Lady Lydia announced, “I never had a honeymoon worth speaking of.”
“I don’t speak of mine either,” Angela said.
“When we finally had a honeymoon,” Alex said, beaming at her husband, “I believe we spoke French the whole time.”
The earl rolled his eyes.
Lady Lydia snorted. “Always after my boy, you were-still are-don’t think I didn’t know what you were doing when I was visiting on Wednesday, laughing behind the estate room door. It’s a disgrace.”
Hallie sat forward, all earnest, her eyes on her father’s face. “Two weeks on the Isle of Wight is nothing like two weeks in London, Papa. There was so much to do-”
“Like what?” her father asked.
“Well, like eating and sleeping now and again, and watching the sun rise, not to mention the sunsets.”
Douglas caught his wife’s eye, then smiled at his new daughter-in-law. She looked glorious, she glowed, her eyes were bright, she sparkled, she was complacent. And she couldn’t seem to stop laughing. What she was, Douglas thought, was a pleased woman. As for his son, Douglas realized Jason looked content, perhaps he even looked at peace. He wondered if Hallie was pregnant yet. He wouldn’t be surprised.
Corrie, far more innocent than she’d ever believe, said, “I visited the Isle of Wight only once, as a child. Uncle Simon got vilely seasick, so he swore he wouldn’t ever leave his dinner in The Solent again. You remember, Hallie, The Solent is what they call the strait in the English Channel between Southampton and the Isle of Wight.”
“Of course I remember. Hmm. We didn’t leave from Southampton, did we, Jason?”
“No, we left from Worthing.”
Corrie said, “Is the bright red house still on the hill overlooking the harbor?”
“Red house, you say? Jason, do you remember a red house? On a hill overlooking the harbor?”
Jason looked perfectly blank.
His twin said, “That’s all right, Jase. What’s a red house in the big scheme of things? What did you do besides visit Ventnor?”
Jason continued to look perfectly blank.
“We went down on the beach,” Hallie said, and raked her fork along the tablecloth just like she was raking sand. She paused and her hand trembled. Jason knew exactly what she was thinking.
He cleared his throat, couldn’t think of a single word to say. His mother obligingly said, “Oh, you mean the beach off the right side of the promontory, not fifty yards from Dunsmore House? Did you swim?”
“Yes,” Hallie said. “we were there most nights, except when it was raining.”
“Nights?” Lady Lydia asked. “My dear child, you and your precious new husband went swimming in the evenings?”
“Oh yes,” Hallie said, beaming. “There was no one about after the sun went down so we-oh dear, never mind that. Fact is, we did plan to swim one day after we’d eaten a lovely picnic lunch on the beach beneath a lovely tree, but then-” In a flash of inspiration, Hallie said, beaming at her mother-in-law, “We were invited to Lord and Lady Lindley’s house twice. Very charming people. Weren’t they, Jason?”
“I believe they were. Yes, of course they were. Lord Lindley admired you, perhaps overmuch as I recall.”
“What about Lady Lindley? I believed she would try to bite your neck she got so close to you. Not to mention those three girls who attempted a very old tried and true stratagem-”
“The wedge,” Corrie said.
“Yes, they tried a very nice wedge to get a clear path to you.”
“What did you do?” Corrie asked.
“I executed what I now call my counteroffensive. Jason, do you remember when I asked you to look at that particular painting on the drawing room wall?”
“Yes, you nearly had me walking backward a good six feet as I recall.”
Hallie nodded. “That’s it. It quite flummoxed them. Their wedge vanished, they fell into disarray.” She frowned. “However, this one young lady was determined but I whisked him off to a waltz.”
“I like that counteroffensive,” Corrie said. “I’ll try it when James and I attend our next party.”
Alex said, “Hallie, other than Lucille admiring my son’s neck, didn’t you find she has exquisite taste?”
“Well, the inside of her armoire-it smelled quite fragrant, but that’s not important, now is it?”
Alec Carrick choked.
Hallie’s mother-in-law leaned over and smacked him between his shoulder blades.
James said, “Mother, why should Hallie have remarked on Lady Lindley’s taste in particular?”
“She sings beautifully, her voice has much the same rich tone of Hallie’s. But it’s louder, much more volume.”
“But what does her voice have to do with her taste?” Angela asked.
Douglas said, a dark brow raised, “She manages to shatter a crystal glass at each of her concerts, so I’ve been told.”
Alex said, “The goblet she broke when we were last there was made specifically for her by the Waterford artisans.”
Jason said, “Lady Lindley did sing for the group, so I heard later. Hallie and I didn’t happen to be in the drawing room at that particular moment to witness the goblet shattering. Grandmother, what are you and Angela fighting about this evening?”
Angela said, “She is more selfish than my one and only husband who would stick out his hand for a plate of food, never looking away from his bloody Greek textbooks.”
“He was a very learned man,” Alec Carrick said. “He was also a demanding tyrant.”
“Hear, hear,” said Angela. “I do wonder sometimes where he resides now.” As she spoke she lightly tapped her slipper against the floor. “I will not speak more about my husband, his spirit is still too near. You will not believe this, my dear,” she continued to Hallie, “but this withered old bat”-she waved a hand toward Lady Lydia-“allows that in certain lights, she just might look younger than I do, and here I am young enough to be her daughter, almost.”
“Ha!” said Lady Lydia. “Unlike her, I still have beautiful hands, elegant hands, look at my hands, lovely blue veins, so close to the surface. They’re of remarkable beauty, don’t you agree, dear boy? My sweetest Hallie?”
“I was remarking to my wife that you had extraordinary veins, Grandmother.”
Alex marveled at the meaty insults, all given and accepted in high good humor. She wondered what her mother-in-law would say if she called her a shrunken old bat.
“You’re both amazing,” Hallie said, looking from one to the other.
“My dearest girl,” Lady Lydia said, “tell this woman you don’t want her at Lyon ’s Gate now that you’re married and sharing so many lovely activities about which I have little or no memory at all. Tell her that she’s to come and live with me. I’ll give her a bed in the attic.”
“You don’t have an attic in the Dower House, Lydia. Your memory is like this lamb chop, nearly all chewed up. Were I to consider moving in with you, I would want that lovely yellow room that faces the back of the house, overlooking the garden Hollis oversees. Then I should want to take over the gardens, plant dill and thyme.”
“I don’t like dill,” Lady Lydia said, then leaned close to Angela. No one could make out what she whispered.
Corrie said to her mother-in-law, “Such wonderful insults and they’re all for show. Were she to say them to me or you, she’d mean each and every one. Whereas this one”-Corrie turned to Hallie, an eyebrow arched-“walks in the house, says something absolutely ridiculous to her, and she’s charmed. You can do no wrong, Hallie, and it galls me. Mama-in-law and I are forced to listen to her sing endless praises about you, how Jason is so very lucky to have you for his wife. It’s quite provoking.”
“I’m lucky to have you, Hallie?” Jason said. “Hmm, do you really think so, Grandmama?”
Lady Lydia looked up and blinked. “Oh, my dearest little Hallie. She is doubtless an angel, unlike Corrie here who behaves like a hoyden-imagine, I watched her slide dow
n the banister to fall into poor James’s arms. They both went to the floor, playing and laughing, certainly not something to happen in the entrance hall of a nobleman’s estate. But the truth is, Hallie and Corrie are the lucky ones.”
Hallie said, “Thank you, Grandmama-in-law. I have wit. I like that. And since I’m new and fresh, don’t you think I’m worthy of Jason, ma’am?”
Lady Lydia eyed Hallie from her lovely braided hair atop her head to her lovely thin nose to her low-cut evening gown that framed breasts Lady Lydia couldn’t remember ever having that high up on her chest. “Yes,” she said, “you are worthy. For the moment. My birthday is next month.”
Corrie said, “I gave you a lovely marquetry table for your last birthday, but you never said a single word about my being worthy of James.”
“I am still thinking about it,” Lady Lydia said.
Corrie wanted to tell her not to think about it too long or she just might finally croak. She said, “By the way, Hallie, did you and Jason see anything at all of interest on the Isle of Wight during that long two weeks you were there?”
There was silence the length of the dinner table, then perhaps a giggle from one of the women. Was that Lady Lydia?
James said, “You are one to talk, Corrie. We spent nearly a month in Edinburgh and yet you don’t even remember much about the castle. You hemmed and hawed when the twins asked you about it.”
“That,” Corrie said, “was different. It rained all the time. We couldn’t go out very much. Don’t you remember? I sprained my ankle-”
Jason asked, “However did you sprain your ankle, Corrie?”
James said quickly, “Neither of us remember. It’s not important. I told her not to hurl herself-well, never mind.”
“Listen, James, I do remember the castle. I remember very clearly how you carried me into that tunnel that led to the dungeons-”
James’s eyes dilated.
“Oh goodness, James, let me fan myself.”
James waved his napkin in her face. “Well, the tunnel was nice and private, not a soul around.”
“Oh yes,” Corrie said and gave him a smile to curl his toes. She turned to her sister-in-law. “You haven’t yet answered my question. Did you see anything at all of interest during your very long fourteen days on the Isle of Wight?”
Hallie never looked up from the lovely asparagus spears in the middle of her plate. “Well, now that I truly think about it, Corrie, I must say no. Jason, can you remember anything we saw that was of any interest, for longer than say, eight minutes?”
“Longer than eight minutes? No, I don’t believe so. For the most part, we admired the architecture at Dunsmore House.”
CHAPTER 35
The Beckshire Race One Week Later
Dodger will win; Dodger will win; yes, Dodger will win. It was his litany, Jason thought, as he looked out over the Beckshire race course.
The prestigious Beckshire race, one half of a mile, four laps around the roughly shaped oval track, open to the first dozen owners who ponied up the fifty-pound entry fee and discreetly handed over a hefty bribe, was run on August the seventeenth beneath a cloudy sky on a cool day that required the ladies to wear light wraps.
The maximum of twelve horses were entered in the race today, not surprising since the Jockey Club members not only offered a healthy prize purse of five hundred pounds, but also the opportunity for owners to compete again against many of the great racing studs that had run their prize horses at the Ascot races in June and the Hallum Heath winners at the end of July. Unfortunately, Dodger hadn’t run at Hallum Heath since his owner had been on his honeymoon.
They had not bothered to widen the width of the stretch, so it could be a dangerous race. But that didn’t matter. Everyone who was anyone fought to get entry into this race. Dodger was running in the race not because of bribery but because Jason was very good friends with one of the Jockey Club member’s sons.
Lorry Dale, head jockey of Lyon’s Gate Stud Farm-indeed the only jockey of Lyon’s Gate Stud Farm-proudly wore a shiny new livery of gold and white, sewn by Angela, his black boots shined by Mrs. Sherbrooke herself using her own special recipe. He stood, speaking low to Dodger, who stomped and waved his head, doubtless agreeing with what Lorry said, obviously ready to run his heart out. Dodger, Jason said, was at his very best when he was racing or mating. Or one followed by the other. An uncommon combination, Jason admitted, but then again, Dodger wasn’t a common horse. Jason nodded toward Charles Grandison, who was running his Arabian bay gelding, Ganymede, then frowned at Elgin Sloane, who stood beside him, a young lady on his arm, the young lady’s father standing next to her, obviously pleased with Elgin.
“His heiress?” Hallie said behind her hand to Jason.
“So it would appear. Her father, Mr. Blaystock, owns a large stud near Maidenstone. See that brute of a horse trying to kill his jockey? It’s fitting that his name is Brutus. Brutus belongs to Mr. Blaystock. It looks like your father is right. He said Elgin was a man who learned from his mistakes, said you would probably be his first and last big one. It’s true that his coming to Lyon ’s Gate to try to regain your affections was indeed a miscalculation, but it didn’t cost him anything but his time.”
“I wonder if the poor girl knows his first wife died not a year after he married her,” Hallie said. “You don’t think he killed his first wife, do you, Jason?”
“No, I don’t.”
“That Brutus does look vicious. It’s the shape and size of his head, the way his eyes roll around. I wouldn’t want to be around him.”
“He’d be a handful. He’s a beauty, though, isn’t he? That white star is perfectly formed. Elgin is eyeing that stallion with a good deal of possessiveness if I don’t miss my guess.”
Hallie said something rude beneath her breath, then pointed to Lord and Lady Grimsby, who had just moved to stand next to Lord Renfrew. “They all appear to be here together.”
Charles Grandison waved at Jason, but made no move to come over. Lord Renfrew looked over and laughed too loudly. As for Lord and Lady Grimsby, they smiled at Jason and Hallie because they lived in the neighborhood, mingled socially, and Jason’s father was the earl of Northcliffe.
Included in the hundred-some people at the Beckshire race were a dozen Sherbrookes, all there to yell their heads off for Dodger. “We must be very careful of Dodger,” Jason had said to Henry.
“Like you, Master Jason,” Henry said, “I’ve put the word out that any attempt to harm Dodger or our jockey will lead to unpleasant consequences.”
“At the very least.”
Henry grinned. “I heard ye were more specific than that when you put out the warning, Master Jason.”
“Yes, a bit more. We will see if anyone is foolish enough to test me. Keep your eyes sharp, Henry.” Jason looked out now over the dozen horses coming up to the starting line, most of them bucking and rearing.
Charles Grandison’s Ganymede stamped his right front hoof over and over again. Ganymede was favored to win the race, which pleased both Hallie and Jason, as they stood to make a good deal of money with a victory, what with the four-to-one odds the bookies had set. And all because Dodger was an unknown. He’d had made his name in Baltimore, not here in England.
Ganymede, two horses down the line from Dodger, continued his stamping. Jason watched Dodger’s ears flick back and forth. It didn’t appear to make him uneasy, unlike the big gelding between Dodger and Ganymede who was rolling his eyes, his jockey trying to calm him and failing. That was it, Jason thought, the hoof-stamping was to intimidate.
Lamplighter, Lord Grimsby’s huge bay Thoroughbred, was snorting so loudly the horse beside him tried to back away.
At last, the moment of truth. Lorry sent Hallie and Jason a salute with his whip, hugged himself to Dodger’s neck, held him steady and calm, stroking his neck, speaking quietly to him, until Mr. Wesley shouted, “Go!”
Then he stretched himself out, kicked Dodger lightly in the ribs, touched his whip
to Dodger’s ears. The dozen horses kicked and bucked and heaved forward. Whips slashed down, horses slammed into each other, trying to take over space, jockeys shoved and kicked out at other jockeys. The ground was dry, and dust flew thick in the air. Lorry, prepared, pulled his handkerchief up over his nose.
Dodger, as was his wont, kept his head down, all his attention on covering that track. Lorry, coached by Jason for hours, continued to hold himself low over Dodger’s neck-“eating his sweat”-and ignored the other horses.
“Keep his head down, Lorry,” Jason said over and over again. “Yes, that’s it.” He was squeezing Hallie’s hand hard. Suddenly Jason saw a flash of silver from the corner of his eye, not twenty feet away, off to his left, from the copse of oak trees beside the track. He’d seen it before at the Hinckley racetrack outside Baltimore -it was the silver of a gun stock glinting off the sun when the man brought it up to fire. Jason yelled to Henry, but he didn’t hear him, his eyes on Dodger. Jason picked up a good-sized rock, prayed, and hurled it. He didn’t hear anything over the crowd noise, in fact, none of the people standing near him even noticed what he’d done, but the gun stock suddenly disappeared.
“That was an excellent throw,” Hallie said, holding his arm tightly. “I wonder which jockey the poltroon was going to shoot?”
Horace, one of the stable lads, sixty years old, hoary and seamed and agile as a mountain goat, yelled, “Ye got ’im! I’ll see to the blighter, Master Jason!”
“Dodger’s gaining on Lamplighter,” Hallie yelled. “He’s going to get him, I know it. Lamplighter is fast, damn his eyes. Run, Dodger, run!”
Lamplighter, the big muscled bay Thoroughbred from Lord Grimsby’s stable, had taken the lead from the start.
Hallie grabbed Jason’s hand, yelling, “Dodger, come on, Dodger,” over and over again.
“It’s the fourth lap. Dodger will make his break, any second now,” Jason said, and held his breath. The field was close, the horses nearly on top of one another the track was so narrow at this point. Nothing but yelling, louder and louder, but Jason didn’t hear them. He was concentrating on Dodger and on Lorry Dale riding so low on his neck they almost looked like one. It was time. Break, Dodger, break now. It was as if Lorry snapped a spring. Dodger leapt forward-exactly like a racing cat, Tysen Sherbrooke was to tell everyone later-and in the space of three seconds there wasn’t more than three inches between him and Lamplighter. He was gaining, gaining, nearly there. Soon Dodger and Lamplighter were nose-to-nose.
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