The Steeplechase

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  Martha surveyed the kitchen house where the flurry of activity preceded their party. The number of attendees had swelled from only a dozen invited to nearly forty, when somehow the young men began asking others to attend Father’s first party in the dean’s absence. Her pile of carrots now filled an entire gallon bowl for Cook to prepare.

  “I found more preserves and fruit in the cellar, Miss.” Hannah, their senior-most kitchen servant, displayed a crock of strawberry jam and dried apples.

  “Wonderful.” Her stepmother had deferred to Martha in matters of the kitchen and she’d requested extra fruit set up that year for just such a possible event. Father never bothered with household expenses other than asking that she make sure all the bills were kept up to date, which they were.

  Someone rapped on the doorframe to the white-washed building behind the house and Martha slowly turned, afraid she’d see Graham sullenly standing there. Instead, a swarthy man of middling years clutched a crate of what appeared to be cider to his homespun vest.

  “Hard cider and light cider from Shirley Plantation, miss. Shall I lay it here?”

  Hannah waved her hand toward the bricked floor beneath the open shelving on the back wall. “Over there, please.”

  After finishing his task the man handed her a note. “You can read, miss?”

  Both her father and mother had tutored her at home. “Oh, yes, please tell Mr. and Mrs. Carter a sincere thank you.” How long had it been since she’d participated in foxhunts at their estate? Since before Mother died. She’d received notes periodically from the family, a few from William, who must now be a young man and not the child whose antics she once enjoyed.

  She scanned the note’s contents, and it was signed in Mrs. Carter’s fine penmanship with an invitation for her to come visit sometime. She smiled to herself, her heart warming. “This is the fifth plantation to send us felicitations and spirits or the contents for fruit punch.”

  “Them young men gonna cause a commotion if you give ‘em too much of that hard cider, Miss Martha.” Hannah’s features tightened in disapproval.

  The porter laughed as he tipped his hat and departed.

  One long rectangular table was covered with sausages, tarts, fruit to be cut for trays, and cheese.

  Jessamine caught Martha’s eye. “You best get dressed, Miss Martha, if you gonna be ready for tonight. You leave this all to us now, ya hear?”

  Despite her nerves being wound so tight they might snap like frayed cording, Martha repeated The Lord’s Prayer, hoping for some of God’s peace to come over her. For naught. Surely He approved her plan to enter the race and win the prize. For if she did so, Martha would have a way to retrieve her brother from school as well as have funds to purchase a small stall for livery or stables at the edge of Duke of Gloucester Street.

  Martha paced the floor of her room, the sounds of men’s laughter carrying up from downstairs. The hurriedly hired musicians tuned their stringed instruments, the long plaintive note of the violin catching her strained emotions and carrying them out her open window. She moved to the creamy muslin-curtained lead-paned aperture and surveyed the back courtyard. Movement near the stables caught her eye. Had she glimpsed a tawny headed man astride a chestnut horse?

  “Pooh.” She tapped her fan against her cheek. Everywhere she’d been the previous week, she’d been sure she’d caught sight of the handsome man from the bakery. He was of an age beyond university studies and wasn’t a professor, for she’d met them all. And not a friend of her brother’s, either.

  And what did it matter, anyway, because all the young men who’d called on her were disinclined to court a young woman who possessed her own opinion, particularly on the matters of education and law. She huffed out a sigh. At least she had the use of Galileo—for now.

  Dicey helped Martha into her fancy undergarments and secured her corset. “Not too tight, Missy?”

  “It’s fine.” She lifted her arms as the servant lowered her peach silk dress around her, its top layer fluttering around her.

  After adjusting the cap sleeves, and tying them off, Dicey tied the long taupe satin ribbon beneath Martha’s empire-waisted gown. “You look deep in thought, Miss Martha.”

  “Do you think I look…womanly?” She tapped one long finger on her leg as she reviewed her plan. If I am going to throw those young men off my scent, I must be the most feminine of young ladies tonight. I can and I shall.

  “You be the prettiest lady heah, that’s for sure.” Dicey motioned for Martha to sit on her velvet upholstered boudoir chair.

  The servant arranged Martha’s tresses into coils and secured them with glittering paste clips. When completed, Dicey nestled a small tiara of Mother’s into Martha’s curls. Long strands trailed down the low cut of her gown. “Do you think this bodice is modest enough?”

  Dicey snorted softly. “Compared to what them French ladies now wearin’ when they be in Washington City—I sure think so.”

  All of the newspapers, even the Williamsburg Gazette, had reported the French vistors’ scandalous attire.

  “I can’t imagine any of our Williamsburg ladies imitating the Frenchwomen’s provocative, sheer gowns.”

  The pretty young woman laughed. “And if they did, my oh my—how would those stories carry!”

  “Very true.” Although no longer the capital of Virginia, Williamsburg was no small backwater town and the Tidewater area carried a brisk commerce on the seaboard. “Not that I’d ever consider such a thing myself.” Not even if it meant that she blinded the young men present with her attributes to the extent that when she took her brother’s place for the race, they’d never notice it wasn’t he.

  Why, why, why did it have to be this way? Why should I have to treat Christopher’s tiresome young friends and father’s university cronies as though I am enchanted by them?

  “Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm, you sure lookin’ as pretty as the Missus tonight.” The servant cocked her head to the side and rearranged several curls.

  How did her stepmother manage flirting so easily? “I wish flattery and small talk came to me as naturally as they do to Letitia.”

  “Makin’ big eyes, leanin’ in close, and actin’ like every man is the finest in Virginia—why that comes as easy to the Missus as breathin’!”

  That was it! Martha would imitate Letitia’s mannerisms and ways, but not overly so—she didn’t need to be construed as mocking her stepmother nor trying to solicit too much male attention of the unwanted kind. Such as Graham’s. A quick image of her stepmother’s face scrunched in concentration passed through Martha’s mind. Letitia had the habit of immediately burning any missives she received. And unlike when she was in a man’s company, if Martha came upon her whilst she was reading her letters, she was quickly and rudely sent on her way with a reprimand. But Martha had held her tongue and not returned the woman’s vitriolic words to her.

  I shall hold my tongue. I have much practice. I shall smile all night and laugh at Christopher’s friends’ inane comments. I shall bat my eyelashes and fan myself as I look up at each young buck as if he alone is the handsomest man at the party.

  If Christopher’s chums considered Martha to be a flower of utmost femininity, then when she arrived at their race, they’d never suspect it was Martha, not Christopher, on Galileo.

  Her hands trembled as Dicey assisted her with her gloves. For the first time in her life, she was tempted to sneak to her father’s office and partake of a goblet of port before facing the crowd downstairs. She pressed her eyes shut. Dear God, you know I am opinionated, too educated for a woman’s own good, and my temper isn’t quite as tame as it should be, but if you see fit to change me, do so now—but not enough that I should put aside my desire to win the race, in Jesus’s name, Amen.

  A rap on the door preceded Jessamine’s entrance. “Miss Martha, they’re expectin’ ya downstairs. Are ya ready?”

  Jessamine sucked in a breath. “Oh my. Ain’t ya the spittin’ image of your mother when she was of yer age, miss.�
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  Dicey stifled a giggle. “Wouldn’t Lady Letitia spit nails if she could see who the loveliest Osborne lady was now?”

  Martha cringed at Dicey’s reference to her stepmother as Lady Letitia. In America, one did not use such titles. But she bit her lip. “Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Giving Martha a curtsy, Jessamine backed out of the room and Dicey affixed glittering earbobs to Martha’s ear lobes and then wrapped one of her mother’s jeweled necklaces around her neck.

  “I think you ready now, Missy.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Drawing in a sustaining breath, Martha pasted a smile on her face and exited her room. She descended the stairway, the satiny smooth curved walnut rail comforting beneath her fingertips. This was her home. But not for much longer. She and Johnny could make other plans. And the sad thing was—her stepmother and her father would only give weak protest over how “unseemly” it would be. That was, if Letitia did return. And that niggling recurring voice seemed more of the Holy Spirit than of Martha’s own wishes. If she had her own desire, Letitia and Father would love the boy much more than either of them had ever demonstrated.

  Head high, shoulders back, stomach tucked in, Martha continued on into the main salon.

  A half dozen of her brother’s friends casually glanced up, but then their eyes widened and several of them momentarily gaped. She couldn’t resist the tiny smirk that tugged at her lips, but quickly regained her composure. I am the princess coming to court, and these are my suitors from the far off lands of the realm. Not likely, since she’d known most of them since they were children attending day school with Christopher in Williamsburg.

  That thought made her frown, because Johnny wouldn’t be there. Instead, her younger brother had been shuffled off to a boarding school, away from family and friends. One of the young men, Bryce Evans, took several steps toward her and then hesitated, scanning her face. No, no, I mustn’t think any negative thoughts. She quickly put a smile back on and held out her hand to the barrister’s son.

  “Why Miss Osborne, I’ve never seen you looking so beautiful.”

  She dipped her chin slightly, then looked up from beneath fluttering eyelashes. Goodness, this might make her dizzy. She wobbled slightly and Bryce took her elbow.

  “Are you quite all right? Come, let’s find you a seat.”

  “Oh, no, that’s fine.” She couldn’t sit or she’d have trouble convincing each guest that he was the most superior male on the planet. “I’m afraid your rather grown-up handsome appearance has simply flustered me.”

  Was that a blush spreading across his high cheekbones? It was. Victory.

  He laughed. “May I procure some punch for you?”

  “Delightful.” Because then she could move on to another target.

  As soon as Bryce moved away, she opened her fan, trying to remember what all those silly fan gestures meant, but unable to come up with a single notion. As gracefully as she could, she meandered through the crush of gentlemen toward the savories table, the scent of ham biscuits and thyme wafting toward her. A dark-haired man, about forty, one of the new professors, stepped into her path. “Miss Osborne, so nice to see you again. I was hoping we could continue our conversation about Newton and his theories.”

  Throwing back her head, she laughed in what she hoped sounded bubbly and ebullient. “Why, Dr. Gredler, this is a party.” Not that similar events kept her from discussing philosophy and the like. But for tonight…

  She cast him a sidelong glance then moved off toward a cluster of three of Christopher’s older university friends. “Gentlemen, welcome.”

  The trio swiveled toward her.

  “This cannot be Martha Osborne.” The tallest of the three, the favorite bachelor of Williamsburg, swooped in like an eagle to its nest.

  Chapter 4

  Blast. Phillip had no chance against the eldest Tyler heir, a handsome rake with dark hair that curled around his pristine white collar.

  Phillip’s own head felt naked with so much of his hair cut away and that curling around his face itched and irritated. Blasted Mingo. Why had he allowed him to chop off his hair? Because of Martha Osborne. That was why and the reason for him hiding here in the shadows gawking at the young lady. When had she transformed from the beautiful, albeit odd duck, he’d met at the bakery, into this full-on flirtatious belle? It made him almost dazed to consider what had brought on such an alteration. Was she in desperate straits to obtain a suitor? According to little Johnny, she “doesn’t want to be someone’s dull old wife shoved off in a corner, she wants to be free like boys are—like me.” Poor little chap shed a few tears over his final words, as he was cordoned off from society more fully than even his sister.

  Martha Osborne flitted from one young man to another, maneuvering her fan with skill he’d only witnessed in the grand halls of Europe. And what was the meaning of that tap against her chin? Was she encouraging the middle-aged man to call upon her privately? Would such a pedantic type even know what signal she was sending? What an idiot he’d been, thinking he’d speak with her alone when she’d just sent the message to at least three men that she was willing to entertain them absent of company.

  He swiped at the irritating curls on his forehead. Surely it was his hair irritating him and not all the attention Martha received. He needed to stop obsessing over the lovely young woman. His intent had been to speak with the lady’s father about his young son and to learn more about the upcoming secret race, wasn’t it?

  A servant carrying a tray of ham biscuits backed up into Phillip. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Not at all your fault. I’m looking for Professor Osborne.”

  “He’s not here, sir.”

  “Is he not the host of this event?”

  “Yes, sir, but he’s in his office.” The man’s interaction with him was attracting attention.

  “Thank you.” Phillip edged away from the servant and along the perimeter of the rectangular room and then moved into the corridor, whose flocked wallpaper was one he’d seen in the palace when last his family had journeyed to London with Uncle Lightfoot on one of his purchasing trips. Spying lamplight from a cracked door that led to a room located near the front of the home, which was an ideal location for an office, Phillip hesitated; he listened for conversation to indicate the professor may be inside the room. A man was humming an Irish parlor tune; one George and his mother enjoyed playing on the piano at home. Phillip tapped on the paneled door.

  “Enter!” A vigorous male voice called out.

  Phillip opened the door and entered a square room cluttered with books, stacks of papers, and framed botanical prints. Centered on the far wall, suspended between two uncurtained mullioned windows, was a surprisingly large silver cross that would seem more fitting in a sanctuary. But hadn’t young Johnny maintained that his father had been an Anglican priest? Not that there was employment for such in America. The faint scent of sandalwood and coffee commingled with the remnants of ever-present woodsmoke.

  “Good day, sir, or rather good eve to you.”

  The man within remained seated at his desk, but angled his head. “I’m sorry, but while you look familiar, I’m afraid I don’t recognize you, young man.”

  “Forgive me. I am Phillip Paulson of Paulson Farms, and we met briefly when you brought your son to my brother’s academy.”

  “Ah.” Professor Osborn’s gaze wavered. “George Paulson is your brother?”

  Phillip brought a hand to his forehead, wishing his hair was pulled back off his face. He’d not mention the embarrassing barbering inflicted upon his person earlier that day. “Forgive me, sir, I was with the horses and dressed in work clothes when you arrived to deliver Johnny to school. You may not have recognized me.”

  “Yes, yes, the fellow with the fine bay mare.”

  “Yes sir, she’s a beauty. One of many I’ve loaned to the school.” He didn’t need to add that second sentence. But how many times had he spoken with someone and as soon as t
hey’d ascertained he was not the firstborn Paulson son, he was dismissed as being of any consequence.

  “Indeed. Are you not the elder brother?”

  “No, I’m his younger brother and I manage my father’s equestrian interests and teach some at the school.”

  “I see.” His expression revealed doubt. “Most unusual. I’m sure your brother said something…but it’s of no matter. You say you’re the son who has the fine collection of horses and now you are helping the academy lads?”

  “Your youngest son is a fine rider.”

  “All of my children are.” His direct gaze issued a challenge.

  All? Including his daughter? “I can see he’s had excellent instruction.”

  “Yes, my eldest son is a fine rider and ensures John is adequately trained.”

  Johnny had said his sister taught him. The boy hadn’t budged from his story even when other boys taunted him and called him a liar. Luckily, fisticuffs had been avoided when the headmaster had wandered along.

  “I hate to be presumptuous sir, but I’ve come to express some concerns to you, in person.”

  Stroking his bushy salt and pepper moustache, the professor leaned forward. “About his riding?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Do tell.” He pointed to a black Windsor chair, seated across from the desk.

  Fifteen minutes later, Phillip emerged from the office, spirits sinking. How a man could be cowed by his wife into leaving such a young boy away from home was beyond him. At least Professor Osborne had admitted that his daughter agreed with Phillip’s contention that a child so young would be better off with family—especially with his mother and other sister gone off to England.