The Steeplechase

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  Martha glanced at the newcomer’s cuffed and tailored steel-gray pants, ironed into a knife pleat that met expensive buffed, black leather boots similar to those her brother received from their grandfather the previous year. Curiosity overcame her desire to shield her face, which likely now sported a reddened nose and eyes from her tears. She looked up, catching the man’s tailored vest and frock coat, a gleaming white shirt swathed with a navy and gold silk cravat tied loosely at his neck. His broad shoulders seemed peculiarly out of place with his face. For a moment she openly gaped at the man whose sculpted features, gleaming light green eyes, and golden hair had her questioning her sanity—was this the angel she’d prayed God would send her? The stranger was far too beautiful to be a real man. And with his immaculate appearance, how could he be real? Behind him, sunlight suddenly shone through the mullioned windows.

  No, this being couldn’t be mortal. Not with such a stunning appearance. She’d prayed for an angel to help her and she’d believed, but she hadn’t expected to see a physical representation. What an encouragement from God that maybe one day she’d meet someone who didn’t see her as an outcast. She beamed up at the heaven-sent visitor and then, laughing, she averted her gaze and went on her way, giddy with the joy of God’s blessing her with an actual, tangible, manifestation of His holiness via an angelic being.

  Her satin pumps barely touched the ground as Martha hurried home to thank God.

  Phillip ran his hand along his smooth jawline as the bakery door closed behind the intriguing young woman. Intelligent pale eyes, the color of celadon, mesmerized him and belied her erratic, but almost winsome behavior. Her tinkling laugh didn’t mock—it was strangely exhilarating, as though she’d issued some challenge to him. When she’d stared up at him so expectantly, his heart gave a tug, as though he was to do something for her—some assignment so important that all else must be tossed aside immediately. Then she’d fled.

  The shopkeeper tapped the side of her silvery head with one pudgy finger. “Don’t you worry any, she’d not escaped from our asylum.”

  “Ah.” The thought hadn’t crossed his mind, but now that she mentioned it… “Rather unusual behavior for a young lady.”

  The woman waved her hands dismissively. “The whole lot of them Osbornes are odd except her eldest brother. A secretive lot, they are.”

  Osborne. That was Johnny’s surname. Was the flighty woman his mother? No, she was gone to England. This young woman was old enough to be Johnny’s mother, though. Perhaps she was an aunt or an older cousin.

  “I feel sorry for Miss Osborne, I do, but I never let it show. Doesn’t bode well to have folks believin’ you’re soft hearted.”

  Phillip laughed. “Not in this business, madam, certainly!” He scanned the rows of muffins, biscuits, cookies, and breads and rolls. “A business can’t run successfully if one was perpetually set upon by those wishing favors.”

  “Exactly.” A tight smile unfurled as she looked up at him. This was a look he often received from older women. Mother claimed it was because they all wished they had a son as handsome as he was—to which he always scoffed. His elder brother was the handsome fellow, with dark hair that curled around his collar and flashing dark eyes and a charm that was as effortless as breathing. Little Johnny Osborne possessed similar coloring and had no doubt wrapped his older, book-reader sister around his little finger as George had done with all their nurses and nannies.

  “I apologize for not introducing myself directly but I rather raced to get here…” He drew in a slow breath, thinking of how to explain who he was.

  The proprietress’s eyes widened and she glanced about the shop, as though someone might pop up from thin air. “Chris has told me all about it. Wait here.” She turned, then parted blue and white checked curtains hanging from the door separating the front of the shop from the back.

  He’d not even been able to finish his sentence to explain what he was there for. He didn’t exactly represent Yorkview Academy, although he was there on business pertaining to the school.

  In a moment, the homespun fabric panels separated again and she returned with a simple map, which she thrust at him. “There it is.”

  He glanced down. Williamsburg, Yorktown, and Gloucester were marked on the map, with the York River paralleling a squiggling line that terminated at the Episcopal church not far from the Yorktown docks. How very odd.

  White head bobbing, the woman grinned. “I’ve wagered one week’s worth of rolls for the school if Christopher wins. Which he will, of course.”

  “Rolls for the school?” he repeated.

  “Yorkview School, where his brother attends.”

  Why would the young man, Christopher, want bread for the academy? “I am here to purchase some ginger cookies for that same school.”

  “Very good. I can see this race is already bringing me new business.” She smiled, revealing small, uneven teeth.

  “Well, how fortuitous for you. I’ve a need for ten dozen.” His newest riding student, Johnny, craved the cookies, and cited Mrs. James’ baked goods as the “very best in all of Virginia.” And judging from the appearance of the beautiful young lady he’d met earlier, Williamsburg, and Mrs. James’ shop, also held some of the loveliest creatures in Virginia.

  Twin white eyebrows peaked. “Very good.”

  “I’ve some other business to conduct in Williamsburg while I’m here.”

  “Where do you live, sir?”

  “I am Phillip Paulson, and…”

  The woman gaped. “Of Paulson Farms?”

  He ducked his chin.

  Eyes wide, the woman scanned him from head to foot. “You’re to race, sir?”

  “Yes.” How had that slipped from his mouth? Horrified, he tried to retract the word. Lord, why do you allow my mouth to utter such deception?

  “Wish I could say I was happy for you, but I can’t.” She pursed her lips. “Don’t see how those lads will have any chance against the likes of you—the best horseman in the Commonwealth, perhaps the entire seaboard. La!”

  Drawing in a deep breath, he pulled to his full height, ready to disavow his word. “If Christopher fails, I promise you, madam, I shall set things to right. Your shop shan’t suffer loss on my part. My participation is merely a lark.” A lark? Since when did Phillip Lucien Paulson race his premier horses as a lark? Sweat broke out on his brow. He prided himself on his honesty and fairness and now here he was misleading this woman. A man’s honor wasn’t to be trifled with.

  Was that a blush flowering beneath her powdered cheeks? It was. “You are a gentleman, sir.”

  “Please keep this our little secret, madam.”

  She shrugged. “What harm can come of those boys not knowing your intent, Mr. Paulson?”

  “None.” He smiled broadly. He had no intention of racing in whatever Christopher and his friends were doing, which was no doubt all in good sport. And apparently for a good cause. Father and his cronies had been encouraging him to set up an equestrian academy, of sorts, for nearly two years and now that he had done so, at his brother’s school, they acted as though Phillip was a complete imbecile. The older men’s veiled comments and secretive meetings had increased and the time had come for him to invite himself to attend. But with esteemed men, some of whom had served in both the French-Indian wars as mere youths as well as the Revolution, one did not invite oneself in among their august company even if one was the son of a member.

  “I can bag those cookies up for you now or you can return later to collect them.”

  “Thank you, madam.” He scanned the shelves laden with sweet buns, Sarah Lund bread, and scones. If he’d tried to bring any of these home to Paulson Estates, Cook would have his hide. But a few more for his students couldn’t hurt, and the school cook was already overburdened and wouldn’t protest. “Please add as many sweet rolls as you have available to the order. I’ll return for them after my visit with Professor Osborne, if you could direct me to his home.” The headmaster kept his address list
to himself, and since Johnny didn’t reside at one of the many plantations the other boys occupied, it had proved a large task to locate the man’s residence. The child didn’t know what street he lived on.

  “Why, you just met the professor’s daughter.” She pointed to the door. “That was Johnny and Chris’s sister.”

  Chapter 2

  At the rear of the Osborne property, in their minuscule Anglican chapel, a place forbidden by the Commonwealth for worship, Martha knelt on red velvet cushions. Had the strikingly handsome blond man been the answer to her previous prayer? If so, what was to come of their encounter? Had God allowed her a glimpse to her guardian angel to encourage her? If so, God had a perverse sense of humor, for now Martha berated herself for being attracted to the celestial being. It wasn’t right to have such reactions toward an angel! Instead of being intent on praying about her brother she had come home, prostrated herself, and thought only of the impressive figure her angel had made and not of what had inspired her fervent prayer for help from on high.

  Ever since Martha’s last conversation with her stepmother—an argument over Johnny—

  she’d been troubled in her spirit. Letitia had proclaimed before her departure to England, “If Emily and I return,” then had hastily amended her statement to, “When we return, there shall be changes in this household.”

  At the time, Martha had interpreted Letitia’s words as a veiled threat—as though saying she’d stay in England if Martha continued to voice her opinion about Johnny. Now, though, with many weeks gone by, Martha couldn’t help but wonder if Stepmother meant something else, instead. God, if so, please show me what to do.

  Was Martha’s plan to leave her home and establish herself in a small business so far-fetched? Although society might frown upon such a decision, she and her family were already outcasts.

  If Martha moved out, then Father and Letitia would have their privacy. There would still be visits with Johnny, Christopher, and Emily. There would be only one adult woman in the household, which would hopefully tamp down some of Letitia’s ongoing temper tantrums whenever Martha had done anything in the house not meeting her standards. Poor father. And what must the boys think? Emily merely smirked and kept quiet. Would she become Stepmother’s new target? Martha drew in a long slow breath of the dusty incense scent that cloaked the sanctuary. Dear Lord, how would her father and stepmother manage? Neither directed the household but left those tasks to Martha. She slowly stood, stretched, and pressed a hand to her lower back. She still had no peace about her plan. Martha recollected the concern and patient interest reflected in the angel’s eyes. God did know her needs. He would surely provide.

  At the sound of the door creaking open, she whirled around. Her brother’s former friend, Graham Tarleton, stood in the doorway, his legs braced in a wide stance. A cocky child, he’d grown even more irksome in adulthood. Fawned over by his parents and the young ladies of Williamsburg, the handsome young buck thought far more of himself than a gentleman ought.

  “What are you doing here, Graham?” The sunlight from the stained glass windows dimmed as he took two strides forward. Martha shivered and rubbed her elbows. “Christopher isn’t here.”

  “Not looking for Chris.” Graham and Christopher had a tentative truce in their argument over a girl. During Emily’s departure dinner, Graham Tarleton’s mooning eyes had been fixed upon her sister.

  Where were their servants? How had Graham passed into their backyard without notice? “Emily has left with Mother.” But Graham already knew this. She cringed. And instead of taking Johnny to see his maternal grandparents in England, he’d been left at a boarding school across the river.

  Graham scowled. “Should I care?”

  But the slight slump in his shoulders and the twitch of a muscle in his jaw belied his words. So Graham indeed had become interested by her fourteen-year-old sister’s flirtatious manner. No wonder Letitia had changed her mind and transported Emily with her. “Of course not—Emily is still very young.”

  A wicked grin spread across his face. How had her brother’s friend hardened into such a troubled young man? And why had Christopher forgiven him so readily when Miranda Lightfoot had been the light in his own eyes for over a year before Graham had stolen her away?

  “You’re not.” His eyelids lowered to half-mast and remained there, causing her to shiver.

  “In any event, I’ve already said my prayers. You’re welcome to the use of the chapel.” Martha took two steps toward him with the intention of getting around and out.

  “Our families have been friends for a very long time.” A salacious look altered his fine features.

  “Until you and Christopher argued.”

  He shrugged. “All is forgiven now.”

  “Is it?” Christopher had been less and less talkative since he’d taken ill the previous month.

  “Indeed, and our families will resume an even closer friendship.”

  She sighed and gave him an arched look. “How so?” The Tarletons had taken up intimately with the Osbornes before Letitia and Father had courted. Although the British-born Tarletons had been friends of the family when mother was yet alive, that relationship primarily consisted of the two matrons enjoying fox hunts with a group of ladies in Charles City.

  “Didn’t your stepmother speak with you?” He moved closer. “Before she left?”

  Needles of fear prickled her neckline. “About?”

  “Us.” He grasped her arm tightly and jerked Martha toward him.

  “Let go!” She averted her head and tried to twist away but his fingers bit into her shoulders.

  “Or what?” He hissed. “Didn’t Letitia tell you things would be changing around here? A great deal?”

  The crack of wood on stone caused them both to jump. Graham released her as her angel from the bakery strode forward into the light. His eyes locked with hers, sending a frisson of electricity through her as he tossed half of a broken wooden staff aside. Her rescuer barreled toward Graham, arm uplifted. “Touch the lady again and I shall be forced to lay the remainder of this cane across your back.”

  “You wouldn’t dare…”

  Fire seemed to flare from the golden-haired stranger’s eyes, leaving no doubt that he would keep his word. “Don’t try my patience!”

  A muscle in Graham’s jaw twitched and his eyelids lowered, giving him a sinister appearance. She shivered.

  Her avenger gestured toward the back door. “Into your home, Miss Osborne, and away from the likes of this devil.”

  Martha hesitated.

  Graham took one half step toward her protector.

  But when arm muscles bulged beneath the man’s overcoat, and knuckles whitened around the staff, a gape-mouthed Graham fled the sanctuary.

  She didn’t even know this man, yet he defended her. Maybe that was because the stranger truly was an angel. Her avenging angel.

  “Go inside, Miss, and keep the doors barred.” He brushed particles of dust from his vest as he slowly surveyed the small chapel.

  Martha grabbed a fistful of her skirt and hurried into the house as fast as her satin slippers allowed, her heart still hammering from Graham’s insolence and the attack that had almost occurred.

  “Missy, stop!” Dicey, her arms full of bedclothes, stopped Martha before she collided with her.

  After she turned from the laundress, Martha pulled the wooden slat into place on the back door. “Keep the doors barred for now, please.”

  “Missy?”

  “Just do as I say! Do the wash later.” Martha hated the pique in her voice and worse yet the tears that suddenly streamed down her face as she fled up to her bedroom, grasping the bannister as she went. She couldn’t have Dicey going in and out of the laundry building if Graham lurked nearby.

  Throwing herself down on her counterpane coverlet, Martha took quick breaths. What was Graham Tarleton speaking about? She had her own plans for a life, which didn’t include him. When father spoke about things changing, as he rarely did,
it was always in hushed tones with other professors in the Philosophy Department, and in reference to concerns about the British navy. How many times had they railed against the kidnapping of their young men from American shores and forcing them to fight against Napoleon? And why did such an unrelated thought suddenly occur when thinking of Graham and Letitia? Am I losing my mind?

  No. Just listen. And obey.

  That still, small voice had gotten harder to hear until recently, when it seemed all manner of irrational thoughts were coming to her.

  Still. He was Lord.

  Yes, Lord, Thy will be done.

  In his effort to restrain himself from pummeling young Tarleton, sweat soaked through Phillip’s linen shirt, vest, and jacket. He couldn’t very well knock on the professor’s door and explain to him that he’d booted a friend of the family from their property, if, as the insouciant man claimed and as the baker had asserted, the lout was indeed Christopher Osborne’s college friend. Once again, Phillip had been foiled by Tarleton. It stirred a burning in his gut over what had happened with his cousin Miranda, now removed to the far reaches of Norfolk on the other side of the peninsula. Because of schedule at the academy, Phillip couldn’t get back to Williamsburg for at least another week. Blasted Tarleton. Not only that, but Phillip’s favorite walking cane now lay atop the Osborne’s refuse pile.

  Heaving a sigh, he loosened his cravat and made his way up the side street away from the Osborne’s home and toward the market. Brick buildings alternated with some of the newer wooden structures going up along the main venue. With America building up a new nation, he could almost smell the scent of progress in the sawdust and whitewash-scented air.

  Phillip turned from the Osborne’s quiet lane and onto the hard-packed crushed tabby walkway. At least the weather hadn’t been wet and he didn’t have to dodge any puddles while wearing his best dress shoes. He’d wanted to look the part of a town gentleman and not a country horse breeder who was at the mercy of his father and brother for his livelihood. What would Phillip do if Father died and George evicted him and his horses from the Paulson Farm’s stables?