by Jane Ashford
The old woman looked her up and down, her eyes sharp with the usual contempt. “Brave talk, my girl. But you would never dare.”
Violet stared at her, rebellious, as she’d given up being years ago. “Do you forget that I’ve been observing you all my life? I’ve had innumerable lessons in ruthlessness.”
“Nonsense! You’re as spineless as your mother.”
A bolt of fury ran through Violet. She felt as if her bland gray eyes actually flamed. “I wouldn’t count on it!”
The dowager’s gaze actually faltered. “The Langfords would agree with me about what must be done.” Belatedly, she added, “Even if they believed you.”
“Not believe that you deceived them?” Violet surveyed the three people before her. The earl looked distinctly uneasy, the dowager irate. Her mother cowered on the sofa; if only she would get up, Violet thought, and stand beside her. They could weather this together. “But you did.”
“Mama,” said the earl.
“As for the other, my observations of the Langford family suggest that they do not agree with you about very much. Do you think they are fond of you? I don’t. Indeed, I imagine that they will distance themselves from you, at the least.”
“How will that look, Mama?” said the earl.
“People will wonder at it, even if they don’t know the reasons.” Violet had imagined that the Deveres’ obsession with appearances would work in her favor. “They’ll begin to invent some. I daresay they’ll be interesting.”
“And I would simply tell them about Harriett’s…folly,” retorted the dowager.
Her mother moaned, and Violet wished, again, that she could spare her this confrontation—even as a small, sad inner voice pointed out that Violet had never been spared. “If you wish to provide a field day for the gossips,” she agreed. “I would be sorry to see my brothers—pardon me, my half brothers—subjected to such a trial.”
“No,” said the earl.
“Violet!” cried her mother at the same instant.
It took all her control not to flinch. And to endure the dowager’s suddenly speculative stare. She had to convince the old woman that she would carry out her threats, even if the thought of her young brothers enduring whispers and mockery was distressing.
“We will not speak of this, to anyone,” declared the earl, carefully not looking at his mother. With his customary craven unfairness, he glared at his wife. “It was very bad of you to reveal it.”
Violet waited, all her muscles tight with tension.
“You think you’ve bested me,” said the dowager, her wrinkled face grim.
“You forced me to fight for my life,” Violet answered.
There was a silence. It stretched until Violet thought she would scream.
“I will not speak to Hightower,” the old woman finally conceded.
“Or to any of his family. Or friends. None of society.”
After a moment, the dowager gave a stiff nod.
“I have your word.”
Looking as if she’d eaten something bitter, the old woman nodded again.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to say it,” Violet told her.
“You…do you dare to question me?”
“You have offered me no reason, in all our years, to trust you,” Violet declared.
The dowager’s thin lips worked. Her hands clenched. Then, as if choking out the words, she said, “I give you my word.”
“Good.” Violet had to resist an impulse to collapse in relief. “You can all go home then.”
The old woman bridled in outrage. “Insolence! You think to give me orders as well?”
“You came to Brighton only to harass me. You don’t even like it here.” Violet watched the woman she’d always thought of as her grandmother struggle to find a blistering retort. Her victory was satisfying, and cheerless.
“You are not welcome back at Moreley,” the old woman spit out at last. “You will be turned away at the gate.”
“As I never was welcome there, that is no real change.” Violet gazed at the dowager, the earl. She saw no softening or sympathy, and tried to deny that it hurt. “I don’t care if I never see you again,” she told them.
“Violet!” cried her mother.
She turned, tried to smile. “You may come and visit me whenever you like, Mama, for as long as you like. We will soon be settled in our new home, and there will always be a room for you there.”
“Oh, I…” Violet’s mother looked like a rabbit surrounded by foxes.
“I will send you money for a post chaise, anything you need. They cannot stop you, you know.”
The doubt in her face did not lift.
“Unless you let them.” Violet waited for a reaction, a spark of rebellion. None came. “I suppose you will let them, but I so wish you would not.” She turned to go.
“You think you’ll be happy now, my girl?” said the dowager. “You think it’s so simple?”
“I mean to do my best,” Violet replied without turning. And then—trembling and triumphant, hopeful and forlorn—she left the people she’d thought of as her family behind.
Twenty-one
The day of the race dawned clear and warm, and Nathaniel woke with it. Staring at a shaft of early light that speared through a gap in the draperies, he puzzled over why he had ever gotten involved in this…circus. He, who disliked being on show, would be the focus of countless stares and excited discussion for hours and hours.
Well, it hadn’t started out as a spectacle, he told himself. In the beginning, the idea had been for a few gentlemen to try their skills and their teams in a friendly contest. A chance to challenge oneself. But somehow, it had expanded out of all proportion as time passed. Many people seemed intrigued that he was racing, he admitted, because he hadn’t done such things before. And Rochford had talked of it, praising his team. A few more aspirants joined in; wagers began to pile up on the betting board at Raggett’s Club. The Regent had declared his interest in observing the race, as one who knew the fine points of the sport, and suddenly the thing had become one of the chief events of the Brighton season.
This had never been his intention, Nathaniel thought as he threw back the coverlet and got out of bed. If he had known it would happen, would he ever have begun?
He started to ring for Cates, then realized his man wouldn’t be awake yet. The sun was only just up. He pushed back the curtains and looked out at the quiet street. His dreams had been full of tight corners and narrow gateways. His head was full of advice and the plan of the course that had been set. He couldn’t stop reviewing the twists and turns that would test the finest drivers, the two places where it would be safe to pass another vehicle. On top of all that, he would be taking out another man’s team, which required extra care.
Standing at the window, he found himself moving along the route in his mind. He swayed slightly as he envisioned a tricky corner, tensed as he imagined the longest straight bit where you would have to go full out. The idea of the race still excited him, he realized, despite all the trappings it had acquired. He looked forward to pushing himself, seeing what he could do against the other drivers. Suddenly the hours till the start seemed long.
“I will certainly come to see the finish of the race,” Violet said at the breakfast table. “Lydia Barnes has invited me to sit in her barouche. With a picnic hamper.” Seeing her husband’s grimace, she said, “Do you not wish me to go?” That would be a disappointment, but nothing could dampen Violet’s mood today, after she had vanquished the dowager. She felt an impulse to giggle. She felt like the hero who has slain the dragon that long terrorized the countryside.
“You, absolutely,” Nathaniel said. “The whole town, with refreshments, as if it was a raree-show, not really.”
She laughed. She wanted to laugh at everything today. “With the Regent officiating…”
Nathaniel nodded. “It could hardly be anything else, I know.”
“I shall be hoping for you to win. Oh! If only we had that ba
nner from Langford, with the ducal coat of arms. I could wave it.”
“You’re in fine fettle today,” he replied, smiling. “What happened?”
“What?”
“You’ve been a bit…gloomy lately.”
“I…I have?” It sounded inane. But she hadn’t realized that he’d noticed. Or, she had, but she’d been so wrapped up in her own misery. She needed a convincing lie. Something that would satisfy him without revealing too much.
And then, meeting his warm blue eyes, she understood that she had to tell him the truth. She’d been so preoccupied with her fears, and then gloating a bit, she admitted it. But now, sitting with her husband over their homely breakfast table, she knew that she couldn’t keep such a huge secret from him. It wasn’t the fact that the dowager might change her mind and repeat her threats, not even that. It was that such a secret would open a space between them. And over the years, it would grow, she saw. Small deceptions would build on one another; the distance would widen It would eat away at her, gradually devour her marriage.
“What’s wrong?” said Nathaniel, reaching across the table to take her hand. “I was joking. Mainly.”
She would tell him, Violet resolved. But not right before his race. That would be wrong. As soon as it was over, she would find an opportunity. “I…I’m worried about you,” she answered. It was not a lie. “You will take care, won’t you?” Wild young men—even staid older people—were injured or even killed in carriage spills.
He squeezed her hand. “Certainly. I have no urge to risk my neck just when life has become so sweet.”
Violet’s pulse fluttered. “Has it?”
“Unquestionably. Are you not happy?”
“More than I ever thought I would be,” Violet blurted.
“As am I.”
When she met his eyes, and saw the tenderness there, Violet flushed with joy. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him how much she loved him, when the housemaid came in with a fresh pot of tea.
Nathaniel withdrew his hand. “We are fortunate,” he said.
“Beyond anything,” she replied. He smiled at her, and it melted her heart.
“I must go and prepare.”
“I’ll see you after the race. Right after.” As he rose, she repeated, “Take care.”
“I will.”
* * *
Six high-perch phaetons were lined up at the spot designated for the start of the race. It was the one place on the course wide enough for them all to stand side by side. The teams were all restive. They were bred to run, and they longed to leap away and go. The excitement of the crowd and the roar of conversation only increased their edginess. Some of the leaders tried to nip at each other or kick against the traces. Nathaniel pulled hard to hold his team in check.
The Prince Regent stepped forward, holding a pistol at his side. He had been only too pleased to fire the starting shot.
The jostling at the beginning would be fierce, Nathaniel reminded himself. It was vital to keep a cool head and remember your strategy. Full out along the straight bit, get ahead of as many of the others as possible, then line up for the first turn.
The Regent pointed the gun straight up. “Ready,” he called. Nathaniel braced himself. The pistol went off.
Twenty-four powerful horses were lashed to speed. They sprang away. The pounding of hooves and the clatter of wheels rose in a ferocious cacophony. Clods of earth flew into the air. Phaetons bounced over ruts and slammed down again. The vehicle on Nathaniel’s right came within inches of bumping his. His mouth went a bit dry as the two flying wheels veered apart again. Then his reins jerked, and he had no attention for anything but driving forward.
He was slightly ahead of four of the others. The fifth, on the far right, paced him as they approached the first turn. They would have to slacken the pace to make it. But who would slow first? Whose nerve would break? With a pounding heart, Nathaniel urged his team to greater efforts.
It was not enough. The other phaeton—it was Gibbons, he saw—surged ahead and got to the turning before him. Then they all had to pull back to round the sharp curve without overturning. Nathaniel heard a loud crack behind him, as of wood striking wood, but he couldn’t look around.
Afterward, the six carriages were strung out along the road in a close file, the lead horses’ noses perilously near the rear wheels of the one before. The drivers would strive to hold or better their positions at any place where they could pass. It was not unknown for a racer to try to bump another into a ditch as they sought to push by. There was some disagreement about whether this was truly sporting.
A narrow gate came up before Nathaniel would have thought it possible. He had driven this team rapidly during practice runs, but the race seemed so much faster. He lined them up as carefully as one could at such speeds and flew through the passage, knowing there were only inches to spare. He was also acutely aware that another turn, even sharper than the last, was coming fast. One wheel of the phaeton left the ground as he careened around it. He held his breath until it dropped to the earth once more.
When they reached the first wider spot in the course, Nathaniel was still in second place, and the carriage behind him was pressing close. As soon as the road widened, the trailing driver tried to edge up on Nathaniel’s left to get by. But Nathaniel had been preserving his horses for just this danger, and opportunity. Now he flicked the whip over their heads and asked for more speed. They obliged, and moved closed to the leader of the race, even as the one behind pounded up at his rear wheel. Nathaniel spared a quick glance, and saw that a fourth racer was just behind the latter, pushing just as hard to overtake.
Hooves thundered over the ground as the bounding phaetons vied for position. Gibbons in front wove back and forth a bit to prevent the others from passing. But this cost him speed. Nathaniel had edged the first pair of his team past Gibbons’s seat when the road narrowed again, and he had to slack off or tip into the ditch.
The horses didn’t want to slow. They were wild to run by this time. It took all his strength on the reins to ease them back just enough to stay right on the tail of the leader. As they thundered on, he heard a crash. He stole an instant to glance back again. The two vehicles behind him had apparently misjudged the clearances. They’d collided, side to side, and careened off into opposite ditches. Fortunately, they hadn’t overturned. The drivers remained in place, but they were clearly out of the race, frantically maneuvering across the shallow ditches and into adjacent fields.
Nathaniel saw the final two competitors come pounding up, and then he had to pay attention to the road ahead. A tricky stretch was coming up, where you had to manage a long left turn, and then line up immediately for a sharp right through a set of tall hedges.
He made the turns successfully and slid into a long, slanting curve that took the course back in the direction of the start. But he didn’t gain much on the leader, and the two behind him lost no ground. The teams were tiring slightly by this time. The horses were still well able to run, even eager, but they were not so wild to go at top speed. The second half of the race was as much about tactics as sheer daring.
The second wider spot in the road was coming up. Nathaniel envisioned all the details in his head. The hedges drew back first on the left. He might be able to squeeze out a small advantage if he was lined up on that side. He had to move fast. There was, perhaps, just enough space to pass. It was his last chance to take the lead.
There it was, ahead. Nathaniel encouraged his team. They were sweet goers, with the hearts of winners, and they responded to his signal. His phaeton pounded up on the left, Nathaniel calculating the inches as the road gradually widened. Gibbons glanced quickly back. He tried to swing left to block Nathaniel, but his team reacted to the animals coming up fast beside them and refused.
Nathaniel leaned forward, all his focus on going faster, faster. The phaeton bounced in a rut, throwing him up from the seat and slamming him back down. It might have been frightening had he had any time to contemp
late the danger. He was gaining, a few feet, a few more. He flicked a glance forward, to the side. He had just enough room to get by. Didn’t he?
His seat came even with Gibbons’s. They glanced at each other, jaws tight, expressions intent. For what seemed an endless time, they thundered along side by side, perilously close. And then Nathaniel pulled a little ahead, a little more.
The road narrowed in seconds. He had to coax more speed from his valiant team. He cracked the whip over their heads, and they leaned in and gave it to him. In the nick of time, as the hedges crowded in, scraping the varnished sides of the phaeton, scoring Nathaniel’s coat sleeve, they flew past Gibbons’s carriage and moved into the lead. Gibbons shouted something—probably curses—but Nathaniel didn’t catch it.
Nathaniel found he was panting, as if he had been the one running. He couldn’t believe he’d done it. If he hadn’t passed precisely when he did, he would have plowed the team into the hedge. He’d have injured the horses and most likely been thrown clear over the branches to land in a broken heap in the field beyond. His heart shuddered at the thought of having been seconds from death.
He pulled in just slightly, to conserve the horses for the remainder of the race. It was simply a matter of taking the last turns now and staying on the road. There was nowhere to pass on the rest of the course.
Nowhere sane, that is. On the final straightaway, Gibbons tried to push forward, even though there was no space. He brought the noses of his horses right up to Nathaniel’s spinning rear wheel, as if he imagined they might shoulder the phaeton off the road. Nathaniel heard the lead animal’s squeal of protest as the whip cracked behind him. “Are you mad?” he shouted backward, though he knew the words would be lost in the thunder of hooves.
He urged his team on again, and once again they came through. Slowly, they pulled away from the idiot dogging him.
And then they were flying toward the crowd massed at the end of the course, past the first scatter of spectators, and across the finish line to a great roar of approval.