‘So it’s yours then,’ said the young farm lad impatiently. ‘I’m glad I found you. I’ll have to be getting back…’ Jem knew what was expected of him. He went into the caravan and came back with a half-guinea which he handed to the young man, saying in a deadened sort of voice, ‘Thanks for bringing him back. He’s a good horse and you could easily have kept him. I appreciate it… Do you still have the note that was in the saddle-flap?’
The lad shook his head. ‘No, sorry, I lost it but it told me where to bring the horse, didn’t it?’
Jem nodded silently. His face was griefstricken.
* * *
The races were a much more High Society occasion than the Fair. While they attracted a large number of the same people as had attended the more vulgar attractions of the previous day, they also drew a large following from more snobbish people. From mid-morning, fine highly polished carriages and gigs could be seen driving through Lauriston on their way to Caverton Edge on the southern side of the town where a previous Duke had laid out a race course which was still under ducal patronage.
Like all race courses it was a melting pot where crooks rubbed shoulders with gentlemen and the innocent walked with the scheming. Coups were hatched, plots were laid and the presiding gods were the horse and fortune.
The Duke’s party set off early from Sloebank in a line of carriages, with Lady Augusta queening it over the women and the men riding behind on prancing thoroughbreds. They thrust headlong and uncaring through the crowds converging on the course, scattering them into the hedgerows as they went.
Thomassin and her tall companion, who was dressed as a pedlar, had to run hurriedly off the road to prevent themselves from being run down by the ducal entourage. They were barely settled into their stride again when another group were upon them. This time it was Canny Rutherford and his sister riding along in a carriage with their black manservant sitting in the high box behind them. Canny’s daughter mounted on her beautiful chestnut mare followed behind the carriage. She was attended by a liveried groom who looked infinitely proud of her for she sat her horse with majesty and people on the road paused to stare up in admiration, nudging each other as they whispered, ‘That’s the lassie who’s going to marry the Duke, that’s her!’
When she passed Thomassin, the gypsy girl also nudged her companion and whispered, ‘Look at her. What do you think of that lass, Billy?’
His eyes followed her finger but his expression was confused. ‘I’d rather have you for my sweetheart,’ he told her. She took his hand and smiled at him.
The white-railed race course was laid out in a circle on a green plateau overlooking Lauriston. A low greystone building with two windows and a green-painted door stood staring out at the road and behind it was a railed-off enclosure positioned at the point in the course where both the starting gate and the finishing post were located. In this enclosure, horses and their grooms were clustered and they all looked up when the cavalcade of horses and carriages came sweeping into the race course gate.
The riders were led by the Duke himself – dark, upright, overweeningly proud and glowering. His head towered above his companions and the fact that the prancing horse on which he rode looked like a charger added to his despotic appearance.
He dismounted and was immediately surrounded by a group of fawning friends, who all stood staring in the direction of the entrance gate when another party arrived followed by a mounted woman on a chestnut mare that was curvetting coquettishly, turning sideways like a playful kitten. Its antics did not upset the rider who sat securely in the saddle staring straight ahead. She looked slight and willowy but the sinuous movements of her body and the assurance that exuded from her made many a man catch his breath. Her face was expressionless behind the mesh of her veil.
Involuntarily one of the men in the paddock straightened as she passed and the movement made her glance his way. When he stood upright the open neck of his shirt fell forward and showed strong collar bones and a brown chest beneath it. No sign of recognition showed in either of their faces and no one could have guessed that Odilie’s heart had made a disturbing leap at the sight of Jesse. Its beating quickened so much that she felt her head swim, and her fingers convulsed around the reins. A strange yearning seized her. ‘Stop it. This is madness,’ she told herself and deliberately turned her head away.
The Duke was waiting for her and held a hand up to the girl on the chestnut. ‘Come, Miss Rutherford. I’ll escort you to the viewing stand,’ he said. When her boot toe touched the ground she gave him her gloved hand and then carefully shook out her skirt. She knew that the eyes of the people all around were fixed on her. Among them was her father and she hoped she was doing him credit. With more disquiet she also knew that the handsome, dark-eyed gypsy was watching her too.
The Duke was acting the part of a devoted suitor most effectively. Quelling her distaste she took the arm he extended to her and walked in pace with him up three shallow stone steps into a damp-smelling hall. ‘There’s two big events on the card this afternoon. I’m running horses in each one,’ he told her.
‘Which is the biggest race of the day?’ she asked.
‘The first – it’s a sprint, twice round the course. There’s fifteen runners so it’s going to be run in three heats,’ he informed her. It was gratifying to him that this girl was interested in horseflesh. They’d at least have something to talk about when they were married. He smiled down at her and asked, ‘Would you like to present my cup to the winner of that race?’
She glanced up at him from behind the provocative veil. ‘Yes, I would,’ she said.
‘Ha, then you’ll probably have to present it to me! I’ve a good horse running. Perhaps you’ll give me a kiss with it.’
She dropped her head in the fetching hat to avoid catching his eye. ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed. It was the first lover-like suggestion he’d made towards her and she was not prepared for how much it upset her to hear him talk like that.
The corridor through which they were walking led past the weighing room which was crowded with people, among them jockeys in brightly-coloured silks, they were all chattering together, assessing each other’s chances. The owners of their mounts were there, too, gathering information and making secret deals.
Everyone fell silent when the Duke went past for he was well-known among them although he had no intimates. They respected the horseflesh he owned and it was common knowledge that he liked to win at his own Caverton Edge meeting. This year he had a woman on his arm and the watchers guessed that meant he would be even more anxious than usual to pull off a victory. The visiting owners suspected that things could be fixed for him to do so and there was a great deal of speculation about which of the horses he had entered in the day’s card would be the successful one.
Indifferent to their interest, he led Odilie up a shallow flight of steps to a raised stand roofed with green canvas to protect the spectators from the glare of the sun which had taken on a strange coppery sheen as it blazed down from a purple sky. White-painted benches were arranged in lines facing the course and black iron railings closed it off from the crowds of ordinary people on the other side. Servants in livery bustled around with glasses of wine and the girl lifted her veil as she accepted one, sipping it gratefully for the heat was indeed tremendous. Then her host showed her to a seat and she settled down in the middle of the front row while a servant ran up with a cushion which was placed at her back.
There she sat, looking supremely elegant against a pile of braided cushions on the white bench, and it would have been difficult for anyone to discern what was in her mind. In fact Odilie was bleakly wondering if this was the way the rest of her life was to be spent. She realised that the only way she could cope with the events of the day was by cutting off her mind altogether, by moving, speaking and smiling automatically. The moment she stopped acting a part and allowed herself to be fully conscious of what was going on, she would be overcome with dread and disappointment.
From beneath the
green shade of the canvas roof, her eyes followed the Duke who was pushing his way in an ungainly and discourteous manner through the crowd on the other side of the railings. He was heading for the horses in the paddock and it was obvious that he’d forgotten all about her. As she watched, she wondered with a sort of sick despair how often she was fated to observe him with the distaste of someone watching a bumbling and bothersome bluebottle.
With an abrupt movement, Odilie turned her head aside and directed her gaze across to another part of the crowd. Something made her stiffen in her seat and she became disturbingly aware of eyes on her. To her dismay and surprise, she saw that she was being watched by the girl who had threatened and accused her of ‘casting the glamourie’ on the handsome gypsy at the Fair. The girl, garishly robed in scarlet and green, was staring over at her with the same cold fixity as Odilie herself had used when watching the Duke. The girl was accompanied by a tall bulky man dressed like a pedlar in a long black cloak and big hat. How stiflingly hot he must feel in those clothes today, thought Odilie who was suffering enough herself in her tight-fitting riding habit. The heat was so oppressive that she wished she had agreed to Martha’s suggestion that she wear muslin and ride in the carriage.
Even beneath the shade of the awning, the atmosphere was oppressive and because there was no breeze, the air seemed unnaturally still and heavy. An advancing army of dark clouds could be seen massing above the rolling outlines of the Cheviot Hills and the light had a violet tinge to it. Over the course hung a strange feeling of anticipation, like the frisson that sweeps through a theatre audience sitting on the edge of their seats in the seconds before the curtain rises. At Caverton Edge that day there was a promise of more than an afternoon’s racing in the air.
From the middle of the press of people, Thomassin’s eyes were intently fixed on Odilie and she did not bother to hide that she was burning with jealousy so strong that she had trouble containing it. ‘She’s taken the power of my spell into herself, she’s taken my magic,’ thought the gypsy girl in impotent rage for she was sure that the potion Rachel brewed had worked right enough but it had done so for Odilie Rutherford who did not want it. Thomassin felt that her heart had turned to stone in her breast and she hissed like an angry cat, so loudly that Billy, who was watching the wonderful goings on around him, looked down at her with the frank amazement of a child. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
She turned her head up towards him and said piteously, ‘Jesse doesn’t love me, that’s what’s wrong Billy.’
He shook his head. ‘I love you,’ he said.
She took his hand. ‘Yes, you’re my sweetheart,’ she told him and Billy felt something strange happen to him. It was if a balloon had been blown up inside his chest and he swelled with pride and love as Thomassin bestowed her smile upon him. He was bemused and bedazzled by the love that ached in him like a fire. Thomassin had helped him escape from the freak show; she’d shown him how to live on his own; she’d fed him and given him clothes and now she’d brought him here to watch the horses racing… Billy was in heaven and to have Thomassin standing beside him with her hand on his arm was the most sublime experience he could imagine. She noticed that he was standing straighter and feared he was preparing to run away, ‘Stay with me, stick to my side and keep quiet, Billy,’ she warned.
The Duke did not return to sit beside Odilie during the running of the heats of the big race but she was not alone for she had the company of her father, Aunt Martha, and a proudly pacing Joe Cannonball who was that afternoon over-acting the part of the faithful manservant. While Martha stood up gazing around at all the fashions on display, Canny perched on the bench beside his daughter and fanned his face with a folded piece of paper, making exclamations about the oppressive weather.
‘It’ll thunder tonight. Look over there,’ he said pointing towards the horizon to where clouds were massed into what looked like a huge pile of dark-coloured pillows.
‘That’s the way Grace has gone. I hope she’s reached Fairhope by now,’ said Odilie. Then she asked her father, ‘Have you seen Elliott today?’
‘Not a sight of him, thank God. I’m glad because it would be hard to be civil to the man. I saw Wattie Thompson and that young architect fellow Playfair out in the crowd and Wattie’s going on about Elliot’s devilish effrontery. He said he’d probably have signed the paper committing Grace if you hadn’t stopped him. He’s coming to speak to you later, my dear.’
‘I’m glad he didn’t do it,’ said Odilie absently but her mind was not on what her father was saying because she was staring out at the crowd again. The gypsy girl and the pedlar had come closer to the enclosure rails and there was something peculiar about them that disturbed her. She told herself not to be silly. The girl was just another of those bold-eyed gypsy women who always gave her a chill with their wheedling voices and pretence at seeing into the future. Her heart sank when she remembered Rachel and her prediction that Odilie’s husband would be bango-wasted. The Duke was the only left-handed man she knew… there seemed to be no way of avoiding her fate.
She diverted herself by noting the activities of the gypsies in the crowd. They were slipping about intent on their nefarious ways, picking pockets, whispering into ears, tipping winners, telling fortunes, casting spells. At the back of the crowd she picked out the big man with the white hair who had presided over the jumping competition. Again he had a gang of men like a bodyguard around him but the handsome gypsy who had so unexpectedly moved her heart was not among them.
A loud blast of a trumpet announced the third heat of the big race. By this time Odilie was beginning to tire but suddenly she sat up straighter and her whole attitude changed from dejection to sharp interest for Jesse Bailey appeared in the paddock mounted on his beautiful grey stallion. He was to be one of the runners in a field of five horses.
She sat forward in her seat with her eyes coming vividly alive as she watched the line-up. The runners had to complete one circuit of the course and Jesse and Barbary tore away from the start with a magnificent plunge establishing a lead which they managed to sustain. While the crowd yelled encouragement, they stayed in front till the finish. The whole thing was over so quickly that Odilie had barely time to realise what had happened before it was announced that Jesse had won.
The best race was still to come, however, and a shiver of anticipation swept the crowd as the names of the entrants in the final were called out. It was to be run in half an hour’s time when the winners of the three heats would race against each other. Betting became heavy; people ran to and fro while Odilie, pretending indifference, sipped chilled white wine, made polite conversation with other members of the Duke’s party and willed the time to pass. At last came the announcement… ‘This is the final of the big sprint, ladies and gentlemen. The winners of all three heats will compete against each other. The prize is a purse of fifty guineas and a silver cup generously presented by His Grace, the Duke of Maudesley, our patron and owner of this course.’
Her father who was sitting beside Odilie, perked up because he loved to bet. Turning to Joe he said, ‘This is it. There’s two possibilities out of the three, I think – the grey and the Duke’s horse Flying Demon. They both won their heats easily. Which do you think?’
Joe wrinkled his ebony brow. ‘I’m for Flying Demon, boss. The Duke’s out to win his own cup, I hear.’
‘Go into the ground and lay ten guineas for me then,’ said Canny. Both of the men then looked at Odilie who said nothing. She would make no bet though she was willing the grey horse to win.
From her well-positioned seat she watched the horses going out to the starting gate, all prancing and preening on tiptoe with excitement. First came Flying Demon, a huge black animal with rolling eyes and a flowing curly mane. The gypsy and his grey stallion followed next. Jesse was the only rider not clad in brightly-coloured racing silks and instead wore a plain white cotton shirt with a red scarf tied around his neck. Her throat tightened at the sight of him. It seemed ungracious to let h
im race without putting her money on him. Standing up she called to Joe’s disappearing back, ‘Put a guinea for me on the grey horse. The one with the white mane and tail.’
With a laugh her father seized her hand and squeezed it tight, so pleased was he that she was recovering her spirits enough to want to bet against him, for he had been acutely conscious of her depression during the earlier part of the day. She smiled back and suddenly was surprised because unrehearsed words trembled on her lips. At that moment she wanted to tell him that no matter what happened, she would always love him, that there was a special bond between them that nothing would ever break. But the chance of communication between them was taken away when Martha rushed up and told Canny, ‘I hope you’ve backed Flying Demon. Everybody’s saying the Duke’s fixed the race so’s he can win and Odilie will present him with the cup. If she does, that’ll be when he makes the announcement of his engagement!’
Odilie shivered and her black mood returned. ‘There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip,’ she said without a smile. Now she hoped more than ever that the gypsy would win the race, for his victory would at least postpone the announcement she dreaded.
She rose from her seat and walked across to the railings, gazing across the course to where the horses were lined up at the starting rope. Tense-muscled and nervous the riders hunched in their saddles, hands lowered and eyes fixed on the man at the side of the course whose duty it was to drop the red starting flag.
Time seemed to stand still and the crowd held its communal breath. ‘Are you all ready?’ the starter called out, his voice loud in the silence.
No one answered but three heads nodded. ‘One – two – three!’ shouted the starter and, at the last word, the flag dropped. The horses plunged forward together, muscles rippling in their silken flanks. Heads jerking up and hooves flashing, they passed from the watchers’ line of vision.
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