Barbara Metzger (16 page)

“That’s true, Rhodine,” Jacey told her, ignoring the gibe, “but no matter. You can still come. You can ride in the carriage with Lady Hockney, Farthingale’s mother.”

Now the blush fled from Miss Endicott’s face, leaving her the colour of milk spilled on brick floors. “I lied,” she gasped. “I’m not just a poor rider. I’m frightened of horses but…but the duchess scares me more!”

Luckily, the lights dimmed, shifting everyone’s regard away from Rhodine to the center of the dirt enclosure. Jacelyn did consider how terrible things must be at Endicott House, for the horse-shy Rhodine to visit Astley’s with them—to see the trick riding!

A tall man came out then, wearing a red coat and satin britches tucked into high white boots. He welcomed them, and Jacey forgot all about Rhodine and her problems.

There were tumblers and jugglers and groups who did both. There was a bear in a little skirt, which danced on two legs while the orchestra played a waltz. There was a lady whose gown was so covered with sequins she looked like silver-polishing day at Versailles. She had four little white dogs who danced and twirled and jumped through paper hoops. On their last turn around the enclosure and through the hoops, another performer entered the ring and joined the circuit: a tiny pink pig with a red collar. The audience whooped and whistled. Arthur stamped his feet. Farthest away from Miss Hammersmith, he was naturally the least inhibited. The others applauded.

Then there were the horses. Drill team horses, dancing horses, horses that could count—all with neither rein nor rider. The man in the scarlet coat directed them with only his whip and his voice.

The earl whispered to Jacelyn, “And here I was so proud that Baron would stay on command.” She didn’t answer, too intent on a trio of white horses moving in precise formations, long white manes and tails flowing as they cantered into figure eights, three across. From the sides you could see only one set of legs, so evenly matched were they.

The orchestra played a fanfare, and the man in red introduced the first rider, a man called Jesse. Wearing white sequined tights and an open-necked shirt, Jesse rode out on a black horse—but standing on the horse’s back, not sitting at all! A few turns later, he jumped down, landing lightly on his feet. After that he was a blur of motion, as the black horse kept to its steady gait around the ring. Jesse somersaulted over the horse, did handsprings to its rump, tumbled under its pounding hooves, and came up astride without using his hands. For a finale, Jesse dismounted in a roll and bowed while the horse also lowered its head and right foreleg.

The lights came on, to a great gust of noisy appreciation. Clapping fiercely, Jacey felt like weeping because it was over.

“Don’t worry, sweets, it’s only the intermission.”

Arthur eagerly chipped in: “The women riders come out in the next act,” earning him a frown from Hammersmith. He turned to Rhodine to find out if she was enjoying the entertainment, despite her lack of affection for horses. She was, immensely, though her particularly favourite act was the little dogs. Before either Jacelyn or Arthur could comment on this heresy, she added, “That and the remarkable man on the black horse.” Turning to Jacelyn, she asked, “Wasn’t he handsome?” Arthur sucked in his stomach when he and Leigh went to find refreshments. Claibourne looked back and winked at Jacey.

The girls couldn’t go much further with talk of the virile rider, not within the bounds of propriety and Hammersmith’s hearing, so they turned to other topics.

“You’re going to Almack’s Wednesday, aren’t you? I suppose you’ve been before.” Jacelyn chattered, not waiting for answers. “I’m going to wear the gold tissue gown I had made in Ryefield. Aunt Amabel doesn’t know it yet, that I’m not wearing white or a pastel. She’ll have the vapours, but it’s the prettiest gown I’ve ever owned, and I’m sure to need it, facing all the owl eyes and raised lorgnettes.
Belle-tante
approved anyway, didn’t she, Hammersmith? What are you wearing, Rhodine?”

It was the wrong question. Losing her cheerful animation, Rhodine became a limp rag.

“Oh.” Jacey delivered a vast understatement: “You don’t like it?”

It seemed that Miss Endicott not only disliked her dress for Almack’s, a pink and white confection with every froth, furbelow and flower a berserk—or greedy—dressmaker could attach, she hated it. Moreover, she hated all her dresses, how they made her look childishly silly, how they made people stare. She hated having her stepmother Tina select them for her, and she hated all the money the gowns cost, when everyone knew they were only window dressing. The Endicotts’ pockets were to let, but her father insisted she be gowned like a duke’s granddaughter, lest anyone forget.

No one ever forgot her clothes, she wailed, but no one remembered the girl in them!

Another injured pigeon, and Jacey vowed to do her best to fix it. It wasn’t long before she’d convinced Rhodine that between them—them being Jacey, Pinkie, and, with a slight nod, even Hammersmith—they could improve any gown. It would have to wait for Wednesday, since Jacelyn was committed to the daylong ride on Tuesday, but they could work miracles. Pinkie was such a hand with the needle, and Hammersmith had a way with curls, and maybe Jacey wouldn’t have time to get so nervous, if she was helping her friend.

The gentlemen, meanwhile, were making their way back through the crowds. Arthur couldn’t believe the earl had spent the day sightseeing, much less taking in the cultural highlights.

“Zounds, you really went to the Parthenon exhibit and the Royal Academy in the same day? With all the attractions London has to offer, you chose those? Incredible. Why, I’d rather go to the tooth drawer. I can’t believe it, Rake Claibourne bear-leading a brat in and out of museums!”

“Actually, old son, I can’t recall enjoying a day more. You should try it.”

“Now I know you’re dicked in the nob.”

The earl just smiled. “Your day will come, Arthur.”

“Me a benedict? Not on your life.”

As they reached their seats, however, the earl noticed his friend’s face was red and his brow furrowed, from the concentrated deep breaths he took to flatten that paunch!

*

The second half began with four riders cantering into the ring: two women in silver tights and short sequined tunics on black horses, two men in black tights and black vests on white horses. The quartet proceeded to change horses in midair, sometimes doubling up on one mount, sometimes with the women being tossed back and forth, and all while they stood, barefooted and upright, on the horses’ backs. It was like juggling with people!

Four different riders came out next and began to juggle in earnest: oranges, plates, top hats, hoops, still standing, not sitting astride. While their horses circled the ring, then changed direction, each kept his three or four items in the air. It was hard to count, they moved so fast. Two more turns and the men started throwing to each other. Colours blurred and objects flew, and the horses kept going ’round. Jacey clutched the earl’s hand. The jugglers didn’t drop even one orange, and each rider ended with his own matched set, and the thunder roared.

The lady with the dogs came back. This time the dogs rode the horses. The horses didn’t seem to mind, but the dogs had their tails tucked firmly between their legs, so Jacelyn wasn’t as impressed with this act. She whispered to Claibourne that she’d once tried to convince Pen to ride a horse. Jacelyn had been scolded for the claw marks on the saddle. Worse, Pen hadn’t gone near the stable yard with her for days.

Six women in sequined stockings and barely decent dresses did some graceful ballet steps atop their mounts. Hammersmith snorted loudly. Arthur joined the whistlers.

Jesse came back, dressed as a red Indian this time, complete with war paint and feather headdress. He did the same routine as before, but with loud whoops and warbles.

The orchestra played a long, dramatic drumroll. This was the finale, the announcer intoned, the Magnificent, the Marvellous, the Mysterious Miss Moira herself.

The horse was an enormous grey, almost as tall as Baron, and Miss Moira stood posed on its back like a Joshua Reynolds portrait. All draped in multicoloured layers of gauze, you’d never know she was standing on a moving animal. As the orchestra, then the horse, picked up tempo, Moira began to move. She tossed at least a yard of gauze to the announcer, while Hammersmith clucked, to reveal white tights and a brief white top which resembled a corset. Jacey and Rhodine shared a scandalised giggle. Heaven knew what Hammersmith did. Jacey couldn’t look over, too fascinated by the equestrienne’s actions. Moira was standing on one foot, kneeling on one knee. She was twirling at the horse’s side, only one hand on the bridle. She was spinning in the air, grasping the horse’s tail! It was the most wonderful exhibition Jacey had ever seen; not just the woman but the horse also won her exuberant applause. The big grey seemed to anticipate the girl’s every move, to increase or lessen the stride to be in the perfect place for her landings on its back. Of course it helped that the horse’s back was wide and flat, like Baron’s….

She stopped clapping. It was as if the sun had just come out—the moon and the stars too! Eyes wide and shining, face lit up with near-religious inspiration, she turned to Claibourne.

“No.” Lord, why hadn’t he thought of this! Why? Because it was a long time since he was ten and tried standing on his pony. Luckily, the pony had short little legs or he’d have broken his skull instead of just his arm. Jacelyn? If ever there was a stunt more calculated to appeal to the minx, he didn’t know it. He cursed himself for being three kinds of a fool, bringing her to Astley’s.

“No,” he said again as they waited for the carriage.

Making certain that Hammersmith was with the others, she pleaded: “Not my gelding. He’s too skittish. I wouldn’t be that caper-witted. And the mare’s too narrow. But Baron is broad, and well mannered, and he’d do anything you asked of him.”

“No.”

Nothing more was said about it in the carriage, of course, not in front of Hammersmith, and not until they had dropped Rhodine at her door and Arthur at his club.

His lordship escorted Jacelyn and the maid to the door of Parkhurst House. Hammersmith went in first, but stood in the open doorway next to Marcus, her arms crossed over her boney chest, daring Claibourne to dawdle over his good nights.

“I’ll call for you at the regular time tomorrow, for our ride,” Leigh said clearly, for the servants’ benefit. “Unless you’d rather forgo it, since we’ll be all day in the saddle out to Richmond?”

Jacelyn shook her head, not really paying attention.

Then: “No promises, scamp,” he whispered, “but bring your britches. I’ll see what I can do.”

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek before scurrying inside. Claibourne could swear Hammersmith slammed the door on him. It couldn’t be Marcus, not with all the
douceurs
Leigh’d been handing him for just such occasions.

*

“This is against my better judgement, pet, and I am only doing it to keep one jump ahead of you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you? Tell me you weren’t figuring a way to bribe the people at Astley’s for a chance to ride! Maybe it would have been better. I understand they use ropes and pulleys to train.”

“But, Leigh, that would spoil all the fun!”

“Fun? Remind me how much fun we had when I have to explain your black-and-blue body to your aunt, my aunt, and more devoted servants than the heir to the throne has!”

The foursome—Claibourne, Jacelyn, Lem with a small satchel, and Pen loping alongside—were on their way to the stable where Baron had his stall, which happened to have an indoor schooling ring. Jacelyn was bubbling with excitement; the earl was grim. She had on two layers of clothes, Lem’s outgrown britches under her heavy riding skirt; if she had as many layers as he had worries, they’d have to roll her to the stable.

Leigh’s first concern, though not necessarily his greatest, was that she’d break her damnfool neck. If no one had done it for her yet, though, he decided, she must lead a charmed life. Besides, he had enough confidence in her natural grace, Baron’s steady gait, and his own ability to catch her if she fell, to rest easier on that score. For insurance, he’d dickered with Lawrence, the stable owner, for a fresh load of sand to be put down.

There lay his next botheration, the expense of this venture. The money for the sand and silence wasn’t important; his skill at cards held even when luck wasn’t with him. If worse came to worst, there was always the challenge book at Jackson’s Boxing Parlour, and side wagers. The cost Leigh regretted most was Baron’s services for two days, Lawrence’s fee for one half hour’s private use of the indoor ring. The grizzled old veteran had justified such extortion of his ex-officer by pleading honesty. He could have used the stallion any night Claibourne wasn’t watching, couldn’t he? Not if he wanted papers on the foals, he couldn’t, the earl had countered uselessly. Good thing he was better at sparring than at haggling, else he’d be under the hatches and horseless. The worst of it wasn’t even having to ride one of Lawrence’s hacks for two days; it was how surly Baron would be later, going on rocking-horse rides in the park.

Claibourne’s main worry, however, was one he’d least expected when he woke at dawn this morning. He’d discounted Jacelyn’s claims of being followed yesterday, and the garbled account of stray dogs and pigeons made no sense at all. Yet this morning, when he arrived at Parkhurst Mews early to give Lem his instructions—and bribe—the stable yard was abuzz with talk of a horse left there overnight. The poor brute was still tethered to a crosstie where, it was assumed, someone had tied it after the stablemen had gone to sleep. Obviously mistreated, with great weals and scars across its back, the horse was standing three-legged, head down.

“By Jupiter, man, what are you waiting for? Put the poor nag out of its misery—and do it before Miss Jacelyn gets here, for goodness’ sake!” Claibourne felt his own stomach wrench at the horse’s condition; he could only imagine Jacelyn’s reaction.