by Jennifer Joy
A sign rimmed with gold-colored paint distinguished The Golden Crown from the other hip-roofed shops and residences along the road leaving London for Epsom. Two dormers peeked through the rusty bricks on their upper floors like a pair of gossips spying through their windows at the lane.
Sir William clapped Papa on the back. “It is good to see friends.” Dropping his voice, he added, “I fear I will have no peace until Blacky—” He winked markedly. “—is secured at Lucas Lodge. Allow me to remind you to address me as Mr. Smith. We do not want to risk drawing attention to ourselves.”
Elizabeth felt as if she was watching Sir William enact a scene from a melodramatic novel with his grave, cloak-and-sword manners. Sir William — mysterious spy. Now, that was a diverting image! She imagined him with a large mustache and an eye patch. He would befriend both friends and foes, but his cover would be blown the second someone mentioned St. James, whereupon he would forget his disguise to relive his glory days.
She bit her lips together. Sir William could never act in deceit purposely, nor was he capable of injuring anyone … not even a villain. She stifled a chuckle as she imagined Sir William stopping in the midst of a duel to ask permission to strike the evil fiend down.
Papa played along nicely. Squeezing Sir William’s shoulder, he said, “You may trust us to keep your identity secret, Mr. Smith.” He tapped his nose, to which Sir William nodded somberly and tapped his nose in turn.
Elizabeth tapped her nose for good measure, receiving a nod of approval from Sir William and an exaggerated roll of the eyes from George, who said, “Would you like to see…” He scowled, adding reluctantly, “…Blacky?”
Sir William took a deep breath, his voice piercing. “He is hardly worth crossing to the stables to see. Such a temperamental brute.” After a look around the room to ensure his resounding proclamation was overheard, Sir William gave them the clear to leave.
If anyone had not thought to doubt his true identity, or that of his horse, they certainly did now.
George fell in beside Elizabeth. “My father has been insufferable since we fetched the stallion. He is so afraid someone will attempt to steal his prized racehorse he has had us all use assumed names, and he disparages his champion at every opportunity.”
“I am surprised nobody at the inn has offered to take him off your father’s hands.”
“One gentleman did offer, but Father pretended not to hear him.”
Elizabeth laughed. “And how are you faring, Mr. Smith? What do Mrs. Smith and the little Smithlings think of your new acquisition?”
George grumbled, “Smith, of all names. I do not believe my father gave the matter much thought before he selected the surname.”
She heard the embarrassment in his tone and could no longer tease him. “To his credit, it is a common name.”
“Commonly used by criminals and those who wish to hide who they are.”
“Anyone who spent more than five minutes with Sir William could never believe him of that sort.”
“True, though he unwittingly does his best to arouse suspicions. I think Mr. Robson has worn off on him.”
Elizabeth did not look forward to seeing the trainer again. “I had forgotten he would be here, but of course he would wish to protect his new pupil. Is he as disagreeable as he was the other night?”
George looked at her askance. “You have to admit the circumstances were suspect, Miss Elizabeth. The hour was late, and your excuse sounded rather far-fetched to believe … even for me.”
Elizabeth shrugged. She was not about to explain that night to him when she did not completely understand it herself — when it brought up thoughts of Fitzwilliam.
Would he follow her as Papa thought he would? Did she want him to after he had said goodbye in a letter? A letter! Who did that? He ought to have told her in person … unless he had not been able to meet her and a letter was his only option. Perhaps he had come to harm. Maybe he was not able to settle his affairs to satisfaction with the dishonest gentleman and his henchman.
In the blink of an eye, her anger turned to concern as the justifications excusing Fitzwilliam’s behavior piled up, constructing a tower of wishful thinking that had no other option but to topple over for lack of a solid structure. She could make a million excuses for Fitzwilliam, but all she needed was the one answer he had denied her.
Did he not trust her? Did he not care?
Elizabeth’s eyes burned, and she told herself it was pure anger causing her upset. Anger was easier than hurt.
“Are you well, Miss Elizabeth?” George asked, his eyes full of concern.
She was not well at all, and she was wounded enough at that moment to wish Fitzwilliam was as miserable as he had made her, too. Not that she would explain that to George.
Would that Fitzwilliam had spoken with her directly. In sending a letter, she had been deprived of the opportunity to demand an explanation. Or, had that been his purpose, cowardly though it sounded? She could not believe him a coward. He had not recoiled when a bullet ran through his hat. His first thought had been for her safety. He had shielded her with his own body. He had gone without his valet for her and Jane’s benefit. Hardly the acts of a careless coward.
Elizabeth was too conflicted to be well. “I wish Charlotte was here,” she replied.
“She will be shortly. John does not know, but Father is traveling to Lucas Lodge on the morrow to fetch the rest of our family and return in time for the race.”
Elizabeth’s spirits rose. Epsom was not far from London, but — she recalled, her spirits falling — Meryton was another half a day’s ride beyond London. It would be an arduous journey for Sir William. “He must really want all of his family there.”
“He insists on making it himself. I offered to go in his stead, but he says I am needed here to keep John from discerning his plan, knowing he would not approve, and to keep an eye on … Blacky.”
Elizabeth smiled in earnest. Her father had already suggested they quit town. Perhaps they would go to Epsom. Charlotte would help her see things more clearly. “His secret is safe with me. The distance is nothing when one has a motive.”
Papa came to an abrupt stop at the entrance of the stables, his shoulders hunched up to his ears.
Had she not been wallowing in her own troubles, she would have had more compassion for her father before. She would have been at his side already, knowing how difficult it would be for him to set foot inside a stable when he had avoided horses for so long. She went to him, wrapping her hands around his arm and leaning against him, wishing she could absorb some of his fear.
“I had thought I could manage it, but I … I cannot. This is as far as I can go.” His voice shook, and he tried to cover it over with a smile and a pained chuckle. “Given the animal’s name, I suspect his coat is black. What else do I need to see when I am sure he is a fine specimen?”
Elizabeth’s curiosity to see the stallion dissipated under her need to comfort her father. “I will stay with you.”
Sir William huffed and puffed. “I dare not have … Blacky brought out for everyone to see. Rest assured, he is safe in his stall.”
It was not the horse’s safety her father feared. Who knew what horrible recollections had been dredged up to torment him already?
Papa squeezed Elizabeth’s hand against his side, holding her to him. “You should go, Lizzy. We have come all this way. I do not mind, only take caution. Pray be careful.”
She looked down at his grip on her hand. His knuckles were as white as his face. She could not leave him.
George moved to his other side, shielding his view of the offensive building. “If I ensure all the other horses are tied up or inside their stalls, would you agree to come in, Mr. Bennet?”
Elizabeth watched her father struggle between the present and his memories. He had changed so much over the past few days, making choices where he had sought solace in avoidance before. If he could just walk inside a stable, then perhaps, some of his fears would loosen
their hold on him.
“If you do not feel safe, then I will return with you,” Elizabeth said, holding her breath and trying not to place too much importance on this moment.
Her father nodded reluctantly, and George lost no time running inside to secure the lodgers. Sir William paced and smiled encouragingly at Papa.
Elizabeth cradled her father’s hand between her own. He was cold, but there was a determined set to his jaw she had not often seen from him in her lifetime.
After some time, George returned. “The groom made sure all the horses are tied, and they will remain so until we depart. Blacky is in his stall with Mr. Robson and Joe holding him with a halter.” He extended his hand. “Are you ready, Mr. Bennet?”
Papa took his arm, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him as he placed one foot in front of the other. He was going to try.
Elizabeth thought she would burst with pride.
Sir William pranced ahead of them, spinning in place and bobbing up and down on his toes with his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat until he paused in front of a closed stall. “This is Blacky.” Looking about and lowering his voice, he added, “He is a beauty, is he not?”
Elizabeth could not spare a glance until her father looked up. Uncertain how he would react at seeing the trainer and stable boy in the stall with the stallion, she breathed an immense sigh of relief when he seemed to relax at her side.
“As gentle as a pussy cat,” Joe said, rubbing one hand down the horse’s neck.
Trophonius was the handsomest horse Elizabeth had ever seen. His ebony coat shone in the light peeking through the narrow window above. His mane was brushed and his hooves polished. From his muscled shoulders, down his long back to his sinewy thighs, he was built for speed. “He is perfect,” she whispered in awe.
Mr. Robson, who had worn a scowl, almost appeared to smile at her favorable assessment. Joe grinned happily at Trophonius’ other side, proud to stand beside the famous racehorse.
Elizabeth resisted the urge to lift her hand to the bars. Her father was inside the stables, and she would not do anything to cause him to regret it.
Sir William rambled about “Blacky’s” finer points, until Mr. Robson cleared his throat. “Miss Elizabeth, if I may have a word. I wish to apologize for my behavior the last time we met.”
Elizabeth was stunned. “Think nothing of it, Mr. Robson. My timing was abominable.”
“Ay, that it was. However, Mercer explained to me how often you used to frequent the stables, how he taught you to ride along with Sir William’s children. He praised not only your skill, calling you an accomplished equestrienne but, what is even more remarkable to one such as I — whose life revolves around these marvelous creatures — he praised your understanding of the horses you ride. You challenge them without abusing. You notice when they are not up to their normal standard and tell the groom, thus allowing him to see to the health of his charge.” He bowed his head. “Mercer is a trustworthy man. He would not say these things about you unless they were true, and so I apologize for accusing you of spying on me with that other gentleman.”
“Other gentleman?” Papa asked.
Elizabeth cringed. She had not told him about the brooch, and now it looked as though she would have to explain everything to him anyway … after blatantly avoiding the topic earlier. “Mr. Darcy. He accompanied me to fetch my brooch.”
Her father raised an eyebrow. “The one you said you left at Longbourn?”
She gave him a nervous smile.
He patted her hand. “You can explain the whole of it to me later. Now,” he turned to Sir William, “I am curious how you came to possess this fine animal.”
Elizabeth’s pride tempered her remorse. Now that her father had ventured where he had not dared go in a decade, he seemed determined to extend his visit beyond a mere passing through. It was far more than she could have dreamed was possible.
Sir William was happy to explain, and he did so with great alacrity and attention to detail, mentioning as many important names as he could in his narrative. The only one Elizabeth recognized was a Sir Erasmus, but she could not remember where she had heard the strange name before. Probably from Sir William himself.
She was more interested in Trophonius. She enjoyed seeing how Mr. Robson took Joe under his wing, treating him more like an apprentice than an errand boy.
Her father asked, “And where is John? I had thought to see him here.”
Instinctively, Elizabeth looked about the stables.
Sir William blustered, so George answered for him. “He is probably with his set, which is for the best. He has been in a surly mood of late.”
Papa raised his eyebrows in question. “I imagine it would weigh heavily on a gentleman to possess such a magnificent racehorse.”
George said in a low tone, “I fear he has already bet a substantial amount on him to win the Derby.”
Sir William chuckled. “An investment, my dear boy. Why should John not wager on our stallion when he is certain to win? The odds are markedly in his favor.”
George clamped his mouth shut and stared straight ahead.
Elizabeth sympathized with him. Gambling was never a wise investment, nor was any horse a sure win when so many things could go wrong between now and the race. As had happened to Fitzwilliam. The thought rankled her mind. He and Mr. Lucas were nothing alike, and while she believed Mr. Lucas capable of gambling away a fortune without regard for the consequences, she could not accept it to be true of Fitzwilliam.
“When is the race?” Papa asked.
“Three days hence, on Thursday,” Sir William replied proudly, his face lighting up as he added, “You should come! We would be delighted for you to witness our first race along with us, would we not, George?”
Papa, no doubt having had enough of the stables, set foot in the direction of the doors. “Lizzy and I would enjoy that very much. She has never been to a race before, and Epsom Downs is a lovely bit of country.” Looking down at Elizabeth with a gleam in his eyes, he said, “I think Epsom will suit our purpose perfectly.”
It would take a miracle for Fitzwilliam to find out they had gone to Epsom, much less chase her there. She dearly wished to speak with him — to know once and for all if there was some explanation for his behavior. Something she could believe. She wanted to trust him. Her inclination told her she could. But that sliver of uncertainty chafed against her perception.
A movement in the last stall caught her attention. Once their party had passed, a man spun deftly out of the stall to walk in the opposite direction. She recognized his face.
Turning around, she was prevented from calling after him when Sir William exclaimed, “I have had the most splendid idea! Please say you will join us to dine at the inn tonight. John will be here, and I am certain your company will improve his spirits.”
Her father accepted, and the gentlemen made plans while Elizabeth looked back toward the stables.
The man was gone, but Elizabeth was certain she recognized Oakley accurately. Two men could not possess the same crooked nose. It had to be him.
What was Fitzwilliam’s groom doing at the stables?
Chapter 27
Elizabeth’s father listened with rapt attention to her explanation for the events she ought to have confided in him earlier. Leaving the emotion out of her telling to describe the facts as they had happened, her apprehension grew. What if she had read too much into Fitzwilliam’s conversation and actions? His had been the reaction of a gentleman. Would he have done the same for any lady? Was she no more special to him than any other? Was that why he had sent the letter?
She traced her fingertips over her lips, trying to remember if she had really felt his breath feather against her skin or if she had imagined it. Did absence make the heart grow fonder … or forgetful? If only she could converse with Charlotte. Her friend’s vision was never clouded by emotion, unlike Elizabeth, who felt herself in a fog.
Papa, believing that al
l young ladies should find themselves crossed in love, was of no help at all. Elizabeth supposed she ought to take comfort in his decision to persist in his theory, but he also brushed off Fitzwilliam’s excessive gambling when she could not so easily dismiss it. The shot in the field was not so easy for him to dismiss, though Elizabeth took care to provide only the scantiest detail and most minimal risk to herself. She elaborated on the lengths Fitzwilliam went to in securing her and Jane’s safe return to Longbourn, but she took little satisfaction in it. Any gentleman would have done the same.
Her father went silent for some time, but upon deciding it was best not to dwell on what could have happened, he chose to dwell on what brought him pleasure. Elizabeth had not been harmed, and he was enjoying his time in London all the more now that he had a theory to prove.
Elizabeth exerted herself to be good company for her father as they left the hotel to stroll through Hyde Park, observing the passersby as much as they did the scenery — Papa for entertainment; Elizabeth in an attempt to not think of Fitzwilliam. At least she had a clearer conscience now. She kept no secrets from her father (aside from the near kiss she now questioned, that is.)
They ate ices at Gunter’s, sitting by a window. Elizabeth’s neck prickled and her cheeks warmed like they did when someone tried to catch her attention from the other side of an assembly room. She glanced around, but nobody met her eye.
When offered the chance to return to Hatchards to peruse his favorite section of books on philosophy and horticulture, Papa decided that if he were to purchase a gift for Mama, they had better head to Covent Garden before the good intention faded into inaction.
The piazza and surrounding streets bustled with basket-women hawking their wares, costermongers selling fruit, vegetables, and fried eels, market boys pushing wheelbarrows, and pedestrians trying to cross through without trampling on anyone’s toes or losing the coins in their pockets.
Several times more, the prickling at her neck had Elizabeth turning to look over her shoulder, but with so many people milling about, it was no wonder. Her imagination was once again at work, creating excitement where there was none.