"What was it supposed to do?" Imogen asked.
"I met a fellow up at Congress Park yesterday, missus. He told me it was love charm, missus, that's all."
"A love charm?"
The girl flushed prettily. "I thought it might make Billy notice me, missus."
Imogen patted the girl's shoulder again, relieved to learn they hadn't intentionally been betrayed by a member of the household. "I can think of better ways to accomplish that, Mary. Why did you put it in the oat bin? Is that where he told you to put it?"
The girl's dark brows drew together. "I was going to sneak it into the hands' bunkroom, missus, but I was there in the stable and sudden-like it hit me that if it was in the oat bin it would be around him most of the day, so I put it in there real deep. It sounds stupid now, but I remember thinking that real strong."
Imogen suspected that Mother Hawkes would find that story interesting. "Well, no harm was done, Mary. What about this fellow at the park? How did you meet him? What did he look like?"
"One of the other girls I know from the school told me that he'd made a love charm for her, so I asked her to introduce me to him. Name's Seb. Maybe twenty-five, missus, from down Albany way, he said. Dark hair, not too tall. He drives a fancy automobile for someone hereabouts, but I didn't think to ask for who."
Imogen had a very good idea about that. "I see."
The girl's eyes sank to the floor. "I didn't mean any harm, missus, honest."
"Do you think it's fair to try to trick Billy into liking you?"
Her brows drew together. "Well, no, missus."
"Then will you promise me you won't try anything like that again?"
Mary shook her head, hope surfacing in her eyes. "No, ma'am, never. I swear it."
"Then I don't think Billy needs to hear of this. I do appreciate your being honest with me, Mary. It helps a great deal."
"You're not going to let me go?"
Imogen shook her head. "Not as long as this doesn't happen again, Mary."
"Oh, thank you, missus!" The girl hid her face behind her hands and dropped a completely unnecessary curtsy. Then she fled.
Their little ploy had worked, flushing out an unwitting culprit. At least now they knew who must be behind the charmed items suddenly appearing in the area.
"What's wrong with that girl?" Mother Hawkes had come into the office, but cast a glance over her shoulder at the departing Mary.
"She's just young, Mother," Imogen said, and then relayed most of their conversation.
"Most interesting," Mother Hawkes said with narrowed eyes. "I suspected that Hammersly was getting his trinkets from someone in Albany, if you recall. I do enjoy being right."
Imogen had no doubt of that. "So what do we do?"
Mother Hawkes held up a small box, presumably containing the mystery bag from the oat bin. "I'll take this to town and turn it over. They'll find Mary's story interesting, I think."
More evidence for the racing association, Imogen reckoned. She glanced up at her mother-in-law. "Would you mind if I took it? I need to get out and be doing something."
Mother Hawkes regarded her with raised brows. "Stewing, are you? I have a package at the department store that needs picking up. Could you fetch that?"
"Of course," Imogen said, taking the small box from her mother-in-law's hand. "To whom should I give this?"
"The track steward, Thomas Brown," she said. "And make sure you tell him about young Mary's encounter."
Imogen surveyed her work clothes and decided that for a quick trip to the track, they would do. She tucked the box under her arm, grabbed up her handbag, and walked to the library door. She stopped on the threshold though, and turned back to Mother Hawkes. "Was my mother ever happy?"
Her mother-in-law frowned. "I don't know that your mother wanted to be happy," she said. "She wanted to be in control. She had that."
That sounded right to Imogen. "Guaire thinks she really left my father because she wanted to control me."
"She was overly protective," Mother Hawkes said.
Imogen sighed.
"Of course," Mother Hawkes added, "she couldn't control him, either--your father. I'd wager she thought she could, and was sorely disappointed."
Imogen couldn't imagine herself trying to control Guaire, but she could easily picture her mother wanting to control Finn. "That's why I don't want to extract a promise from Guaire. It would be the same mistake."
Mother Hawkes laughed. "I can't say that 'extract' would be the right word, in his case. You want him to stay, don't you?"
Imogen caught her lower lip between her teeth. She did want him to stay, but she wanted it to be his choice, not the matter of a bargain. "Yes."
"Well, people will gossip for a while if you marry one of your employees, but it wouldn't be unheard of," Mother Hawkes said. "Men certainly get away with it often enough these days."
Imogen blinked. Marriage hadn't actually occurred to her. She suspected it hadn't crossed Guaire's mind, either. She didn't even know if he believed in the institution. "I'll keep that in mind, Mother. People will..."
"Don't worry too much about what people think, girl. It's your life, not theirs."
"Yes, Mother." With that last word, she headed toward the front door, wondering what it would be like not to worry about what others thought. It was a talent she needed to cultivate.
***
Imogen found Thomas Brown in the avenue of white-painted stables next to the track. Mr. Brown looked rather mundane, Imogen thought, but then again she hadn't realized her mother-in-law had 'special' skills either.
They stood under the shade of the row of trees planted between the rows of stalls while one of his assistants waited out of earshot, ostensibly surveying the occupant of one of those stalls. A handful of grooms played cards over by the end of the stables. Most stalls were already full with horses recently arrived for the Saratoga meet. Imogen herself had one narrow stall rented so that her horse could stay overnight.
The track steward held up the small cotton bag by its strings much as Mother Hawkes had done. "Ah, yes," he said, "items of this particular style of poor craftsmanship have been popping up all over town recently."
When she relayed Mary's story, he nodded sagely and tucked the offensive bag back in its box. "I suspected she might be referring to Mr. Hammersly's driver," Imogen added.
"Like the courts, we have to assume innocence until guilt is proven, Mrs. Hawkes. We can't be sure that Mr. Hammersly is the one employing the items we've seen so far. He doesn't have a smidgen of talent himself, if you ask me. Nor can we know if he's actually aware that they are charmed, although in the case of the gloves that your mother-in-law mentioned to me, it seems likely."
Imogen chewed her lower lip and nodded. She understood his point, even if she didn't like it.
"And as our jurisdiction only includes track lands, we...hmmmm." Brown whistled sharply, and his assistant came trotting over. "Take this to my office, Emory."
The assistant grabbed the box and, after tipping his cap to Imogen, trotted off toward the office.
"As I was saying, Mrs. Hawkes," Brown said, "we'll have that stall cleaned out tomorrow morning. We'll keep an eye on that rat problem for you."
"Thank you, Mr. Brown," she said, realizing that only one thing could have caused his abrupt change of topic. She looked up and, sure enough, William Hammersly had come striding around the corner of the stable row. Imogen knew he had a couple of horses racing that weekend as well, but the timing of his arrival couldn't be a coincidence. She wondered if he was following her about town now.
Hammersly smiled genially at her when he reached them. "Mrs. Hawkes, how nice to see you. Are you still planning on running one of your horses tomorrow?"
His tone might be friendly, but she heard a mocking undertone. He didn't think she had a horse worth running any longer. "Of course I am, Mr. Hammersly."
"And with your brand new trainer," he said condescendingly. "How adventurous of you."
Imogen took a calming breath and reminded herself that she must stay under control. "We think we have a good shot."
"We'll see come Monday morning," he said--a not-so-subtle reminder about the mortgage hanging over her head.
Imogen clenched her jaw. She saw then that his favored doeskin gloves were stuffed into one of his jacket's pockets. "My trainer was admiring your gloves," she said, pointing discreetly. "Could you tell me where you got them? I'd like to purchase a pair for him, once my horse has won."
Hammersly's eyes narrowed. He cast a glance at Brown, who'd stepped back as if he didn't want to interfere in their discussion. "They were custom-made by a glover in Albany," he said quickly, and then surveyed her work clothes with a disdainful eye. "A bit too dear for your purse, I suspect."
"May I look at them anyway?" she asked. "To judge the workmanship."
That gave Hammersly pause. "Actually I need to get back to my office. I simply wanted to check on my horses. Perhaps..."
"Is there some problem with the stables?" Brown asked.
Hammersly scowled at the interruption. "Nothing that concerns you, Brown," he snapped. He turned back to Imogen with that meaningless smile of his. "I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Mrs. Hawkes. Perhaps you'll join me for supper after the last race. You could look at them then...at length."
Imogen took a calming breath. All manner of improper responses ran through her mind, most dealing with what she'd really like to do with those blasted gloves. "We'll see," was all she trusted herself to say.
Hammersly bestowed one final gloating smile on her and then walked away without excusing himself, tucking the gloves more firmly into his jacket pocket as he went.
"I do believe you're correct about the source of that rat problem, Mrs. Hawkes," Brown said in a mild tone. "We'll definitely be keeping an eye on it."
"Thank you, Mr. Brown." She shook his hand and headed out for her buggy, glad not to find Hammersly lurking about. She made her way to the department store, picking up a paper-wrapped package for Mother Hawkes, and then headed home.
The drive home gave her time to think. Hammersly had apparently given up any appearance of courting her and moved on to simple threats and innuendo--a relief in a way. It was, as Mother Hawkes called it, war. And Imogen was ready to fight.
***
"So what is it?" Imogen asked when she handed the bundle over to her mother-in-law. "Mr. Hill assured me he included everything on your list. Twice."
Mother Hawkes dug a pair of scissors out of Imogen's desk drawer and snipped the twine holding the brown paper shut. She drew it back to reveal a neatly folded stack of clothing. Men's clothing, Imogen noted, a jacket and trousers, a couple of shirts, underwear and socks.
"You can't send your trainer to the track dressed in Henry's old castoffs," Mother Hawkes said, lifting the brown tweed jacket for Imogen's perusal. "Mr. O'Donnell will be representing Hawk's Folly Farm, and he needs to be properly dressed."
"Will they fit?"
"I've had a good deal of practice buying men's clothes, girl." She waved Imogen toward the library door. "Now go ask him to come in before dinner so he can try them on for me."
Imogen pressed her lips together, imagining Guaire's probable response to that statement. At least there didn't appear to be any celluloid collars or cuffs in the lot. But Mother Hawkes was right; Guaire should have something of his own. Even though he'd said he didn't think it necessary, he deserved better than another man's clothes. "I'll go relay your orders, Mother."
Imogen went, reflecting that it was high time to get rid of Henry's things. All of them.
She stopped on the porch in the afternoon sunshine and squinted up at the nearest section of the despised gingerbread trim--curlicue-laden corner brackets with a row of elaborate fretwork in between. It had to go. She wasn't certain how difficult it would be to remove all the excess ornamentation, but she suspected she would like the house--her house--much better once she did so.
She lifted her skirt and tucked in into the waistband and, wrapping one arm around the pillar for balance, stepped up onto to the porch rail. She reached up with her other hand and tugged at the corner bracket. The thing seemed firmly affixed.
She tried to pinpoint where the nails attached it to the post and the eaves, working out how it was all held together. And then she imagined the piece of trim working free, coming loose in her hand. She tugged again, harder this time, and had to throw both arms around the post when the bracket came loose...along with all the fretwork and the bracket from the opposite corner. The wooden bits landed on the porch with an impressive clatter.
After a stunned moment, Imogen relaxed her tight grip on the post and carefully hopped down from the rail to the porch. The entire section had fallen out. Iron, she recalled, looking up at the exposed nail heads. She wasn't able to pull out the nails with her gift because they were iron, but she'd managed to convince the wood to tear itself apart to slip off the nails.
Mrs. Dougherty opened the front door, her eyes wide with dismay. "What happened?"
Imogen glanced down at the broken trim, and then back up to the cook. "It was loose," she answered hesitantly. Then she squared her shoulders and said, "I pulled it down. I've decided I don't like the trim on the house, so I pulled this section down. I'll ask Jack to come by and clean this up when he has the chance."
Mrs. Dougherty inclined her head, and left Imogen there on the porch feeling rather proud of herself for a change. She pushed a couple of the pieces of broken wood out aside with her foot and headed out to find Guaire.
When Imogen reached the track, she saw the jockey she'd hired for the Special, Dave Williams, trot by on Faithful's back. Tommy rode Hawk's Cry, and a third horse cantered past, unsaddled. She watched him, wondering what the two riders must be thinking of the rider-less horse sharing the track with them.
Sitting on the track fence, Jack held Paddy's pocket watch and Guaire's slim notebook with its listing of times. He showed her the last run, five and a half furlongs in one minute and nine seconds. "Not Faithful's best, ma'am, but I think he'll put more into it tomorrow."
"I'll pray he does," she said.
The jockey trotted over when he spotted her. "He's flying, Mrs. Hawkes. I think there's a good chance."
"Exactly what I want to hear, Mr. Williams." She patted Faithful's neck, and made a furtive check for nip marks. "He looks hale."
"Are you taking him into town tonight?"
Tommy had come up, leading Hawk's Cry. "Mr. O'Donnell wants to skip morning exercises. Walk him up in the morning."
Imogen hadn't heard that plan, but reflected that she would feel better with Faithful in his own stall tonight, rather than at the track. She nodded. "So we'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Williams."
He dismounted, handed the reins over to Tommy, and doffed his cap to her. "Ma'am. Oh, if you're going to race the little fellow, I'd love a chance to ride him. He kept up and I'd swear he wasn't even trying."
Imogen pressed her lips together, tempted to smile. "I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Williams, but he's not listed in the Stud Book, so he won't be racing around here."
The jockey, who only came up to her nose--a couple of inches shorter than Tommy, even--pounded track dust out of his riding clothes. "A real shame, ma'am."
He headed toward the stables then, leaving Jack and Tommy with the two horses. Tommy patted Faithful's neck and doffed his cap before the two hands led the horses away to cool them off. Which left Imogen watching horse-Guaire as he trotted around the end of the track and back toward her.
She didn't see his clothing anywhere. He must have changed into horse form back in the stable. So she accompanied him back to the stables, one hand against his shoulder. He walked directly to his stall and lifted the wooden latch with his teeth.
"I wondered how you'd been doing that," she said. "I just figured you'd unbound it, like the rope."
He snorted and showed her his white teeth. His form glowed. A wave of heat struck her, almost like a w
ind coming out from his stall, and then Guaire stood there in his human form. His shirt and trousers were folded over the rails between his stall and the empty one, but he didn't seem too eager to don them. He grinned at her, nude and apparently unbothered by that fact. "I can't unbind things when I'm a horse," he answered, "but I've clever teeth."
Recalling the time he'd sheared a button off her shirt, she couldn't argue that. "Why is it warm when you change?" she asked instead.
He grabbed his second-hand trousers off the rail, shook them out, and pulled them on. "I've no idea."
Guaire looked whole now, Imogen noted, and far healthier than when he'd first come to the farm. He'd had time to heal. She was glad of that. Even if he left after the race, they'd given him that. "Is it cold when you go the other way?"
His eyebrows rose. "You'll just have to find out, won't you?"
She watched him button the shirt and followed as he walked barefoot to Paddy's tidy office. "Mother Hawkes wants you to come up to the house and try on some clothes she's bought for you. Before dinner."
Guaire groaned.
"As you'll be representing the farm," Imogen said sternly, "she means to see you properly dressed. We wouldn't send a jockey out without proper silks, you know."
"I'll come," he said in a resigned tone, and then added, "Ginny, what I said earlier, about your mother..."
"Was the truth," she finished for him. "I'm a bit of a coward, I think. It's always been easier to do what someone else wants of me than to decide what I want on my own."
He touched her cheek. "Then you're not angry with me?"
"No." She glanced down the main aisle of the stables and couldn't see anyone else. "I wanted to ask..." She took a deep breath, Guaire waiting while she got together her nerve. "I wanted to ask if you would come to my room tonight," she managed, and then flushed when she realized how desperate she'd sounded. She coughed into her hand to cover her embarrassment, and added, "Later, I mean, after the others have gone to sleep."
He tilted his head so he could meet her eyes. "Are you wanting to learn how to use your gift? Or just asking?"
Iron Shoes Page 9
