Bay took a long draw. ‘They’ve eloped?’
‘Lady L says not. But then she would, wouldn’t she?’
‘Perhaps.’ Bay stood up. ‘Sorry, Chicken, but I have a few things I must do before the race.’ Before Hartopp could say anything more, Bay went round to other side of the stables and was violently sick into a bale of straw.
* * *
As the special trains laid on from London and the north-east disgorged their passengers into Liverpool Lime Street, it seemed as if the whole city was migrating north-west. Every wheeled conveyance had been pressed into service and the road was jammed with carriages, omnibuses, governess carts, even a dustcart. Caspar had managed to get seats on one of the special race day omnibuses. Charlotte and Grace were sitting inside; Caspar was clinging to the top deck. It took the best part of the morning to travel the six miles or so to the racecourse as the road was unpaved and the horses and the carriages kept getting stuck in the ruts.
Mud, it seemed, was the great leveller. Even the carriage carrying the royal party found itself defeated by the treacherous conditions and nearly capsized into a hidden ditch. Fortunately for all concerned, the Prince of Wales was sitting on the opposite side of the carriage, and by using his considerable bulk as a counterweight he was able to keep the vehicle from toppling over. When the royal carriage was righted and on its way again, there was a rousing cheer from the spectators, ‘God bless the Prince of Wales’, as well as more raucous shouts of ‘Good old Tum Tum’.
After the second hour of sitting wedged between Grace and a lady who smelt strongly of eau de cologne and who was wearing a hat with orange feathers, Charlotte was ready to get out and walk the rest of the way. But at last the gates of the course came into view and the mass exodus began.
Charlotte felt almost physically assaulted as she walked through the gates. She had never been to a race meeting before and the tumult around her was extreme. The crush was impassable because people moved not as individuals but in packs. There were families, three generations of them in their Sunday best, who had decided that there was safety in numbers and so moved everywhere in a solid clump. Then there were the Irish, who had come over on the boat train and were packed around the show ring waiting for a sight of Glasnevin, the Irish favourite. Charlotte was struck by the gaudiness of the crowd after the monochrome colours of the London streets. Her neighbour on the bus with the orange feathered hat was not the only racegoer who had chosen to wear colours as bright as the jockeys’ silks; the milliners of the north-west had clearly been busy. Charlotte saw one woman with a hat consisting of a pheasant in its nest with chicks poking out over the brim. Anyone who could afford it had clearly ordered a new frock for the race, and the array of the latest mauve and lime-green silks was dazzling. Even the men were splashed with colour, sporting spotted silk handkerchiefs, scarlet waistcoats, and suits in mustard check. Charlotte, wearing a fawn travelling dress whose greatest recommendation was that it hardly showed the dirt, felt like a wren in a peacock enclosure.
Caspar, on the other hand, fitted in perfectly. His green and orange check ulster, which in London turned heads, here in Aintree looked exactly right. He had taken out his camera and was setting it up by the owners’ enclosure. As he worked, the crowd concentrated around him, and when Sholto Douglas, the celebrated Scottish owner, asked him to take a picture of his horse, the Governess, an excited murmur ran through the racegoers.
The Governess was nervy before the race, and both Douglas and the jockey had to stand on either side to keep the horse still. But Caspar’s way with society women seemed also to work on thoroughbreds: he stroked the racehorse on the muzzle and kept up a stream of soothing chatter which had the animal almost hypnotised as he disappeared under the cloth and squeezed the bulb.
Douglas offered to pay for the print, but Caspar said, ‘It was a privilege to take a picture of such a magnificent animal. I wouldn’t dream of asking for money, but if you could find a suitable place for my companion Miss Baird to watch the race, I would be enormously grateful.’
Douglas looked over at Charlotte, who was looking at the horses being walked round the ring by their lads, and shook his head. ‘I’ll give you both a pass to the owners’ stand. This part of the course is not really suitable for a lady.’
Caspar bowed. ‘Thank you, sir. As an American there are so many things I don’t understand, and I don’t suppose Miss Baird has been to a racecourse before, either.’
‘Well, everybody should see the Grand National at least once. It’s the finest race in the world. And make sure you place a bet. You can’t really enter into the spirit of the thing, unless you have some money down. You can still get decent odds on the Governess and she is definitely going to win.’
Douglas called over one of the race day stewards and asked him to take Caspar and his party up to his box in the stands. Charlotte was relieved to be away from the hubbub. Her one aim, a desire she could barely admit to herself, was to catch a glimpse of Bay, but she was too small to see over the bowler-hatted crowd. But as they were shepherded from the melee of the public grounds to the relative calm of the stands, Charlotte felt a moment of unease. Here the orange feathers had been replaced by mink and sable – the loud checked tweeds by subtle heather mixtures, which meant that it was entirely possible that she would see someone she knew.
As if to prove her point, a tweedy back in front of her turned to wave at a friend and she caught sight of Chicken Hartopp’s unmistakeable profile with its dundreary whiskers. She stopped, clutching Caspar’s arm to pull him away, but it was too late; Chicken had seen her, and he greeted her with a roar. Even from where she was standing Charlotte could smell the brandy on his breath.
‘Charlotte, I mean Miss Baird! What on earth are you doing here? I mean, what a surprise … To see you, I mean,’ he faltered, checked by the expression on Charlotte’s face.
‘Good morning, Captain Hartopp, I believe you have met Mr Hewes.’
Chicken looked Caspar up and down in a way that was only a shade away from insolence. ‘Indeed.’
Charlotte could see that Hartopp was about to boil over with curiosity. To forestall him she said, ‘It is quite an accident that we are here. We were meant to be sailing to America today but there has been a delay. And since we were in Liverpool on the day of the National it seemed that we must come to Aintree.’
Caspar rushed in, ‘Such a promising place for photography, Captain Hartopp. I should like very much to photograph the winner. I have always wanted to capture a moment of total joy.’
Hartopp looked at Caspar in bewilderment. He could not understand how the man could walk around with Charlotte Baird without a trace of embarrassment. Surely if they were eloping, they would not appear in such a public place.
Caspar said, ‘Lord Sholto has offered to introduce me to Major Topham, who owns the course. Charlotte, would you mind very much if I left you with Captain Hartopp for a moment? I want to make sure of my place at the winning post.’
Charlotte did mind, but she could see that Caspar was determined to get his picture. She turned to Chicken.
‘Captain Hartopp, I would be so grateful if you would go through the race card with me. I am so confused by all the different terms, and I think I should really like to place a bet.’ She smiled at Chicken with a charm that made his skin redden under the whiskers. ‘Grace, my maid, tells me that I should be backing a horse called Dancing Bear.’
‘Your maid is here?’
‘Of course my maid is here. Do you think I would come here without a female companion?’ Charlotte said in mock outrage.
Chicken looked at the floor.
‘Forgive me, Miss Baird. But I don’t know what to think. I called on your aunt in London and she said you were going to America with that fellow. She was in a terrible to-do. Everyone in London is talking about it. The word is that you have eloped. But dash it all, you can’t marry a creature like that. I don’t believe it.’
Charlotte pulled off the kid glove she
was wearing on her left hand. She held it up for Chicken to inspect.
‘No ring, Captain Hartopp, no ring. Mr Hewes is my travelling companion and colleague, nothing more. I am going to America to take photographs, and he has kindly agreed to act as my guide. So you can tell “everyone” in London that there is no scandal, beyond that of a young woman making a decision about her own life. I don’t suppose that will satisfy anyone, but it is the truth. My maid is with me, and while Mr Hewes may not qualify in your mind as a gentleman, he has shown me nothing but kindness.’
Chicken Hartopp could not meet her gaze; he tugged at his whiskers so hard that Charlotte feared that he would pull the hairs out by the roots.
‘But dash it, if you are going to America, why are you here? Don’t you know that Bay is a runner?’
Charlotte tried to look composed. ‘Yes. But coming here was never part of my plan. I should have been on the Irish Sea by now, but when the crossing was delayed and I heard about the race, and I discovered that Captain Middleton had entered, well, I decided to come.’
‘But, damn it, I don’t understand. The man has treated you monstrously. Humiliating you in public. Carrying on with the Empress like that. I am surprised you can even look at him.’
Charlotte put her glove back on, deliberately smoothing and stretching the leather over her shaking fingers.
‘Perhaps you are right to be surprised, Captain Hartopp. But I don’t consider myself humiliated, whatever the world may think. Now are you going to be kind enough to explain this race card to me, or will I have to find another guide?’
But Chicken, now that he had begun to speak his mind, could not be diverted so easily.
‘But Charlotte, I mean Miss Baird, did you know that the Empress is here too? In the royal box with the Prince of Wales. If you come to the front here you can see her quite clearly.’
He pushed to the front of the stand and pointed to the royal box, which was about twenty feet away. Charlotte hesitated. In her impulsive decision to come to Aintree it had never occurred to her that the Empress might have made the same choice. At first she thought that she could not bear to look, but then a scalding wave of curiosity and jealousy swept her reluctance away. She followed the direction of Hartopp’s finger and saw the portly figure of the Prince of Wales in a homburg, a cigar clamped between his teeth. He was flanked by two women. The nearest one Charlotte recognised as the Princess of Wales; the Empress was on the other side. She was wearing a dark blue costume, almost as plain in cut as her riding habit. But the severity of her costume was offset by the sable stole she wore round her shoulders, which even at this distance Charlotte could see was a miracle of softness. The Empress was leaning forward slightly, holding a pair of binoculars which she had trained on the parade ring. The Prince of Wales leant over to her and said something, and the Empress smiled but she kept on looking through her glasses at the horses and riders below.
Hartopp turned to Charlotte with a smile almost of triumph.
Willing herself to sound as light as possible, she said, ‘The Empress has a splendid pair of field glasses. I think that they are exactly what I need. Do you know where I might get some, Captain Hartopp?’
‘Field glasses?’ Chicken seemed not to understand.
‘Yes, isn’t that what they are called? Like opera glasses, only rather more powerful, I imagine. Fred has some.’
Chicken shook his head from side to side and pulled on his whiskers again, only this time meditatively rather than urgently. Charlotte said nothing while he ruminated. Finally he said, ‘Does Fred know you are here?’
‘Of course not. He and Augusta are on a boat heading to the Bay of Naples, so he won’t come in here if that’s what you are worried about. Now, are you able to help me find some field glasses? I can see that something is happening down there, and I really would like to see the race properly.’ Charlotte tapped her foot.
‘Bay doesn’t stand a chance, you know. He’s a decent enough rider, but Tipsy doesn’t have the stamina for the National. A mare hasn’t won at Aintree since the Fifties.’
‘All the more reason to find some glasses, so that I can have a chance of seeing him lose,’ Charlotte said with some tartness.
Captain Hartopp looked as if he was about to make another protest, but a glance from Charlotte stopped him and he mumbled something about borrowing some glasses from a fellow he knew, and stumbled off.
The stand was filling up by the minute and Charlotte beckoned to Grace to stand by her to protect her vantage point. She wondered if Caspar would photograph Bay in the ring. She hoped he didn’t disapprove too vehemently of her desire to come here. After all, it was the purest coincidence that they should be in Liverpool on the day of the National. There was no surrender in coming to watch Bay run in the race of his life. He wouldn’t even know that she was there. But even as she rehearsed these arguments, Charlotte struggled to ignore the deep current that had brought her there that day. At a level that she could barely give words to, Charlotte felt that it was fate that had tipped those logs into the Mersey, fate that had led Grace into conversation with the racing stranger. She was meant to be here, that was all.
* * *
In the jockeys’ changing rooms, Bay stepped onto the scale to weigh in. To his great relief, he was given the lightest possible handicap. He glanced at his pocket watch, the race was due to start in just under an hour. It was time to get changed into his jockey’s outfit. When racing, he always wore the scarlet and gold colours of his regiment.
As he took the now rather faded silks out of his Gladstone bag in the changing room, he heard a familiar cough behind him. He turned to see Nopsca holding a flat cardboard box out to him. He took the box and put it down on the boot bench. Nopsca reached into his inside pocket and brought out a letter. Bay did not need to see the crest on on the back to know that it was from Sisi.
‘The Kaiserin asked me to give you this before the race.’
‘Thank you, Baron.’ Bay kept his voice down, as the other jockeys in the room were looking at them curiously. Nopsca, who was wearing a frock coat and spats and was fragrant with attar of roses, was an incongruous figure in the gentleman riders’ vestibule, which was strewn with discarded racing stocks and smelt of leather, rubbing alcohol and sweat.
Bay opened the letter first:
My dear Bay,
Please wear these for me when you win,
Your own Sisi
Undoing the string that fastened the box, he saw a set of racing colours in black and gold. As he held them up, he saw that not only were they precisely the right size but the Hapsburg crest had been embroidered on the back.
His horror must have been evident on his face because the Baron shrugged apologetically. ‘In Wien, it is the custom for the riders always to wear the arms of their owners.’
Bay turned his head away, and the Baron said quickly, ‘I think perhaps I have the word incorrectly. I mean to say patron.’
Bay put the Empress’s colours back in their box. He took a deep breath to let out his emotion but still he sounded angrier than he would have liked. ‘Tell her that I mean no disrespect, but I can’t possibly wear these. Tipsy is my horse and I am not some medieval knight who wears his lady’s colours.’
Nopsca held out his hands, about to plead with Bay, but when he saw the other man’s face he stopped short, his mouth open, the placating smile frozen. He dropped his arms, picked up the colours and packed them away in their box.
‘I understand that you have no use for these. I think, perhaps, that it was impossible to find you here among the crowds.’
He made Bay a stiff bow, clicking his heels together in the Austrian way.
‘For my part, Captain Middleton, I wish you good luck.’
A Royal Wager
Luncheon was being served in the royal box. There had been a generous breakfast on the train, but the Prince of Wales felt that was no drawback to the consumption of a sumptuous lunch of the kind he had when out shooting. There were four
different kinds of raised pies, salmagundi, chicken in aspic and truffled riz de veau, as well as pheasants stuffed with foie gras, and a terrine of hare and salsify. To drink there was champagne, hock, burgundy and a warm claret cup to which the Princess of Wales was extremely partial.
Sisi, as usual, only toyed with the food on her plate. She knew that if she looked up Festy would be gazing at her, willing her to eat something, but although from time to time she would cut off a morsel and take it to her mouth, it would always return to the plate untouched. This part of the day was taking far too long, she wanted the race to begin.
The Prince of Wales sat on one side of her at the table which had been set up at the back of the royal box, and Earl Spencer on the other. The Princess of Wales sat at the other end of the table, her lovely face unruffled by the conversation that flowed around her as she was almost completely deaf. The Prince was in a benign mood – his lunch had been plentiful and punctual, and he was delighted to have the Empress as his guest. He knew all about Elizabeth’s visit to Windsor and he could not help but admire a woman who had defied his mother. ‘Not nearly as pretty as dear Alix, and after coming all that way she refused to stay for luncheon.’
But he thought she was beautiful, and it was a rare treat for the Prince of Wales to find beauty in a woman of his own rank. And she was not Prussian, which was a relief. He knew that the Empress shared his loathing of Bismarck. They had a most enjoyable gossip about the dreariness of the Prussian court and the awfulness of the food at Potsdam. There was an enjoyable frisson when the Empress, in order to emphasise a point about the dowdiness of the Hohenzollern ladies, briefly touched his hand. His eyes flickered to see if Alix had noticed, but she was smiling dreamily at the equerry sitting next to her; she had long ago learnt not to observe her husband too closely.
At a quarter to three, Major Topham, the owner of Aintree Racecourse, came in to let the royal party know that the riders were about to parade around the ring.
The Fortune Hunter Page 38
