“I’d love to hear your story, Mr. Barlow.”
His eyes brightened, and he leaned toward her conspiratorially. “It all started with a nerve poison, or black curare, of the Ticuna tribe. Quite deadly when used on arrow tips.”
“But first tell where you got the Stetson,” Aunt Rachel interrupted. Stella too had been surprised to see him wearing a hat more appropriate to a cattle drive than a pony breed show.
“Do you like it?” He smiled and touched its brim. “It was a gift from a new investor, a rancher from Texas in America.”
“You’re planning another plant-collecting expedition?” Stella asked.
Considering his limp, she was surprised. Stella wanted to question him about it: Where was he planning to go and when? What would be the goal, to discover and collect new species of orchids like before, or something more useful? But his only response was another false smile. Mr. Barlow was clearly not prepared to divulge any more information.
“As I was saying, my last expedition began in the town of Esmeralda, on the Orinoco River, where I’d stopped to discover the secrets of the most infamous botanical products in the Amazon, the nerve poison used by the Ticuna tribe to hunt game. I learned, to my dismay, that if enough of the concoction enters the bloodstream, it’s fatal to men as well.”
“The natives poisoned you?” Lady Alice gasped.
Mr. Barlow shook his head. “No, dear lady, they presented me some of the stuff, and the plants they derived it from as a gift. But not long after, a strong wind took our canoe and spilled the jar of poison. It seeped into my clothes, which I discovered only after putting on an affected pair of socks. The bleeding sores from insect bites on my feet exposed me to the black curare’s torturous effects. I had to be left behind at a remote village. It was months before I’d recovered. But on my trek back to Esmeralda, I discovered a dozen new orchid species. Not bad for a dead man, don’t you think?”
“That’s incredible,” Stella said.
“Beg your pardon, my lady,” a footman interrupted, addressing Lady Atherly, “but the judges are ready for Mr. Barlow.”
“Of course,” she said. “Shall we?”
As Lady Philippa laced her arm through the plant hunter’s, Stella said, “We’re to meet Daddy here.” Aunt Rachel hobbled over to grab herself a cup of tea before it cooled completely.
“Suit yourself,” Lady Atherly said, turning on her heels and leading the way out of the tent. Lady Alice quickly stepped in behind her while Lady Philippa and Mr. Barlow, with his lumbering gait, trailed several paces behind.
As the pair passed Stella, heads bent together and oblivious to anyone but themselves, Lady Philippa quietly chided her companion, “What kept you, Cecil?”
“Your husband, my dear lady. Lord Fairbrother was showing me his champion pony.”
Lady Philippa scoffed, her lip curling into an ugly sneer. “The blighter hasn’t won anything yet.”
Stella dropped her gaze to hide her surprise. Lady Philippa’s crude retort wasn’t about the pony—Lord Fairbrother’s entry into the competition was a filly.
* * *
“Have you met Barlow yet?”
“The plant-collecting fellow?” Lyndy asked, deftly sidestepping a pile of horse manure.
Lord Fairbrother nodded. With a swagger to his step as they made their way from the temporary holding paddocks, Lyndy’s neighbor strode alongside Fairweather, a black filly with a small white patch on her forehead. She was a magnificent example of the New Forest breed, but Lyndy wasn’t about to tell the pompous ass that. Of course, Fairbrother, ever so confident, never asked Lyndy his opinion about the pony. He never asked anyone’s opinion about anything.
“Not yet. Why?”
Lyndy accompanied Moorington, his entry in this year’s Cecil New Forest Pony Challenge. Stella, with her keen eye, had found the splendid bay mare among his family stock. Lyndy patted the pony on its muscular thigh as his groom led her toward the show ring. A cheer from the gathering crowd rose at their first glimpse of the newest entries. Fairbrother waved to the spectators jockeying for space closest to the white fence. His groom trotted Fairbrother’s pony forward, ensuring it entered the ring first.
And so, the competition begins. Lyndy snickered to himself.
The ring, a fenced off area already devoid of turf from the day’s earlier competitions, smelled of fresh soil and horse dung and teemed with other exceptional ponies. Barnard Smith, William Fancy, and John Bowman had all entered chestnut mares with excellent pedigrees. George Parley’s ponies consistently eclipsed everyone else’s, and his entry this year, a beautiful roan mare, was no exception.
Would this be the year someone defeated Fairbrother? Lyndy doubted it. He’d won every Cecil Challenge Cup since the chalice was donated by Lord Arthur Cecil several years ago. Granted Fairbrother’s entries had always been good, well-built animals, but everyone knew his success had more to do with his status as chairman of the Verderers’ Court, a position of power and influence unique to the New Forest, than with the quality of his ponies.
“He’s staying with us at Outwick House,” Fairbrother said. “Came down a few days ago, to preside over this year’s pony challenge. The chap’s name is Cecil, after all.” Fairbrother chuckled at the jest while smiling at the appreciative crowd. Lyndy didn’t see the humor in it. Mr. Kendrick’s constant use of the pun had seen to that.
“Philippa met him in London at the Duchess of Charford’s last Season,” Fairbrother continued, “and devised this outrageous scheme to invite him down for the competition. I don’t have to tell you how hesitant I was, allowing a stranger in the house, one who has lived half his adult life picking flowers and slashing his way through jungles, nonetheless. Would the fellow be more savage than gentleman, I wondered? But Philippa insisted, and Philippa gets what she wants.” Fairbrother flattened his lips. “If you know what I mean.”
Lyndy knew precisely what he meant. Thank God it wasn’t always true.
“But,” Fairbrother said, brightening, “I admit, the chap has been most amusing.”
Fairbrother didn’t elaborate but pointed toward the raised podium, decorated with swags of red and white bunting, next to the show ring.
Lyndy shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. A string of seated dignitaries lined the platform: local politicians, the judges, and Lyndy’s family. Two seats in the middle remained empty. With Alice staring into her lap and Papa squinting without his lorgnette, Mother, by the high tilt of her hat, generously embellished with towering feathers, was the only one comfortable with looking down upon the multitude. Typically, Mother would’ve presented the Cecil New Forest Pony Challenge Cup. But this year she’d graciously granted Philippa her desire by allowing the plant-collecting fellow to step in. That was before Philippa had married Fairbrother, before Papa had arranged Lyndy’s engagement to Stella, dashing Mother’s hopes for Philippa as a daughter-in-law. Would Mother have been so accommodating had she known Philippa could never be Lady Lyndhurst? Perhaps. Mother adored Philippa. Why, Lyndy could never understand.
“There’s the chap now,” Fairbrother said.
A well-built man wearing an unusual wide-brimmed hat and leaning on a cane was mounting the steps of the platform one at a time. Philippa clung to his arm, pacing herself to his slow gait. Was Philippa’s aid necessary or was she a hindrance Mr. Barlow was too much of a gentleman to admit? Knowing Philippa, it was the latter.
Lyndy looked about for Stella. The competition grounds, set on the site of one of the more extensive grazing lawns in this part of the Forest, consisted of the judging ring, temporary paddocks filled with animals to be judged—ponies, cattle, and repulsively loud, snorting pigs—along with several bright red and white canvas tents flapping in the breeze. The tents were filled with people taking tea. Musicians settled into the bandstand. Shouting, laughing children clustered around games such as coconut shy and ball in a bucket set between the tents and the paddocks. With the fete spread out over at least two acres, S
tella could be anywhere.
Lyndy spied Mr. Kendrick first. No, it had been the young woman with ginger hair with Mr. Kendrick who had caught Lyndy’s eye. He’d never seen her before. She was holding the oaf’s arm, even when that meant stepping on her skirt, as Mr. Kendrick plodded toward the ring. A few steps behind them the old aunt hobbled along on her cane beside Stella, who was as bright and refreshing as Philippa was dark and deceiving, radiant in her rose-colored dress and gracious smile.
How Lyndy loved that smile. He’d basked in it for the past two months, getting to know the woman who wore it. He’d never done anything as frustrating, challenging, or thrilling; much like the woman herself. To dance with her last night had been torture, holding her in his arms without so much as a kiss. And then to have seen her throw herself into the arms of that filthy old man in the stables afterward infuriated him. One might’ve thought he’d been jealous. Now he had to watch her trail in the wake of that brute.
With his family in tow, Mr. Kendrick, more rotund than any of the villagers, farmers, or forest folk who’d come to enjoy the festivities, parted the crowd like a whale in a minnow pond. Having arrived but two months ago, the Americans were still an oddity, a spectacle to behold, and for many locals, this was their first glimpse. Lyndy felt sorry for Stella, a feeling that surprised him. Before Stella, empathy wasn’t something he’d made a habit of, but she didn’t deserve the public’s scrutiny, and having gotten to know her more, he understood how unwelcome it truly was. But how could Lyndy fault the gawkers? Who couldn’t take their eyes off the bumbling millionaire horse breeder and his beautiful daughter destined to become their mistress one day?
Fairbrother for one.
When Lyndy pulled his attention away from his future bride, Fairbrother was still staring at Philippa and Mr. Barlow on the podium. With Philippa standing behind him, Cecil Barlow stepped unaided in front of the megaphone and waved to the crowd. The band played a snippet of a jaunty tune. Several hundred people, from all over the fete grounds, cheered and clapped. When the din died down, Mr. Barlow began.
“To the lovely people of the glorious New Forest, may I welcome you to the annual Cecil New Forest Pony Challenge.” Cheers rose. “Thank you to Lord and Lady Atherly and to Lord Fairbrother and Lady Philippa Fairbrother for permitting their humble servant to be here with you today.” Mr. Barlow looked at each in turn as he said their name, even finding Fairbrother in the crowd near the ring and bowing his head slightly. When he acknowledged Philippa, her face lit up, a flush of red on her cheeks, apparent even at this distance. Cecil Barlow winked at her before again addressing the crowd.
“I am honored by your welcome and hospitality. I can’t imagine a better way to spend this lovely summer day than here in the New Forest.” And then Mr. Barlow leaned into the megaphone and put his hand to the side of his mouth as if whispering something in confidence into someone’s ear. “It certainly exceeds where I was this time last year.” Laughter arose.
“Where was he last year?” Lyndy said, his hands tapping the top of the fence as the grooms led the ponies to the center of the ring.
Fairbrother looked at Lyndy for the first time and frowned.
“The South American jungle, of course. Where have you been for the past year, Lyndhurst?”
“If he doesn’t train, own, or ride a racehorse, I don’t keep up.”
“Without further ado, let the competition begin,” the plant-collecting fellow bellowed.
While the others on the podium clapped politely, Alice nearly bounced out of her seat, adding her enthusiastic applause and obvious admiration to that of the rest of the crowd. Lyndy wasn’t used to his sister not having her nose buried in her magazines. But then again, wasn’t Mr. Barlow one of her magazine personalities come to life? Alice had felt that way about Stella initially too. Now Stella was like everyone else, someone to be ignored.
“May the best pony win,” Cecil Barlow shouted.
“Bloody chance of that happening!” a shout rang out above the applause. Abruptly murmurs and gasps replaced the applause and cheers. “Seems more likely me pony will sprout a horn than win as it should.”
Lyndy craned his neck to see who the bloke who shouted was. A nearly bald man with broad shoulders, thick forearms, and a long, pencil-thin mustache pushed his way around the outside of the ring. It was George Parley, the minor landholder with the excellent ponies. His hat crushed in his fist, Parley jabbed a tan, leathery finger up at the dignitaries when he reached the platform.
“This here better not be fixed this year. There’ll be hell to pay if it ain’t fair. And I don’t mean Fairbrother.” A tittering of nervous laughs broke out at the fellow’s play on words. The judges, three members of the local breeding society, muttered among themselves.
“Fixed? That’s outrageous,” one of the judges protested.
“Of course, it will be fair, my good man,” Cecil Barlow said, loud enough to be heard over the murmuring crowd. Philippa took hold of the plant collector’s arm. Why couldn’t she leave the poor fellow alone? He didn’t need Philippa’s help to stand. He had his cane for that. But Barlow didn’t seem to notice. His attention was on Parley. “Why wouldn’t it be? From what I understand, these fine judges run the institution that defines the breed.”
“Obviously you stayed in the jungles longer than what was good for you,” Parley scoffed, folding his arms and planting his feet like stakes holding down the tents.
“I say, Lyndhurst, shall we proceed?” Fairbrother, nonplussed by George Parley’s accusation, pushed open the gate in the fence and entered the ring. “I have no doubt the judges know a good pony when they see one.”
Lyndy didn’t doubt it either. Pity they probably weren’t going to let the best one win.
Lord Fairbrother motioned toward the judges to join him in the ring. They jumped to their feet and scrambled toward the steps. Lyndy tugged at the cuffs of his coat as the entries were lined up. There were twelve in all—twelve varying examples of the New Forest pony breed. From his vantage point, George Parley had every reason to expect to win. Lyndy’s Moorington was a lovely animal, but George Parley’s was a stunner. Lord Fairbrother’s entry, while excellent, clearly wasn’t up to Parley’s perfection.
With the crowd hushed in anticipation, Lyndy caught snippets of the judges’ comments as they moved down the line, examining one pony after another and jotting notes on their marking sheets: “good bright brown eyes, weak step, hocks too wide apart, plenty of flat bone, mutton withers, blood spavin.”
The ponies were then trotted around the ring, their heads bobbing, ears twitching, their eyes watching everything. A few breathless minutes passed as the grooms led the ponies from the ring and the judges convened. George Parley, his nose flaring like a horse, glared on and off at Fairbrother, who laughed and watched the proceedings with a smug, confident air.
“And the winner of this year’s Cecil New Forest Pony Challenge Cup is . . .” Mr. Barlow bellowed from the stage, “Lord Fairbrother!”
The crowd released a pent-up roar of applause and cheers as Fairbrother approached the podium and skipped up the stairs. Mother handed Fairbrother a bouquet of roses as the plant hunter fellow passed him the large two-handled silver cup, about a foot and a half tall, embossed with swags of ribbons and engraved with 1905 THE CECIL NEW FOREST PONY CHALLENGE CUP.
“I bloody knew it! The bastard. He’s a cheat.” The disgruntled George Parley, shaking his fist, hurled insults and accusations. But soon his complaints were drowned out by the happy cries of the crowd. Everyone loves a winner. As Fairbrother uttered some words of feigned surprise and appreciation from the podium, Parley shoved his way through the crowd, his lips moving. He was still muttering to himself as his shoulder brushed past Lyndy. “There’ll be bloody hell to pay,” he said. “Bloody hell.”
CHAPTER 5
With a drizzle developing, the tea tent was crowded and Lord Fairbrother, standing next to one of the many tables, cradled his silver cup and received well-wis
hers like a king on his throne.
“Can’t believe his pony won,” Stella’s father grumbled under his breath as they entered the tent and saw him holding court, undaunted by his competitor’s accusations.
As he was tall in stature with silver threads running through his well-trimmed blond mustache and pleasing blue eyes, Stella would’ve considered Lord Fairbrother handsome if it weren’t for his too thick lips and a swagger to his every step. Those plump lips rose in a crooked smile as he greeted an elderly couple wanting to congratulate their lord. At his side, Lady Philippa did little to mask her boredom, covering her mouth with her fingers and yawning.
“What’s done is done, Daddy.”
Stella, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to ward off the chill, headed for the nearest food table. Having skipped the luncheon to spend more time with Tully in the stables, she was famished. The scent of wet grass, pungent at the edge of the tent, was replaced by that of freshly baked scones, strawberry jam, and warm tea. Stella helped herself to a plate of sliced lemon drizzle cake. Miss Cosslett and Daddy followed.
“Maybe there’s something to that bull of a guy’s rantings,” he continued. “Maybe this competition is rigged in Fairbrother’s favor. You, there.” He stopped a plump kitchen maid carrying a tray of dirty plates. Hadn’t Stella seen her serving at a garden party at Baron Branson-Hill’s estate? “Where can a guy get a cup of coffee around here?”
The maid scampered off as Stella’s father reached for a slice of sponge cake without bothering to pick up the plate. Miss Cosslett handed him the cake’s plate, followed by a napkin. Daddy took it, without comment. Who was this woman who forced manners on him without so much as a grumble for her pains? Stella should be glad about it, but she wasn’t. She’d lived with him too long not to worry what it all meant.
“There’s Cecil Barlow,” Miss Cosslett said, spotting him chatting nearby.
Daddy waddled over and shoved out his hand, to the dismay of the giggling granny who’d been the sole object of the plant hunter’s attention. The older woman’s shoulders drooped like the faded flowers on her hat as Stella’s father forced her aside.
Murder at Blackwater Bend Page 4
