Hearts were earned and he had no idea how to go about it.
“Sir, if you would hand me the reins,” a stable boy stood below him.
Sir John looked around. He’d been so lost in thought he didn’t remember returning. He dismounted the horse and handed the boy the reins.
“You all right, sir?”
“I’m fine.”
The grumble came out harsher than he intended. The boy shrugged and walked away leading the horse. John let his shoulders slump. Why was he still here in Beetham? Connells was handling the Jockey Club business. It seemed pointless to stay when Victoria was undecisive about her feelings for him.
Yet, he’d promised Connells that he’d stay until this business with Penwith was complete.
Penwith was like every other gentleman in the damned club, so why was Connells hesitating. He should approve the application so that they could all return to their respective lives.
John entered the house and handed his hat and gloves to a nearby footman. “Where is Matthews?”
“He’s in the library, sir. Shall I bring tea as well?”
“Please.” John opened the library door and stepped inside.
Anthony Matthews looked up from his ledger. “Where have you been?”
“Riding.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I was at the Fairy Steps.”
Matthews set down his pen and grinned. “I didn’t take you for the type to seek out a view.”
“Shut up.”
The door opened again and the maid brought in a tea tray complete with biscuits and tarts. She set it down on the small table next to John.
He poured a cup and added three sugar cubes. He stirred the tea, the added a tart to the small plate.
Matthews leaned back in his chair and just watched with a self-serving smirk on his face.
“What?” he mumbled around the tart.
“You’ve got it bad.”
He wasn’t going to justify that truth with a lie, so he kept silent and shoved more of the tart into his mouth. Damn these were good.
“Miss Penwith called upon Juliet this morning to return a book she’d borrowed.”
“I saw her on the path.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “The usual response.”
Matthews leaned forward. “You are horrible at romance, Townsend.”
“What man is good at it?”
Matthews shrugged. “It’s a learn-as-you-go kind of thing. Women want romance. They want to be wooed. We, gentlemen, need to figure it out.”
“How in the hell do you woo?”
“Not the way you are going about it.”
“What do you expect me to do? Write her poetry?”
“Not a bad start.”
John stared at him in horror. “Write poetry? Are you serious?”
“You need some romantic gestures. Big ones.”
It was going to take bigger bollocks than he had for him write a love poem. As for romantic gestures, he had no idea where to start. “I’ll figure it out.”
Hell, if Matthews could do it, so could he.
Matthews stood and poured himself a cup of tea, then leaned against his desk and sipped it. “How long are you planning to be in Beetham, Townsend?”
“As long as it takes to evaluate Martin Penwith for the Jockey Club.”
“You’ve been here a month. You’ve met the man socially and on the track. What more do you need?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me, Matthews?”
“Hell no. I’m trying to make you realize that this is a lost cause. The woman is indifferent.”
“She’s not indifferent all the time,” he muttered. “She’s flirted with me on occasion.”
Matthews leaned forward on the desk. “Here’s the situation. The Kendal race is in two weeks. You have two weeks, then you are going to give up.”
“I don’t want to give up.”
Matthews gave him an exasperated look. “Man, you’ve got to know when to quit. If she isn’t going to say yes in two weeks, it’s time to concede.. She doesn’t have to return your affections.”
“Or you can try working for it, John.” Juliet said from the door.
“She hates me.” Good God, now he was whining. He hardly knew himself these days.
“She doesn’t hate you. You confuse her.”
Matthews slapped his hand on the desk. “That’s a good thing, Townsend. Keep them confused then woo them.”
Juliet punched her husband in the arm. “Victoria Penwith has never been like other young ladies. She isn’t interested in fashion or gossip. She is somewhat of an anomaly in these parts. Gentlemen talk to her for advice on horses and their breeding practices, but none of them seem interested in her as a woman. In fact, I don’t think that any of the gentlemen in the district see her as a woman, but as one of their own. Except for Mr. Gordon. He’s rather keen on her.”
Sir John frowned. “Who is this Gordon fellow?”
“The local surgeon,” Matthews threw in. “Nice fellow.”
“Very handsome, too.” Juliet said.
Matthews turned to his wife. “You think he’s handsome?”
“Have you seen the way the young ladies act when he enters the room?”
“I think I’m a bit jealous, sweetheart.”
Juliet patted his cheek. “No need, my dear. He is like a flower in the garden to be admired.”
“Can we get back to the problem at hand? How does Miss Penwith feel about this gentleman?”
Juliet took the other chair in front of the desk and folded her hands. “She likes him well enough, I suppose. She doesn’t talk about him like she does you, John.”
“You mean that she sings his praises while she cuts me every time she sees me.”
“You irritate her."
“There’s a romantic feeling!” John muttered. “She’d rather swat at me like a gnat. Let me go propose. Why not be honest, Juliet? She hates me.”
Juliet laughed. “Silly, if she hated you, she wouldn’t mention how irritating you are. She wouldn’t grumble about your attention to her.”
“Great, just what I want to hear.”
“You could work this to your advantage, Townsend, with some romantic gestures.” Matthews added. He smiled at his wife. “I’ve been telling him he needs to write poetry.”
“God no!” Juliet said. “That’s the last thing she’d want.”
“See? Even romantic gestures don’t work.”
“You are missing the point, brother dear. Women love romantic gestures as long as they aren’t the same tired, old gestures.. They need to be tailored to her character and desires. Flattery is wasted on her.”
John glared at his brother-in-law. “How did you figure this out with Juliet?”
“Dumb luck, my friend. Pure dump luck.”
“Then I don’t have a prayer.”
Juliet laughed. “I do have an idea, if you’d like to hear it.”
“Go ahead.”
“Spend some time with me at the fair. We will seek out Miss Penwith. I know that she plans on entering that horse of hers in the race tomorrow.”
“I had planned on entering my own horse.”
Matthews laughed. “Good. Challenge her. Propose a friendly wager—”
“Tony! That would not be proper.”
“Pick something proper. Make her take notice of you.”
He pondered this. It could work. It might work. “This is wooing?”
“If you plan it right.”
“So, I’m supposed to let her win.”
Juliet shook her head. “She’ll do that all on her own and you’ll be there to grovel after she wins.”
Matthews slapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, Townsend. Groveling gets easier each time you do it.”
Chapter 2
Victoria sat in Mr. Sims’s make shift office, a tiny room in the back of the large stone stables. The stone walls gave the room a damp, cool feel
that played havoc with the paper of her journals, but was a respite from the heat of early summer. She dipped the pen into the old ink well on the desk and scribbled notes on the behavior of this year’s foals.
Each year she carefully matched the stallions to mares based on character, speed and endurance. Secondary was color and size, but since Rosethorne tended towards chestnuts, it usually worked out. She was looking for the perfect horse. She’d achieved it once with Tychee.
Tychee was the miracle horse. Tiny and weak at birth, Victoria wasn’t sure she would make it. But she was a fighter. As she matured and her character came through, the calm demeanor came out. As she grew strong, so did speed and endurance. The perfect horse.
Her father had latched onto her with glee. After so many years of disappointments in race results, he finally had his winner and he was determined to take his success as far as it would take him. Now if he would let Victoria get on with her life, she would be happy.
She loved her horses, but she could no longer manage the stress of racing. Luckily her father was happy to keep her in the background where she could calm Tychee and watch with Mr. Sims and the rest of the staff.
“How are our new foals coming this year? Anyone with promise?” Mr. Sims, leaned against the door and watched her. “I’ve let them out to the pasture to play as you suggested.”
Victoria scribbled one more note and closed the book. “Good. Several show promise, though it’s really too early to tell. I should let you have your office.”
“Please. Continue if you need too.”
“Father will be wondering where I am and I must change for tea.” This dual life of trainer and lady of the house was becoming exhausting. Today was a fine example, as Father insisted on entertaining the two gentlemen who had come to evaluate the stables.
“Your father still hell bent on gaining entry into the Jockey Club?”
Victoria picked up two of her journals from the desk. “Yes. He is obsessed with this.”
“Tychee is a good horse.”
“Yes, but not sustainable or repeatable,” Victoria said. “She is luck, unless we can produce another one like her.”
“Perhaps, but your father is a gambler. He’ll ride that luck as long as it takes him.”
“And then what?”
Mr. Sims rubbed his whiskered chin. “You’ve done it once—”
And that was what frightened her the most. She had done it once but she hadn’t been able to repeat it. Father wouldn’t let this go until she could repeatedly produce race winning horses. It just didn’t work that way.
Why couldn’t he be happy with a good breed that would sell well as a carriage or riding horse? There was money to be made with a strong, dependable, calm horse.
She glanced around at the stables that she loved so much and felt the walls closing in. It was becoming a more common feeling each day she worked with the new foals and the younger horses.
Life was closing doors leaving her dreams unfulfilled.
“Let’s just hope one of these new foals has potential because so far I’ve only created one winner. Father won’t be happy until he has a stable filled with winners.”
“If anyone can do it, it’s you, miss.”
She gave him a wan smile and made her way back to the house, her arms wrapped around her journals. They contained ten years of her life. Ten years of trying to produce horses like Tychee. At first, she loved it. Loved the idea of play God with horses, matching them up based on temperament and speed.
But she also missed a chance to have a season in London, because the horses were foaling. She missed learning to dance because she was training horses. Worse was she missed finding a husband because every man that befriended her was only after her knowledge of horse breeding. They wanted her skill. They didn’t want her. They didn’t love her. And they’d left when they couldn’t have what they wanted.
Not once did they care what she wanted. Now she was too old, too on-the-shelf for what she wanted.
“Victoria, are you ready?” Her father shouted as she entered the house. Despite his age, Martin Penwith had the hearing of a dog. She made her way to the library where her father’s voice had originated from and stepped into the room.
“Why are you still dressed in those awful clothes? Our guests will be here any minute.” Martin Penwith was not an impressive man to look at. He was average height and weight, with a bit of a pudge around the middle. His hair was balding, his dark eyes were eagle-like, always taking in his surroundings and the reactions of people around him. But his voice was booming. The man couldn’t whisper if his life depended upon it. Even in social situations, his voice boomed out startling the whole room.
“Here are the journals you’ll need for your meeting, Father.” She set them down on the large oak desk. “Everything is up-to-date.”
“Get upstairs and change.”
She hesitated. “I don’t understand why you need me to be present.”
“You are the lady of the house. You need to serve tea.”
“One of the maids can do it.” She fought the urge to toy with the edges of the waistcoat she wore when working with the horses. What was it about Father that made her feel and act as if she were still a girl in the school room. “Seriously, Father, I have no desire to sit through this meeting. I have no interest in the Jockey Club.”
“Two gentlemen are coming to call. You need to be present. I don’t ask much of you, so I don’t understand why you are questioning this.”
Fighting him would only make it worse. “Yes, Father. I will be just a few minutes.”
“Make sure you have Cook prepare a tea tray.”
As she made her way upstairs to change from her breeches and work boots into a suitable day dress, she swore she could feel another door slamming shut on her choices in life.
An hour later, Victoria was dressed in a pale blue day dress, sitting primly in one of the small parlor chairs by the tea table. Father made it clear what her assignment was: sit quietly and pour tea. She had no problem with that until Sir John Townsend entered the room with another man.
She’d stood in shock as Sir John smiled at her, the twinkle in his eye reminding her of their meeting yesterday at the Fairy Steps. This man was sent here to drive her mad, she was sure of it.
“Sir John, I believe you know my daughter, Miss Penwith.” Father said. She winced at the loudness of his voice.
Victoria’s smile froze on her face. Please, Dear God, please do not let him reveal that they’d met yesterday at the steps. Father would kill her if he knew she was escaping her training duties to hide at the steps.
“Miss Penwith, delightful to see you.”
The word “again” hung in the air like a bad smell.
“If I may introduce you both to Mr. Luke Connells. He will be reviewing your methods of breeding and training for the Jockey Club.”
Mr. Connells was a tall, friendly looking man with bright blue eyes and an easy smile that creased his face. He bowed and she curtsied so all the social niceties were met. Sir John’s gaze caught her attention. His dark eyes were warm and filled with laughter. Her face heated and she glared at him. Why did he have to be the one to interview Father?
It was then that it dawned on her. Lord, she was slow today. Sir John had flirted outrageously with her yesterday, He was here today to interview her father for the Jockey Club. True he had been in Beetham for a month at least. His sister lived here, but Victoria knew his purpose. The flirting and teasing that had made her smile, now angered her. He was using her. And she allowed it. Again. God, she hated that word,
Father was exuberant. “Welcome both of you. Please be seated and we can get started. Victoria, pour the tea.”
The command startled her and she quickly served the tea, before taking her seat beside her father, yet a bit behind him, as he preferred. In the corner. Unseen. Unheard.
“Excellent cake, Miss Penwith,” Sir John said.
She felt her father’s eyes on her, his eyes
filled with questions. She could practically see the wheels of his brain turning Sir John’s behavior over and over until he could find a use for it.
“Let’s get down to business, gentlemen. I think we shall be able to provide you with what you need to make the approval of membership in the Jockey Club quick and painless,” Father said.
Sir John and Mr. Connells exchanged a look. Mr. Connells spoke. “Indeed sir, we’ll need to see your breeding records and interview your trainer and stablemaster.”
“Of course. Of course.” Father picked up the journals she’d brought in earlier. “This is the last few years of work that we’ve done.”
We, not she.
Mr. Connells set his tea cup down and took the journals. He opened the current one and flipped through the pages of her meticulous notes. “These are very detailed.”
“Of course, we keep scrupulous records, sir.” Father sat back and folded his hands. He clearly thought that this would be an easy approval.
Victoria’s notes were clear. She was indeed, very scrupulous with her observations during training as well as breeding schedules. Years of working with the horses made it easy for her to know what mare was in season and what stallion she’d accept. She had been well trained by Mr. Sims.
If the approval was based upon her record keeping and training capabilities, Father would have an easy time of it. Lord help her, if he didn’t.
“Miss Penwith, I’m assuming these are in your hand,” Mr. Connells said gently.
“Yes, sir.”
Her father tensed. He wanted her to be the pretty object who served tea, but he’d forgotten about the questions. Clearly the penmanship was feminine. Mr. Connells was bound to notice. “My daughter takes a keen interest in the training of the horses.”
Mr. Connells nodded. “Does this journal contain the notes for your current racer? Tychee?”
“No, sir, those notes are contained in the second journal. About half way through. Tychee was born in 1819,” Victoria replied.
“So, the horse is three years of age?” Sir John asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I commend you upon your detailed observations, Miss Penwith,” Mr. Connells said as he flipped through the pages of the second book. “Rarely have I seen such.”
Fortune's Wish (Fortunes of Fate Book 4) Page 2
