The Horsemaster's Daughter

by Susan Wiggs

  Hunter’s quest for a proper wife amused her even as it broke her heart. They were all such silly hens, running around and clucking about nothing. In the evenings after supper, sometimes she and Hunter sat on the porch and discussed it. He was serious about taking a wife, and she felt disloyal being amused by the whole process—but sometimes she couldn’t help herself.

  She had made up her mind, after that day at the well, to take his advice and guard her heart. He could not have been clearer. He had told her, in words and in deeds, that he would never marry her. Her job was to help him with his children, and she had done her best. When Blue had entrusted her with his secret, she had felt the love and pride she imagined a true mother would feel. She could think of only one thing to do with the rosewood lap desk. She had taken it to Lacey’s room, where Hunter never ventured, and had placed it in an armoire beneath a dusty old jewel case.

  The ceremony with the boat and candle had brought Hunter and Blue to their knees, but it had been a cleansing pain, a baptism by fire. Like steel from the crucible, they had both emerged stronger. Blue had taken to speaking again, though he would probably always be a shy, reserved boy. But he was back—well and truly back—from the dark place where his soul had dwelt for so long.

  Maybe Hunter would not even need a new wife, she mused. The children were doing so well now.

  But that was just fanciful thinking, she forced herself to admit. He was a creature of this strange and haughty society where every gentleman required a suitable wife. Once he found one, convention would be served. Nothing lasted, including the love she felt. It would heal and leave a scar, but after a while it wouldn’t hurt so much.

  “Miss Flyte?” A strange, exotic-looking man approached her. He had very dark hair, a bushy mustache beneath a prominent nose and a courtly air as he bowed from the waist. “I am Simon Vega, from California.” She stood there in amazement. He tucked his flat silk cap under one elbow and said, “I work for Roberto Montgomery, of Rancho del Mar. Mr. Calhoun sent a wire some weeks ago to the landline office, regarding his auction.”

  Her thoughts darted in confusion. Had Hunter brought this man here as a way to get rid of her, or to give her the dream she had once confessed to him? “I’ve read that California is a beautiful land,” she said uncertainly. “I’ve seen pictures, maps, of a place called Cielito.”

  He smiled. “A little heaven, and the name of a favorite dance. It is the name they gave to many areas in the old days. Most of them deserve it.” The smile sharpened as he grew businesslike. “You have a great reputation as a trainer of horses. My client, Don Roberto, is a wealthy man. He would be pleased to employ you…if that is your desire.”

  Hunter had arranged this, she realized. Did he know what was in her heart and in her mind, or was he simply through with her?

  “There is no need to reply right now,” Simon Vega said. “You must be given time to consider it. The herds are nothing like this, of course.” He gestured at the racehorses. “Most are reclaimed from the wild. Don Roberto would give you a bungalow by the sea,” he added, then put on his hat and bade her good day.

  She had to find Hunter, had to explain to him that dreams were safer when they were locked in her heart. But he’d never understand, because he was a different sort of dreamer. He believed in making dreams come true.

  She found him with his bright head bent over the proffered hand of a woman she didn’t recognize. Something about her told Eliza she was not one of the usual silly hens. She wore a gown of deep burgundy velvet that accentuated the lush curves of her figure. A hat with a wide brim obscured her features, and a wealth of golden-brown hair spilled down her back. Rather than giggling and waving her fan, she looked Hunter in the eye and spoke earnestly to him. Eliza wasn’t sure how she knew, but she sensed an intimacy between them.

  Her stomach churned as she walked away.

  What did she expect? she wondered. That he’d marry the governess? Such unlikely things only happened in books.

  Ah, but it hurt, wanting him and knowing she’d never have him. He had been hers for that one brief, magical night, a night she could not forget. Why hadn’t she realized back then that it would be the only time he would touch her like that, love her like that? In her naiveté, she had thought it was the beginning of something.

  She was wiser now in so many ways. Too wise to get her heart trampled.

  “That’s his sister-in-law, you goose,” said Charles, planting himself in front of her to stop her retreat.

  “What?”

  “You know very well what, Miss Heart-on-her-Sleeve. The woman Hunter’s talking to. It’s Isadora Peabody Calhoun, Ryan’s wife.” Charles took her arm and led her toward the woman in the velvet gown. “Come and meet her. She’s one of those damn Yankees. But she is wonderful.”

  Eliza tried not to feel relieved. “Charles,” she said hesitantly. “What was it like when Hunter’s wife was alive?”

  He blanched. “Why do you ask?”

  “I simply wish to know,” she said awkwardly, stung by his heart-on-her-sleeve remark.

  A bead of sweat trickled down Charles’s temple. “She was so damn lonely,” he said through his teeth.

  “Mrs. Calhoun, you mean,” Eliza said. She pictured Hunter’s wife pining away, desperately writing love letters, day after day. “Lacey.”

  “Yeah, and the hell of it was, he never even noticed because he was so caught up in his horse trades. She needed him so bad, and he never even knew—” Charles broke off, wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Enough said. Let’s go meet my Yankee cousin.”

  Unlike anyone Eliza had met in Virginia, Isadora had a direct, intelligent manner and an air of confidence. “How do you do?” she asked. “I have been perfectly frantic to make your acquaintance. It’s such a blessing, what you’ve done for Blue. We’ve been so worried about him.”

  “It was Blue’s doing, not mine. I don’t think you have to worry anymore.” Eliza watched the children race with a pack of youngsters across the lawn. “They’re remarkable children.”

  “They’re lucky to have you.”

  A commotion of shouts and whistles erupted in the yard adjacent to the barn. Hired footmen clustered around a gleaming black hired coach. A compact, dapper man with a brass-handled cane and bushy white side-whiskers stepped out and strolled toward the oval, accompanied by an equally elegant lady.

  “Heavens be,” Isadora exclaimed. “That is Lord Alistair Stewart and his daughter, the Lady Margaret.”

  “Someone of importance?” Eliza asked.

  “I should say so. He’s quite the figure in racing. A true institution in the sport, known for having a perfect memory of every race in the past half-century.”

  Eliza wondered if Lord Stewart had known her father. It was strange to think that he’d had a life in England so long ago. She wanted to ask the Englishman if he’d ever heard of Henry Flyte, but she felt awkward and bashful. Before long she lost sight of Lord Alistair as others arrived from Louisiana and Saratoga and other far-flung places.

  She walked down toward the pen at the starting gates, where the jockeys and horses waited to race. Here, the tension was drawn taut, not so much with high spirits but with nerves. The jockeys, mostly young black men, walked their horses slowly, many of them speaking to the stallions in low tones. Eliza spotted Finn and Noah right away, and her stomach lifted in anxiety.

  Both horse and jockey looked fit to be tied. Noah seemed wound up like a coiled spring, and the stallion kept flattening his ears and pawing the ground. It wasn’t a good sign. The animal might be unpredictable in the gate and race.

  She went to them, holding out a folded garment. “I’ve brought you something, Noah,” she said.

  His head came up quickly, in unison with the horse’s. It was almost comical the way the two of them had taken to each other. Their temperaments were the same. They were both smart and quick and high-strung, which could be virtues, or spell disaster, depending on other factors.

  She handed it t
o him. “My father wore this in the Epsom Derby. Why don’t you try it on?”

  He shook out the short silken jacket. The yellow fabric rippled on the afternoon breeze. “Miss Eliza, are you sure?”

  “Of course. In his day, my father was quite the rider, or so he used to tell me. I never saw him race. I’d be honored if you’d wear his silks today.”

  “I will, then,” the boy said, beaming. “I’d be purely proud to wear this.”

  She held out the jacket while he put his arms in the sleeves. Specially tailored to fit close and neat, it might have been made for him. He was small and compact, much as her father had been. The sleeves were a little short, but he didn’t complain. She stepped back, her heart swelling with emotion. “Look at you, Noah,” she said. “Just look at you.” On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

  The other jockeys hooted and hollered with good-natured derision. Despite the deep brown color of his skin, she could see him blush to the tips of his ears. He looked handsome in the yellow jacket, the tight trousers and fitted boots.

  In the midst of the excitement, the gentleman from England stopped. “The stallion’s remarkable,” he commented. “Remarkable indeed. If reports of his gifts are true, his fame will spread.” He eyed Noah. “I say, haven’t seen that cut or color in a quarter-century, perhaps longer.”

  Eliza’s chest tightened. She forced herself to speak calmly. “Sir, these jockey’s silks once belonged to a man called Henry Flyte.”

  The pale, sharp eyes narrowed, and Lord Alistair thumped his cane on the ground. “Henry Flyte, you say? Why—”

  “He was my father,” she added in an eager rush.

  “Your father, you say?” The pale eyes shifted away.

  “His most famous race was on a horse called Aleazar—”

  “Pardon me, miss. I must go and find my seat.” Lord Alistair stabbed his cane into the ground and pivoted away.

  His evasiveness puzzled her, but before she could follow the Englishman, Charles arrived.

  “All that’s missing,” he said to Noah, “is the cap.”

  Noah’s pride seemed to collapse in on itself and he appeared to withdraw and grow smaller. He lifted his shoulders up around his ears.

  “Hello, Charles,” Eliza said.

  “Sir,” Noah mumbled.

  Father and son were incredibly awkward with one another. Charles’s posture was stiff as he entered the pen and crossed to Noah, holding something out.

  “I thought you might want to wear this as well,” he said.

  It was a leather jockey cap with a buff-colored visor. Hesitantly, Noah took it. “Thank you, sir.” He ran his thumb over the stitching on the back. Eliza craned her neck to see the embroidery. In small, careful stitches of green silk were the letters NC.

  “That stands for Noah Calhoun,” Charles said.

  The boy’s eyes flared wide. Charles put his hand on his shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze. “Good luck in the race.”

  He left immediately, strolling the grounds with a mint julep in one hand, a cheroot in the other and a well-dressed young woman on each side of him.

  A bell clanged, and Eliza saw the stallion shiver in response. Finn remembered this. The horse had raced a hundred times before, in Ireland. He remembered this.

  With his heart in his eyes, Noah put on the cap and led the stallion to the gates.

  Eliza was glad she hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning. Her stomach was so jumpy she knew she couldn’t have kept anything down. When she saw Hunter waiting at the numbered gate, she grew doubly nervous.

  He held the stallion’s head as Noah mounted. The boy looked small and athletic in the racing stance, his legs tucked up and his chest bent low over the horse’s back. Hunter drew aside the door of the starting gate, watching every move the stallion made.

  Eliza held her breath. Thank goodness her father’s racing days had ended before she was born, for she was not made to endure this heart-pounding anxiety. The horse’s behavior was hard to read when he was confined to this small space, but he didn’t sidle or balk. His ears stayed pricked forward, his eyes on the oval track.

  “You all right, Noah?” Hunter asked softly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You look mighty handsome up there, son.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Ride like the wind, Noah. I’ve seen you do it. Ride like the wind.”

  “I aim to, sir.”

  Hunter and Eliza and the other handlers moved away from the box. The starter climbed up on his platform, pistol in hand.

  Eliza and Hunter shared a look, and all the noise and confusion of the riders and horses faded to nothing.

  “What?” Hunter asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re pleased with me.”

  “I am pleased with you. It was very nice, the way you just spoke with Noah.”

  “I know how to be nice.”

  “Yes, you do.” Before she said too much, she walked toward the reviewing stand. The first bench had been cordoned off with a garland of white flowers. It was reserved for the host of the race and his family.

  Charles and the children waited there. Blue and Belinda, dressed in summer finery, clutched the front rail and kept their eyes riveted to the track. When Eliza walked past, Belinda jumped up and down. “Here, Miss Eliza! Sit with us. You must, you must.”

  Before Eliza could shake her head and slip away, Hunter took her by the elbow and steered her to the bench. “You heard the girl, Miss Flyte,” he said with laughter in his voice. “You must.”

  She ignored him, but smiled down at the children. “This is quite an honor.”

  “Noah and Finn will take First Place,” Blue said with unquestioning confidence.

  “Do you think so?”

  He grinned at his sister. “They must.”

  Charles took a sip of his drink and made a face. Then he brought out a flask from his boot and added more whiskey. He held out the flask to Hunter, who looked at it for a moment.

  Blue and Belinda stared at him.

  “Not now, Charles, but thank you,” Hunter said.

  Eliza didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until it all came out in a rush.

  “Riders ready!” the racing master called. Every sound died. Even the wind seemed to be holding back, waiting for the start of the race.

  The starter lifted his pistol toward the sky.

  Noah drew fully into a tuck on the stallion’s back. The boy’s grip on the reins tightened and then slackened. Eliza was close enough to see the horse’s skin quiver and contract, acknowledging the presence of the rider.

  The pistol exploded.

  Gates shot back, and the horses and riders surged forward. The spectators all came out of their seats. Eliza could feel them behind her, the benches groaning with their movements. A deafening chorus of pounding hooves filled the air.

  Eliza stayed frozen in place. She could not have moved to save her life.

  The stallion came out of the gate like a bullet from a gun. Noah tucked and bent his head low over the pumping neck. Finn and the boy moved as one being—the barrier between horse and rider blurred.

  But victory was not assured. This was a race of champions. Some of the horses and riders were experienced racers, and immediately a sorrel and a black pulled up. In the backstretch, the sorrel pumped ahead of Finn. There was a mad scramble for the first critical curve in the racetrack. The rider who dominated that curve would dominate the race. The sorrel, the black and Finn aimed like arrows for it. Noah tried to hold him in, but Finn ripped control from the boy and flew off, his speed so great that he nearly had Noah standing up in the saddle.

  Noah’s yellow jacket gleamed in the sun, and even from a distance Eliza imagined the shudder of wind over the garment as he drove the stallion to shattering speeds. He took the curve only a fraction of a second ahead of the sorrel. Then it was a flat-out battle to the finish line, stretched acr
oss the end of the track.

  The sorrel and Finn kept the lead, but they came on with identical speed. They moved, Eliza imagined, like twin steam engines or the opposite wheels of a locomotive. They were that fast, that relentless.

  “A tie,” someone shouted. “There’s going to be a tie!”

  For the first time, Eliza relaxed on the bench. Hunter sent her a glare of annoyance. “How the hell can you be so calm when there’s going to be a tie?” he demanded.

  “There won’t be a tie,” she said simply.

  “How do you—”

  “Watch. Just watch.”

  It was something she had noticed about the stallion early in his training. He had a peculiar sense of the finish line. Her father had explained to her once that some horses were compelled, by instinct or by training, to get there first. The ancient knowledge of the herd governed the horse’s behavior. An aggressive stallion like Finn had the drive and instinct to pull ahead of the pack.

  No matter how focused a horse was, Eliza knew, it would always be aware of its surroundings. Herd animals relying on flight for defense had a strong need to know where everything was in the space around them.

  If there was a sorrel charging neck and neck beside the stallion, Finn would know it.

  Eliza’s fists clenched in her lap. Only a few lengths remained before the finish.

  At first, she feared she was wrong, for nothing changed. The horses ran in perfect tandem, almost as if they were harnessed together. But then, just as her heart began to sink, something happened.

  Later, folks would whisper that it was magic, or the work of the supernatural possessing the horse from misty Ireland. Folks swore up and down and crosswise that they actually saw all four of the stallion’s hooves leave the ground at once and shoot forward, a full length ahead of the sorrel. For years to come, spectators would tell their grandchildren of the day they saw the Irish horse fly.

  In truth, Eliza simply recognized that the stallion’s heart had done the work. Heart. Spirit. Her father called it different things, but what he meant was the will to win.

  The Irish Thoroughbred surged across the finish line and kept going. Noah uncoiled from his crouch, ripped the cap off his head and sent it sailing jubilantly through the air. The stallion slowed gradually, sand flying and then settling, to make way for the rest of the herd.