“Not anymore.” He crossed to the window, savoring the clean drizzle. “I was angry at you, you know. For your gambling. I lost trust in you, and I don’t know if you ever had any trust in me.” Pulling in a rain-cool breath, he added, “I hope you will someday, because I deserve it. I am your son, but I am also the head of this family. I expect you to respect that. No more gambling with our futures, Mother. Our family cannot afford it, for more reasons than the economic.”
“And you want someone else to be Lady Crosby.”
“See there? I knew your mind was as sharp as ever.”
“I shall try not to hate her. For your sake.”
“I’ll take that as a starting point. Though I hope one day you will love her for her own.” If he had not broken too much between himself and Hannah.
Even so, there was hope. For if love could turn to hate, surely hate could turn to love.
Left hand picking absently at the trim of her red satin dressing gown, the dowager studied him. “Your waistcoat is a horror.”
“We match,” he replied, and she laughed.
“Leave the window open, please, Bartlett. I like the breeze.”
With a smile, he bowed his way out. She was right: they should have had that conversation a long time ago.
He strode in the direction of the stables, one more conversation on his mind.
Eight
Hannah returned home in the early afternoon, tired and cold and hungry and dismal.
After sending Morrow home on foot, she and Sothern had ridden through a chill drizzle to the lands of Sir Jubal Thompson. She knew the knight by reputation, though she had never met him in person, and she was initially relieved to find him both at home and inclined to believe her tale about a misplaced Thoroughbred.
“Now, now. You’re not to blame yourself, Miss Chandler, when something like this happens.” Holding a great black umbrella over her head as he led her to the stable holding his equine visitor, he addressed Hannah in the same tone one might speak to a nervous maiden who had put too much sugar in a caller’s tea. “Your father’s right hand; that’s a great honor for you. I’m sure you’re doing the best you can. This is a gentleman’s sport, and it doesn’t come naturally to others.”
“Considering the man who turned loose a valuable animal was no gentleman at all, I shall grant you that.” She smiled sweetly, wishing she hadn’t tossed away her elegant plumes. They would have lent her the countenance this elderly knight seemed to think she lacked.
After regarding her with some suspicion, he granted her an appreciative smile that shook his jowls. “Fair enough. The horse is right this way.”
It was Bridget’s Brown; she knew him at once, and he gave her a whicker of recognition too.
Damn. She had hoped it was not him. “My poor Bridget,” she said as she stroked his proud head, then thanked Sir Jubal for the loan of a halter and longe line. “You shan’t race again. How will you bear it?”
Horses didn’t know anything but the present moment, the fortunate creatures. And so she made that present moment as comfortable as she could, keeping up a stream of calm chatter in the colt’s ear as they plodded across a soggy stable yard and met Sothern with the mounts.
After thanking Sir Jubal for his hospitality and promising him a full accounting from her father, they were off, keeping a slow pace for Bridget’s tender cracked hoof.
The parade home was one horse richer, yet Hannah felt so much poorer.
Once back at Chandler Hall, she decided against entering the house at once. Following Sothern to the stables, she gave the staff a brief and highly edited account of the past few days. “We shan’t have a mount in the Two Thousand Guineas,” she concluded, “but I am confident that with your skill and attention, you can restore our Bridget to health.” She pulled aside a stable boy and quietly asked him to assist Sothern into dry clothes and to a pallet for rest.
And then she was on her own, looking down the generous corridor between equally generous-sized stalls.
She could not help but contrast it with her visit to Bart’s stables. Not long ago, according to the calendar, but her heart had grown and altered enough for an age.
Here there was no floor of packed dirt, but of cobbles laid smooth as a marble-tiled floor. Sloped for drainage, swept clean several times a day to keep the pathway smooth for its owner’s wheelchair. Chandler Hall’s stables were the work of money, luxuriant heaps of it. Now she also recognized the subtle charm in buildings that had grown over time.
I’ve never done anything like this, she had said to Bart.
I never do anything like this, he replied.
At the time, still floating in delight, she had thought their sentences the same. But given time and distance, she found them very different.
She had thought herself on the brink of a new beginning.
He had thought of her as an aberration.
And if she were an aberration—if their time together was—then it meant the truce was only temporary. That they had passion, but no romance. Lust, maybe; never love.
Yet she had thought—had hoped—for something quite the opposite. The promise of a new life set within the familiar bounds of Newmarket. Like a beloved room papered in a new pattern.
Entering the nearest stall, she took up a currycomb and stroked it over the glossy hide of a horse that needed currying no more than Hannah needed to get rained on again. The horse enjoyed the familiar ritual, its head dropping, relaxed. But Hannah had performed this routine too often for her mind to be occupied at all. And if not even care of a horse was left to her, what would soothe her?
Oh, she had certainly fallen into a pattern. A foolish pattern of placing her own desires over the greater benefit of her family. If she had served her family as she ought, she would have left when Mr. Crosby refused to turn over the colt. She would have sent the solicitor instead.
But would that have served her well? She already felt she had missed out on so much. Turning over every important matter to someone else—to her father, to a brother, to someone older, someone who had seen more of the world—would make her beloved room smaller and smaller. Nothing but a cell.
Hannah had become as accommodating as the corridors of this stable or of Chandler Hall. So young when she had lost her mother, she could barely remember that lady. Her father had always been there though; so strong-willed that she had let him guide her, trusting that he knew the best way.
He didn’t always. Not if he thought the best way was a rivalry with the Crosby family. It had burned years of their lives, and to what purpose? Was there another way?
This was a question for Sir William. And she would, at last, be brave enough to ask it.
As soon as she changed into dry clothing and rang for tea. She might have given up her plumes, but she wouldn’t go into battle—if so it was—without fortification.
* * *
With a rap at her father’s study door, she entered the grand space.
He looked up from behind his long desk, a racetrack of mahogany. “Hannah? Is it our time?” Puzzled eyes found the clock above the fireplace. “No, you are early.”
He had always been a man of strict routine and efficiency, but particularly so since the attack of palsy a dozen years before that had taken the use of his legs. Disciplining a half-unresponsive body took formidable effort, with careful calculations of everything from the amount of exercise to the amount of food and liquid imbibed at particular times of day.
“I am early,” she confirmed, “because I have much to discuss with you.”
Seating herself across from him in her usual chair, she explained about the switch of Golden Barb and Bridget’s Brown arranged by Northrup. She gave him Morrow’s evidence and that of Sir Jubal.
The only name she omitted was that of Sir Bartlett Crosby, though she suspected, as her father’s gray brows lowered with displeasure, that he notice
d its absence.
When she finished her recital, he steepled his hands before him. “The Crosbys are wilier than I knew,” he mused. “To think of ringing in a substitution in our own stable.”
“I saw Bridget’s cracked hoof. Have you ever known a horse to recover from such an injury?”
He peered at the clock again, as though the hands might have tricked him. “It’s not time for brandy, and yet—just this once.” Drawing the decanter and glasses toward himself, he splashed in a generous amount without bothering to measure it.
And then, to Hannah’s surprise, he did the same a second time and scooted the glass to her.
“It would be unlikely”—he took a sip—“if he was able to race again, with a hoof damaged in that way. When he—really Golden Barb—trained well, I should have known it was impossible. But I wanted so badly for him to be all right.” Another long sip. When he set down the glass, his eyes were sad. “I had no more notion than you that someone had turned him loose and put another horse in his place. Poor beast. No one should be treated as though he’s worthless when he can no longer run.”
She ignored her own brandy. “Why did you not tell me he was hurt, Father? How can I be your right hand”—the echo of Sir Jubal’s words fell bitterly from her lips—“if I am to be tied with ignorance?”
“Because I knew you wanted to win the Two Thousand Guineas. I didn’t want you disappointed.”
“So you didn’t trust me with the truth.”
He frowned. “I had wanted to give Bridget’s Brown to you. A gift. Then when his injury made itself known, I wasn’t sure what to do. How could I give you any less than a champion?”
“But I didn’t want a gift, Father. I wanted to earn it. I wanted a colt of my own, so that any victory he won wouldn’t feel like charity from his true owner.”
“Charity?” Crack. His glass hit the surface of the desk hard enough to set the crystal ringing. “It cannot be charity. You’re my daughter. You have a huge dowry, should you ever care to marry. And if you don’t, I wanted you to have a racehorse. I didn’t want you to pay for him, because I knew you had saved your money for the same reason I wanted to give you a horse.”
Her fingers spasmed, then closed around her own glass. “What reason?”
“To keep you safe.” Rubbing at his temple, he sighed. “So that after I’m gone, you will be comfortable. Even if you never choose to marry, you will be protected.”
His hands fell to his sides, to the wooden rims of his chair’s wheels. He gave them a little push, back and forth, rolling himself away and back to the desk.
The vigor of his upper body, the strength of his arms, contrasted with the lower body that frustrated him so. Could legs be moved by force of will, he would be galloping alongside every horse in the stable.
He ought to know better than most that no one could truly be protected. A robust man traveling far from home could fall ill with a mysterious palsy. Or in the case of Lady Crosby, the vessels within one’s brain could fail. A hoof could crack. A groom could toss away decades of loyalty. These things happened.
“It’s not up to you to protect me, Father.”
“Then to whom does the task fall? I could have trapped you in the nursery with a governess, or given you a needle and thread instead of a halter.” He spun the glass, watching the brandy slosh and play. “But selfishly, I didn’t want to. I didn’t know how else to raise you after your mother died, so I raised you as my right hand.” His smile was tired. “Your brothers thought they were my right hands, but a man only needs so many hands. And you, Hannah—you are the one who stayed.”
“I wanted to stay.” But she should not have let that make her feel small.
Bart was right: training went both ways. She could have trained herself for a larger sphere. She could have wed young and fled like her sister, Abigail, had.
Or she could simply have said no to errands she found distasteful. To a feud she knew was wrong. To a colt she ought not to buy. She did not have to leave Newmarket to do what she thought right.
“I’m more than just your right hand.” She shoved the glass of brandy back toward him. “I am not sorry you raised me the way you did, but—I think it is time matters changed. You have used me as your emissary to take advantage of the Crosbys. We have lost a racehorse, and I…” His eyes were too sharp, and she looked away, not wanting to reveal more.
Too late; the formidable Sir William Chandler always saw. “You fell for that dandy, didn’t you.” It was not a question.
“He is not a dandy.” She didn’t know what else she ought to say about her feelings. Her heart was pulled in too many directions for her to put any name to what she felt.
A long silence followed. “Do you blame me, Daughter?”
His tired tone seemed to clear her vision. When she looked at him again, she saw him bowed by loss, frustrated by the limits of his own body.
“No.” The answer came at once.
Along with parceling out her hours, days, life, her father had given her everything good. A home. Brothers and a sister. More responsibility than most women were given.
“I don’t blame you,” she continued, “but I do think it best if I am not your right hand anymore. As soon as a replacement can be hired. I would like…” She swallowed. “I would like simply to be your daughter instead.”
“My daughter,” he echoed, “who owns a racehorse.”
“Something like that.” Bart had walked away with Golden Barb, promising to return his purchase price to Hannah. But it wasn’t the money she wanted; it was the promise.
Sir William’s severe features softened. “I might have called you my right hand, but I would never have wanted you to feel like you were less than a whole person. I have never wanted to feel less than whole myself, even when I needed your help in so many matters.”
“We are both whole,” she agreed. “And there is great dignity in admitting when one needs help.”
“Do you think so?” His stern mouth crooked up at one side.
“Yes, I do.” And she had an idea. “I—I believe I shall need your help, Father.” And she explained what she wanted.
He smiled. “I shall be glad to speak to my solicitor for you.” His hazel eyes looked as familiar as those she saw in the glass each morning. “Now, are you going to drink that brandy? If not, shove the glass a little closer to me.”
* * *
When Bart reached the entrance steps of Chandler Hall that afternoon, he had to smile at the sight. At the time it was completed only a few years before, polite society had giggled over the descriptions that made their way to London, calling it a monstrosity. Dominated by a huge, soaring rotunda, it looked like a giant of stucco-covered brick extending arms in a cradle made of the house’s much smaller forward-curving wings.
The entrance hall was still more unusual: a sliver soaring the full three-story height of the rotunda, splitting the giant cylinder in two. Its marble floor, polished perfectly smooth, eschewed the usual sedate checkerboard in favor of the whimsical. At the center of the floor was an elongated black star like a compass rose. Around it, rings of black and white alternated like ripples.
There was no reason to build something so monstrous, so entirely counter to fashion, unless it was exactly the way one wanted it. How could Bart not admire such confidence?
To the servant who met him, he gave his hat and gloves, along with a note for the young lady of the house. It was folded and sealed, but would take Hannah no more than an instant to read—if she agreed to read it.
Dear Miss Chandler,
That is all.
Yours, &c., truly.
He declined the suggestion that he await the lady’s reply in the drawing room. At the center of the star, with cloud-covered daylight spilling through windows, he felt as though he were outdoors. Far more at ease than in a formal space that would make him stamm
er.
After a few minutes, Hannah trailed down the main staircase, wearing a printed gown and a puzzled expression.
She dismissed the waiting servant and approached Bart, standing a ring of black tile away. “I do not understand your note.”
“You are dear.” He summoned his courage. “And I am yours.”
She dropped the note.
“Gravity is strong right here,” he said gravely, snapping the note up for her.
“I—that’s not what I was expecting at all. I…need a moment.” She sat on the floor at the center of the star. From this position, everything revolved around her.
Bart sat next to her, crossing his legs. “This is the first time in years I’ve seen you wear something besides a riding habit.”
She smoothed the thin white fabric, spangled with tiny flowers. “Brings out my freckles, doesn’t it?”
“I have no idea. I just want to stare at you for a while, if—if that’s all right.”
A slow smile lit her features, like the turning up of a lamp’s flame. “It’s all right. Yes. Now, please tell me more about your note while you stare. Am I to be Miss Chandler again, while I am being dear?”
“That is for you to decide. And if you ask me to think and talk much more while I stare at you, you ask too much.”
Her uncovered hair was cool as moonlight in the gray light of afternoon. Those hazel eyes, though; they were bright and warm. And her freckles—he reached out a forefinger and touched one, then another, making her nose wrinkle as she grinned.
“Call me Hannah,” she said. “And I shall think and talk instead, if you are willing to listen. I have asked my father to draw up a new document with his solicitor, one that relinquishes all claim to Golden Barb or any other offspring of Nottingham. There will be no question that the colt is yours. You will not be required to have any dealings with my family.”
“Oh.” Why was she still smiling? This sounded terrible.
“Now, if you choose to deal with us, that is a different matter. For example, since Bridget’s Brown cannot race in five days’ time, his jockey is available. As Northrup was to ride Golden Barb—impossible now—if you would like to arrange for Wheatley to ride Golden Barb instead, I think you could not do better.”
Sport of Baronets Page 9
