Uncharted Seas

by Emilie Loring

  Life at Seven Chimneys went at a cinematic pace; it was a stirring show, a colorful pageant. Pulsing with the best sporting blood of the country, it featured the coming and going of noted and notorious stable owners; talk of the chances of green horses, show horses, harness and saddle classes; the merits of jockeys; victorious silks; past races and victors, and races and victors to come. She could sit through a discussion of equine eugenics now without changing color—at first it had seemed that embarrassment would burn her face to a crisp.

  It was all so different from the conversation in the world in which she had been living, where her father’s friends would fling themselves into passionate arguments on international policies, the latest scientific discovery, the science of being—that subject had been inexhaustible—they even had started an association to promote experiments in interplanetary communication. She was living in an entirely different world, a world which swept on at a breath-snatching tempo, but a world which was thrillingly interesting.

  She had begun to appreciate what Mr. Damon had meant when he had spoken of the inner circles of turfdom; also she had become increasingly aware of silent animosities, underground intimacies between members of the household. So far they remained vague impressions, inaudible voices battering against some padded cell of her mind in an effort to make themselves heard. Nothing real, nothing tangible.…

  Tangible! The word brought with it the creepy chill which shook her whenever she thought of that phantom at the pool. Sometimes when the shrouded figure hurtled through the fearful silence of her dream, she would wake out of a sound sleep, tense with horror.

  She tried to reason away the memory. Of course it hadn’t been a phantom; it had been a curious figment of mist from the river. Her imagination had been keyed to its highest pitch by the events of the day, and when the white thing had seemed to take shape, what more natural than that inflamed memory should fling the words of the trainer to the screen of her mind.

  “The old house has a ghost too.”

  If any one had told her that she, Sandra Duval, could be so weak-minded as to be frightened by a bit of mist—she shut her teeth hard in an effort to hold back the creepy chill. Mist or not, it had been hideously real. Her face had startled Jed Langdon when they had met on the stairs. Had Philippe stayed with her at the pool, would he have seen it? He was a superstitious person, she had discovered during their acquaintance in London. He clutched a talisman in his left hand before a race, he had confided to her. If his horse lost, it was not the fault of the charm but the way he had held it. She had thought at first that he was joking; later she had discovered that he meant it.

  Philippe’s friendship was proving somewhat embarrassing. He took it for granted that she would ride with him, motor with him. She had been conscious of Jed Langdon’s speculative eyes on them more than once, but now, praise be Allah, he had gone abroad, doubtless to consult the French specialist, and she could enjoy Philippe’s companionship when she had time. He was a companionable person, if a trifle moody and melancholy. He had an amusing manner with women, the Sultan manner, lordly, yet subtly protecting. He would be quite in character as master of a great fortune.

  She had not met Nicholas Hoyt, but she had heard of him until she was tired of his name. She disliked him unseen for having treated his uncle’s widow so shabbily; he could have stopped the social ostracism. Did he think that he could order Mrs. Pat’s life? Evidently he was of the maddening dictator type.

  The fight for the estate was the talk of the county. The chances that Philippe’s claim would be flung out of court, what “Nick” would do if the claimant were adjudged the son were favorite topics of conversation when Mrs. Pat’s friends dropped in for tea. Mostly they championed Nicholas Hoyt; they were unanimously of the opinion that his knowledge of horseflesh was uncanny. They were non-partisan when it came to Thoroughbreds—which they didn’t own—and were loud in their praises of Rousseau’s gray challenger, Iron Man. They treated Curtis Newsome, the one-time jockey, with the tenderness and consideration they would have bestowed on a sick colt.

  A scream! The savage ferocity of the sound stopped Sandra’s heart and feet at the same instant. She held her breath and listened. Where was she? She had been so absorbed in thought that she had followed the road unheedingly. There it was again! It made her think of a furious animal charging into battle. A stallion? Of course—this was a horse country. Now he was roaring—that sound was more terrible than the scream—he was thrashing wildly. Was he being abused? She dashed forward.

  The narrow road ended suddenly. Her onward rush was blocked by a heavy rail fence. She stopped, her eyes wide with amazement. In the very middle of a paddock quivered a superb black horse. He was young. He was beautifully sleek, his head was high, his powerful neck arched. His eyes rolled viciously.

  Fascinated, breathless, she watched a small man climb to the top rail of the fence as another man swung to the back of the colt, who, except for quivering flanks, stood as motionless as a cast-iron statue.

  Sandra’s brows puckered in unbelief. Was she trespassing on Nicholas Hoyt’s property? The daring rider was the trainer who had brought her from the station; she would know that unflinching mouth anywhere. His hair was rough; there was a bloody streak down one cheek.

  The horse bellowed, screamed a battle challenge, reared. Her heart tore up in her throat. Would he flop over backward and crush the man in the saddle? As if in answer to her gasp of terror, the trainer brought him down with a twist of his head and his own legs.

  The sleek savage roared and stood still. The silence boded tragedy. Was he thinking how he could most quickly get the man on his back under his plunging hoofs, at the mercy of his mighty teeth? Up he went, came down with a suddenness which shot the rider forward onto his glistening neck; for an instant the trainer remained draped over the ears, but his hand was wound in the flowing mane, and when the horse came up again and bellowed, he slid back into the saddle and slipped his feet into the stirrups.

  In her absorption in the superb horsemanship, Sandra leaned her arms on the top rail.

  “Go back! Go back!” the small man shouted hoarsely. His eyes bulged, for all the world like the round eyes of a bloodthirsty spider; his face was gray as he dropped to the outside of the railing and ran in her direction. She hastily retreated to the shade of a nearby tree, furiously embarrassed by her thoughtlessness.

  The colt, apparently indifferent to the side-lines, looked around at the man on his back as if asking:

  “Ready?”

  There was an instant of tense stillness, broken only by the creak of leather, the strident chirp of a bird, before the horse shook his head and began to fight. An iron-shod hoof struck the rails where Sandra had been leaning; he plunged, pawed, reared; he bared savage teeth; in between the beastly noises sounded the thump of the man’s body going back and forth in the saddle.

  So suddenly as almost to unseat his rider, he stopped, quivered. The trainer gently stroked the sweating neck; then turned him, made him canter, stop, go, walk, stop again.

  “Licked, and taking it like a good sport,” exulted an excited voice beside Sandra. It was the spider-eyed man. His young, hard-bitten face was transformed by a fatuous smile. With him came the effluvium of mingled leather, sawdust, sweat, and the stable. “You shouldn’t have come so near this yard, Miss. I almost had heart-failure when I saw you. You might have been killed.”

  “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me. What a wonderful horse!”

  “I’ll say Curtain Call is wonderful. I’ve been a jock for years and I’ve never seen a fairer fighter. Not a dirty trick, though he wanted to throw what was on his back something terrible.”

  “Hi, Sharp!” the trainer shouted. He had dismounted and was holding the pawing colt by the bridle.

  “Coming!” The thin legs slid over the rails in answer to the authoritative shout. A man with pompadoured white hair hovered nervously at a discreet distance; two freckled-faced pop-eyed exercise boys peered from the door to th
e paddock. The jockey dropped into the yard. Curtain Call laid back his ears and watched his crablike approach with burning eyes.

  “Try him,” the victor commanded.

  The little man leaped to the saddle. Instantly he was shot into space with the speed and accuracy of a shell from a great gun. The trainer’s frown squelched the boys’ laughter, and they vanished. He waited only for the jockey to pick himself up before he sprang to the colt’s back. Curtain Call bellowed, looked around, rolled his eyes. With a snort which might have meant either contempt or resignation, he obeyed the touch on the rein and cantered toward the stable.

  Sandra’s breath came with a rush. She had not realized until that moment that she had been holding it.

  “And that seems to he that!”

  Startled by a voice dropping from the sky, she looked up. Curtis Newsome was peering through the leaves of a tree.

  “Have you been here all the time?”

  “Yeah, in a grandstand seat.” He dropped to the ground. His face was alight with interest; his blue eyes sparkled; his voice was warm with enthusiasm.

  “Ever see a prettier show? You’ve been looking on at the making of a great race horse. Another man might have busted that proud spirit.”

  “I’m limp as a rag-doll. Each time the colt reared, my heart shot to my throat; each time his four feet struck earth, it dropped like a lead sinker. Do you suppose it is the first time he had been ridden?”

  “Suppose! Where do you get that suppose? I know. That was Curtain Call, one of the Thoroughbreds Nicholas Hoyt inherited. He’s half brother to Fortune who cleaned up the field last year when running with crack two-year-olds. Fortune will be entered in the big race which is to be staged for charity at the Hunt Club track about five miles from here three weeks from now—purse of $25,000. and cups for the winning jockey and owner—if he makes good he’ll be entered in the Kentucky Derby in the spring. There’ll be a classy field, some of the big horses in the country, with Rousseau’s Iron Man as one of the favorites. That little jock, Eddie Sharp, who was squatting on the rail, will be up. He’s good. He and Fortune are like brothers—but gosh, I wish I could ride that hoss!”

  His wistful voice reminded Sandra of her first impression of his boyishness.

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I’m not riding!” he answered curtly. “Besides, I wouldn’t get the chance. You’ve been at Seven Chimneys two weeks; don’t you know yet that any one from there would be shot at sunrise if found in the Stone House camp?”

  “Is Mr. Hoyt so bitter because he may lose the fortune he expected?”

  “Where did you get that dope? He’s a grand guy! He was nice enough to Pat until she married me. Gosh, now we’re in for it! Why didn’t we beat it?”

  Sandra wheeled. The trainer was vaulting the rail fence. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his lean body; one torn sleeve flapped as he walked; locks of wet hair framed his white face. His eyes burned as he approached, but his voice pelted like icy hail.

  “What are you doing here, Newsome?”

  “Sorry—didn’t mean to butt in—honest! Heard you were going to break the colt this afternoon. Couldn’t keep away. Gosh, you were great!”

  His fervent admiration made no impression on its object.

  “Who told you I was going to break Curtain Call? Who’s the informer?”

  For the first time he looked at Sandra. Did he think her the guilty party? She resented the bite in the question.

  “Don’t glare at me as if I were the little bird who chirped the news. I didn’t even know that I was on sacred ground. I just stumbled on the show you staged.” Admiration submerged anger. “It was wonderful!”

  His eyes softened, then hardened. “Keep out, Newsome; don’t let curiosity bring you—or any member of Seven Chimneys’ outfit—here again. You’re all backing Rousseau and his Iron Man, aren’t you? Keep away from these stables. Get that straight. I mean it.”

  “Oh, King, permit thy servants to depart with their heads?”

  Sandra laughed up at him as she droned her mocking plea. Something swift and strong flashed from his eyes to hers. A thrill, made up of indignation, shame at her own flippancy, reluctant admiration of the man’s unyielding personality, tingled through her veins.

  “Go on, please, Miss. I want to speak to Mr. Newsome.”

  Sandra’s pride smarted as she turned away. It had not been his anger which had hurt most; it had been his maddening indifference to the girl he had brought from the station, and now he practically ordered her off the place. Even a gentleman horse trainer might show a little interest.

  It seemed but a moment before Curtis Newsome joined her. His cheeks were red, his eyes bright. Sandra felt his repressed excitement.

  “Good gosh, I got mine! You were let off easy, being a girl.”

  “Mussolini, Napoleon, and the late Julius Caesar rolled into one! For a mere trainer, I’ll say that the person who snubbed us with such a grand air is going some.”

  “Trainer! That guy’s more than a trainer. You can’t blame him for ordering us off. He thinks we’re all tied up with Rousseau, and—and if that Kentuckian is your old friend, I wouldn’t trust him around the corner when it comes to horseflesh or—anything else—that’s how I feel about him, but that—the trainer doesn’t know it of course.”

  “The day he brought me from the station he talked like a stable-boy with years of schooling yet to go. Perhaps you can explain that?”

  Newsome chuckled. “You wouldn’t have thought when he was laying us out cold that he likes his little joke. Search me why he was acting up to you. Didn’t know, did he, that Rousseau was your friend?”

  “How could he? I hadn’t the faintest idea that Philippe was here.”

  “Is that straight?”

  Sandra resented his quick gravity. “Of course it’s straight. Ask Mr. Damon.”

  “I believe you. You can’t blame Hoyt and his lawyers if they are suspicious of any one who knew Rousseau before he blew in with his race horse to claim the estate, can you? Hoyt is manager of this big property. That fella back there is his right-hand man. I’ll bet he knows more about Stone House stables than the owner himself.” He grinned. “If you were in Hollywood, you’d say he doubles for his boss.”

  “Socially?”

  That was a catty question, Sandra flayed herself. Curtis Newsome apparently took it as a joke.

  “I wouldn’t say that. He couldn’t crash one of Pat’s dinners.” The laughter vanished from his eyes and voice. “Not that he would want to,” he admitted morosely.

  “I can’t believe that he is so important—why he took …” Sandra derailed the remainder of the sentence. Why let Curtis Newsome know—even if she had done it as revenge—that she had tipped the understudy to the present Hoyt heir?

  Would Nicholas Hoyt remain legally in possession of the estate? Speculation as to the justice of Philippe Rousseau’s claim engrossed her as she walked home. Of course she believed in him, but she was getting a little tired of his constant reminders that all the world loved a rich man, that the scales of justice would tip for Nicholas Hoyt because of his background. Her thoughts whirled on and on like a merry-go-round; no sooner would she reach a conclusion than her mind went into reverse at breakneck speed only to demolish the argument she had so logically built up. The memory of the many times Philippe had encouraged her father to talk of his youthful days in Melton edged into her reflections. Curious that not once had he mentioned his interest in the town. She fed a question to Curtis Newsome now and then to keep him talking. Even in her self-absorption she gathered that he passionately admired Nicholas Hoyt, that he as fervently detested Philippe Rousseau.

  When they reached Seven Chimneys, Newsome left her and swung off to the stables. She went on to the house. She lingered on the terrace for a moment to revel in the air freighted with the fragrance of many flowers, in the beauty of the river touched with the rosy reflection of a crimsoning west. Great scarlet medicine balls floated on the still wat
er of the azure-lined pool, which mirrored each convolution of the iron rails of the balconies above. On the tanbark fairway back of the stables, trotters were being sent around for a late afternoon brisk, the drivers hunched over their withers.

  Who would think, looking at this charming home, that it was rent beneath its surface by conflicting passions? Sandra stepped into the hall softly as if a footfall might disturb the present calm.

  She stopped and stood motionless. Gazing into the mirror was a maid in uniform. Tragically brilliant eyes stared appraisingly back at their reflection; hair of a rusty red-brown was adorned by a strip of lace and ribbon.

  Sandra blinked and looked again. She wasn’t mistaken. In spite of dyed hair, the woman was the applicant for the advertised position whom she had seen coming from Mr. Damon’s office. Close beside her, as if he were whispering, stood Huckins, the butler.

  CHAPTER VII

  Bud and Buddy, the two police dogs, dashed into the roadside shrubs on predatory business bent. Sandra stopped at the iron gate in the box hedge to look at Stone House whose upper windows with their twenty-four panes seemed like kindly, unblinking eyes staring incuriously back at her. It was the first time she had seen the place at close range, it looked just as her father had described it. Giants must have hoisted the huge granite blocks into place. A batten door! Never before had she seen one out of captivity. Large-headed nails formed a diamond pattern on the weathered slabs of oak to correspond with the design of the panes of the casement windows of the lower story. A great iron ring served as a knocker. She was glad that she had dared Nicholas Hoyt’s wrath as personified by his trainer; the sight of that marvelous old door was worth a risk. From the direction of the stable drifted a man’s voice singing.