by Dorothy Mack
Gemma intervened before the antagonists could descend to nursery level. “Coralee is quite right to be miffed, Peter. You know she is a fine rider.”
“All I said was that you can ride anything on four legs, which makes you a better rider in my book.”
“Well, there is only one place to settle such a question, and it is not a billiard room,” George said. “Would you agree, Miss Delevan, that a race between the ladies is the only fair way to judge?”
Lucy twinkled back at him. “I would agree that a race would decide who had the faster horse,” she temporized.
“Oh, in that case,” declared Gemma, entering into the spirit, “Coralee is lost because my Fleurette is the fastest creature on four legs.”
“Nonsense, Gemma. Fleurette is a nice enough little mare, but she cannot match my uncle’s White Star for speed,” objected Coralee.
Gemma was adamant. “She can over a long enough course.”
“Now we have a question that can be put to the test,” said the captain, “if the ladies are willing.”
Both ladies attesting to their willingness to engage in a race, there remained only the details of time and place to arrange. Peter proposed one complete circuit of the ornamental water as a fair test course, and the first fine afternoon was decided on for the contest.
Mr. Delevan and Major Barton were sitting in the library idly discussing some of the reform measures due to come up in the next parliamentary session when Peter looked in to advise them that everyone was adjourning to the blue saloon for tea. Mr. Delevan’s lazy gaze ran over the young marquess, returning to dwell on his attractive countenance alight with mischief.
“You look like someone who has lost a penny and found a pound,” he commented. “What’s afoot, Gresham?”
Peter’s grin was smug. “Thanks almost entirely to my efforts, we are due for some rare sport,” he boasted. “Gemma and Coralee have agreed to a horse race around the lake. I’m backing my sister to win. Would either of you like to wager a pony on the outcome?”
Mr. Delevan laughed at his audaciousness but said sternly, “No, you young scapegrace. You are well aware that it would not do to have your sister or cousin the subject of a wager.”
“Strictly a private wager; no one will ever hear of it,” promised Peter. “Very well, not a pony, then, but there could be no possible exception to a nominal bet of five pounds just to make it interesting. Any takers?”
“Not I,” repeated Mr. Delevan. “I also think Lady Gemma will win.”
“I’ll take you up on it,” said Major Barton, unexpectedly entering the lists. “Miss Fairmont strikes me as being the keener competitor.”
“Done. And you are wrong, there Major. Gemma has just finished wiping up the floor with her at billiards, and she is far and away the better rider, though I will say for my cousin that there isn’t an ounce of fear in her. No need to fear she won’t throw her heart over a fence.”
Major Barton’s raised eyebrow was his only comment on this analysis, but Mr. Delevan stared with renewed interest at the young man lounging in the doorway as he gathered together his correspondence preparatory to quitting the room.
“Is your sister a good billiards player, then … for a female?”
“She’s a good billiards player for a Captain Sharp,” Peter retorted bluntly. “If she were not my sister, I’d make my fortune taking her around the country and exhibiting her at fairs.” He sighed wistfully for lost opportunities and noted the sceptical expressions of both men. “Do not take my word for it if you think I’m trying to ride on your backs; take her on yourselves, if you dare.”
“How does it come about, this skill in a man’s game?” Mr. Delevan asked curiously as the three headed down the corridor toward the stairs.
“Practice of course, and a marvellous precision of eye, but what I presume you are really asking,” Peter answered with a shrewd glance at Mr. Delevan, “is why she took such pains to acquire the skill.” For a moment, the lively young man looked more thoughtful than was his wont. “I am persuaded Gemma has often wished she was born a boy; she was forever tagging after me, trying to do everything boys do and resisting instruction in the sort of household activities girls commonly engage in. But my father finally took notice of her hoydenish behaviour and permitted Mama to send her to a seminary for young ladies. After a few years they turned her into a girl, more or less,” he finished as they approached the blue saloon.
“Amen to that,” Mr. Delevan announced in prayerful accents that caused his companions to burst out laughing as they entered the room where the others awaited them.
Attracted by the pleasant sound, they all looked to the laughing trio. When pressed to share the joke, however, the gentlemen proved united in a disinclination to divulge the cause of their merriment, though their evasive tactics differed according to their various characters. Major Barton indeed employed none: he merely ignored the general request for enlightenment and accepted a glass of sherry from his host. Peter assumed an air of mystery and declared that his lips were sealed, and not even a session on the rack arranged by a bearded inquisitor of Spanish ancestry would suffice to break his silence.
Coralee gave a scornful toss of her head. “It was no doubt some crude example of so-called masculine humour, unfit for feminine ears.”
“At least nothing that would translate,” Mr. Delevan said with a sympathetic smile. “Have you never noticed how few samples of humour can bear up under intensive scrutiny? Most just crumble away to dust.”
“Now that you have thrown sufficient dust in our eyes, come have a cup of tea,” recommended his sister, patting the sofa cushion beside her.
Mr. Delevan accepted a cup from the duchess, who bestowed her sweet smile upon him, and took the seat next to Lucy. In the buzz of resumed conversation about the room, he inquired into the success of the billiard lesson.
Lucy closed her eyes in pretended anguish. “I fear I did not cover the name of Delevan with glory in my first lesson,” she confessed, adding with an air of puzzled discovery that increased her brother’s appreciation that it was not so easy as it first appeared to direct the balls accurately. Just then her eye chanced to fall on the major, sitting quite close, ostensibly engaged in conversation with the duke. Some inner certainty that she could not have explained convinced her that, though his gaze was fixed politely on his host, his ears were straining to catch the exchange between herself and John. Fortunately, her brother was discoursing a little on the intricacies of billiards, because she found herself unaccountably tongue-tied. She knew she had been caught staring at the major a moment ago when he had entered the room, but the truth was simply that she had been fascinated by the change the act of laughing wrought in his appearance. Years were subtracted from his age, the habitual dourness vanished for an instant, light came into those obsidian eyes, and she glimpsed the man he must have been before the adversities of war and the cruelties of human nature had taken their toll. It had been over in a second; his mouth clamped once more into a straight line and a furrow grooved his brow as his gaze skimmed her with arctic indifference before passing on to his host.
The incident, if indeed an occurrence of less than two seconds’ duration could be so dignified, had consisted of precious little — a man’s laugh, a girl’s interested glance, and his refusal to receive the interest — but it had left her strangely shaken, and she welcomed the comfort of John’s nearness.
Through a veil of thick lashes, she made a surreptitious study of as much of the major’s countenance as was available to her inspection. The unmarked side of his face was quite impressive, she realized for the first time. Decided cheekbones, a square jaw, and straight thick brows over deep-set eyes contributed to an aggressively masculine effect that was only slightly redeemed from harshness by the sensitive modelling of his mouth, apparent only on the rare occasions when its owner was thoroughly relaxed. His face would be an absorbing study for a painter or sculptor, she decided with quickened interest. “Another cup of tea,
Lucy?”
“What? Oh, no, no more, thank you, John,” she replied, glancing past her brother as he moved off carrying his cup for a refill. The major’s closed face confirmed what she had already sensed: his attention was now totally removed from her. Since this was what was wanted to restore her usual composure, she could only attribute her lack of heartfelt relief to something perverse in her nature.
Conversation during the tea party ranged over subjects as diverse as the warlike attitude of the former colonists in America on international waters to an upcoming pugilistic exhibition in the next county for which Peter was eager to make up a party, but not once did it touch on the nearer prospect of a sporting contest right on the premises. This failure to mention a projected event that might be of interest to almost everyone present in the saloon was the result of the tacit complicity of the young people, who intuitively comprehended the necessity of circumventing the prohibitions of the plan for a horse race that might be expected from the two mothers of the respective participants.
CHAPTER 8
Two days were to pass before the anticipated ladies’ race could be scheduled, for the weather remained intermittently showery and uncertain.
Life at Monteith Hall proceeded much as usual. After an early-morning ride and breakfast, the duke went about the business of the estate, accompanied, on those occasions when he could locate him, by his heir, who would reach his majority before the year was out. Lord Gresham’s lack of interest in his inheritance was a sore point with his sire, who had finally been compelled to demand his presence in Wiltshire for the summer. Since being sent down from Oxford the previous spring, Peter had got caught up in a set of sporting mad youths whose escapades, unfortunately, were not confined to the healthy outdoor aspects of sport but also embraced gaming in all its less salubrious forms, from cock-fighting to faro. The atmosphere at the hall had been sulfuric early in the season as Peter, cut off from his cronies and chafing under the compulsion to dance attendance on his family, had, by his sulky behaviour, nearly worn his loving mother and sister to emotional shreds, so anxious were they to avoid, for his sake, any explosions of wrath from the duke. The addition of the Delevans as guests had eased the strain of the family situation at once, and the arrival of the military segment further heightened the promise of an enjoyable summer.
Most mornings found the ladies engaged in their various sewing projects in the duchess’s sitting room. The look of strain faded from her sensitive face after a week of close proximity unmarred by any of the incessant squabbling that had rendered Gemma’s and Coralee’s shared childhood obnoxious to their elders.
Lucy thought her hostess looked more relaxed than at any time since her arrival. She knew that her own presence as a buffer and peace-keeping force was partly responsible, and was happy to be of some small service to her friend’s mother. The duchess had always treated her with kindness on the few occasions when they had met previously, and a closer acquaintance saw the forging of a sympathetic bond between them that transcended the gap between their ages and stations and was a source of deep gratification to the girl, who still felt the loss of her own mother so keenly.
Lucy had no opportunity to be private with Gemma on the day following the proposal to hold a race, and no word of the upcoming event was breathed in the presence of the senior ladies. On the second day, when the skies showed some promise of clearing, she observed with no little amusement that Gemma and Coralee seemed almost to be trying to outdo each other in mutual cordiality. Each was in near raptures of admiration for the handwork of the other and pressed her cousin to accept any of the coloured silks she might possess that the other did not. Lady Sophronia viewed this state of affairs with smiling complaisance, remarking two or three times to her sister-in-law that she had always predicted that all that was wanting for the girls to become the best of friends was the clearer judgment that came with increasing maturity. Each time, the duchess agreed in a serene voice, but Lucy noted that her considering gaze lingered on her daughter after Gemma called upon Lucy as an impartial judge to cast her vote with her own in favour of the superiority of Coralee’s embroidery. Hiding her exasperation, Lucy delivered herself of what she hoped was a diplomatic opinion, hedged about in considerations and smothered in adjectives designed to render it pleasing to all and intelligible to none. It did not escape her notice that though Miss Fairmont met Lady Sophronia’s approving glance with perfect composure, Gemma was careful to avoid her parent’s speculative eye.
When they separated to freshen up for lunch, Lucy and Gemma branched off toward their rooms in the old wing. Once beyond Coralee’s hearing, Lucy seized her friend’s elbow and stopped her progress to announce, “I am serving notice here and now that I shall judge no more sewing contests during my visit, or singing contests, or sketching contests. Do I make myself clear?”
Her assumed severity was too much for Gemma’s composure. The mask of bland innocence she had adopted in the sitting room cracked like a window hit by a stone, and her laughter rang out. “Oh, Lucy, I beg you will forgive me,” she gasped between peals. “It was wicked of me to propel you into that farcical scene, but you were perfectly wonderful, I promise you. Not a word under four syllables, and I still don’t know what you said or whose work you most admired!”
Lucy grinned. “Well, Miss Sly-boots, you and your cousin may think you have thrown up a smoke screen, but although Lady Sophronia may still be in the fog, your mother knows you are up to something.”
“Mama possesses a sixth sense about the things I get up to,” Gemma admitted. “I shall have to avoid her for a bit.”
“The weather definitely looks like breaking. Do you think you may run the race today?”
“Possibly. I’ll be glad to have done with this intrigue. I fear I am not cut out to be a conspirator.”
“Your incorrigible brother has been trying to persuade me to place a wager on the outcome. Shall you win?”
“Oh, yes.”
Lucy examined her friend’s calm countenance with real curiosity. “You seem very sure,” she ventured a bit hesitantly. “From what I have seen, Miss Fairmont is a competent rider, and White Star strikes me as being the stronger horse.”
Gemma’s lips twitched and her eyes brimmed with mischief. “And so he is, over a short course,” she agreed, “but Coralee is bound to cram him right from the start, and Star doesn’t like to be pushed. Besides which —” she paused to let her words sink in — “he likes company. Whenever he hears another horse close behind him, he slows down to let it catch up to him.” Hand on her door latch, she smiled in sympathy with Lucy’s sudden giggle. “That is why Papa has made him available to Coralee. He intended him for a hunter but wasn’t able to train him out of that trick.”
“How fortunate that I was too downy a bird for Gresham’s plucking,” said Lucy with satisfaction, and a deplorable use of cant that sent her friend into her room shaking her head over the vulgar influence she had imported.
At luncheon, Gresham announced that the three gentlemen from the manor were hoping the young ladies might care to ride with them that afternoon. The girls referred the request to the elder ladies with graceful remarks to the effect that they would defer to their plans, and on being urged to go out for some beneficial air and exercise, accepted the invitation in civil terms.
“Will I have White Star saddled for you, Cousin?” inquired Peter casually, “or would you perhaps prefer Columbine?”
Gemma, with a superior knowledge of her cousin’s mentality, continued to eat her sliced lamb, displaying no interest in the question, but Lucy held her breath until Coralee replied with equal casualness, “Oh, not Columbine, I think. White Star suits me best.”
“And Smoky for Miss Delevan?” asked Peter, turning to Lucy with the tiniest of winks.
Lucy exhaled, nodded, and lowered her eyes to her plate as the duchess shifted her glance from her son to her guest.
The grass bordering the lake was not yet dry, though the sun had been shining warmly for
some time when the riders assembled at the spot Peter had chosen as the starting and finishing line. He was in tearing spirits, and the others, oddly silent now that the moment had arrived, were content to leave all the organizing to him. The lawns sloped gently down from the western elevation of the hall toward the water, but the land surrounding it was essentially flat and grass-covered except where a narrow stand of trees abutted the lake at about the three-quarter point of the course. After several days of grey skies, scudding clouds, and wind-whipped water, the natural world seemed to have paused for breath. A pale-azure sky unmarked by clouds lent colour to still water centred in a smooth ring of emerald green.
In her sapphire-blue habit and hat, Coralee blended perfectly with her setting as she sat unmoving on the coal-black horse with the white blaze, her expression as unruffled as the scenery, while she listened to Peter’s instructions. It was the first time in a fortnight of observation that the beautiful blonde seemed genuinely uninterested in her effect on the attendant male population, and it struck Lucy of a sudden that this was a measure of the importance she attached to this silly race.
Lucy glanced over at the group a few feet away where Lady Gemma, fulfilling her role as hostess, was issuing an invitation to tea in her mother’s name. She made an appealing picture as she laughingly tried to calm the fidgets out of Fleurette, whose chestnut flanks almost matched the colour of her riding dress. The playful antics of the mare reflected her eagerness to be off and moving after going unexercised for several days.
Major Barton edged his big bay closer to Lucy to remark that Lady Gemma and her horse appeared to have a very good understanding.
“Gemma is good with all animals,” agreed Lucy with a smile. “I believe she sat her first pony at the tender age of three.”
His eyes shifted to Coralee, who was bringing White Star into position under the direction of Peter and Captain Godwin. “Very capable young ladies,” Major Barton murmured, “but why —” looking down at Lucy in a quizzical fashion — “are there not three fair entrants in this race?”
