Probable Claws

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Bettina made sweet tea,” Catherine offered.

  “I don’t trust my stomach,” he replied.

  “Smart man. I never trusted mine before a battle.” John rarely recalled his time in the war. “You’d think once the fighting started you’d be scared, but that’s when I would settle down.”

  Catherine looked at her handsome husband. “You were in your element, darling.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” He grinned.

  A roar diverted their attention. The first race was off.

  Tulli jumped out of his seat, which brought a snort and a step backward from Reynaldo.

  “Dammit, Tulli, you’re supposed to keep him quiet,” Jeddie cursed.

  “Tulli, come here,” John ordered.

  The little fellow, chastened, walked over to John, who stood up, put his hands under Tulli’s armpits, held him up over his head. If anyone around them had a notion to shine on Catherine, that display of raw power dissuaded them.

  “Who won?” John asked as he brought the boy down.

  “Chestnut.”

  “Ah, the Maryland people.” Catherine nodded. “Good horses in Maryland.”

  The crowd, lively now, eager to collect their winnings, swamped the betting men, tickets in their caps, boards behind them with odds for each race.

  Men shouted, money changed hands. Those that lost the race made less noise. Once the bettors settled accounts, a new group of people stepped up to bet on the second race.

  “Doesn’t Pestalozzi have a share in the gray?” John asked.

  “Yes. Yancy talked him into it.” Catherine looked over at her now-seated husband. “You saw the odds on our race, did you not? Even. Gin up the betting,” Catherine said without emotion. “I figure gamblers think greed can be satisfied with luck.”

  “Well, I never thought of that. I’ll bet on Reynaldo.”

  “Me, too.” She smiled. “But that doesn’t mean I am fond of gambling. Life is a big enough gamble.”

  Ewing, leaving a small knot of men behind, joined them. John rose, pulling a second tack trunk forward for his father-in-law.

  “I think our organizers have a success, a runaway success.”

  “People need a distraction.” Catherine nodded toward her father. “What better than a distraction where you might win money?”

  “Or lose it.” Ewing smiled.

  “Where’s Rachel and Charles?”

  Ewing laughed. “Dragooned into high tone exchanges with Maureen and her acolytes.”

  “Well, I am not going to rescue her.” Catherine laughed.

  “Maureen sends over Elizabetta to bet. She won ten dollars on the first race. Not bad.”

  “No. It will keep Maureen happy. I know she will probably bet on Black Knight for our race. She almost must, you know,” Catherine remarked.

  Ewing agreed but John surprised them. “She’ll make a show of it. She knows we have a superior horse.”

  “You don’t think she’d bet against herself?” Catherine questioned.

  “John has a point. Maureen can be subtle. She wants to win. She’ll put a larger bet on Reynaldo and a token bet on Black Knight. DoRe will carry the bet on Black Knight as everyone knows he is the main man at the stable. She’ll have some shill we don’t know put down the money on Reynaldo,” Ewing thought out loud.

  “Why not give it to Elizabetta?” Catherine hadn’t thought it through.

  “People know that’s her lady-in-waiting and Maureen would never trust a slave with that much money. I believe she will place a sizable sum on our boy.” Ewing tapped his cane on the ground.

  “DoRe’s a slave,” Ralston, silent until now, a slave himself, spoke up.

  “Yes,” Catherine answered the skinny young man. “But DoRe is known throughout the state as one of the best coachmen. Seeing him put down money will encourage people to follow him as he is placing a bet for his mistress.

  “Wonder who the shill is?” Catherine was puzzled.

  “Someone we have never seen or someone we discount.” Ewing shrewdly pictured the scene.

  A second roar went up. Even the loud cheering didn’t drown out the hoofbeats.

  “Fast one,” Jeddie said.

  “Sounds like it.” John thought so, too.

  That race ended with the same drama as the betting men stuffed bills in their pockets.

  Yancy, observing this, realized not all that money would be accounted for, but he and Sam would still get a good cut. He had men placed throughout the crowd, but they weren’t as noticeable as the bettors. If any betting agent tried to run after the last race, he wouldn’t get far, and that nasty lump of money he carried wouldn’t, either.

  Sam Udall, pretending to be courteous, walked to Georgina with a snap. He touched the corner of his hat with his cane to the madam and turned to beam at Deborah, who shimmered with allure.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Yes,” she coolly responded.

  “Perhaps someday you would allow me to show you my small but good stable. My horse will be running in the fourth race. I have an interest in Black Knight.”

  Georgina, hearing all, called out, “We will be sure to bet on him, Sam, just as we bet on you.”

  He grinned at the double entendre, again bowed slightly, and withdrew. He couldn’t be seen spending too much time with the soiled doves.

  Sitting on campaign chairs placed on a raised dais, Georgina and her girls could see everything and everybody. Deborah, an elegant fan in hand, sat next to Georgina. Below these two, the other girls walked about or relaxed on the dais next to the main one. Sarah, Deborah’s dresser, paid attention to Maureen Holloway, now promenading along the carriages in the front row.

  Looking up at Georgina, Sarah tilted her head in Maureen’s direction. “They say she is immensely rich.”

  “She dresses well,” Georgina replied.

  “I should hope so.” Sarah, an escaped slave like Deborah, like most all the girls of color, laughed.

  Voice low, Deborah, a sharp commercial mind growing sharper under Georgina’s tutelage, said, “The races have been good for business.”

  Georgina leaned toward the ravishing woman to reply. “I told Sam and Yancy how grateful I am for them praising our tavern. I offered both men a choice, seven specially cooked meals or cash.” She breathed in with meaning.

  Deborah nodded. “And I will never be a free meal.”

  “Of course not, dear. I allowed as how the other girls and the new girls they have not yet viewed would deliver the excellent fare.”

  “And.” Deborah grinned.

  “Sam took the offering while Yancy took the cash. Shall I take it that he is failing in some respect? He has never discussed such things with me, of course, but perhaps one of the girls?”

  Sarah, stepping up on the dais, knelt down to look up at Georgina. “The smashed knee. I think I was the last girl to entertain him. He’s in a lot of pain.”

  “I see.” Georgina nodded. “As for Sam, he is—”

  “Led by his prick.” Sarah let out a peal of laughter. “Such as it is.”

  This made both Georgina and Deborah giggle. “The Lord endows us in His own mysterious ways. When I look at you all, my dears, endowments are prominent.”

  “Well, if we ran a Molly house I guess they would be as well.” Deborah shrugged, citing the term for a house of prostitution for men who wanted men.

  Georgina returned her gaze to Maureen, stopping to chat with everyone. The picture of sociability. “She’s shrewd. She may have inherited her wealth but she is shrewd. I can feel it.” A deep breath followed this with a narrowing of eyes. “The day may come when we can do business with her.”

  “What?” Deborah was incredulous.

  “Theater, Deborah. Propriety is theater. Profit is real.”

  Maureen placed modest bets on the horses. The third race, announced by a caller, turned people’s attention to the two horses, riders up, being led to the starting line, a thin rope that woul
d be dropped at a signal from the steward. Yancy and Sam enlisted horsemen who raced or knew racing in England. All the conditions were repeated here, including the celebratory atmosphere.

  Elizabetta put down twenty dollars on Nestor, a horse in whom Sam also had a small interest. Twenty dollars, a good sum, impressed others, but for Maureen it was an amount large enough to demonstrate her support but not large enough to be taken seriously.

  Off they shot, rope dropped; the dark bay, King Baldwin, raced past Nestor, but Nestor found his stride, catching up. King Baldwin’s jockey made the mistake of asking for too much too soon and King, not an easy horse, stood up then let out a huge buck behind, and the jockey was launched, not into eternity but launched. The doctor rushed out onto the racecourse while Nestor easily crossed the finish line to Sam’s delight.

  A stretcher—three had been brought, just in case—carried out by two burly men, was flopped on the ground. They picked up the hapless jockey dumping him on the canvas to a scream of pain as he clutched his ribcage.

  “Refreshments,” a child called out, pushing a wagon of cakes and cider.

  “Boy,” Georgina called out. “Come here.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” He smiled in anticipation, plus though just a twelve-year-old, he thought the women so pretty.

  “I’ll take ten of your cakes.” Georgina reached under her seat for a small purse. “Tell me, do you know any of these spectators?”

  “Some.”

  “Mrs. Holloway?”

  “No, Ma’am. I know some of those people like the Garths.”

  “Ah, would you point them out to me?”

  He handed her the cakes on a little tray, which she had the girls pass around. The tray was returned.

  “Over there is Ewing Garth. The horseman is his daughter, Catherine. She’s back in the paddocks, what passes for paddocks. She’s uncommonly beautiful. Selects and trains the horses. You can see her sister, Rachel, over there.” He pointed to Rachel and Charles, in earnest conversation with Jeffrey Holloway. “She looks much like her sister.”

  “Ah” was all Georgina said, as she handed him money plus a tip.

  “Oh, thank you, Madam. Luck on your horses.”

  The girls smiled as he moved to the other patrons.

  “Deborah, Sarah, take a few of the girls, those with good conversational skills and sharp eyes. Talk to the slaves, as though a brief repass, you know how to do it. Find out if they know of anyone, anyone female, wishing to improve her condition. Young and pretty. I will, of course, assist in a quiet manner.”

  “What about the freedmen?” Sarah inquired.

  Georgina waved her hand. “They wouldn’t know.”

  As the girls walked off, Yancy came up, tipped his hat. “The course is being rolled again. We’ll start up promptly. Best to keep the ground as level and tight as we can.”

  “Whose idea was the barrels filled with rocks or whatever you’ve got in there?” She offered him a cake, which he refused.

  “Mine.”

  “You have a practical turn of mind.”

  “I do.”

  “And you know so many people, including Maureen Holloway.”

  “I do, although Mrs. Holloway and I are on speaking terms but little more, as you know. After all, I was challenged by her husband in your tavern.”

  “So you were.”

  “Strange to say I get along better with her husband, even though we tried to kill each other.” He laughed.

  “Fortunately you both proved unsuccessful.”

  This provoked greater laughter.

  He saw the two draft horses pulling the heavy barrels turn at mile’s end, coming back. “Excuse me, Georgina. I must see if all is as it should be.”

  “One more thing. Have you and Sam made money?”

  “Without the tally from the races we are at eight thousand dollars.”

  Georgina smiled broadly. “Excellent. Few things in life are as uplifting as profit.” As he started to go, she asked, “Yancy, is it true that Maureen Holloway has lent you a jockey?”

  “Yes. Most obliging of her.” He touched his hat and turned to check the course.

  Georgina watched him walk, limp pronounced, but he wouldn’t use a cane. She found it unusual that a woman whose husband faced Yancy in a duel would allow him the use of one of her horse boys, as Georgina thought of them. Her opinion of Maureen rose upward. Surely the lady would not countenance such an arrangement were there not a sizable profit to flow her way.

  Catherine, walking toward her father as he sat high now, next to Barker O. on the coach, placed her hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare. Without hesitation, with strength and grace, she swung up to squeeze next to her father and Barker O.

  “Soon be time for us,” she remarked.

  “My dear, I do wish you would not engage in such strenuous activities,” her father chided her.

  As it was her father she was direct. “Father, women have lost children for thousands of years. I am fine. It would have been worse had the baby been born in his time and not lived but a few days or been stillborn. This is easier to bear.” She waited a moment. “But your tenderness toward me”—she leaned over her father—“and you, too, Barker O. Everyone at Cloverfields has been solicitous of me. I am fine. I am strong. I pray for that little soul.” She took a deep breath. “I find as I go along in life that I pray for many souls.”

  Ewing picked up her hand, kissing it. “Ah, my dear. It comes with time, does it not, Barker O.?”

  Barker O. mid-forties, nodded. “We must trust in the Lord.”

  Changing the subject, Catherine looked out at the entire mile-long course, which could be clearly seen from the top of the magnificent coach. “When John, Jeddie, and I took two days last month to come down here and look, it was coming along, but I must say Yancy and his partner—What is his name?”

  “Sam Udall, a financier. He is overtaking the Tidewater financiers. An uncommonly prescient man.”

  “Why so?” She leaned on her father, the solidness of him comforting.

  “He foresaw the diminution of the power of the Tidewater families. After the war power has shifted. He has made all the right connections, nurturing what I perceive as a new man, a man motivated by profit alone, not overthrowing a king and starting a new nation.”

  “Do you not think there are still patriots even among the new men?”

  “I hope so just as I hope John Adams can be usefully directed.” He shrugged. “Politics and lending are dirty businesses. Yes, I have had to avail myself in the past of both financing others, seeking partners, especially for my western timber purchase, but lately I am losing my appetite. I wish only to deal with friends.”

  “Ah” was all she could say, then added, “I should like to meet this Sam Udall.”

  “Why?” came the swift query.

  “We can never have enough friends, even if they differ from us in many ways.” She noticed the two heavily muscled plow horses finish rolling the course. “What time is it?”

  Ewing pulled out the gold, inscribed, birthday pocket watch.

  “One-thirty. I see the horses being brought up.”

  “Mmm. The light chestnut is the Skipwith horse. Small but well made. I’d like to take one of our mares to this stallion. Of course, let’s see how he does. The other horse, Maryland people. I only know them by reputation. Finsters. Well, we’ll see.”

  Ewing blinked as she stood up. “You aren’t leaving now?”

  “I need to get back to Reynaldo and Jeddie. He’s so nervous he can’t speak.”

  Ewing patted the seat. “Watch the race. It won’t last long. Gives you the opportunity to observe the Skipwith horse.”

  She sat back down. “You’re right.”

  The two horses lined up, fractious, but the Skipwith horse, Orb, settled first. Two grooms finally lined up Shadows, the Finster horse, then quickly stepped back, and the two men holding the rope dropped it, knowing if they didn’t the Maryland horse would act up agai
n.

  “They’re off,” Ewing enthused.

  Shadows definitely was off. He stood up on his hind legs, then rocked down on his forelegs, letting out one hell of a buck, then lurched forward with such a leap the crowd marveled that the slender jockey, a ginger-haired white boy, could stick. Stick he did and it was a terrific race. Shadows slowly catching up to Orb, who had a long stride. The two rode next to each other, the jockeys intent on the finish line. Sweat covered Shadows’s flanks, a hot horse in all respects. Orb, more businesslike, kept up his steady pace, focused on the finish line. He began to pull away slightly, which forced the ginger-haired young man to use the whip. Shadows paid little attention until he crossed the finish line a nose behind Orb. Then he turned around, tried to bite the boy. After that display of pique, he bucked, snorted, shook his head. A fellow couldn’t get him to walk back. Another fellow, this one from the Finster barn, rode out on a calm older gelding, reached over, grabbed the reins. Next to his buddy, the hot horse calmed a bit.

  “If he hadn’t bucked, we would have won,” the jockey bitterly complained.

  “Right.”

  Catherine hurried back to the paddock.

  Piglet, truly enormous bone in his mouth, glanced up.

  “Now, there’s a treasure,” she joked, hoping to lighten the tension.

  Charles, there to help if needed, praised his corgi. “Could have brought the beast down himself.”

  “True.” The intrepid dog dropped the bone.

  Catherine studied this relic for a moment. “Where did he get it?”

  Charles pointed to a large pile of rocks and other debris down near the river, where it had been dumped as the course was handpicked then rolled consistently over the last month until the races.

  Reynaldo, saddled up, watched everybody and everything.

  John gave Jeddie a leg up.

  Catherine took Reynaldo by the bridle as John walked on the other side. Ralston walked Reynaldo’s pasture mate, Sweetpea. Both Sweetpea and Catherine calmed Reynaldo. She was one of the few people who could ride him, but once her pregnancy showed she stopped. However, Catherine, at the barn every day, talked to him, watched Jeddie exercise him, and never forgot carrots, little treats.

  No one spoke. Once at the starting line they waited a moment or two for Black Knight to come up.