigeons carrying the results to London.

  Someone handed McCady a pistol.

  "No!" Jessalyn cried, stumbling toward him.

  He swung around to her, and she recoiled from the killing rage that blazed in his eyes.

  His hand lashed out, his fingers biting deep into her arm. "Come here, damn you," he snarled, hauling her roughly up against him. "You started it, so you may as well see the bloody end of it."

  The great Thoroughbred's cannon was broken so badly the jagged edge of the bone had torn through the thin flesh. He was screaming from the pain. "Oh, God," Jessalyn cried, turning her head aside.

  McCady put the barrel of the pistol against her cheek and forced her head back around. He brought his face close to hers. His breath washed over her, hot as a caress, but his voice was like shards of ice. "You watch, dammit."

  For one suspended moment he kept the pistol pressed hard against her cheek. Her whole face felt stiff and cold. Rum Chaser's screams faded until she heard only a rushing in her ears, like the surf at End Cottage. Oddly the smells she breathed in were homey ones, of horse sweat and crushed grass.

  He turned and pointed the gun at Rum Chaser's head and squeezed the trigger.

  The sound of the shot smacked against her. Jessalyn flinched, but she didn't cry out. The chestnut's big body jerked and was still. The air stank of sulfur. She lifted her gaze to McCady's face. She could see his fury in every hardened line of his body; she could feel it radiating from him in waves, like heat from a Midsummer's Eve bonfire. But she couldn't understand why it was directed at her.

  His voice slashed through the air like a dueling blade. "How much did you win?"

  "Win! We lost a hundred and twenty-five pounds, plus the race stake. We lost."

  "I don't believe you lost a bloody farthing." His grip tightened, squeezing so tightly she had to set her jaw to keep from whimpering. "Either your jockey was got at or you paid him yourself to crimp the race, because you had your blunt riding on Candy Dancer instead. You probably planned to lose the easy way by running a dog race, but when Rum Chaser entered at the last minute, you had to take more drastic measures. And this is the result." He flung the pistol to the ground, next to his dead horse.

  Jessalyn stared up at him, her eyes wide and blank with shock. He was a peer, and thus his status would carry weight with the Jockey Club, the awesome body that regulated the English racing scene. If the club were to put any credence into his accusation, she and Gram could be warned off Newmarket Heath, even permanently barred from the Turf altogether.

  "No!" she protested. "I didn't... I would never—"

  He flung his head back and then with a vicious jerk brought her crashing against his chest. His eyes flared, and his gaze fell on her mouth. His head dipped down, and she had the strangest thought that he was about to kiss her. But then he thrust her away as if touching her disgusted him. He spun around and strode through the crowd.

  She had to run to catch up with him. Grasping his arm, she pulled him around to face her. "How dare you accuse me of such a hateful thing! I am not to blame if you were such a fool as to wager a thousand pounds on a horse that wasn't fit."

  He pried her fingers loose from his sleeve, then dropped her hand. "I know what I saw, and that collision was deliberate."

  "Indeed?" She lifted her chin. "Go ahead and make your accusation then. But after I have proven you wrong, I shall expect a public apology for the slur you have cast upon the Letty name with your smearing lies." Her lower lip curled into a sneer. "Or is honor a concept too far beyond a Trelawny's understanding? My lord."

  His face whitened, and a muscle bunched along his jaw. He stared back at her with eyes as stony black as the granite cliffs of Cornwall. Then he spun around on his heel and walked away. She watching him go, feeling battered and bruised inside, but this time she had matched him blow for blow. You are silly Miss Letty no longer, she thought, feeling proud of her woman's self.

  But unfortunately, when it came to McCady Trelawny, her treacherous heart had a tendency to care nothing of pride.

  The Sarn't Major had taken charge of Blue Moon, putting a hood over his head to calm him, layering rugs over his sweating back. Jessalyn ran up as the trainer was about to lead the Thoroughbred off to the thatched lean-tos where the horses were temporarily stabled on race day. The bay's left hind leg was curled up beneath his belly, the big splayed hoof only skimming the ground.

  She searched the Sarn't Major's grim face, appealing to him mutely with her eyes to tell her that the injury wasn't serious.

  He shook his head. "Got a badl
y twisted hock," he stated in his usual terse manner.

  Jessalyn ran her hand over the swollen joint. She was shocked at the heat that radiated from the horse's flesh; it was like holding out her palm to a coal fire.

  "He'll not be racin' anymore this year," the Sarn't Major said. "Tes a proper question whether or no he'll ever be fit t' run again."

  Jessalyn pressed her face into Blue Moon's neck, rubbing her cheek against the rough wool of the rug. As if sensing her despair, the horse turned his head and looked at her, his great intelligent eyes staring calmly at her out of the black hood. Jessalyn blinked hard against a rush of tears.

  She asked the Sarn't Major if he had seen the accident.

  "Aye," he said.

  "Do you think... did it look to you as if it were deliberate?"

  "Aye," he said again. "It had the look of bein' a crimp race."

  "But Topper wouldn't—"

  "Nay. Not Topper. I said it had the look of bein* a crimp race. I didn't say 'twere one."

  Jessalyn bought a meat pie and rice pudding wrapped in paper, paying a boy a shilling to carry the food and a message to Lady Letty. She went with the Sarn't Major to see Blue Moon safely settled in his box with a bag of oats and a nourishing dram of canary wine. Then she went looking for Topper.

  She spotted him talking with the winning jockey beside the gibbetlike weighing scales. He had already changed out of his colorful riding taffeta, but his small, wiry body was still clothed as flamboyantly as a costermonger in an orange shirt, blue-checked waistcoat, yellow breeches, and purple neckerchief. A red felt hat, sporting a pheasant feather, covered his snow blond hair.

  Jessalyn thought Topper loved such flashy togs because so much of his early life had been spent in a world of gray and black. The youth was one of Lady Letty's strays. One day four years ago, shortly after they had moved into the London house that Jessalyn inherited from her mother, the parlor chimney had caught on fire and they'd had to hire a man to put it out. The chimney sweep had brought a climbing boy along with him to send up the narrow flue. The child was naked and emaciated, caked with soot and grime. His hideously callused knees and elbows were scraped raw and bleeding; his enormous blue eyes filled with fear and a dull acceptance. Lady Letty had taken one look and bought the boy off the sweep for two guineas. They had thought his hair was black until they'd given him a bath.