The Steeplechase

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  Jessamine had come up from the kitchen to help arrange Martha’s hair. “You gotta let me fix that mess of yours, Miss Martha.”

  With all the tossing and turning she’d done the night before, dreaming of her angel—no, Phillip Paulson—her red hair poufed out in all directions. “Yes, please.”

  Now, after a full hour of brushing and combing, her tresses were more elaborate. “Thank you, Jessamine.”

  “You welcome. You gonna need help dressing today.” The servant assisted Martha into one of her prettier gowns and affixed Mother’s gold and garnet broach to her ecru lace shawl.

  Martha peered into her mirror. She almost looked like a gentlewoman.

  Jessamine cocked her head. “What time you say he comin’? It nigh on the hour, Missy.”

  Gasping, Martha grabbed her reticule from her dressing table. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Already told Asa to get the carriage ready.”

  “Bless you.” Martha exhaled a sigh as she departed.

  Within a short while, Asa stopped at the docks, despite the driver’s protest that it was “no place for a lady.” But she couldn’t wait for Phillip’s arrival with Johnny.

  Her heart pounded as she disembarked. Why was Phillip returning so soon? She’d thought little of anything else since he’d departed.

  Now many hours later, Martha sighed in contentment at the end of the whirlwind day. She and Phillip had discussed everything from Aristotle to the best hunting dogs to their favorite parlor songs. Meanwhile, Johnny visited with Father, Christopher, and the one little boy on their lane who was allowed to play with her younger brother.

  She had to tell him, had to get Phillip to promise to have Johnny sent home. So as they sat in the Market Square, in the center of Williamsburg, Martha told him all about her plans to race with Christopher’s friends to Yorktown, taking his place.

  Phillip quirked a golden eyebrow. “Did you know I am an entrant?”

  “No.”

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the map that she’d found in Christopher’s bedchamber. “See?”

  She puffed out a breath. “If I win, which I shall, then I can use the money to purchase that small stable on the other end of town.”

  His eyes widened. “To what purpose?”

  “I shall live there out from beneath Letitia’s critical eye.”

  “Is she so harsh as all that?”

  “Worse than you can imagine.”

  His handsome features tugged as though he was holding something back. “What if she never returns?”

  She stiffened. “My stepmother has always come back before.”

  Phillip swiveled away from her, shielding his eyes from the sun and peering in Johnny’s direction. “I don’t see how anyone could leave Johnny behind. Surely she’d return for him…”

  Unease trickled through her as clouds dimmed the autumn sun’s warmth. “When she comes back I’ll be in the little house beside the stable and Johnny can visit me any time he wishes.”

  Phillip turned toward her, his countenance unreadable as he scanned her face as though searching for something. “When do you expect her?”

  Martha shrugged. “We’ve had no word, but she’s often gone for over half the year and it’s only now a few months.”

  “Is your father not concerned that he’s had no communication?”

  Again she shrugged. “We don’t discuss it. And I don’t wish to upset him by bringing it up.”

  “Understandable.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “Back to our previous topic; you expect to race those young bucks and win?”

  “Of course! I’m better than any of them.”

  “I think not.”

  Her only true competitor was Graham and if he was any kind of gentleman, once he determined it was she, not her brother racing, he’d let her win. At least that was her hope. “It’s true whether you choose to believe it or not.”

  “I’ll wager there is one man who could best you.”

  “And if he does not?”

  “I shall move heaven and earth to get Johnny home to you, regardless of what that may do to my relationship with my brother and your father.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes.”

  Martha clapped her hands together. “Thank you, Lord.”

  “You might thank me also.” Phillip stroked his strong jawline.

  “Thank you, Phillip.”

  “And if you do not beat that other equestrian, then Johnny goes where I say, including staying at school.”

  “Agreed.” Martha narrowed her eyes at him as a breeze swirled leaves around them.

  He removed his watch from his vest pocket and frowned. “We must leave soon.” Phillip took her hand in his, sending a thrill through her.

  She sighed. “I know.”

  “Might I presume that since you accepted me as an Academy instructor, that you’d permit me to court you even though I am the second son?”

  There was an urgency in his voice that Martha hadn’t heard before. “How could I refuse the man who brought my little brother to me?”

  He laughed. “So that was all I had to do?”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “Not if you were trying to get Father’s permission.” She sighed.

  “He did seem a tad angry, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think Johnny noticed.”

  “No.”

  Johnny raced through the thick amber, orange, and red leaves in the market square, chasing a squirrel and laughing. Myrtle James had given the child several cookies which Johnny consumed on the spot; likely fueling the energy he displayed that afternoon.

  “Think he’s had enough?” Phillip glanced between her and the carriage, parked near the hatmakers, where she’d purchased a new brown tricornered felt cap for her brother.

  “Between skipping rocks on the pond, riding his pony at home, and dining at Mrs. Grunst’s fine tavern, I believe the boy is about to collapse.”

  As if to demonstrate her words, Johnny tossed his new cap in the air, fell onto his back in the leaves, and his hat twirled in the air before landing atop his slim form. A gray squirrel snatched up an acorn nearby and ran off.

  Phillip laughed. “I’d say he’s ready.”

  “Well past exhaustion but perfectly pleased!” She squeezed Phillip’s hand.

  He swiveled to face her and lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them, spiraling heat through her. Martha sucked in her breath and he lowered her arm, then took one step closer to her, leaning his forehead down. Was he going to kiss her? She blinked, unsure if she should close her eyes. Nearby, several servants giggled as they walked past. When she went to draw back, Phillip cupped her chin in his palm and gazed intently into her eyes.

  “Do you wish to be courted by me, Miss Osborne?”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes and waited for his mouth to cover her own. Hadn’t he just asked permission to kiss her? Warm lips pressed against her forehead.

  “I assume that is your answer, my dear.” His chest rumbled with laughter as he pulled her into a brief embrace and then stood back.

  Embarrassed, she ducked her chin, but his gentle fingers cupped her there and lifted her face. Looking into those beguiling eyes she couldn’t utter a word. He really did look too handsome to be real. But he was. And he wished to court her. Martha Osborne, the outcast of Williamsburg.

  “I must go soon, as I have another engagement.” His eyelids dropped to half-mast and his lips twitched in distaste.

  Another engagement? Of what did he speak? Phillip had mentioned nothing prior to now.

  “I should go home.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll have one of my uncle’s drivers carry you back. You’ll be able to spend more time with Johnny, then.”

  Phillip mentioned nothing of wishing to spend more time with her. Was he toying with her affections? Her shoulders stiffened. But she’d go—she’d get to say goodbye to Johnny. “As you wish.”

  His features relaxed again. Ph
illip tilted back his head, chuckled, and released her hands. “As you wish! My mother said if a woman ever said those words to me, and meant them, that I’d have found my own true love.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. She loved a parlor song about such a silly notion. Used to have George and I practice it on the piano forte.”

  Martha tilted her head. “I did mean my words but please don’t play that dreadful tune…” She’d been about to say when we are married but caught herself. Perhaps there would be no wedding if he was meeting with other young women.

  “As you wish.” He winked at her and bowed before striding off toward Johnny.

  Johnny ran back, then threw his arms around her waist. “I don’t want to leave you, Marty.”

  A muscle near Martha’s eye twitched and she drew in a slow breath. “You’ll be home soon.” If she had anything to say about it. Plus, if she won her wager then Phillip would assist her with bringing Johnny back to Williamsburg.

  A buckskin-clad lone rider directed his sorrel toward them, dismounting in one fell swoop when he neared the hitching post. The horse’s coat gleamed, its reddish hue almost the exact shade of her own hair. Despite the backwoodsman’s rough appearance, his mount had been well-tended.

  “Paulson! I have a message for you.” As the man strode toward them, he retrieved a missive from a fringed deerskin pouch hung from his neck. “Believe your meeting time has changed.”

  Chapter 7

  Surely if Phillip was meeting a lady she’d not send message in such a manner. Martha resisted the urge to peer over Phillip’s shoulder.

  Phillip tore into the note and grinned. “Thanks, Shad. Let the men know I got their message.”

  The knot that had formed in Martha’s stomach suddenly released.

  “Sure thing, Paulson.” The rider tipped his hat at Martha then departed.

  His smile broad, Phillip clapped his hands together. “Off to the wharf!”

  When they arrived, the sun was sitting low on the horizon. Martha hugged Johnny close to her before removing the light wool blanket that covered their laps in the open carriage. After Phillip set the brake, one of the Lightfoot’s servants ran from the stable and assisted him out.

  Martha stepped down into Phillip’s outstretched arms. He held her there more than was proper, his arms warm and strong at her waist.

  I am being courted by him! Her heart sped up as he pressed another kiss to her forehead. How long would it be until she saw him once more? It wouldn’t be proper to ask.

  From behind her, Johnny jumped out, landing with a thud.

  She laughed. “Some things never change. You’re a little taller, Johnny, and still full of energy.”

  A cloud seemed to pass over Phillip’s eyes. “He’s a stalwart chap and will need that stamina.”

  What a strange thing to say. But then again, didn’t all boys need energy and strength?

  Mr. Lightfoot strode out from his office, a drab wooden structure at the edge of the wharf. His eyes took her and Johnny in before his silver head tipped back and he surveyed the darkening sky.

  Phillip rubbed his chin. “Seems the tides and the wind align against my return this evening.”

  Glancing to the creek, it was clear the tide had already departed—without Phillip.

  “I see.” Hope lifted, like a breeze from the water, which was calm as a looking glass.

  Johnny propelled himself at Phillip. “Can we stay?”

  Mr. Lightfoot joined them, rubbing his beefy hands together, a grin forming on his ruddy face.

  “Perhaps this might be the night to dine with my Uncle Lightfoot?” Phillip arched an eyebrow at the older man.

  “You must have gotten the message, then?”

  “I did.” The two exchanged glances and a shadow once again passed over Phillip’s features.

  What did those men want to meet with him about?

  Mr. Lightfoot patted his mid-section. “I say we have our dinner sooner rather than later.”

  The dimming sun illuminated the faint blond bristle on Phillip’s cheeks. On his very handsome face. He rubbed his jaw, as though aware of her thoughts. “We have to get word to Professor Osborne immediately.”

  Martha nodded. “Yes, he may wish him to return home.”

  “Is your father a practical man, Miss Osborne?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then best to send word you and your brother shall remain for dinner as well as the evening, for he and Phillip would go out on the tide first thing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your brother is most welcome at the children’s table where he may make as much noise as he wishes.”

  Johnny let out a whoop.

  “Perhaps not that kind of noise at dinner, Johnny.” Phillip leaned down.

  He took her hand. “And we shall send you home by a coachlit carriage, my dear.”

  His dear? Those words sent a tremor through her. They weren’t uttered the way Father’s friends had, when they had referred to Martha as “my dear.”

  “You must be shaved and readied for dinner, Nephew. You’re covered with dust.” Lightfoot clapped his broad hand against Phillip’s back and Martha felt him flinch.

  Martha passed her hand over her best day gown’s skirt and particles of dust puffed from her as well. She’d retrieved her pelisse from home but it hadn’t protected her gown. “I’m not in evening attire.”

  Mr. Lightfoot waved his hand. “Our maids can brush your clothing out before dinner. Do not worry.”

  A broad-chested worker rolled barrels down the walkway. “I’ll send my worker with a message.”

  “Perhaps it is best we go.” Martha was worn out from people being upset with her, although with Letitia gone she had experienced a reprieve.

  “Please, Marty, can we stay?” Johnny squeezed Martha’s hand so hard that she flinched and pulled free.

  “All right then. I fear you’ve all convinced me. Thank you, Mr. Lightfoot. But of course, if Father disapproves…”

  A pelican, perched on a nearby pole at the dock, peered at them, with much the same expression as Mr. Lightfoot. “I imagine your father will enjoy a glad heart if his children are happy. That is how it is for we fathers, I assure you.”

  Was it so? Father didn’t seem to care how miserable Johnny had been at school. Martha nibbled her lip as Phillip extended his arm. Warmth and strength were offered in his solid forearm as he swiveled her back away from the docks and toward the stables.

  “Why don’t you have a seat on the bench while I request a carriage? Then we’ll ride to Uncle’s home.” Phillip pointed to a narrow wooden slat, nailed to two squared off stumps which might have once been masts. It nestled near a square, whitewashed building by the dock.

  Martha took Johnny’s small hand in hers. “Not much of a seat, but it will do.”

  “As long as I’m with you, Marty!” Her brother snuggled against her.

  They both leaned back against the building, the sun’s fading rays warm. After the delight of spending the day with her brother, the fear of having him leave again, and now having a reprieve, Martha’s emotional reserves were reaching their end. Tears of relief began to trickle down her cheeks. Thankfully, the little fellow didn’t look up. She needn’t upset him. Somehow she’d discreetly fish out her handkerchief with her right hand and gently dab at her cheeks without disturbing him.

  Gentle, even breathing, suddenly accompanied by a low snore announced that the day’s events had taken a toll on Johnny, too.

  Quiet movement to her right, and then a handkerchief extended to her, once again cued her to not only Phillip’s presence, but also his ability to anticipate her needs.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed.

  He briefly raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement and then pointed to a nearby stable.

  In a short while, the two men returned, in a fine black carriage, the Lightfoot crest painted on the side in gold and red. Martha’s breath caught in her chest. Brass lights were affixed
on the sides of the carriage and in the front. It would be dark later when they returned home and the lights would be necessary.

  Soon, Phillip carried Johnny to the brougham as Mr. Lightfoot offered his arm, which felt surprisingly sinewy beneath his blue broadcloth coat. “Very glad to entertain you this evening, Miss Osborne.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m an old friend of your mother’s, you know.”

  She almost tripped over some pebbles beneath the crushed oyster shell path as they headed to the carriage. “No, I didn’t know.”

  He stopped, and faced her. “I apologize that I haven’t been the friend to your father that he needed. And someone you could have turned to, my dear.”

  Before she could respond, Phillip returned and assisted her up into the interior. She sucked in a breath. She slid onto the brown leather seat and ran a hand over its smooth surface. Crimson velvet lined the interior and the ceiling was quilted, with large fabric-covered buttons affixed in each diamond corner of the pattern.

  Johnny lay rolled on his side. After rearranging his legs, she sat next to her brother. Mr. Lightfoot entered the coach and sat opposite, with Phillip following.

  Mr. Lightfoot rapped on the ceiling and called out, “Move on!”

  Johnny’s head jerked up. He eyed Martha lazily, but then dropped his head again.

  The carriage suddenly heaved forward. She’d have lost her balance had Phillip not reached across and pressed a hand to her knee. She clutched Johnny to prevent him from rolling off the slippery, leather cushioned seat and Phillip splayed a steadying hand over her brother’s bent knees. She cringed, expecting either him or his uncle to launch into a string of profanity at the driver, as so many men might do.

  Mr. Lightfoot shook his silvery head while a muscle jumped in Phillip’s cheek and a tendon in his neck protruded against his stiff white cravat.

  “I assure you there was no need to change, my dear.” Mrs. Lightfoot, who smelled of roses and sugar cookies, took Martha’s hands in her slim ones. The petite woman blinked rapidly and then flipped Martha’s hands over, revealing stray callouses from the reins.

  Martha pulled her hands free. “I’m afraid I…”