The Fortune Hunter

by Daisy Goodwin

  The Prince of Wales clapped his hands and said to the table, ‘Does anybody want to place a bet before the race begins? This will be your last chance.’

  The Empress looked at him sideways. ‘I think perhaps that I shall make a bet.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid. Topham will arrange it.’

  Topham’s bow was a touch reluctant; he had many things to do, and acting as a royal bookie was not one of them.

  Sisi beckoned to Festy, who was standing in a corner. ‘I need some money.’

  Festy nodded. ‘How much, Majesty?’

  ‘Let me see, I think five hundred guineas.’

  The Prince of Wales exhaled. ‘I say, that’s brave, which horse?’

  ‘The horse is called Tipsy. But I am not being brave, my dear Prince, Tipsy is being ridden by Captain Middleton.’ She smiled at him. The Prince, who, of course, had heard all the rumours about the Empress and her pilot, smiled back.

  ‘In that case, Empress, I shall match your bet.’

  Edward waved to his equerry and instructed him to give a note to Topham. The racecourse owner looked surprised.

  ‘I think Tipsy was being quoted at twenty to one, sir.’

  ‘Capital, better get down there before the odds shorten.’

  As the Prince’s party took their place in the front of the box, a cheer went up from the crowd. The Prince of Wales touched his homburg and the Princess waved one kid-gloved hand. Sisi bowed automatically as she always did when she heard cheering in public, and like her royal companions she stretched her mouth into what she thought of as her public smile. She hoped that there were no photographers in the crowd.

  The horses began to come out into the ring. Sisi picked up her field glasses so that she could take a closer look. Earl Spencer, who was standing behind her, was checking the numbers off against his race guide.

  ‘Twenty-three, that’s Glasnevin, Leinster’s horse, odds-on favourite with Sir William. Listen to the crowd, sounds like half of Dublin has come over to see him run.’

  Sisi picked up her own race card, looking for Bay’s number. She wished that she could stand down by the ring and speak to him before the race, but it would be impossible for her to go without the Waleses, and the Prince showed no inclination to leave the comfort of his box. But it was of no matter, she would be able to see him after the race. Rudolph had, at last, gone home, so there was no reason why Bay shouldn’t return to Easton Neston, although the hunting season was almost over. It might be time to go to Gödöllő. The estate in Hungary was always so pretty in the spring, when the cherry orchards were in bloom. It would be the ideal place to breed horses. How smart it would be to have her own stud farm.

  Bay was number thirty-eight. This gave her a little thrill, as it was the age that she was now. It must be a good omen. It would be something to see him wearing her colours. Peering through her field glasses she tried to catch a glimpse of number thirty-eight. But the field was forty strong and although the ring was full of horses, there was no sign of Bay.

  Spencer was looking for him too. ‘No sign of Middleton yet. Wonder where he’s got to. Probably getting some Dutch courage. Fences seem to get higher every year. Last year there were six horses down and two jockeys with broken arms. In ’sixty-nine a fellow died when his horse fell on top of him. Still, makes it more interestin’, you never know who is going to finish.’

  Countess Festetics did not fully understand what the English Lord was saying, but could see from her mistress’s face that it was upsetting her. She said quickly, ‘Earl Spencer, please to tell me why that man down there is standing on a box and waving his hands like a puppe, sorry, I don’t know the English word.’

  Sisi said, ‘Puppet.’

  ‘So who is the man, actually there are many of them, who are the puppets?’

  Spencer laughed. ‘Oh, you mean the bookies.’

  ‘Bookies?’ said Sisi. ‘I do not know this word.’

  ‘They take the bets, and set the odds. They wave their hands around to tell each other how people are betting. Once Topham has gone down there and put your bets on Tipsy, they will be waving at each other like crazy, just wait and see.’

  But Sisi was no longer listening to him. Through her glasses, she had seen the magic number, thirty-eight. She sighed with relief as Bay rode in on Tipsy, the only grey in the ring. But he looked wrong, not somehow as she expected. It took her a minute to work out the problem: he was not wearing the black and gold colours of the Hapsburgs.

  * * *

  On the other side of the cast-iron and wood partition that divided the royal box from the rest of the stand, Charlotte was also watching number thirty-eight. After her outburst, a chastened Hartopp had found her some field glasses, so now she could see every detail of the riders and their horses as they paraded around the show ring. She spotted Tipsy at once. As she peered at Bay’s familiar profile through the magnifying lens, it felt odd to be looking at him when he could have no idea that she was there. He would know about the Empress, of course, and Charlotte watched attentively to see if Bay looked up at the royal box. But to her great satisfaction, so far he had not.

  ‘Big field today,’ said Chicken. ‘Forty riders. Got to get ahead quickly at the start, otherwise there will be a terrible crush at those fences. I was here in ’seventy-three when six horses went down at Becher’s. Only five horses finished that year. Good year for the bookies, that one.’

  Charlotte interrupted him. ‘How long before the race starts, Captain Hartopp?’

  Chicken looked at his pocket watch. ‘Oh, not long now. They will go down to the starting line any minute.’

  Charlotte wondered what had happened to Caspar; she did not relish the thought of spending the whole race with Captain Hartopp. She thought she might go and look for him, but the stand was now filled with bellowing tweed – suited men and some loud women – and she did not want to lose her vantage point at the rail. Watching the race up here, even with Hartopp, was better than getting lost in the crowd below.

  The course steward, who had shown them into the stand, came up to her and handed her a note.

  ‘Miss Baird? The American gentleman asked me to give you this.’

  It was a folded betting slip, a receipt for a fifty-pound bet on Tipsy to win at odds of twenty to one against.

  Charlotte folded the paper up carefully and put it in her pocket. She understood that the betting slip was a message. Caspar was making it clear that he knew exactly why they were there and where her loyalties lay.

  A band started playing ‘God save the Queen’, and the crowd began to sing the national anthem. Charlotte turned her field glasses on the royal box and saw that while the Prince and Princess of Wales were singing, or at least mouthing the words, the Empress was staring at the riders, her face rapt. Even at this distance, Charlotte could see that the Empress’s face at that moment would make a wonderful photograph, there was so much feeling in it. She was looking at Bay, of course, and Charlotte recognised the look. She had never thought, or perhaps she had never allowed herself to think, that the Empress might actually care for Bay. It was easier to think of her as the Snow Queen of fairy stories, a woman with ice in her heart. But the Empress in the sables was not heartless. She was in love with Bay.

  This was not a welcome discovery. Charlotte wanted to have the monopoly on feeling. The idea that the Empress might care for Bay as strongly as she did was uncomfortable. The thought that had consoled her as she made her preparations to leave for America was that Bay would be miserable with the Empress. But if the Empress loved him then his misery was not guaranteed. The unfairness of this stung Charlotte, and for a moment she thought she was going to cry.

  * * *

  The strains of ‘God Save the Queen’ finished and the singing was replaced by a rumble of expectation from the crowd. The horses were making their way to the starting line. They jostled for position, the riders trying to hold back the excited horses who were desperate to get going.

  Bay had found a place
at the outside edge. It was not a favoured position, but it was a long race and he had been bunched in before when steeplechasing, so he had decided that the only way to win the National was to be as far outside the field as possible. Next to him was one of the Beasley brothers, Ned, riding the Governess. He nodded at Bay. Ned’s two younger brothers Jack and Tom were also riding in the race. Bay felt reassured that Ned, the most experienced jockey, had also taken an outside edge position.

  Now that he could see the course in front of him, Bay wished that he had taken a nip from his flask. The race caller was announcing the names of all the horses and riders. As their names were called, the jockeys put their whips in the air. There was a great cheer when they got to Glasnevin, the Irish horse, and by now the odds-on favourite. By the time the caller had worked his way down to his end of the field, Bay’s hands were shaking as he lifted his crop into the air.

  He knew that Sisi would be looking at him from the royal box, waiting for him to acknowledge her, but he kept his eyes straight ahead.

  The starter pistol cracked and the line of horses surged forward, Glasnevin leading from the middle of the field. Bay felt his nerves fall away as his horse got into her stride. This was where he was meant to be: riding Tipsy in the Grand National.

  Tipsy cleared the first fence effortlessly, but out of the corner of his eye Bay saw a horse stumble and his rider fall. Glasnevin was still at the front of the field. Bay could feel Tipsy straining to get ahead, as she always liked to be at the front, but he restrained her; he did not want to make his bid for the race until the second lap. At Becher’s Brook two horses refused the fence, and several came down at the sharp left-hand turn that took the course back towards the stands. There was a groan from the crowd that lined the course, standing on old railway carriages, when the jockey riding Glasnevin the favourite fell to the ground as the horse made the right-angled turn towards the main stand.

  Bay glanced to his right to check on Beasley and the Governess. The big black horse had an easy stride and both horse and rider looked ominously relaxed.

  A huge cheer came from the crowd as the horses came into sight of the main stands. The field was about two thirds of its original size. On the second lap the going was much worse; the horses’ hooves had churned the soft ground into slippery mud. As Tipsy cleared the second fence Bay felt her stumble on landing, and for a second he thought he was about to fly over the mare’s head. All he could do was hope that he would his break his neck instantly and that would be that – but Tipsy found some purchase with her back legs and she managed to get back into her rhythm, Bay clinging not just to her reins but to her mane as well.

  ‘Thank you, my darling Tipsy,’ he shouted into his mount’s ear, sobbing with relief that his National was not over.

  Becher’s again, and this time six horses came down as they tried to make the jump and ninety-degree turn. Bay looked up for a moment and saw that while there were about twelve horses left in the race, only eight of them still had their riders on their backs. Glasnevin, the riderless favourite, was still galloping away at the front. But while the stallion was establishing his dominance over the other horses in the field, the racegoers who had backed him to win were crumpling their betting slips, as horses without jockeys were disqualified.

  * * *

  In the royal box, Sisi gasped as the horses came round for the second lap. Where was Bay? She held up her glasses but her hands were shaking so much that she could not hold them steady. She heard the Prince of Wales say, ‘Now where is our horse, eh Empress? Hope it hasn’t fallen on the first lap. What was the number again?’

  ‘Thirty-eight,’ said Sisi.

  ‘Oh, I can’t see it. Pity.’

  Sisi tried to keep her face still but she was seeing Bay spreadeagled on the ground, his head twisted to the side, his neck broken. She felt a touch on her shoulder and knew that it was Festy trying to give her comfort in her distress.

  Then there was a great bellow from Earl Spencer. ‘There’s Middleton, I can see him, but his horse is so muddy you can hardly tell it’s a grey. Time to move up now, Bay. Come on.’

  Sisi picked up her binoculars again and fiddled with them until at last she found number thirty-eight. Spencer was correct, horse and rider were so splashed with mud as to be almost unrecognisable. She followed Bay through the glasses until he went round the bend. Tipsy, she could see, was still running well and Bay was as buoyant in the saddle as ever.

  ‘Our horse is still in the running, Empress,’ said the Prince of Wales. ‘My goodness, the field has taken a battering. Only about ten horses in it now. Your man is good, no doubt about it.’

  ‘Not good. He is the best,’ said the Empress softly.

  * * *

  Charlotte missed seeing Bay come into view for the second lap as she had her hands over her eyes. She had picked up the glasses earlier and had focussed on a horse and rider, only to see the horse stumble and fall and the rider being thrown to the side and curling himself into a tight ball as the other horses galloped over him. She knew that it was not Bay that had fallen but the violence of the fall horrified her. The image of her mother’s body being carried over the fields on a five-bar gate came into her head and refused to shift.

  Chicken nudged her. ‘There they are, coming round now. By Jove, Bay is still in there. Glasnevin’s lost his jockey, but the Governess is still in it.’

  Opening her fingers a fraction, Charlotte saw the horses rush by. Her heart was beating so fast she could hear the blood drumming in her ears. She thought that she could not bear it any more. She turned, thinking that she would push her way out so that she could be somewhere – anywhere – else, but there were so many people pressing down to the rail now that the horses were coming round into the final stretch, that she found she could not move.

  Chicken said, ‘Middleton is coming up the field now. Now that’s a good bit of riding,’ he said grudgingly.

  Charlotte was making all kinds of bargains with the God she did not much think about, promising anything if only Bay would be delivered safely.

  * * *

  Bay and Tipsy were hurtling towards the last fence. There were three horses ahead of them including the Governess. Now was the time to let Tipsy go. Bay raised his whip to urge his horse on to the final effort and found that he could not move his arm. A bolt of excruciating pain ran down from his shoulder and he saw black spots in front of his eyes, but, gripping Tipsy with his knees, he took the whip in his other hand and gave her a whack.

  They sailed over the fence, another horse down. Now there were only two horses in front on the home stretch. Bay, biting his lip so hard that he tasted blood in his mouth, dug his heels into Tipsy’s sides. Leaning down, he urged her on. She responded at once and passed the chestnut, so now there was only the Governess between him and the finishing line. He raised his good arm again and felt Tipsy straining forward, desperate to get to the front. But as both horse and rider strained every sinew, they could not edge past the black stallion. The roar from the crowd was coming nearer and nearer as they came closer to the finishing line. Bay saw the four-hundred-yard marker flash and he realised that victory was so close and yet he was about to lose. He saw the gap between the Governess’s flanks and Tipsy’s head begin to widen; the stallion simply had a longer stride. Bay knew that this was justice. The just punishment for his sins was that the thing he so desired would be held out to him and then snatched away.

  His head down, Bay did not see the other horse coming up between him and the Governess but he felt Tipsy accelerate forward in alarm. The riderless Glasnevin was coming to take its favourite position at the head of the pack, and as the bay horse surged forward it veered to the side and crushed against the Governess. The last sound Bay remembered hearing was Ned Beasley’s scream as his leg was crushed by the runaway horse, but from then on, as Tipsy galloped ahead to go first past the finishing post, he saw and heard nothing but a blur of faces and sound.

  The Prize

  The Prince of Wal
es seized Sisi’s hand and kissed it.

  ‘We won, Empress! We won. We must have champagne.’

  ‘But, I think it was Captain Middleton who won,’ said Sisi.

  ‘Of course, but we have both won ten thousand pounds. Not quite a king’s ransom, but good enough for the Prince of Wales.’ The Prince was beaming. His win meant some new horses for his stud and several diamond bracelets for his mistresses.

  He held up his glass in a toast. ‘To the Empress, who has made me a very lucky man today. A lady who is as wise about horses as she is beautiful.’

  Sisi smiled back. ‘And to Captain Middleton, the best rider in England.’

  More champagne was drunk, and then Major Topham appeared.

  ‘Topham! Twenty to one, eh? All thanks to the Empress here. Is it time for the presentation?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, in the circumstances, I think we might prevail upon the Empress to hand over the prize to the winning jockey. You don’t mind, do you, Alix?’ he said, turning to his wife, who nodded vaguely, and then back to Sisi. ‘Would you do Major Topham the honour of presenting the cup and what-have-you to the winner, Empress?’

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure!’

  The Prince offered Sisi his arm, and the royal party began to make their way down through the cheering crowds to the winner’s enclosure. This time the band played ‘God Bless the Prince of Wales’.

  * * *

  Charlotte’s fingers were stiff from clamping them over her face, and her thumbs from stopping her ears. She had watched Bay and Tipsy come into the home straight but as the noise around her grew louder and the horses got nearer, she realised that she could not bear to see any more. Whether Bay won or lost, it made no difference. He was safe, at least. When she judged from the muffled roar that the race must be over, she put her shield down and looked at Chicken. His expression told her everything. He was loose and shiny from the frequent nips he had been taking from his flask.

  ‘He did it, he damn well did it! Deuced lucky, of course, Glasnevin coming up like that and cutting off the other feller, but then Bay always was a lucky devil.’ He shook his head. ‘Wish to blazes I had put money on him now. Knew he could ride, of course, but didn’t think the mare was up to it. Should have known better, Bay always gets what he wants.’