Joan Smith (18 page)

They transferred to Luten’s stylish carriage for the short trip, just half a mile up the road past the Boy’s Grave. Cheveley Park was not so grand as Norman had been imagining. The setting was picturesque, with old stands of cedars, backed by limes, but the stud groom’s lodge was a small brick affair built onto an insignificant cottage. The stables loomed behind, and as soon as they dismounted, that old familiar reek of horses assailed Trudie’s nostrils.

Lord Luten made them acquainted with Mr. Heffernan, whom he called Heff. The man looked like an ordinary provincial groom. He wore a somewhat grimed jacket, and longish hair, but there was an alert intelligence in his eyes and an air of authority that put him on equal terms with his noble patrons.

“You’ve come to have a look at your Athene, have you, Luten?” he smiled. “Your groom is there. I was about to go to her myself. Her teats had lost their wax this morning, and a bit of milk was oozing out, so she’ll be due today. Now, you mustn’t worry yourself. She’s healthy and roomy. All will go fine.”

Heffernan led them to the brood mare’s paddock. As they walked down the hall, lined with stalls on either side, Norman felt that this was about as close to heaven as he was likely to come, unless by some miracle he actually won the Triple Crown. He had never seen such a collection of prime horseflesh. Knotted muscles were coated in oil-smooth shades of gold and brown and black. The mares were high-strung thoroughbreds. They snorted and pranced and stamped the ground.

From a stall at the end, there issued an almost insane whinnying. “She’s coming. She’s coming!” Heffernan shouted, and ran forward, with Luten a step behind him. Norman hastened his pace as well, but Trudie lagged. She took one peek into the stall and fell back. She saw a mare on her side, her head tossing, her eyes alive with fear. Her coat was covered with curdled sweat, and she thrashed about on the floor, with a horse doctor and the other men huddled around her.

Suddenly Trudie felt faint. She turned and ran from the barn, out into the fresh air. Though she had been raised on a farm, she took little interest in animals. She had witnessed a foaling before and found it frightening. She didn’t want to see the foal struggling to its feet in the slippery afterbirth, looking as if it were not quite ready to be born yet, with its unopened eyes. She walked around the grounds for half an hour, and when she returned to the barn, the men were just coming out.

“What a splendid delivery!” Norman exclaimed. His eyes were bright, and in his excitement, he babbled like a boy. “She’s a girl, Trudie!” he called. “That is, a filly,” he amended when Heffernan let out a burst of laughter. “What will you call her, Luten?”

“Perhaps Miss Barten can tell us what Athene’s daughter ought to be called,” he said, turning to Trudie.

“I’m afraid you’ve presented me with an impossible job, milord. Pallas Athene didn’t have a daughter.”

“Then we’ll call her Minerva, the Roman counterpart of Athene. As she had a Latin scholar present at her birth—or nearly—we must give her a classical name. Why did you leave? Don’t tell me a country-bred lady is squeamish!”

“Count yourself lucky that she did leave,” Norman said. “Athene whinnying her head off was bad enough. If Trudie had been there, she’d have been hollering louder than the mare. But you should have stayed, Trudie. Minerva was on her feet within five or ten minutes, a regular Trojan. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s feeding already. Can we have a look around at the rest of the setup, Luten?”

“Shall we begin with last year’s Derby winner? Heff, Lord Simcoe won’t mind if I show my friends his stalls.”

It seemed a long time to Trudie that she was walked through barns, being told by Norman, and often Luten as well, that every bit of blood she looked at was “the best in England,” and in some moments of excess, “the best in the world.” All had “the look of eagles” in their eyes, but it more closely resembled the look of a mischievous boy to her.

At last the tour was done, and they returned to Luten’s carriage for the drive to Sable Lodge. Norman’s day was over, but Trudie’s was just beginning. She was shown upstairs to a chamber to freshen up and spent the greater part of her time admiring the brocade draperies and bed hangings, the gleam of polished mahogany and the soft woolen carpet. She found herself wondering what Luten’s London house was like, and his country estate. He had hinted that he’d like her to attend his ball, and now that he had weaseled his way into Mrs. Harrington’s and Norman’s affection, the offer might be renewed. But how could they accept, when hiring Northfield and training True Lady had eaten up all their money?

She went belowstairs and found Luten alone in the saloon. It was a handsome but not overpowering room. There was a masculine air about it, conferred by the heavy furnishings, the oak paneling, and the rather plain decor. Luten poured wine and brought her a glass. He sat beside her on the sofa and smiled a warm smile.

“Norman will join us shortly. He’s still freshening up. I’m afraid today’s outing was no treat for you, Miss Barten. To tell the truth, I was surprised—delighted!—that you accepted.”

“Oh, well, I’ve heard the boys talking about Cheveley Park forever and was curious to have a look at it.”

“Norman’s had his treat. Next time, I shall devise an outing to please you. What would
you
like to do?”

Nothing about Newmarket pleased her entirely. She would have liked to attend a ball or at least a rout party but could hardly suggest such a troublesome entertainment.

“We might drive over to Cambridge one afternoon. Would you be interested to see where Norman studied?”

“That wouldn’t be much fun for Norman,” she parried.

There was no misinterpreting the warm look in his eyes. He spoke on to make his meaning perfectly clear. “I meant just the two of us. Would you like to see it? There are some lovely drives and walks around the university.”

She felt a warm flush suffuse her cheeks and found herself slipping once more into rusticity. “Mrs
.
Harrington would have something to say about that. She’s very strict about whom I drive out with.”

“I had the distinct impression in London that it was you who were in charge. You convinced her that Mr. Mandeville was acceptable; surely you can sway her opinion of Lord Luten.”

Norman came pouncing in at the door before anything  was settled about the outing, but in the bottom of her heart, Trudie felt that something much more important had been accomplished. Luten wouldn’t have asked her to drive out with him alone if he weren’t seriously interested. Not necessarily in love, she admitted, but at least interested enough that he wanted to know her better. She was hard put to imagine what had attracted him. He had seen her always at her worst. She wasn’t wealthy enough that her dowry could be the motive, and she didn’t even profess any love in racing, his avocation. What could he possibly see in her?

They went to the dining room, where she presided over the teapot, feeling ill at ease under Luten’s scrutiny; but with Norman present to keep the conversation rolling, there were no embarrassing silences. It wasn’t a conversation that showed her in her best light. They spoke of horse breeding. “Breed the best to the best, and hope for the best” was their motto. The aim was “a nick of the right bloodlines”—that magical chemistry that occurred only one time in ten thousand and brought forth a winner,

“And even if you’re fortunate to breed that special one,” Luten said, “that’s just the beginning. Then there is the long and expensive process of training, and hoping that nothing happens to break the horse’s spirit—or his legs. Horseracing is called a rich man’s game; I think it ought by rights to be called a rich fool’s game. It requires life-long dedication.”

Norman sat listening, not frowning exactly, but with a pensive look about him. “I daresay it’s pretty uncommon for a chap to win a big race his only—his first season at it.’’

“As far as I know, it would be unique,” Luten said.

“Did you ever hear of a nag that toes in winning the Triple Crown, Luten?” Norman asked.

He shook his head. “When you realize you’ve landed yourself with a flawed nag, the only thing is to get rid of it and start over. Sell or trade it, and
...
”

“I could never sell True Lady!” he objected. “She’s like a part of me.”

“You have to be hard, Norman. Racing’s part business.”

“But when she looks at me, Luten
...
Oh, dash it, you must know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. She might win a few smaller races for you, and at the very least, she’ll make a good hack. Take her home to Walbeck and keep her for a spare mount. Who is looking after Walbeck during your absence?”

Norman was lured into a description of Walbeck Park. He felt a lump rise up in his throat as he remembered his heritage. No other brick home seemed to glow so beautifully in the sunlight. And the setting too, backed by a rising hill, with three spreading elms at the summit, was like something out of a painting. He had intended to enlarge the conservatory for his aunt this spring. The wheat would be in by now; the rolling fields of new green shoots was a particular delight to him every spring. His dairy herd too would be increasing, and the sheep yeaning. But his sister thought that it was the silent memory of Georgiana Halley that brought that suspicion of a mist to her brother’s eyes.

“I hope you’ve left it in good hands. It sounds an excellent estate,” Luten said.

“Neighbors, the Alexanders, are running it for me. I daresay old George forgot to mend the east fence. Betsy is a terror for sneaking through the fence and foraging in the road. She’ll get run down by a carriage if he ain’t careful. She’s the best milcher there ever was, Luten. And produces the best milchers too. She’s getting on now, old Betsy. I hope she don’t decide to stick her fork in the wall while I’m away.”

“Don’t be morose, Norman!” his sister exclaimed. “Mr. Alexander would let us know if any such a thing happened.”

“He didn’t let me know the old oak tree in the meadow got knocked down by lightning. I had to hear of it from Georgiana.”

“Not the old oak!” she exclaimed, but almost as disappointing was to hear that he was corresponding with Georgiana.

“I always hire a steward myself,” Luten said blandly. “A farmer working his own place can’t reasonably be expected to put anyone else’s interest before his own. It’s a big job, running two estates.”

“There’s no point going back home now, even if True Lady hasn’t any real chance of winning. I’ve let the place for a year, you see. And besides me, there’re Trudie and Aunt Gertrude to think of. I couldn’t expect Geo—anyone to take two ladies into the house for the better part of a year.”

“That’s true. The ladies have certainly been subjected to more than enough inconvenience already.” Luten said no more, but Norman was intelligent enough to acknowledge that he’d been foolish, and extremely selfish as well. In fact, that suspicion had already occurred to him more than once. He felt guilty when the ladies talked about their old friends, and regretted missing certain social functions at home.

The tea was excellent, and very daintily served, but after the discussion of Walbeck, a pall descended on the party. As soon as they had finished, Norman suggested he and Trudie ought to go home. They thanked him for the outing and parted on good terms. Luten went out to the carriage with them and found a moment to speak to Trudie in private while Norman had a word with his horses. He always greeted them by name and said good-bye when he left.

“I hope you don’t think I’ve been too hard on him. Someone ought to have said what I said before now. This was a harebrained scheme, rooting you and your aunt out of your home and squandering good money on a bad horse. He has no chance of winning, you know, and the sooner he gets back to his real business, the better it will be for him.”

“I hope you haven’t given him the idea he should go home and get married. That’s the main reason I went along with it—to prevent him from marrying Miss Halley.”

“Is it the institution or the woman you object to?” he asked archly.

“The woman.”

“What is amiss with Miss Halley?”

“Nothing in particular. Norman’s only twenty years old, and Georgiana is barely eighteen.”

“That is a bit young, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know. You may have inadvertently rushed the wedding forward. He looked quite wistful. I couldn’t figure out whether it was Betsy or Georgiana he was missing.”

“There’s not that much difference between them,” she snipped. “A great, placid, cow-eyed girl.”

“A placid woman would suit Norman. He’s not exactly a high liver. I can see him happily settled down with a brood around his easy chair.’’

“Can you see Mrs. Harrington and me as part of the brood? It’s the Halleys’ easy chair he’d have to occupy if he went home before the year was up. I, for one, have no intention of billeting myself on the Halleys. I’d rather go back to Conduit Street and have the neighbors all smirking at me.”

“I happen to know a little cottage standing vacant at Tunbridge Wells,” he said with a mischievous smile.

She had been uneasy ever since she had learned Norman was writing to Georgiana. His stumbling mention of her and Aunt Gertrude staying with the Halleys had further unnerved her, and she knew that such a thing had never occurred to Norman before Luten had put the idea into his head that he was selfish and foolish. That she agreed with Luten did nothing to alleviate her ire.

She stuck out her chin and answered before thinking.  “I’m sure you’ll soon have it occupied, if you can convince any of your high flyers to leave London, that is.”

Norman turned back from the carriage, waiting for his sister to join him. “Thanks again, Luten. I’ll let you know how True Lady’s leg is coming along.”

“I’ll drop around your place and have a look at her. About True Lady’s gallop, Norman. It isn’t desperate, you know. I’ll speak to the men at Danebury and see if they have any ideas. There might be some exercise to help her or some contraption they can attach to her fetlock to straighten out that ankle. Possibly by next year
...
”