by Lucy Adams
Matthew closed his eyes, attempting to steady himself as he tried to take in all that had been said. Surely it could not be? Surely he had not been so easily deceived! The young lady before him had been the one to ride Beauchamp? The one who had sought him out in order to prove to him that she could be as successful, if not more successful, than any other jockey in England? He could not quite make sense of it, for a young lady did not have desires and dreams such as that! It was almost laughable.
“Everything I have told you, Your Grace, is the truth,” Leighton said, her voice now a little more robust. “Aside from the fact that I have hidden the truth of my sex from you, the rest is exactly as I have said. I seek to be a jockey. I seek to prove myself as a capable and excellent rider. My family is respectable and certainly does not accept that my desire is to be such a thing. Instead, they frown and shake their heads at me, telling me that I ought not to seek such a thing simply because of who I am. That is not, as I see it, entirely fair.” Green eyes looked back up at him now, burning brightly with an unmistakable ire, and Matthew felt himself ridiculous, wondering how he could not have seen before that Leighton was not, in fact, a young lad as he had first presumed. Now that he knew her to be a woman, he could see the oval face, the bright green eyes, and the very femininity of her. This was utterly disastrous.
“You cannot be a jockey, Leighton – or whatever your name might be,” he replied harshly, seeing how she seemed to shrink before him. “A woman can never be such a thing.”
“And why is that?” Leighton replied, practically exploding with wrath before him. “The rules state that anyone may ride in the Gold Cup – but not once has anyone of my sex been chosen to ride in it.”
“That is because they cannot do so!” The very moment those words escaped from him, Matthew realized the foolishness of what he had said. Leighton, or Miss Leighton, if that was the truth of it, had proven to him that she could do precisely what he said she could not. She had shown more skill and understanding of Beauchamp than Rigby, and certainly more than any other jockey he had seen. It frustrated him greatly that his one chance to win the Gold Cup was now being snatched from his fingers.
“You have lied to me, Miss Leighton.” His tone became angry as he realized just what the young lady had done. “You would have continued this pretense without any consideration nor care for what I thought of it. Under my very nose! Even in my employ!”
This did not seem to bring any sort of shame to Miss Leighton, however, for she simply arched one eyebrow, looking back at him without fear.
“I might ask you, Your Grace, whether you could give my position here even a moment of consideration,” she said softly, her quiet voice taking away some of Matthew’s ire. “Might you imagine what it is like to have such a passion for riding, such a love of the sport that you spend your time improving all you can, even though you know that you can do nothing other than observe.” A harsh laugh ripped from her mouth, sending Matthew’s spirits sinking to the ground as his heart began to feel the very first strains of compassion. “When you know that you are able to ride better than the gentlemen that boast about their skills to you, when you can see that you have a better seat than a gentleman who has insisted on taking a ride with you – and that, even with sidesaddle!” She rolled her eyes, letting out a long breath and looking back at Matthew without any sense of guilt in her expression. “You may have a dream of winning the Gold Cup, Your Grace, but my dream is to be able to ride without being hindered by those who say that a woman cannot do so.” She spread her hands. “Which dream has more importance, Your Grace? Yours or my own?”
For a long moment, Matthew could not answer. He looked down at Miss Leighton and saw the passion and the frustration burning in her gaze, realizing just how difficult it must have been for her as a lady of quality to even allow such a passion to rise within her. “I am not held back by my sex, Miss Leighton,” he found himself saying eventually, although the words burned on his lips. “Therefore, I cannot understand your difficulties to their fullest extent.”
Miss Leighton shook her head, closing her eyes momentarily as her lips pulled taut. “No, I do not believe that you do,” she replied, her voice soft yet filled with irritation. “No one can understand, for there are very few such as me. My own family tells me that I ought to turn from my passion, that I ought to be as every other young lady is, and yet no matter how much I think of it, I cannot allow my heart to be so.” Shaking her head again, her hands spread out wide. “Imagine, Your Grace, that someone informed you, repeatedly, that you could not compete in the races. No, more than that, that you were not permitted to even breed horses. That you could have no interest in them. That you had to turn your back on them entirely.” She held his gaze again, her eyes burning into his, and Matthew felt the last few pieces of anger drain from him. “Then imagine that the only reason that was given for such a thing was simply down to your sex. Because you were a gentleman, you could not do so. Would that seem fair to you? Or would you beat against it with all of your strength, doing all that you could to find a way to defeat such demands so that you might pursue your one passion?”
Matthew cleared his throat, knowing precisely what Miss Leighton was trying to have him understand and feeling his heart ache with the thought of having to turn his back on all that he loved. “I can see why you have done such a thing, Miss Leighton, but still I cannot allow you to be the jockey of Beauchamp, as I have already agreed.”
Miss Leighton’s lips trembled, her cheeks paling. “Because I am a lady.”
“Yes, precisely so.”
“Even though I have shown you that I can ride with greater skill and confidence than any of the other jockeys.”
“You have not proven that to me as yet, Miss Leighton,” Matthew retorted, a flash of irritation back in his heart. “You have shown me that you are better than Rigby, yes, and I will not fail to admit that you have great skill, but I cannot allow a woman to ride in the race.”
Miss Leighton spread her arms wide. “Then allow me to ride as Leighton,” she exclaimed, as though this was the solution to their problems. “I shall continue on as I am, and you shall see that the race can be won.”
Matthew hesitated, feeling the urge to agree growing within him but yet knowing that he could not do so. A woman did not ride and certainly did not race! If anyone were to discover it, then he would be the laughingstock of London.
Unless she won. Then what would anyone have to say?
“Please, Your Grace,” Miss Leighton said, sounding utterly desperate. “I know that I have done you wrong, but I meant no ill will by it. I only seek to fulfill my dreams, and this was the only way I was able to do so.”
Shaking his head, Matthew shoved one hand through his hair, his confusion mounting. “You shall remain here, Miss Leighton, for the time being,” he said, his mind uncertain about what was best to do. “You shall work as a stable hand, if that suits you.” Looking at her again and wondering if he was asking too much of a lady of respected birth, he was not at all surprised when she nodded fervently. “But you shall not sleep in the same space as the others who work in the stables, for fear that they might discover you.”
Miss Leighton’s cheeks colored, but she nodded, her hands clasping together in front of her.
“I shall have a room set aside for you within the house,” Matthew continued, still not at all certain that he was doing the right thing. “I will make some excuse or other, you need have no doubt.” Arching his brow, he looked back at her with a small, wry smile touching his lips. “If you wish to satisfy your dreams, as you state, then you will have to live as the other stable hands do, Miss Leighton.”
She lifted her chin, seeing how he was questioning her. “I have always had the intention to do precisely that,” she replied stoutly, although a question still lingered in her eyes. “What of the position?”
“I-I am not certain,” Matthew responded slowly. “I have one or two others that seek the position, and whilst I was inclined t
o turn them away since I believed you to be Mr. Leighton, I must now reconsider. I believe I shall ask them to ride and, thereafter, consider everything that has been set before me.” This brought his soul a little satisfaction, although he could see the disappointment in her eyes. “I must be honest with you, Miss Leighton. I do not think that there is much hope for you now, not in light of what I now know of you.”
Miss Leighton blinked rapidly, and it took a few moments for Matthew to realize that she was fighting back tears. His heart swelled with compassion for her, despite his own irritation at being so deceived, and with an effort, he pushed such an emotion back down.
“You must understand, Miss Leighton, that this is most irregular,” he finished, seeing her nod jerkily. “I should, by rights, throw you out on your ear and have you returned to your family, but for whatever reason, I have chosen not to do so as yet.” He did not want to admit it, but there was a slow understanding growing within his heart as to why Miss Leighton had chosen to do such a thing, seeing just how desperate she was to prove herself and having to admit, inwardly, that she was one of the best jockeys he had ever seen. At the same time, however, Matthew did not want to have a woman as his jockey. The thought was laughable and certainly the beau monde would have no end of gossip and whispers if they discovered that he had a female riding for him! The Gold Cup might well be taken from him, should she win and they discover the truth of her sex as he had done. He shook his head and let out another long breath, seeing as Miss Leighton picked up her wig and began to pin it back to her head. It was the same color as her hair and fell over her tightly pinned curls in the same, scruffy fashion that he had seen the first time they had been introduced. With the cap in place, she looked every inch a young lad, even though he now knew she was nothing of the sort.
“I shall await your judgement, Your Grace,” Miss Leighton replied, her voice wavering just a little. “I must also thank you for not throwing me from your house, as so many others might have done and as you would have been justified to do. If you will excuse me, I will return to the stables and begin my duties there.”
Matthew could find nothing to say, seeing her walk away with slumped shoulders and an air of sorrow about her. The truth was still swimming around his mind, rendering him quite speechless for a few moments. There was so much to think on, so much to decide upon, and yet Matthew found himself struggling to have any sort of coherent thought.
“Brandy,” he muttered to himself, thinking that a good stiff drink might do him good. Walking back to the house, he could not help but glance over his shoulder at Miss Leighton, thinking to himself that she was one of the most extraordinary creatures he had ever had the chance to meet. One of the most incredibly determined young ladies also, he had to admit, a rueful smile spreading across his face.
Now all he had to do was decide what he was going to do with her and that, Matthew knew, would be no easy task.
Chapter Six
Working in the stables was a good deal more difficult than Catherine had expected. Whilst she had always enjoyed saddling, riding, and then rubbing down her mare, she had never once had to muck out the stalls nor cart wheelbarrows full of disgusting smelling manure out of the stables. The coarse language and ribald laughter from the other stable hands had quite astonished her, bringing a flush to her cheeks more often than not. She had thought it best to remain as quiet as possible, whilst ensuring that she did her tasks with no complaints but with every ounce of her strength. Unfortunately, this had not prevented the other stable hands from mocking her, teasing the fellow they believed to be “Mr. Leighton” for being both quiet and much too hard working. Thankfully, there was one fellow who looked out for her, Mr. Griggs, who was in charge of the duties and made certain that the stable hands did as they were told. He stepped in before things got to be too much, which left Catherine with the suspicion that the duke had asked him to do just that.
Catherine, however, bore up as best she could. It had been a little over a week now since the duke had discovered the truth of her identity, and since then, she had barely seen a glimpse of him. When she had crept into her bed each night, bone weary, she had wondered if this was some sort of test that the duke had decided to thrust upon her shoulders. It was as though he was trying to have her prove that this truly was what she wanted, what she longed for, simply by having to endure the life of a stable hand. Neither had she seen any sign of the other two jockeys that the duke had been waiting for. A part of her hoped that they would not appear and that the duke would decide, even though she was a woman, to allow her to ride instead.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
Catherine wiped the sweat out of her eyes and turned at once, seeing the duke stepping into the stables. Catching herself before she bobbed a curtsy, she bowed quickly, aware of just how awkward she felt. The duke was the only one who knew the truth of who she was, and the look in his eyes made her shift uncomfortably. Her scalp itched uncomfortably where her wig was pinned but, of course, she could not scratch it, making her wince as she dropped her gaze.
“You there, Leighton,” the duke said, a small smile on his face as he spoke to her. “Have Beauchamp saddled and brought around to the practice grounds. The jockey I spoke of has arrived.”
A stone immediately settled in Catherine’s stomach. “Yes, Your Grace,” she murmured, not looking up at him and feeling the weight of her disappointment pushing her into the ground. “At once.”
“I was to have two,” the duke continued, turning around and waving a hand airily. “But the second has employment elsewhere, it seems. Therefore, I have only once decision to make.” He looked back over his shoulder just as Catherine lifted her head, their eyes meeting with a sharp intensity that stole Catherine’s breath. She did, of course, find the duke handsome, for his dark eyes and thick brown hair, firm jaw and long Roman nose were appealing in every which way, but it was the look in his eyes that sent her heart fluttering. There was still a chance then that she might be chosen as the next jockey. Perhaps she had done well enough this last week to show him that this was the only thing she sought for in life. Or mayhap he was not yet convinced that this new jockey, whomever he might be, was the best sort to ride Beauchamp.
Her heart twisted as the duke turned away. There was also a chance that the duke would care nothing for her dreams and hopes and had decided instead just to find someone new. This would be his opportunity to tell her so, for if she brought the horse out to him, then there would be a few minutes for them to speak alone. Mayhap this was to be the last time she saw Beauchamp.
Her heart ached as she prepared Beauchamp, aware of just how settled he was whenever she was near him. The animal was quite magnificent in every way, and yet she felt something of a kindred spirit between them both. Something they shared. A desperation to be free, to be unrestrained. A desire not to be held back but to run with all hope and all joy. At least Beauchamp, in his own way, could have that freedom, provided the jockey was willing, whereas she was still held back. If the duke decided against her, then she would have no other choice but to return to London.
For a moment, a wave of sadness crashed over Catherine as she thought about London and her family. She had no idea as to what her mother would be thinking of her sudden and unexplained departure for even though Catherine had written a short note, stating that she had to leave suddenly to seek out an opportunity that could not be allowed to pass from her, Catherine had said nothing more. She had not told her mother nor Dinah where she was going nor where such an opportunity was. No doubt Lady Whitehaven must be making as many excuses to her friends as to Catherine’s whereabouts, for she would not dare to state the truth for fear of what it would do to not only Catherine’s reputation but to the family name. Dinah, most likely would be praying fervently for Catherine, although Catherine expected that prayer to be that Catherine would not disgrace herself and would be kept from sin.
Her smile was wry as she leaned against Beauchamp’s flank. They would not easily be able
to understand the desire that held her heart so tightly. The duke seemed to show more understanding than Lady Whitehaven ever had, although that might well be because he had his own passions and could not even begin to think of what it might be like to be held back from them. When she had explained herself, she had seen how the anger in his expression had begun to fade, how he had begun to understand her. For that, at least, she was grateful.
“Get on there, Leighton!” Mr. Griggs exclaimed, making Catherine start violently. “The duke won’t be happy waiting! You’ve not even got the saddle on yet!”
Flushing with embarrassment, Catherine did as she was bade and quickly had Beauchamp ready. Leading him out of the stall and praying that the duke would make his thoughts on the matter known quickly, Catherine set her shoulders and prepared herself for what was to come.
Some half an hour later, the duke was busy watching the jockey as he rode Beauchamp and Catherine was standing a short distance away, watching both the jockey and then the duke. The duke had taken the horse from her without a word and then gestured for the jockey to mount. Catherine had made to turn away, only for the duke to command her to remain, explaining that he wanted Leighton to take the horse back to the stables when the trial was at an end.
The jockey had not so much as looked at Beauchamp before he had mounted. To him, it was just another stallion, just another horse. He had not looked into Beauchamp’s eyes, nor greeted him in a low voice or done anything to try and cement a knowledge of the creature. He had simply climbed on, tugged at the reins, and expected Beauchamp to obey.
Catherine winced as Beauchamp tossed his head, fighting the bit. The jockey had pulled it much too tight, and instead of obeying meekly, Beauchamp was fighting against it. It was something Catherine hated watching, for she knew all too well that Beauchamp did not respond to such a thing. He had to be directed with all gentleness, not with force.
