In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

  “Yes, milord,” The Squire said and turned to do as he had been asked. Lizzie, relieved to be doing something, had no time to wonder why the man called St. James had suddenly been elevated to 'my lord' by her father. She was only concentrating on getting Leaf to go as smoothly as possible through her paces.

  “What do you think, St. James?” She heard yellow coat—Lord Tempton ask.

  St. James ran a hand through his wet hair, raking it back from his eyes. “I think she should do, if the circumstances are right.”

  “It was only a cursory look at best,” his friend muttered. “You have no idea what you may be saddling yourself with.”

  “And I said that if the circumstances were right that I did not bloody care. Really, Bertie. You were the one that brought her to my attention.”

  Then Lizzie heard no more, for her father, with a glance at St. James, who nodded, called for her to walk the filly to the head of the track.

  She settled into earnest business now, and despite herself, she could not help a surging thrill. No, it was not a race, and she was fairly certain her father would have drawn the line at her jockeying in one at any rate, but it was nearly as exciting having spectators to what she had achieved with her training. Maybe they would be so impressed, she thought with giddy guilt at her fancies, that they would entrust her with some of their stock from their stables. But it all depended on Leaf, and Leaf could be woefully undependable.

  Then the man, St. James, was there at her mount's head. He looked up at her for a moment and she still could not determine if he had realized she was a female rather than the boy she must appear. “Don't push her too hard in this slop,” he advised. “I'm not looking for speed. If she impresses me enough with her action, I'll make a point of returning to see how fast she can go on a better day for it. Maintain control and keep her in hand. If she seems to be doing well with her footing then you may extend her on the last quarter. Understand?”

  Lizzie, mindful of her father's inexplicable lie, only nodded. Then the man released Leaf's head. Lizzie gathered herself, could feel Leaf responding to her rider's intense focusing. They remained still for a second playing off each other through reins, legs and body movement, and then Lizzie loosed the reins and tightened her knees, bent her body forward and the horse hurled out into the middle of the track.

  Lizzie controlled her, kept her steady as her feet slid around in the mud with her great effort to find her stride. Then she had it and her legs were extending and sailing about the track, and Lizzie half laughed with the wind stinging her eyes and the mud flying into her face. Her father and the other three men were forgotten. She only saw the faded grey of the rail as it flashed by, the overgrown infield of the track. Leaf was pulling hard at the reins and Lizzie's arms ached from the effort of holding her to a less reckless pace. The filly's feet hit the slop with more and more confidence and Lizzie relented and allowed more rein.

  They swept around the first turn and in to the back stretch. The last quarter was coming up and Lizzie settled down tighter in the saddle. Now her concentration was total as she gauged every flying step of the filly. She was holding in the mud well now, but would she in the final turn? But the final quarter, which included part of the final turn, was where the man, St. James had allowed she could extend her. It was banked, Lizzie reminded herself, but it hadn't been graded for years. Still, she knew this track well, had spent innumerable hours out here with her father, and the filly knew it well also. There should be no problem.

  She loosened the reins more, concentrating, wanting the filly up to her utmost speed as she entered the last quarter. They were half through the turn and the filly was still going easily through the heavy slop. Lizzie felt a burst of pride at how well her horse was doing. “Easy now, I'm going to let you out a little more.” The track showed pristine in front of them, the mud unchurned and untouched. There was a puddle in their line but Lizzie could not think it was any more than surface water and should not be any deeper than the surrounding mud.

  Leaf came up on the puddle, fully extended, running with grace and power. Her sudden spook to the side caught Lizzie unawares.

  In mid-stride the horse attempted a sudden shy away from the water. The jump was awkward and bone-jarring and when her feet landed, they no longer were placed surely but skittered out from beneath her. Lizzie had kept the filly hugging the rail to make the best time and with a piercing shriek of panic, the horse slid into the fence.

  The old boards splintered and broke. Lizzie flew from her mount and landed in the infield. Leaf went down into the midst of the broken fence and wallowed in an agony of confusion, her legs scrabbling as she tried to roll to her feet but was hemmed in on all sides with broken boards.

  Lizzie was jarred hard in her landing. Her cap was half knocked from her head and the straps that were meant to hold it in place dug into the flesh beneath her chin. She rolled to her back, the mud seeping through her jacket and breeches to freeze her skin, and swiped at her eyes in an attempt to clear them of the mud that was ruining her vision.

  She made an effort to get to her feet but her body refused to do more than allow her to sit up and that with a great deal of regret. Lizzie gathered herself, tried again and wasn't sure if all the pain she was feeling were coming from injuries or simply from the freezing mud that enveloped her.

  “Lizzie! Are you all right?”

  It was her father, running as quickly toward her as his stout figure would manage. With him, in front of him, was the man, St. James, and between he and her father were the two Tempton brothers, the younger one, Ryan, and then Bertie.

  “Leaf,” Lizzie called. “Get her before she does anything further to herself.” And she was amazed to hear her voice so close to tears. She wasn't crying, was she? But with all the mud in her eyes, she couldn't tell.

  “Ryan, get the bloody horse,” St. James said. “You,” he said as he came to her. “Stay still. I'm sure the horse will be all right and you needn't risk your neck trying to get to her when there are others that can take care of it.” He crouched down beside her, and as she was still struggling to try and get her feet beneath her he placed both hands on her shoulders. “Stay still, you little fool. I knew I should have yanked you down from that damned horse as soon as I saw you were a female. If I had known you also couldn't control your mount, I most certainly would have.”

  “It was the mud puddle,” she said, the freezing mud making her gasp. “I can control my mount.” But he had turned his head, his hands still on her shoulders, to check to see that Ryan had gone to the horse. Ryan had and Bertie as well and only her father was coming the last few panting strides over to the infield and them.

  “Is she to be all right?” Lizzie asked.

  “I don't know, but I will find out for you in a moment. Forgive me if I'm more inclined to be worried about her wretched rider for the moment.”

  “I'm surprised,” Lizzie, still gasping, was stung into retorting, “that you are not more concerned about your wretched headache.”

  “This has certainly not done it any good. Now, are you hurt?”

  “I'm not sure. All this mud is freezing and I can not tell if I am hurt or only suffering from the cold. Oh, please do tell them to be careful with her. I am sure they are only frightening her more.”

  “Try moving your arms. Pain? No? Your legs. Yes? Where?”

  “My knee. I may have twisted it, I think.”

  “This one?” and he moved his hand to her right knee.

  She flushed, was thankful for the mud on her face that hid it. “Yes. But really, I'm sure that if you can just give me a hand up that I shall be quite fine—”

  “Please, milord, I must ask you to unhand my daughter,” the Squire broke in as he arrived next to them.

  St. James turned with a raised brow. “But, sir, this could not possibly be your daughter, for she has gone visiting, you know.”

  “Be that as it may,” the Squire continued with a darkening expression, “I know who ye are and
I'll not stand for any of your shenanigans with any of mine.”

  “Indeed?” St. James said. “My reputation precedes me, I surmise.”

  “Father?” Lizzie faltered.

  “Never you mind, Lizzie, love. Are you able to get up?”

  “Yes, of course. I only need a moment, as I was saying. . . It's just all this blasted mud.”

  “Miss Murdock,” St. James said, “as I now gather is your name, if you deem your father a reasonable substitute, I shall go and see about your horse.”

  “Yes. Indeed. Thank you,” she answered.

  He arose and her father stooped to take his place and Lizzie watched as St. James strode to where Ryan and Bertie had managed to calm her horse. He moved lithely and his voice was compelling and yet he was slender and did not seem powerfully built.

  “Who is he, father?” she asked.

  But he did not answer her question, only said, “I'd not have him here at all if it were not business.” He gave her a glance. “Stay away from him, Lizzie.”

  She gave a short laugh. “I'm sure you have no worry upon that head. It is only the mud covering me that made me palatable in the least for if he saw me as I really am, he would have saved his concern for the horse.”

  “Aye. Well I daresay his tastes be a little more exotic. All the same, Liz. . . But here,” he added before she could interrupt, “try to get to your feet now, if you feel able.” And he held out his arm to her.

  Lizzie took it and between the two of them, they got her standing. “Let's get you to the house, lass, before you freeze.”

  “Leaf, first,” she said.

  He sighed, but moved them in the direction of the horse. Ryan was still at her head and Bertie seemed to be heatedly protesting St. James' suggestion that he help with removing the boards. “Nonsense,” Lizzie heard him saying. “I'm sure there are grooms who will be out momentarily to help. I can't see mucking about in all this mud.”

  “Save your vanity, Bertie,” St. James responded. “There is no one here to see you, save young Miss Murdock, and I am sure she will be happy to overlook any marring of your attire considering she is dressed as a man and disgustingly filthy.”

  “Thank you,” Miss Murdock interjected.

  He turned, startled, at her voice. “Miss Murdock, I apologize,” he said. “It's just that Bertie is being difficult.”

  “What?” she asked, and then waved an irritated hand. “No. I meant thank you for helping.”

  His gold gaze arrested upon her for a thoughtful moment. “I see.”

  Then he turned back to consider Bertie. That man stood with his hands upon his hips, studying the scene of broken boards and downed horse with a grim shake of his head. “Bertie,” St. James said, “allow me to relieve you of the cause of your reluctance.”

  “Now, St. James. No. No, please, don't do that.”

  But St. James stooped down and fisted a great handful of the mud that surrounded them and, straightening again, gave it a calculated fling onto the front of Bertie's yellow coat. It splattered neatly in the center of Bertie’s chest, hung for a mere second and then slid slowly down to drop in front of him. Bertie took a dignified step back to save the tops of his boots.

  “Damn you, St. James,” Bertie said, looking down at his sopping coat. “I utterly loathe you when you are this way. It was I that brought you here, you might remember.”

  “And, indeed, I am grateful.”

  “Oh, bloody hell take you. I'm sending you the bill for a new one.”

  “And I shall pay for it. Now grab a bloody board if you please.” St. James stooped to his own work and Bertie, his concern for his attire now useless, moved to the other side of the horse and began pulling the broken boards from around it.

  Miss Murdock, with the aid of her father, moved to where Ryan Tempton knelt at her horse's head. She managed to crouch down beside him, her limbs protesting and her body shivering. “There now, Leaf,” she told the filly, “all will be well. I've a warm blanket waiting for you and we will get you out of this silliness soon enough.” The horse made a small snuffle of resignation. Its neck muscles relaxed from the straining they had been exerting. Her ears pricked forward as Lizzie continued to croon soothing nonsense to it.

  “Squire,” St. James said as he worked at clearing the boards, “you'd best get your daughter to the house before she dies of the pneumonia.”

  “She'll be fine, milord,” the Squire returned. “I've seen her take worse spills, and she's been colder. T'is not your concern.”

  But St. James turned with sudden ferocity at the Squire's answer. He grabbed the older man by the collar of his wool coat. “Let me make this very clear,” he said. “I am not impressed with your daughter's inability to ride and the fact that between the two of you, you may have ruined a promising horse. Be that as it may, I am even less impressed with your lack of consideration for your daughter's safety or health. You show an exaggerated concern in regards to me possibly sullying her in some manner, but you have no care at all if her neck should be broken or if she should die from the freezing cold—”

  “You can take your damned hands from me and keep your mind on the horse, miduke—” The Squire made an effort to remove St. James' hands from his collar. St. James, although he was in fact several inches shorter than the other man and a good deal lighter, held him fast and shook him.

  “I should throttle you,” St. James said, his voice savage. “When a perfect stranger such as I seems to have more care for both your daughter's and your horse's necks than you do, you need throttling.”

  “Here, here, St. James. You really can't be murdering the chap, you know,” Bertie Tempton tried to soothe.

  “And give me one reason why I should not, for I am looking at two reasons why I should.”

  Lizzie broke in, making an effort to remain calm. “Would you please kill him some where else if you must, for you are upsetting Leaf. Mister Tempton?” she said to the tall one with red hair. “Can you, at least, endeavor to help me in getting this poor horse out of this mess instead of throwing a tantrum and making everything worse? Thank you. I could see that at least you had a modicum of sense to you, however much everyone else seems to be lacking it.”

  St. James dropped his hands from her father's coat. He and the Squire squared off for a tense moment, and then St. James said, “Squire, be so kind as to start pulling boards from that side away from the animal. I'll take this side. Ryan, stay with Miss Murdock, for I can not believe she is in any condition to control that horse if it should panic again.”

  The Squire turned and walked stiff-legged to the boards indicated. Miss Murdock turned her attention back to Leaf and Ryan returned to his original position with her. Bertie muttered, “This all could have been avoided if only the damned grooms had come out to help as they should have.”

  “There are no grooms,” Lizzie jerked out. “Just old Kennedy and he's in no condition to be doing any of this.” And she wondered why she felt like crying again.

  Then St. James was there, holding a handkerchief down to her. “Use it, Miss Murdock. If you insist upon remaining out here, you should at least clear the mud from your face. It's packed about your nose, you know, and I can not see how you are even able to breathe.”

  Lizzie took it less than graciously.

  Chapter Two

  Lizzie wiped her face with the handkerchief and returned her attention to keeping her downed mount calm. We need a good showing in this, her father had said. Well, they had not had a good showing. She wasn't even certain if Leaf were all right. There were no obvious fractures, but they wouldn't know until they attempted to get her to her feet.

  She turned to the raw-boned young man at her side. “It is Mister Tempton, isn't it?”

  “I beg pardon,” the youth replied. He stuck an awkward hand out to her from his crouched position by her side. “Yes. I am Mister Ryan Tempton. That is Lord Bertram Tempton, my brother, and the other is Milord Duke of St. James.”

  “Mr. Tempton,” Liz
zie acknowledged. “I won't muddy your hand. I am Elizabeth Murdock and, as I am sure you have gathered, that is my father, Squire Edward Murdock.” She peered with frank curiosity around to the man designated as the Duke of St. James. “So that is the infamous Duke,” she commented to her companion. “He is hardly as threatening looking as I would have expected from all that I have heard of him. More like a spoiled bully.”

  “I rather like him myself,” Ryan confessed. “And normally he does not throw such a fit, but he had been drinking rather indulgently last night, so I fear he is a bit short of patience today. But his reputation, I fear, is rather daunting. If I had not come to know him through my brother, I would probably have steered clear of him as so many of the peerage do.”

  Miss Murdock turned her attention back to the red-haired young man at her side. “It is true then that he owns Behemoth?”

  “Yes. That is why he was naturally interested in seeing your filly. He wishes to turn Behemoth to stud soon and he is looking for quality mares to purchase.”

  “I see,” Lizzie said, but she frowned. “Although we had hoped to keep Leaf and allow him only the foal. If the duke is interested in her, which I can barely credit after the performance we gave.”

  “Leaf?” Ryan Tempton inquired.

  “Gold-Leaf-Lying-in-the-Sun,” Miss Murdock elaborated. “A tad long-winded, but it was the only name that could adequately describe her beautiful coloring. Strangely, it suits her disposition also. She's always ready to be blown by whatever prevailing wind comes along, and lacks any real stability. In short,” Miss Murdock laughed, “I fear she is a complete featherbrain.”

  “She also travels like the wind,” Ryan offered.

  Lizzie smiled and patted the filly's wet neck. “Yes, she does. And usually without running amuck into a fence. But she is not used to a muddy track and she was startled by her own reflection in a mud puddle. Not that that is any excuse,” she clarified self-consciously, “for a rider should always be prepared, and I am afraid she caught me quite flat-footed. I should have realized she would react so foolishly.”