Brigid had nothing against newcomers. Sean had been a newcomer, his home that rocky land far to the north. A land of low stone fences, soil a mixture of sand and seaweed and, in every direction as far as the eye could see, a vast ocean and endless sky. Too late she had learned that he could never be quite comfortable in the richer, greener, more prosperous land to the south, a land of horses and gentle hills and haystacks rolled into golden bales. But that was all behind her now. She brushed away the unwelcome memory, concentrating once again on the Claibornes.
Brigid had not begrudged the Claibornes their money. What sensible mother would? She wasnt one of those people who resented inherited wealth. As for those whod done well on their own, well she was more than happy to celebrate their success and wish them well. But the Claibornes pretended theyd always been rolling in excess as if it wasnt common knowledge that, until Bull Claibornes father made a fortune dealing illegal spirits in Americas prohibition years, the Claiborne family had never done anything more than dabble in wagering at the annual Kentucky Derby.
Brigid had never cared for pretension. Caitlins mother-in-law, Lucy Claiborne, was so full of it that if one took a pin to her well-endowed backside, she would most likely sit several inches lower in her chair. Of course, what could one expect from people who served their ham slathered in maple syrup and ate grits dredged in bacon-cream sauce? It made Brigids stomach heave just to think of it.
Brigid Keneally, a loud voice called from below her window. Its past nine. Are ye openin the doors today or takin a holiday?
Brigid groaned. It was Seamus McMahon and his voice was already slurred with the drink. Unless she called someone to take him home, his wife would see nothing of the paycheck hed already liberally dipped into.
She threw open the window and leaned out. I wont be unlatchin the door for another hour or so, Seamus.
The man rubbed his stubbled cheeks, stepped back into the street to look at her, and summoned a smile. I could help myself to a wee pint or two before you come down, Brigid, love.
Brigid lowered her voice. Im no fool, Shay. Go home before I call our Mary.
Muttering expletives under his breath, most of which referred to the devil having his way with heartless women, Seamus stumbled down the street in the direction from which he had come.
Brigid sighed with relief. Perhaps she would write to Caitlin, even take a holiday. Better yet, she would call her and tell her she could no longer manage everything on her own. If Caitlin needed an excuse to come home, Brigid would give it to her.
2
Lexington County, Kentucky
Caitlin Claiborne lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, willing herself to breathe naturally. Beside her, Sam snored the deep, inebriated groans of a man who had managed to barely find his bed before passing out in a drink-induced haze. Light from the stables streamed through the French doors, intensifying the sheen on the plush carpets, the gleaming cherrywood furniture and the Georgia OKeefe originals covering the papered walls.
Sam thrashed recklessly, throwing his arm in an arc that barely missed her shoulder. Caitlins body tensed and she waited for his breathing to normalize. Minutes passed. Finally, without regaining consciousness, he settled back into his pillow.
Caitlin inched away from him until she lay, rigid and awake, on the edge of the mattress. Hell, she decided, was sharing a bed with a man she couldnt bear touching. Not that he wanted to touch her either.
The bed had been made to order. Sam had specifically requested a king-size four poster. Caitlin hadnt objected. No bed could be too big if she had to share it with Sam Claiborne. Now, at least, she could move far enough away so that it felt as if she were sleeping alone.
If they had a home of their own, this charade wouldnt be happening. She would have her own room and Sam could come and go as he pleased. But Lucy Claiborne wouldnt hear of anyone moving. Claiborne House was Sams home, his legacy. If privacy was so important to Caitlin, Lucy would be the one to leave. After all, how much space did a poor widow lady need?
Caitlin brushed the uncharitable thought aside. For a mother-in-law, Lucy wasnt bad. She worried about Sam, about the children, about Caitlin, and about the undeniable frost between her son and daughter-in-law with a diligence that rivaled the persistent trickle of spring sap down the trunk of a Virginia pine. It wasnt Lucys fault that Sam Claibornes nickname was hound dog in every bar between Lexington and Louisville, or that he couldnt keep his trousers zipped long enough to stop the rumors from flying.
A mosquito hummed above her head. Ignoring the reflex to swat, Caitlin blew it away. The air was stifling. Despite the Claiborne millions, Lucy didnt believe in air-conditioning. As long as she was alive, Claibornes would swelter in the heat of a stifling summer just as they had every summer for a hundred years.
In many ways Lucy reminded Caitlin of her mother. Both women were united in the belief that self-denial bred character, that without the first the second was an impossible feat. Brigid was more perceptive, of course. She was Irish. No Irish woman ever born would have missed what Lucy Claiborne had missed for three of the last five years. From clear across the Atlantic, Brigid understood that something was dreadfully wrong with her daughters marriage.
Caitlin closed her eyes. Ireland. Beneath her eyelids, the rich compelling green of her homeland materialized and with it the image of brown turf stacked and drying beneath a milky sun, rolled bales of hay, gold against green, wooly long-haired sheep, a hint of chimney smoke, gray disappearing into a grayer sky, the first mouth-watering bite of a potato boxy, gray stone walls brilliant with fall-colored lichen, the smell of peat and oatcakes, loose tea with milk, friendly reserved smiles, and at the end of it all, her mothers eyes, always blue, always clear, always unalterably, painfully honest. If only shed appreciated what she had.
Perhaps it wasnt unusual for a young girl to want something different. Growing up in Kilcullen shed paid no attention to the windswept beauty of the Curragh, to the timeless sense of space and history, the friendly smiles, the weathered faces, the camaraderie, the unconditional, wondrous feeling that she belonged, would always belong simply because she was herself.
An ache built up in her chest. She breathed deeply, forcing back the tears that always came when she thought of Ireland. God, how she wanted to go home. What she wouldnt give for one clean breath of air scented with bog and woodsmoke, to wake up to rain on the wind, boiling clouds, steaming tea, her mothers soda bread spread out on snowy linen on the table in the huge immaculate kitchen where shed shared countless meals. She missed the cornerstones of her youth with a craving beyond anything shed felt before.
And behind it all, hovering above anything external, was a desperate yearning for her mother. It was a relief to finally admit it. If only she could go back in time, to be young again, to a place where all hurt and disappointment were brushed away by Brigids cool hands on her hot forehead. Caitlins relationship with her mother had been strained at times but shed never doubted the strength of Brigids love. No matter what she did, or how far she strayed, her mothers love was forever.
There had been a time when America called out to Caitlin, when the tiny town and the people shed known forever wove a suffocating net around her. She had been the only one left at home. Kitty and Mary had married Australians and gone to live on a sheep station in the outback. Deirdre, up to her ears in children, lived in the north in County Tyrone, Lelia was settled in Boston with a husband and soon a new baby, while Anne, the oldest, Caitlins surrogate mother, worked for a London newspaper.
Caitlin had dreamed of America. When it called out to her, she answered. Brigid was heartbroken. Shed wanted a university education for her youngest, cleverest daughter. Caitlins O levels had been the highest in her class. She could still hear her mothers voice. An education is the only democracy, Caitlin. An education levels out the haves and have nots.
But at seventeen, Caitlin didnt want college. The confinement of four more years of classroom walls and required reading wasnt for her.
She barely managed to attend secondary school long enough to earn her Leaving Certificate. America and horses were in her blood.
Her naivete had cost her years of humiliation. Her cheeks still burned when she recalled the snide comments and rolled eyes of her husbands friends when she first attempted to venture into their conversations. Caitlin had her share of pride. Never in her life had she experienced the kind of condescension and outright rudeness at which Sams social circle excelled. Looking back, with the clarity hindsight so often brings, her reaction to their cruelty had been a positive one. If they had been more accepting, if she had been less sensitive, if Sam had tried to protect her, she might never have attended college and earned a degree at all. For that, she could be grateful.
Perhaps it was time to end this bitter period of her life. Her mothers last letter hinted at poor health. Perhaps it was time to go home for awhile. The complications were enormous. There were Annie and Ben to consider. The children were settled in school and despite Sams lack of interest in her, he loved his children and they loved him. Caitlin had no desire to see her children grow up without their father. Lucy would be devastated. Annie and Ben were her only grandchildren and she adored them.
Depression closed in on her again. She fought it off. Maybe, if everyone was reasonable, if Sam didnt lose his temper, something could be worked out. Her heart fluttered with renewed hope. An idea began to form in her mind. For the first time in months, Caitlin settled into a restorative sleep with a smile on her lips.
The Kentucky Derby held at Churchill Downs on the last Saturday in May was a Claiborne family tradition. Not only did Claiborne colts participate but the entire family, the trainer, the servants, the groomers, the exercisers, everyone who had anything to do with Claiborne horses, attended the race that began the count down to the Triple Crown. The series of three annual events beginning with the Derby and ending with the Belmont, determined which thoroughbred, if any, would go down in American racing history as the winner of the most prestigious purse in the thoroughbred world. This year the Claiborne colt, Night Journey, was slated to win.
Caitlin, slim and elegant in a linen wrap skirt that fell to her ankles, a white sleeveless blouse and a wide-brimmed straw hat, sat in the Claiborne owners box sipping iced tea. Six-year-old Ben sat beside her scanning the crowd.
She glanced down and saw the worried frown on his small freckled face. Sliding her free arm around her sons shoulders, she pulled him close for an extended hug and breathed deeply. The all-consuming love that motherhood evoked never failed to astonish her. Caitlin hadnt been prepared for that kind of emotion. Sometimes it choked her and she couldnt manage the words. Dont worry, love, she said carefully, keeping her voice light. Theyll be here in time. Has Daddy ever missed a Derby?
No. Ben looked up, saw the smile on his mothers face, and relaxed against her.
Across the sea of people spread throughout the stands, Caitlins eyes found Lucy Claibornes and connected. The older woman smiled bracingly and Caitlin lifted her glass in a salute. Lately, her mother-in-law had been unusually approachable, almost as if she approved of her.
Lucy had intervened after Sam flatly refused to allow her to take the children to Ireland. Caitlin has a right to be with her mother, she reminded her son with a hint of steel in her voice. And Brigid should see her grandchildren.
In the end, Sam had capitulated. No one argued with Lucy. She simply announced her position and refused to deviate from it until everyone came around to her way of thinking. It was a trait that annoyed Caitlin immensely when shed first come to Claiborne Farms. Now, she was grateful for it.
Caitlin knew she was a far cry from the naive young girl whod married Sam Claiborne fourteen years before. It was much more than an expensive haircut, the labels on her designer clothing, or the diamond on her finger, large but not quite large enough to stretch the boundaries of tastefulness. Caitlin radiated an aura of polished sophistication that was typically southern and purely Claiborne. A cross between wholesome and elegant, with striking cheekbones, a brilliant smile and the contrast of creamy skin against night-dark hair and eyes, Caitlin Claiborne was accustomed to her share of admiring glances.
Sometimes Caitlin wondered if her mother-in-law could read her mind. Would Lucy accept the inevitability of her sons failed marriage, wish Caitlin well and tell her to take good care of Annie and Ben? Or would she be vindictive and controlling like Sam?
Caitlin bit her lip. Her answers would come soon enough, as soon as she had the nerve to hand Sam the divorce papers she carried in her purse. Lucy couldnt possibly know of her plans. No one knew, not even Brigid, not yet.
It was nearly five oclock in the afternoon. Churchill Downs had opened at eight that morning to a crowd of thousands flowing steadily in from Fourth Street. Across the brick-lined walkways, through the tulip and marigold beds and past the clubhouse, a sea of tanned legs and shining hair, of pink pantsuits, cut-off shorts, straw hats, lycra skirts, t-shirts, and bared backs moved to the sound of rock music, cheers, and hawkers. Inside expensive box seats, men in white suits and bucks lounged beside ladies in tasteful linen, strappy sandals, and wide-brimmed hats.
Caitlin tapped her foot impatiently. If Sam didnt arrive soon with Annie, she would be too late to speak with the jockey.
Beside her, Ben spotted his father and leaped from his seat. There they are, he shouted, waving his arms. Daddy, Annie.
Sam Claiborne grinned, shaded his eyes, and waved back to his son. Holding Annies hand, he picked his way through the crowd, entered the box and sat down. Wheres Mother? he asked.
Caitlin stood. Shes in the Sommers box, she answered briefly. Ill be back in a minute.
The horsell win with or without you, Caitlin, Sam drawled running a hand through his gilt-colored hair. I doubt if Carlsons waiting on pins and needles for you to cheer him on.
Caitlin felt the blood rise in her cheeks.
Ben spoke up. Can I come with you, Mama?
Caitlin held out her hand but Sam spoke first. Stay here with me, son. Mamall be right back. This is something she likes to do alone.
Without a word to her husband, Caitlin kissed her children and left the box, dismissing Sams rudeness from her mind. Horses were already coming through the tunnel one at a time. Television cameras focused on the tanbark ring. Owners and trainers converged on the paddock, locating their colors, calling out names, shaking hands. Crowds of onlookers lined the fence. Jockeys in colorful silks moved down the stairs.
Caitlin caught up with Tom Carlson when he was nearly in the mounting circle. Her eyes warmed and she held out her hand. You know the horse, Tom, and youre the best jockey in this race. Ride it as it comes and dont worry.
Carlson, his eyes level with Caitlins, grinned. This ones ours, Caitie. Dont you worry.
She smiled. Good luck.
Mount up, an official called out. Tom mounted. Strains of My Old Kentucky Home from the brass band lifted the crowd to its feet. The riders led their mounts around the clubhouse making their way back down the long stretch to the starting gate. Caitlin watched as Carlson let the horse out in a slow gallop to warm him up before returning to the green and white starting gate. The jockey pulled plastic goggles over his eyes. Night Journey stepped into the gate and the doors slammed shut behind him. Carlson reached down, grabbed a handful of the colts mane, and bent forward.
Caitlin held her breath. This moment, before the break, was always the worst. Then it happened. The horses surged forward. Seven tons of hard-breathing animals shot toward the straight and the first turn. Caitlin inhaled, waiting.
Carlson allowed Night Journey his space while maneuvering for a stronger position. Silver Flag, from the Burlington Stables, ran head-to-head with Baby Rose, a California horse, who had been in the lead. Royal Flush, another Burlington colt, went from fourth to fifth around the bend.
The line was thinning now with Carlson biding his time. Caitlin clenched her fists. If he didnt make his move soon, it would be too late. Then she saw it. Ni
ght Journey took the bit in his mouth and leaned forward. She sighed in relief as the horse moved ahead, passing Seventh Cavalry and Royal Flush, leaving the two horses in the dust.
Slowly, with the precision of an artist, Carlson urged Night Journey to pick up speed, to accelerate around the bend, moving faster and faster. The horse never missed a beat. Swinging out he switched leads, left to right, as if he were flying through the air. Propelling with his forelegs, he ate up the ground. The race was half over. Only two horses were ahead of him and the time was forty-nine and one-fifth seconds, a record, so far.
Effortlessly, Carlson advanced his horse, swallowing up the lengths that separated him from Baby Rose. Caitlin removed her sunglasses, narrowed her eyes and watched. Behind her the crowd roared. Night Journey was in third position and there was one quarter of the race still to go.
He sailed past Baby Rose while her jockey looked helplessly on. The five-sixteenths pole loomed ahead. Carlson rode in a whirl of motion, instincts alert, every movement practiced and sound. Flashing his stick beside Night Journeys eye spurred the horse to a final flash of speed. Moving to the right and forward he was neck-and-neck with Silver Flag. The crowd screamed and rose in the stands as the two horses raced through the top of the straight. Slowly, relentlessly, Night Journey pulled ahead. Behind him Silver Flags jockey rode furiously, chirping, pumping, going for the whip.
Caitlins breathing altered. Go with him, Tom, she whispered. Its nearly over.
And it was. Night Journey opened one length and then two as the horses drove toward the wire. In the lead now by a full two and a half lengths, he raced through the wire. The board flashed one minute, fifty eight seconds, a Kentucky Derby record.
In the stands and on the blankets the sea of spectators roared their approval. Carlson slowed Night Journey to a trot, circled the track another time, pulled the horse to a stop and lifted his helmet in salute. Reporters, photographers, and television people surged toward the winners circle.
IRISH FIRE Page 2
