Hereford cocked an eyebrow, but did not say a word. He had his fair share of dalliances before his marriage, and knew all too well the importance of discretion—that of one’s lovers, but especially that of one’s friends.
Together, the three of them walked across the foyer and into the ballroom. A group of older gentlemen, seeing Linley positioned between both the Marquess of Kyre and the Duke of Hereford, pointed out, “With friends like that, you should have no trouble financing a lifetime of expeditions, Miss Talbot-Martin.”
“I have no doubt Hereford will do his part,” Patrick said, smiling, “But we all know I don’t have any money.”
The older men laughed, slapped him on the back, and admitted to feeling the strain on their bank accounts as well.
Linley looked up at him. “You don’t have any money?”
“I have some—certainly more than most—but not the kind you’re talking about,” he explained. “Supporting an outfit like your father’s would cost a fortune.”
She lowered her voice, “I had no idea you were skint.”
“I am not skint,” he said, still smiling. “All my money is in land. Land that, I am afraid, is attached to my title, and therefore cannot be sold away.”
“Not to worry, though,” Hereford said. “I have enough ready money to float the both of us.” Turning to Linley, he added “And your father can expect a fifty pound donation from me by the end of the night.”
***
The party wound down as the night wore on, Sir Bedford Talbot-Martin growing more and more excited with every cheque he received. Patrick found that Linley distanced herself from him as much as possible, and with what happened upstairs, he couldn’t blame her. For his part, he stood in the foyer, thanking his guests for coming and wishing them all a safe trip home.
“You’re a dirty bastard, Kyre!” Allard Robeson said as he passed by him on his way out the door.
“Allard,” Patrick said, never missing a beat. “So good to see you!”
“Didn’t you hear me?” the young man repeated himself. “I said you’re a dirty, sodding bastard. And I will never forgive you for making a fool of me!”
“You should know better than to try to move in on my girl,” Patrick said, his voice low, but not quite menacing. “I don’t want to hear of you ever speaking to her again.”
Without another word, Allard stalked out the front door, but Gaynor was not far behind him. “If you think he’s hot, wait until you see Finchdale,” she said. “He went around all night telling everyone he danced with the Infanta de Nova.”
“Poor Finchdale—living proof that money cannot buy brains or class.”
She chuckled, pulling her satin skirts around her. “Oh but the things money can buy, eh, Kyre?” With that, Gaynor swished out of the foyer and into the foggy London night.
After the last guests departed, Patrick went in search of Linley and the rest of the Talbot-Martin team. He found them in the dining room, eating cold roast beef and counting donations.
“Three hundred and fifty pounds!” Archie cried.
They all clapped and cheered.
“That will be more than enough if we economize,” Schoville said.
“Congratulations,” Patrick said, slipping into the room.
Sir Bedford reached out to shake his hand. “We couldn’t have done it without you. Your efforts have truly saved our little team from ruin!”
“I didn’t do it for your team,” he explained. “I did it for Linley.”
Everyone turned toward Linley, who blushed. “I—I was wondering if we could speak privately.” She cleared her throat. “Is there somewhere we could go?”
“Certainly,” Patrick said, leading her out into the hall, and down a long corridor. He stopped at a door, drew a set of keys from his jacket pocket, and unlocked it. “I warn you, this room has not been renovated like the others.”
He pushed open the door and turned on the light switch. Heavy floral wallpaper pulled away from the walls, hanging in curled strips. The skeletons of a few dead pigeons lay heaped in the corner, and a layer of dust a quarter of an inch thick coated the scarred wooden floor.
Patrick walked over and nudged the dead birds with the toe of his glossy black shoe. “Must have come in through the chimney, poor devils.”
Linley covered her face and sneezed. “It’s awfully dusty in here.”
“I’m sorry, would you like to go somewhere else?”
“No,” she said. “This is fine.”
Patrick smiled and crossed the room, stopping in front of her. “When you said you wanted to be alone with me, I wondered if you weren’t looking for round two.”
“What? No!” Linley shook her head. “There will be no more of that. Actually, that is exactly why I wanted to talk to you. In light of what happened earlier tonight, I think it would be best if we…well, if we didn’t do that again.”
“You mean we shouldn’t kiss?”
“I mean we shouldn’t even tempt ourselves. I believe from here on out we should remain strictly friends—no kissing, no secluded walks in gardens, no afternoon drives in your motor.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am serious, Patrick,” she said, reaching out and taking one of his hands. “You are a wonderful man and the best friend anyone could ask for…but I don’t see any reason why things should progress any further between us than they already have.”
Patrick snatched his hand away. “I can’t believe you! You have used me all this time just to get what you want, and now that you find out I don’t have any money, you pull this nonsense?”
“No! This has nothing to do with your money,” Linley argued. “This has everything to do with you and I. I am leaving in a few weeks, and you will go on with your life. You will forget that I ever existed, while I will have to remember you until the day I die!”
“That is a touch melodramatic, don’t you think?”
She glared at him, and crossed her arms.
“I find it terribly ironic,” Patrick continued, “that you decide to call everything to a halt the minute you learn I don’t have the funds to support your little endeavors. And I find it even more ironic that I was warned you would do exactly this.”
Linley’s mouth dropped. “Your insinuations are insulting.”
“Then prove me wrong!”
“What do you want me to say?” she asked. “Patrick, you know we cannot be anything more than we are now. You know I’m leaving, and you know I won’t be coming back. So what use is there to pretend otherwise? I appreciate everything you have done for me these past few weeks. Really, I do. But I finally understand what everyone has been trying to tell me all along—that I am fooling myself to believe there can be anything between us.”
Linley barreled on, trying to make him understand. “You belong here, with your elegant parties and with girls like Gaynor Robeson. I live out of little more than steamer trunks. You can play at my life for a few months whenever you are bored—taking trips to Africa under a false name—but you can always come back. You can come home to your fancy clothes, and your oyster dinners, and your well-bred ladies. You can impress your friends with stories of your adventures, but you will never know what it is like to actually live them.”
“You think my life is meaningless, is that it?”
“Patrick, I—”
He waved his hand to silence her. “Don’t back down now, Linley. You’ve told me how you feel. You’ve said it plainly and simply. I am man enough to hear it, and you should be woman enough to stand behind it.”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
Patrick thrust his hands in his trouser pockets wishing to God he had a cigarette, even though he hadn’t smoked since university. “At least now we know the long and the short of it. And in light of everything said in this room tonight, I have to admit you were right. It was foolish of me to kiss you. I did not think of the consequences. It was unfair, and I apologize.”
Linley nodded.
/> He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and held it out to her. “Best of luck on your expedition.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Despite ending her friendship with Patrick, Linley kept her chin up that week. It was lonely around Berenice’s townhouse without his visits, but with all the preparations for the Derby, Linley hardly had time to miss him. She ran through an endless circuit of dress fittings, hat selections, itinerary confirmations, and ticket purchases. Schoville assured her it was worth the trouble just to see the horses fly past, but Linley was not convinced. And as they joined the crowd outside Epsom Downs, she was too tired to argue.
“Fine day for a race,” Schoville said, tipping the brim of his hat against the June afternoon sun.
Linley held up her gloved hand to shield her own eyes as she scanned the faces of the eager racegoers. There were more people than Linley ever saw in one place in her entire life. They stood on top of motorcars and four-in-hands to get a better view of the track. Gypsies weaved between it all holding flowers for sale, calling out above the music coming from a brass band on a nearby pavilion. She saw grandstands and spectator boxes, and beyond that, dozens of flags flying atop tents in the infield. Schoville said anyone who was anyone in society attended the Derby, and from the crowd she saw, Linley believed him.
Lucky for her that she and Schoville could only afford a spot by the railings, and not in any of the special boxes or stands reserved for ‘society’. Linley hoped to avoid seeing any familiar faces, and crammed in among the common folks meant little chance of that happening.
“Do you want to go to the paddock?” Schoville asked. “I’d like to have a look at Craganour. They say he’s the horse to beat.”
At the railing around the pen, Schoville pointed out which horse was which, whom it belonged to, and what its odds were. “That is the King’s horse, Anmer,” he explained as a groom led a lean bay thoroughbred around the grass.
“I never knew you were so fond of racing,” Linley said.
He started to answer, but another horse caught his eye. “Look! There’s Craganour. He’s the favorite at six to four.”
Linley watched as the horse paraded past. They all looked the same to her, and she couldn’t tell just by looking which one was more likely to win the Derby.
“He’s owned by Charles Bower Ismay,” Schoville whispered in her ear. “Brother of the owner of the Titanic.”
Like everyone else, Linley followed the Titanic disaster in the papers over the past year. It almost did not seem fair that Mr. Ismay’s brother could even think to race horses so soon after the tragedy. Not while all those deaths were still so fresh in everyone’s minds.
“We should find a place by the track,” Schoville said, taking her arm. “If we don’t, we won’t stand a chance at seeing the race.”
As they walked back through the crowd, Linley watched the other spectators milling about the grounds. How excited they all seemed. The way everyone carried on, one would think it was a bank holiday. She stopped with the rest of the common racegoers to let a group of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen pass through.
Linley watched as the group made their way to their private box. Other members of society gathered around the rows of boxes, greeting each other and getting in a few last minutes of small talk before the race began.
“We should hurry,” Schoville said, pulling her through the crowd. He led her through a gate and into the general viewing area below the grandstands and the boxes.
It was too late to find a spot near the winning post, but they managed to secure a decent place to watch near the curve of the track known as Tattenham Corner.
***
Standing at the edge of his box, Patrick looked out at the sea of people a few feet below. They talked and laughed without a care in the world, and, for a moment, he felt the pinch of jealousy. He wondered what it would be like to live without worrying about estates, employees, tenants, and all the other responsibilities that concerned men of his standing. Of course, those people down there had their own troubles. Troubles Patrick knew little about—hunger, unemployment, health issues. He counted himself fortunate, but could not help wondering what life would be like on the other side of the fence.
Linley was right about that, though. Patrick could play at it until the game wasn’t fun anymore and then go back to his own life. Those people could never have a taste of the way he lived. Sure, the line was blurring lately—enough to make many of his friends nervous—but no matter how much money the middle class earned, or how great of a title that money could buy, they would always be considered ‘outside looking in’.
As Patrick contemplated all of this, he scanned the crowd. A few faces stared back at him, faces of young women and their mothers who hoped to catch the eye of the handsome gentleman in the box above. No doubt many of them knew him by sight, trained to spot his aristocratic bearing and Wolford family dimples from a hundred yards away. But Patrick was not interested in any of them. He focused on a young woman who stood with her back turned to him, scanning the track with a pair of men’s field glasses.
His gloved hands clenched the ledge of the box as he leaned forward. He did not have to see her face to know it was Linley. He could tell by her long, slender arms, and floral linen day dress. The frock was new—or, at least, one he’d never seen before—but it was typical Linley.
She stood on her tip-toes watching the action on the track. He did not even notice the race start. Beside him, he heard people calling for Craganour, but Patrick couldn’t care less which horse took the lead. He was too busy studying Linley as she followed the horses around the corner.
***
Linley could not help but get caught up in the excitement. She watched as Craganour and another horse fought for the lead. Schoville cheered as the horses rounded the bend of Tattenham Corner. Through the field glasses, she watched as they thundered through the turn, the jockeys whipping them for all they were worth. Pushing them. Faster. Harder.
“Go!” Linley screamed. “Go! Go!”
Craganour was second, but still fighting the lead horse. Anmer, King George’s own racehorse, ran further back. As the leaders entered the straightaway, Anmer came into the corner third to last. The horses moved so quickly she could barely keep them in sight. She watched as Anmer rounded Tattenham Corner, preparing to go into the straightaway. But through her glasses, she saw something else.
A woman on the other side of the track scrambled under the railing. It happened so fast that no one had time to scream a warning. The woman ran right out in front of the King’s horse, which hit her full on.
Horse, jockey, and woman slammed onto the racetrack, tumbling end over end.
Anmer struggled to his feet. The jockey and the woman remained motionless on the turf. Panic broke out. Spectators rushed onto the track, and Anmer bolted. Before anyone could catch him, he headed straight for the finish line. Riderless.
Linley wanted to shut her eyes against the horrible scene, but was in danger of being trampled herself. Somehow in the midst of it all, she became separated from Schoville.
“Schoville!” She screamed his name, but could barely hear her own voice over all the shouting and yelling. “Schoville!”
A woman slammed into her shoulder as she ran past, and Linley grabbed the railing with both hands to keep from falling. There was so much screaming. So much crying. No one knew what happened. Had it been an accident? Was it deliberate? Politically motivated?
People feared for their own safety. They knocked each other down in their hurry. Linley watched as a young man was carried past her, blood spilling from a gash in his forehead.
An ambulance rolled onto the field, taking the unconscious jockey away. As it passed the point where Linley stood, the crowd surged again, running over each other to follow it down the track.
She screamed and pushed against the other racegoers as they pulled her with them. The force of their bodies pushed Linley against the railing, threatening to crush her if she di
d not give in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Patrick leapt over the ledge of his box. He hit the ground hard, the fall sending pain jarring up both his legs. He caught himself with his hands on the ground to keep from toppling over.
Pushing off, he ran toward Linley.
He shoved his way through the crowd. “Move!” he cried, plowing through the wall of bodies. “Out of the way!”
If he did not reach Linley soon, she could be seriously injured.
Or worse.
Patrick lost sight of her in the panic. He thrust blindly through the crush, pushing people out of his way as best he could. His heart pounded and his ears rang from all the screaming. The crowd was out of control. Bobbies did their best to establish some semblance of order, but with very little effect.
“Linley!” Patrick called out, hoping to God she could hear him over the din.
He felt like he was swimming against a current. His arms were sore, feet and legs ached, and he lost his hat in all the commotion. Patrick thrust his head above the heads of others in the crowd as if surfacing for a breath of air.
It was no use. He could not see her.
Ducking back down, he pushed deeper into the throng. Someone knocked an elderly lady onto the ground nearby, and Patrick swooped in to help before she ended up hurt.
“I’ve got you, madam,” he said, taking the old woman by the arms and leading her to safety. At this rate, he would never find Linley, but he could not leave the lady to be trampled. When they reached the edge of the swarm, he sat her down. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, thanking him.
Resuming his search, Patrick dove into the mass of people. Fights began to break out, and from somewhere he heard someone scream, “Votes for women!”
Christ, it would be the suffragettes!
If things continued much longer, the authorities would have a riot on their hands. Patrick had to get to Linley before the situation got any worse. He elbowed his way through the crowd, and they elbowed back. It was not at all British the way they behaved, but the suffrage movement had a way of doing that to people. Burning houses, breaking into parliament, and hunger striking was no way to get the vote. Neither was throwing one’s self in front of the King’s horse, if that was what this was all about. Those women would not listen to reason. They wanted their votes, and they would stop at nothing to get them.
A Love That Never Tires (Linley & Patrick Book 1) Page 13
