by Shirl Henke
restive since Cybill approached them, gave a yip of excitement and tried to break free. She tightened her grip on his leash, almost losing her footing in the slippery mud.
By the time she'd calmed the dog, Alex had bid adieu to the hateful colonel's lady and was leading his big roan over to where the other horses and their jockeys stood. Along the way, the American stopped to make additional wagers. Joss could not take her eyes off him. He stood out in the crowd of starched dandies like a powerful golden lion in a litter of mewling house cats.
"My, my, you poor thing, so smitten with that bold American. La, what a pity. With all London at his feet, he must scarcely know you're alive," Cybill purred with vicious sweetness, stroking Bonbon's long white fur.
"We are friends of long-standing, Mrs. Chamberlain," Joss replied coldly. "A chaste and honest relationship with which you are no doubt unfamiliar."
A loud hurrah went up at that moment, drowning out Cybill's retort. The race was on. And a rough, no-holds-barred contest it was, as the field of seven horses thundered off, churning through the mud. The jockeys were all significantly smaller than Alex, their whips flailing indiscriminately as each fought to break away from the pack. Alex alone seemed to meld with his horse, become one with the animal as his legs wrapped around its sides and his head lay beside the roan's neck.
Joss cheered unabashedly for Alex and Sumac, forgetting the contemptible Cybill Chamberlain, who shrank away from the splashing water and mud created by the horses as they raced past. The spectators were a rowdy lot. Bets continued to be exchanged as an elegant gray took the lead while the riders disappeared from sight.
The course was four miles long, covering wooded hilly terrain. The length and rugged lay of the land were precisely the reasons Alex had chosen to race Sumac here. Although the finely bred English horses were faster on the level flat courses, the big roan possessed incredible endurance. The rain had been an added bonus, slowing the track. Sumac galloped at a steady, ground-eating pace, churning through the mud with surefooted ease. Alex held him back, letting the jockey on the gray keep the lead. Chamberlain's jockey, too, seemed to be pacing his chestnut for the home stretch.
Several of the riders whipped their steeds—and competitors—mercilessly. More than once Alex was forced to raise an arm to ward off blows. His heavy buckskin clothing absorbed the cutting sting of the whip far better than the wool and linen of the jockeys. When one leaned over to strike at him in an attempt to force Sumac aside, Alex slid effortlessly to the opposite side of Sumac, gripping the horse's flying mane as he clung to his seat by little more than one heel. The jockey lost his balance when his whip cut through empty air. Before he could correct his balance on the flimsy racing saddle, his mount stumbled and he went flying into the mud, narrowly missing being trampled by the other riders.
Alex quickly righted himself on Sumac's back, urging the roan to greater speed. The cool wind stung his cheeks, whipping his hair about his face when it pulled loose from the leather thong at his nape. Sumac pounded the soft earth and he could feel each beat of his mount's hooves as if they were one entity. He murmured low in the stallion's ear, his blood hammering as a wild exhilaration sang in his veins.
He could hear the roar of the crowd when they crested the last hill. By this time two of the other horses had fallen behind on the slow track, the pull of the heavy mud sapping their strength. The finish line was visible at the end of a gradual uphill stretch. It was time to let Sumac have his head. "Let's go, boy," he whispered in Muskogee and the big red horse sprang forward, pulling ahead of the remain ing field, except for Pegasus. The two powerful horses now ran neck and neck.
Joss watched the contest narrow to Sumac and Pegasus, yelling with most unladylike exuberance for Alex. How wild and splendid he looked with his golden hair flying behind him as he moved with effortless grace in perfect rhythm with the great stallion. Two barbarously beautiful males. Joss felt the heat sting her cheeks. She quashed the thought and returned to cheering while Poc barked excitedly as the red and chestnut horses neared the finish line, still neck and neck.
When Alex urged Sumac ahead of Pegasus, she let out a shrill cry of triumph worthy of a savage red Indian. But her unladylike behavior went unremarked among the other bystanders, who were all caught up in the excitement of the close race. Money still changed hands as the two horses streaked nose to nose toward the finish line. Then in one final burst of speed, the roan lunged ahead by half a length, crossing the finish line ahead of Chamberlain's horse.
Mud flew everywhere as Alex slowed Sumac, then turned him in a wide circle and finally reined him to a stop. Many of the spectators were liberally speckled with the gooey brown substance, Joss included, but she did not mind. Cybill Chamberlain did. When several drops of mud spattered against the slim skirt of her yellow gown, she squealed in dismay, losing her hold on her little lapdog, which jumped to the ground, yipping furiously and scampering through the crowd.
"Bonbon, come back here! Naughty girl!"
Poc caught a fresh whiff of the Maltese, who was in heat—and now on the ground, where she was fair game. Unable to resist this call of nature, he lunged against the restraint of the leash just as Joss was turning to approach the cluster of people surrounding the victorious Alex. The six-foot length of rope quickly slid through her fingers before she realized what was happening. When it drew taut, the end securely looped around her wrist, she was given an unexpected and very hard jolt, unsettling her balance on the slippery ground.
"Poc, no!" Her words were drowned out in the press of the excited crowd, now all bypassing her to rush to the winner's circle, where wagers were being settled. She was being dragged in the opposite direction—until her foot hit a particularly deep puddle and she completely lost purchase. The leash slipped from her mud-slicked wrist and Poc was free. He flew after Bonbon with single-minded ardor, on a direct collision course with Cybill, who picked her way daintily across the puddle-strewn grounds, holding her yellow muslin skirts up with one hand, her parasol in the other.
"Bonbon, you've gotten your paws muddy, you bad girl," Cybill cried in high dudgeon just before she stepped into the path of the brindle cannonball. As she was knocked flailing into the quagmire, a series of highly inventive and most unladylike oaths tumbled from her pretty, pouty mouth.
Joss scrambled upon the debacle just as Poc and Bonbon dispensed with courtship preliminaries and got down to the serious business at hand. Cybill sat up on all fours in the mud, shaking her fist at the lovers. She peeled off her mud- soaked gloves and threw them down as she regained her footing. Joss had fared little better since her own skirts were sopped with muck up to her knees. Still, the sight of the elegant beauty covered head to toe with slime brought forth a smile, then a chuckle, and finally a full-throated laugh.
Seeing that Bonbon's virtue had already been hopelessly compromised, Cybill turned from the ungrateful little bitch and focused her wrath on the gauche ape-leading bluestocking who had the temerity to laugh at her. Violet eyes narrowed, she glared at Joss as she stood up and took a step—only to find her slipper had remained trapped in the ooze.
"I do apologize, Mrs. Chamberlain," Joss managed between hiccuping giggles, trying desperately to regain some small measure of decorum.
A low enraged snarl came from deep in Cybill's throat as she reached out for Joss. "How dare you," she gritted, her long fingers curled, ready to claw out Joss's eyes.
"See here, I did not intend—" Joss's protest was cut short as she was forced to defend herself against the onslaught by grabbing for Cybill's hands. It was like trying to hold a hurricane. Although nearly a foot shorter, Cybill was compactly built, weighing as much as her lesser endowed enemy. When she barreled into Joss, both women went down into the mud, kicking and pulling each other's hair as they rolled around.
The shrieking catfight quickly drew the attention of the crowd, which circled around them, placing wagers on the outcome. "Five pounds on Mrs. Chamberlain," one cock of the game called out. "Ten
pounds says the long Meg beats her," another cried, rubbing his hands.
By the time Alex reached them, Chamberlain was between the two combatants, attempting to end the contest, which had gone decidedly in Joss's favor by virtue of her longer reach. Cybill's black hair hung in clots about her shoulders and the delicate muslin of her gown was torn in several places, revealing even more of her charms. The heavy gray worsted Joss wore remained unscathed but for a liberal coat of mud.
"Hardly Christian charity, Joss," Alex said with a chuckle as he placed one arm about her waist and swung her away from Cybill, who then collapsed in sobs on her husband's chest, smearing his splendid uniform with mud, much to his consternation.
The Chamberlains' angry remonstrances faded as Alex guided Joss away from the crowd. Poc, having had his way with the small fluffy Jezebel, trailed jauntily behind them, dragging his leash. "I realize Cybill is a bit less than civil. but did you have to exact such a harsh penalty?" he asked with amusement.
Joss hiccuped in silent misery, too humiliated to speak. She was covered with mud from head to foot and had behaved like a Billingsgate fishwife. Her father was already greatly upset that she had accompanied a rakehell to a place of iniquity. What would he say when she was forced to explain how she had come to be in this wretched state? Yet clouding her concern for the reverend was the closeness of Alex, whose laughing eyes observed her, waiting for her reply. "It seems every time we meet, calamity ensues," she finally managed glumly. "Perhaps 'tis a sign from heaven that our friendship is doomed."
"More like a sign that you have as great a penchant for attracting trouble as do I," he said with a crooked grin.
When he smiles, celestial choirs must sing, she thought. "I do not believe so. You've just won a horse race and managed to stay clean and dry until you rescued me. I am the one who is always in trouble. I've ruined your clothes and kept you from collecting your winnings."
"These buckskins have seen a lot of red Georgia clay. They'll wash out easily enough. Now as to the colonel's uniform..." He looked merrily over at Chamberlain and chuckled.
"He is rather wilted, isn't he?" Joss responded to his good humor in spite of herself. Just then Poc nudged her knee with his head and she looked down. "There you are, you wretched instigator. 'Twas your fault, all of this—you and that shameless little hussy," she said, looking on as Cybill instructed an unhappy footman to pick up the now brown Bonbon.
"Are you referring to the Maltese or her mistress?" Alex asked.
Rupert Chamberlain heard their peals of laughter as he attempted to straighten his ruined uniform. He owed that graceless, insolent colonial two thousand pounds, a bloody
fortune! With all Cybill's profligate spending, his officer's pay and the modest income from his estate did not begin to cover their expenses. He was in the utterly untenable position of having to offer his vowel to Blackthorne until he could borrow the money from a ten-in-the-hundred in Exchange Alley.
Cursing his incredible ill luck, he hastily scrawled a marker for two thousand pounds. His footman took it over to Blackthorne, who gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement. At some point he and the American would have a reckoning for this embarrassing loss of face ... and other matters, Chamberlain thought, glancing back at his wife with slow-burning irritation. He had never minded her dalliances with high-ranking cabinet officials and army officers. Such was an acceptable means of advancing his career. But her fascination for a mixed-blood colonial was quite simply intolerable. He would put a stop to it one way or the other.
* * * *
"Now queue up, children, and remember, when we go into the garden you must all remain together. Mr. Perkins was most kind to pay our admission, so if we wish to be invited again, we must behave." Joss looked from one small scrubbed face to another as she admonished her charges. How pale and thin they were, their eyes large and shining with excitement. For these children from the East End slums, an afternoon in Vauxhall Gardens was like a journey to paradise.
Andrew Chase Perkins, a member of the Missionary Society and an affluent coal merchant, had offered to do a kindness for the children in her school. Since Alex's money had already provided for books and lunches, she decided a field outing to the fabled park would be an acceptable luxury. Now seeing the autumn sunshine warm on their chalk-white little faces, she knew she had made the right choice.
As she ushered her charges through the gates, Joss was aware of the hostile disdain of the attendant collecting the money. She had ignored his snide comment about turning loose a pack of flash-house cutpurses on the better sort in the gardens, although she itched to wipe that sour smirk off his face with a good set-down. Why of late was her behavior so impatient and frustrated, her sense of propriety and charity for human foibles so diminished?
Alex would have taken this rude pipsqueak and set him on his ear. The thought came suddenly and she knew the reason for her growing malaise. Alex. Her friendship with the American was both the balm and bane of her life. She enjoyed talking with him, exchanging ideas and sharing laughter. His confidences regarding the quirks of his sisters, nieces and nephews, and his parents' hopes for his own marriage were bittersweet intimations of what it would be like to belong to a large and loving family.
A family from which she would be forever excluded. Alex's friendship was all she could ever aspire to, she continually reminded herself. Yet his way of looking at society, his whole free-thinking philosophy of life, unbound by rules of class and decorum, swept like a clean, rain-washed wind through her staid existence. She chafed under the strictures of society in ways she never had before she met him.
The children's exclamation over the statuary and paintings called her attention back to the matter at hand and she began to instruct them. "That figure is a most famous composer. Can anyone tell me his name?" Several eager hands were raised. "Yes, Charles?"
"Handel, mum. I read the nameplate," the seven-year-old said proudly.
Joss commended him and continued pointing out various things, noting joyously that her small band was enraptured by the nine-hundred-foot-long avenue of elms and the incredibly realistic painting of ancient Near Eastern ruins. These children had never seen any more trees than grew on one of the small city lots of the rich. No green space at all existed in the noisome warrens of stone and wood where they themselves abided.
She and her small clutch of chicks made their way down the grand walk, ogling the sights and the occasional elegantly dressed "better sorts" who frequented the garden. Because it was afternoon, the number of strollers was small, for the Quality did not usually deign to turn out until after fashionable five when the evening musical entertainment and fireworks took place. The gardens were open late and revelers often picnicked and held assignations until three a.m.
"Ooh, lookit, Annie, that lady's dress!" little Maggie Warren whispered to her companion. "She ain't got 'ardly a thing over 'er bosoms."
Joss followed her pupil's wide-eyed gaze. The object of the child's attention was obviously one of the demimonde, with brassy yellow hair and heavy face paint. Although cut low to display her ample charms, the round neck of the satin gown was no more scandalous than those worn by women of the upper ten thousand. The children of the slums were quite familiar with prostitutes, albeit not as clean and well turned out as these. Joss quickly guided their attention elsewhere.
The gardens were unfortunately used by Cyprians displaying their wares and rich young toffs who were shopping—or showing off their latest light-skirts. Joss had heard of the regrettable practice, but in the Great Wen, there was nowhere outside of church to escape the pervasive influence of vice. All she could do was to arm the youthful innocents with education and Christian morality.
The children skipped along the wide walk toward the grove where an immense colonnade sheltered a hundred supper boxes. Since one of these meals al fresco cost a whole shilling, Joss planned only to allow the children to see the murals on the back walls. By then it would be time to begin the long journey back to the Ea
st End. As they neared the colonnade Joss froze in midstride, and one of the children stepped on her heels, almost tripping her.
"Beg pardon, mum," Billy said, red-faced. "I weren't watchin' my way."
"No, no, it's all right, Billy."
But it was not all right, not all right at all, for there, strolling into one of the supper boxes was Alex and the most stunning redhead Joss had ever seen. Her fiery tresses and milk-white skin were set off by a gown of deep green silk. An emerald the size of a pigeon egg winked from the deep vale of her cleavage, no doubt a gift from the golden-haired man whose swarthy face she was caressing in a wanton public display.
Joss castigated herself for seven kinds of a fool. She knew the sorts of assignations that went on here, and in her heart of hearts she knew, too, that Alex would bring his latest bit-o-muslin here. After all, weren't his exploits among the demimonde touted by every scandal sheet in London? I'm making a complete cake of myself.
She tried to hurry the children along before he noticed her gawking like a mooncalf. Yet when he threw back his head and laughed at some bon mot of his companion, then took her hand and pressed the bare palm intimately to his lips, Joss could not seem to look away. What must it feel like, his breath hot against her skin, the pressure of his mouth warm and firm... did he touch her palm with his tongue? Joss's face flooded with rosy color at such an indelicate and shockingly lascivious thought. Where had it come from? What had Alexander Blackthorne done to the staid, sensible woman she had been? He had turned her world upside down and he did not even know it, damn the man!
While Joss stood mired in inner turmoil, several of the more adventurous boys, chafing under the strain of behaving for so long, took advantage of the schoolmistress's inattention. Billy Ballum took a small red ball from his pocket and showed it to Pug Wilson.
"Where'd you nick that?" Pug asked, reaching for the well-worn yet coveted toy.
"I didn't nick it. I found it," Billy whispered righteously. "In a wagonload of trash behind some banker's 'ouse, I did."