by Lucy Adams
Rolling his eyes, Matthew stepped into the carriage and rapped on the roof, settling back against the squabs as the carriage began to roll away. He would be home soon, and now that he had made his decision, his mind seemed to be a good deal more at ease. Miss Leighton would ride Beauchamp in the Gold Cup. He could hardly wait to tell her.
It was not until early the following morning that Matthew found himself able to go in search of Miss Leighton. They had arrived home much too late for such a thing to occur last evening, for most of the staff had already gone to their beds and were sound asleep. The butler and one or two of the footmen had been waiting for his arrival, and Matthew had sent them to their beds almost at once, stating that he could very easily take care of himself. He had found it difficult to sleep well unfortunately, and he had tossed and turned until he could take it no longer and had risen from his bed.
Now, bright and early and feeling a good deal of confidence in his decision to hire Miss Leighton as his jockey, Matthew approached the stables and walked inside – only to discover Mr. Healy slumped in the corner. His eyes were closed, his mouth ajar and a loud snore emanated from him. Matthew frowned and took a few steps closer, immediately able to surmise what was wrong with the jockey.
“Healy,” he said loudly, his voice filling the stables and making some of the horses whinny and stamp their feet in surprise. “I say, Healy!”
It took a few minutes and a sharp stab of Matthew’s booted toes into Mr. Healy’s side before the fellow opened his eyes. Matthew looked down at the man grimly, his frustration growing all the more. He had done the right thing in deciding to let Mr. Healy go from his employ, it seemed. The jockey should already be awake and preparing for his day’s work, but instead he was draped across the corner of the stable, clearly trying to remove himself from the fog of drunkenness that surrounded him even still.
“Get up,” Matthew said loudly, seeing Mr. Healy struggle to his feet, swaying slightly as he did so. “Healy, you are to leave this house this day. I will have no man in my employ behave in such a fashion.” He turned, only for Mr. Healy’s wheedling voice to reach him.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Healy whined, taking a stumbling step forward as Matthew turned back to look at him with a dark frown. “It was just a mistake. One night of revelry, that’s all.”
Matthew sniffed coldly. “I hardly think you will be fit to ride Beauchamp today, Healy,” he stated, seeing how the man staggered back. “Therefore, that is a day gone where I shall have to pay you wages whilst you do nothing to earn them!” He shook his head, his decision made. “No, you are to leave my employ this very day. If you go by this evening, then I shall make certain to write you a decent reference.” He turned away, making to walk to the door, only for something heavy to hit him hard right between the shoulder blades.
Something that left a dank and disgusting odor all about him like a cloud. Horrified, Matthew turned around sharply, only for Healy to throw yet another clod of horse manure towards him. This one splattered against the front of his coat, the residue making Matthew’s stomach twist.
“How dare you!” he shouted, as Healy reached for another clod; his aim surprisingly accurate for one so lost in liquor. “Healy, if you dare throw another then I shall—”
The man ignored him, throwing yet more which Matthew had to dodge. Making for the door, he almost bumped into Mr. Griggs who, with one look at Matthew, seemed to know precisely what was going on. He hurried into the stables and grabbed Healy, marching him to the door with one hand pressed up behind his back. Matthew, still shocked by what had just occurred, could only lean heavily against the stable wall, watching as Mr. Griggs handed Mr. Healy over to two other stable hands, giving them quick instructions as to what they were to do.
“I presumed he was to leave this property, Your Grace,” Mr. Griggs commented, hurrying back towards Matthew. “I did not do wrong, did I?”
“No, indeed you did not,” Matthew replied, pulling off his coat and giving it a small shake, fearing that it was entirely ruined. “Healy is no longer employed here.” He watched Mr. Griggs closely, seeing how a tiny quirk of his lips betrayed his apparent agreement. “You did not care for Mr. Healy?”
Mr. Griggs, who was always a fairly staid chap, turned to Matthew and, as he often did, spoke without hinderance.
“No, I did not like him, Your Grace,” he stated, firmly. “He didn’t treat other folk well at all. I had to pull him away from the stable hand only a few days ago. Left that lad’s face as red as could be.” Shaking his head, he stretched out his hand for Matthew’s coat. “Should I take that inside for you, Your Grace?”
Matthew blinked rapidly, a stone settling in his stomach and immediately weighing him down. “You say that Healy hit the lad?” he asked, handing the coat to Mr. Griggs. “On what account?”
Mr. Griggs shrugged. “Didn’t much like how the lad knew more about Beauchamp than he did,” he replied with a quick jerk of his head. “I know you asked me to keep an eye out for the lad, Your Grace, and I’m only sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”
Matthew shook his head, not wanting Mr. Griggs to feel any guilt whatsoever. “It is not your fault, Griggs,” he told him, slowly becoming aware of just how smelly he now must be. Sighing, he gestured to his coat. “Might you take that indoors? And ask a bath to be prepared, if you please. I must find Mr. Leighton and then shall return inside.” He let a small smile touch his lips as he caught sight of Miss Leighton making her way from the house towards the stables, her head bowed low. “Leighton is to be the new jockey.”
Mr. Griggs said nothing, although he did not display any sort of surprise. Instead, he merely nodded, bowed quickly, and then hurried off to the house, although Matthew felt certain that Mr. Griggs approved of Matthew’s choice. His heart began to fill with a sense of anticipation as he made his way to intercept Miss Leighton, wondering what her reaction would be.
“Leighton!” he called, seeing her head jerk up, her eyes widening as she saw him coming closer. “Leighton, I must have a word with you.”
Miss Leighton, her wig and cap carefully in place, stopped at once and kept her head bowed. “Your Grace,” she said, her soft voice displaying a touch of hesitation. “Is something wrong?”
“No, indeed not,” he replied, a smile plastered across his face. “Why should it be?”
He saw how she glanced at his chest and then looked up into his eyes for a moment, her lips pressed tightly together as a flush of color began to creep up into his face – and realized precisely what she meant. One glance down at his crisp white shirt told him that some of the horse manure that Healy had thrown had splattered across his shirt and, no doubt, carried a good deal of odor with it. His own embarrassment mounted as he cleared his throat, trying to push the knowledge of how he must look from his mind.
“Mr. Healy has been let go from his position here,” he told her, seeing how her eyes caught his, widening slowly as he spoke. “I have decided, Miss Leighton, that I shall permit you to ride in the Gold Cup race this year.” Spreading his hands wide, he shrugged. “It may be that 1816 will be the year that a woman wins the Gold Cup across Ascot Heath.”
A smile filled his heart as he saw how Miss Leighton reacted. She had now gone quite pale, the flush gone from her cheeks, and her eyes searching his face as though she might find some sort of untruth hidden there. Her hands were tight in front of her, clasping and unclasping together as if waiting for him to turn around and state that he had not meant a single word.
“You are to be my jockey for the Gold Cup, Miss Leighton,” Matthew said again, wondering if she was ever going to speak. “If you will accept the position.”
Miss Leighton’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she looked away, her head bowed low. “I will,” she replied hoarsely. “Yes, of course I will. Thank you, Your Grace.” Her head lifted, and she looked at him again. “Thank you.” The words were spoken with such genuine spirit, with such obvious gratitude, that for a moment, Matthew felt hims
elf a little embarrassed to have garnered such a thing by what was a simple decision.
“You cannot know just how much this means to me,” she continued, stepping forward and, to his surprise, grasping his hand with hers. “Your Grace, it is more wonderful than I ever believed it would be.”
Something began to snake up his arm from where her fingers touched his skin, sending a strange lump to his throat. Clearing it away, he smiled briefly and stepped back so that her hands fell to her sides. “But of course, Miss Leighton,” he said firmly, trying to speak through the strange emotion that was swirling through him. “We shall begin this very afternoon. Ensure that Beauchamp is ready at three o’clock precisely.”
She nodded, a smile beginning to spread across her face. It was, Matthew considered, one of the most joyous smiles he had ever seen. “I shall, of course,” she replied, dropping into a curtsy – which looked quite ridiculous given the fact that she was dressed as a stable hand – and then she tried to correct it by almost falling into a bow. Flushing crimson, she ducked her head and turned away, hurrying towards the stables in evident embarrassment and happiness.
Matthew chuckled and shook his head, rubbing at his forehead. He hoped to goodness he had not made the wrong decision, for this Gold Cup race meant more to him than anything else in the world. He wanted to win, wanted to prove to himself, to his mother, to his friends, and to all of the beau monde that when it came to horses, he was the one who had the greatest knowledge, the greatest experience, and the sharpest eye.
Gratified, Matthew turned on his heel and walked back into the house, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he caught another whiff of the stains of horse dung that clung to his shirt. He would need a long bath to rid himself of that particular smell and hoped that the coat was not entirely ruined. But, at the very least, Healy was gone and Miss Leighton now in his place – and that brought Matthew a good deal of satisfaction.
Chapter Eight
“Again.”
Catherine bit her lip but turned Beauchamp around obediently. She had been overwhelmed with delight when the duke had told her that she was to ride Beauchamp at the Gold Cup race across Ascot Heath, but now that she was under his thumb when it came to training and practice, Catherine found that she was beginning to resent his heavy handedness. She was fully aware that under his employ she had very little else to do other than obey, but still it grated on her.
“Beauchamp is not tired yet,” the duke said with a small smile that did nothing to lift the dark expression from his face. “We shall have at least another hour or so.”
Catherine rolled her eyes as she looked away from the duke, aware of how the light was beginning to fade. She had been out with Beauchamp this afternoon already, only for the duke to have been called away to greet his mother who had appeared unexpected. Catherine had returned to her duties, not expecting to see the duke again until the following day, but he had surprised her by appearing at the stables late in the day, when she had been considering retiring to bed.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she muttered, keeping her frustrations as hidden as she could. The other stable hands would have gone to their own beds by now and only a few staff would still be in the house, ready to ensure the duke had everything he needed when it came time for him to retire. Her body was sore and aching in places from the hard work that came from being in the position of stable hand, which was not something that she expected the duke to understand.
Her scalp itched furiously again as she wheeled Beauchamp around, aware of just how much she longed to let her hair free. How good it would feel if it could blow wildly in the wind as she rode instead of being confined to the tight pins that she had become so used to putting her tresses in. Glancing all about her, she suddenly had a thought.
“Whatever is keeping you?” the duke said, sounding irritated. “Come now, Miss Leighton. We do not have all evening!”
Catherine bit back a retort that said that, yes, in fact, they did have all evening for she had nothing else to attend to, and the duke himself appeared to have nothing else to detain him either, attempting to put a small smile on her face.
“If you would give me a moment please, Your Grace,” she murmured, tugging the cap and then the wig from her head and wincing as some of the pins went with it. Carefully setting the cap in her lap and looping the reins over her wrist, she reached up and began to pull her pins out one at a time, setting them in the cap until finally, her tresses fell down about her shoulders. A long sigh of relief rolled from her lips, making Beauchamp snort with evident understanding that she now felt a good deal better than before. Rolling up the cap, she secured it closed with a final pin and then urged Beauchamp a little closer to the duke.
“If you would be so kind as to place this on the ground nearby, so that I might pick it up on my return, I should be grateful,” she said, handing her cap to the duke and finding herself a little surprised by the look of astonishment in his eyes. “Forgive me, it can be most uncomfortable to keep one’s hair in such a fashion, and since it is growing late, I did not think that anyone would notice me.”
The duke licked his lips but said nothing, reaching up to take the cap from her. Their fingers brushed, and Catherine felt a jolt shoot up into her heart, although the duke appeared not to react in any way. A little embarrassed, Catherine raked her fingers through her hair, letting her tresses fall a little more naturally. It was more than a relief to have her hair so freed. Glancing down at the duke, she saw the strange look in his eyes but did not allow herself to think of it for long. Perhaps he was just a little surprised at her boldness.
“Your Grace, I am now prepared,” she told him, moving Beauchamp back to the starting line and making ready to crouch over the saddle. Catherine noticed it seemed to take the duke a few moments to gather himself. Glancing at him, she saw how he raised his hand and looked up at her, making sure she was prepared, before dropping it like a stone. Squeezing her heels into Beauchamp’s side, Catherine bent low as Beauchamp took off like an arrow from a bow, just as he had done every single time before. There was no need to urge him to go faster, no requirement for her to beat him with a crop or the like, for he already had the desire to run as fast and as far as he could. It was only when they reached the end that she turned Beauchamp around and, in a gentle trot, rode back towards the duke.
For whatever reason, the duke now appeared to be a little lost as to what he was going to say to her. He cleared his throat a good three times before he was able to say anything, with his eyes darting from one place to the next instead of up into her face. It was all a little odd.
And then, her stomach dropped to the ground. Was she not doing as well as he had hoped? Was this the reason for his uncertainty? “I-I can do it again,” she found herself saying, her words tumbling over each other. “If that was not good enough, then I would beg of you to allow me another opportunity, Your Grace.”
“You did very well, Miss Leighton,” the duke said quickly, passing a hand over his eyes for a moment and confusing her all the more. “My apologies. I have been putting you through your paces rather hard, I think.” Another small smile, which was vague and not at all in her direction, came across his face. “It is only because the race is less than a fortnight away and it is only now that I have found the jockey Beauchamp needs.”
Catherine frowned, resisting the urge to state that the only reason the duke had taken so long to find the correct jockey was because he had refused to give her the opportunity until earlier that day. She could not quite understand why he had a large dung stain on his shirt nor why he was not wearing a coat, but the joy of what he had told her had overcome all such questions. However, looking at him now, Catherine realized that he was still uncertain about whether or not he had done the right thing.
“I will not fail you, Your Grace,” she told him, wanting to give him some sort of reassurance. “You must see how well Beauchamp and I work together.”
The duke sighed and nodded, running one hand through his hair. “Ind
eed,” he admitted, a trifle more heavily than she had hoped. “I will not pretend that it does not feel rather wrong to have a woman riding in the Gold Cup, but at the very least, no one need know that such a thing will be.” He shrugged, and Catherine felt a sting stab at her heart. “To everyone watching, you shall simply be Mr. Leighton.”
“Mr. Leighton,” Catherine repeated, trying to tell herself that it did not matter whether or not the ton knew that a woman had won the Gold Cup, if such a thing was to happen. The only thing that she needed to consider was that she was being given the opportunity to fulfill her dream, regardless of whether she was known to others as her true self or not.
“We shall have to practice each day, as we have done today,” the duke continued, clearly unaware of her internal struggles. “The evening suits you best, I think?” He tipped his face up to hers, and despite herself, Catherine felt a sudden tugging of her heart.
“I shall be ready to practice whenever it suits Your Grace,” she murmured, angry with herself for feeling anything other than respect for the duke. She had no reason to notice the alluring darkness of his eyes, made all the more so by the fading of the light all around them. Nor did she need to notice his stature, nor his strong jaw nor thick mane of hair. That would only complicate matters.
“You appear to be a little more at ease this evening, I will say,” the duke murmured, coming over to her and holding up his arms, evidently expecting her to dismount. “Mayhap it is because you are free to be as you really are.”
Catherine swallowed suddenly, feeling a twist of nervousness rise up in her as she swung one leg over and leaned down to brace herself against the duke’s upper arms. He helped her down with ease, his hands about her waist as he set her down on the ground again.
“I do not know what it is about you, Miss Leighton, but you appear to be a good deal freer with your hair as it ought to be,” he said softly, his hands lingering for just a moment too long. “Mayhap we should practice each evening so that you can be as you are now.”
