But at least she displayed a little sense, in adopting a veil, the better to shield her countenance from the impertinent. Or perhaps the better to invite their gaze — for the black illusion netting, however suited to the disguise of her features, hung jauntily enough from the tricorn hat. Hers was a tall, womanly figure astride the mettlesome beast — the jet-black gelding I had last seen tied to the phaeton. However unseemly her behaviour, however determined her flaunting of convention, I could not fail to admire Mrs. Grey. And pity her, too. Such an one must be very rich, indeed — or very unhappy. Only the most extreme sense of liberty, or the utter depths of misery, could give spur to the sort of recklessness she displayed.
“Come, Mr. Bridges,” Captain Woodford said, “we must bid the ladies adieu, or be denied our place at the rail.”
These words had scarce fallen from his lips, when the blowing of a horn announced the horses arrived at the starter's mark, and a murmur of expectation arose from the assembled throng. Mr. Bridges surged forward towards the rail, Captain Woodford in pursuit; Fanny clambered onto the barouche box next to the coachman, Pratt; and even Lizzy gained something in animation.
“They are off!” Fanny cried, “but I can see nothing — only a sea of hats, and the flash of horses' heads. Oh, you darling Commodore!”
Despite myself, I caught something of the clamour of the moment, and rose to my feet, swaying slightly with the springs of the coach and Fanny's determined energy. A cloud of dust, turned gold in the August sun, announced the vanguard of the horses — they were fast upon our portion of the rail, and I thought that even my disinterested gaze might discern the Commodore's narrow Arab head vying for pride of place with a bay mare. Then, in a flash of scarlet, Mrs. Grey leapt the rail on her fleet black horse.
A cry of “Mrs. Grey!” and “Huzzah!” seemed to break from an hundred throats, and that suddenly, every man in possession of a mount had thrust his way onto the course behind the lady. Like a company of mounted cavalry, top hats blown backwards by the wind, they pounded in the wake of the racing pack — and disappeared around the course's bend.
“Good God!” ejaculated Miss Sharpe.
I turned from the course to see the governess pale and trembling, her hazel eyes fixed on the dust-clouded rail. Presumably she was unaccustomed to such exploits.
“More than one unfortunate shall be unhorsed, Miss Sharpe, depend upon it,” I told her. “But do not trouble yourself on a fool's account. They are all very nearly insensible with drink, and shall not mind the bruising.”
“Mrs. Grey shall keep her seat, never fear,” said Lizzy drily. “She will be safely home and established upon a sofa before the half of them have circled the field.”
But Miss Sharpe seemed not to have attended to either of us. Her gaze was still fixed on the course, where the distant splash of scarlet proclaimed the sole woman at the head of the cavalcade. To discern much else was impossible; the Commodore, Josephine, and their competitors in the heat, were swallowed entire in a cloud of dust.
“Are you quite well, Miss Sharpe?” I enquired gently. “You have grown too pale. Perhaps the heat has overcome you. It is well that we are very near to ending so tiresome an amusement — I am sure we should all prefer to be at home.”
She sank back down into her seat, and drew a kerchief from her reticule. “Forgive me. A trifling unsteadiness
The unmounted spectators, like my brothers, had commenced to run along the rail in pursuit of the pack; an idiot's errand, for the pack itself had very soon rounded the final bend of the course, and was bearing down upon the starter's mark. Our heads turned as one— the pounding of hooves announced the approaching triumph — and the bay mare Josephine swept foaming across the finish, with the Commodore hard on her heels.
“Ohhh!” cried Fanny in disappointment.
“Thank God it is over at last,” murmured her mother.
And from the trembling Miss Sharpe, came something like a sob.
IT WAS A CHASTENED AND DESPONDENT HENRY WHO rejoined the Godmersham party a half-hour later.
“I am sure that some great mischief has befallen the poor beast.” He sagged against the seat cushions and accepted a glass of ginger beer. “He looked off in the near hind. Perhaps the weights—”
“He looked off for the duration of the heat, my dear brother,” said Neddie sourly. He was quite winded, and much put out at the devil's chase he had run. “Although I confess my position was too poor to permit of a good view. We should better have gone mounted, like Mrs. Grey.”
As tho' conjured by my brother's thought, the figure in scarlet pranced into view near the stylish perch phaeton. She dismounted with a flourish, and thrust the reins at her tyger. Behind her, at a discreet pace, advanced the filly Josephine and her jockey — both looking whipped by the very hounds of Hell, as perhaps they had been. It cannot be comfortable or easy to race in a determined heat, with most of Kent at one's heels.
Mrs. Grey tossed a beautiful gold plate — Canterbury's Race Week prize — into the perch phaeton, with as much disregard as tho' it were a pair of old shoes. She handed a small leather coin pouch to the jockey, and reached a gloved hand to pat the filly's lathered flank. Then, with an insouciance possible only for one who moves under an hundred eyes, she stepped into her carriage, took up the reins, and snapped them smartly over the matched greys' necks. Several of the watching gentlemen cheered. The tyger touched his cap as she turned, his expression wooden; then he and the jockey led their mounts slowly through the milling crowd, in the direction of the stableyard.
“What did I tell you?” Lizzy said languidly. “She shall be established on her sofa while the rest of us are still trapped on the Canterbury road. Detestable woman.”
“Do not speak of her, pray.” Henry took a long draught. “My dear Eliza will have it that there is nothing like a Frenchwoman for winning, you know — and I declare I begin to be of her opinion. Did you see that grey-eyed jade, Neddie, spurring her mount for all she was worth?”
“I believe Mrs. Grey's eyes to be brown, Henry,” my brother absently replied.
“Grey — brown — but upon my word, the Furies ain't in it! I might almost believe her to have cursed the Commodore as he rounded the rail. She has quite the look of the witch about her, however much she affects a veil.”
“Now, Henry.” I patted his hand. “Let us have no conduct unbecoming to a gentleman. You are to be an example for the children, in this as in so many things. Your disappointment may serve as a cautionary chapter in the annals of the Sporting Life. I see the illustration now, in my mind's eye: A Gentleman Unbowed by the Vagaries of Fortune.”
“—However driven upon the poorhouse,” he muttered, unreconciled.
“The poorhouse!” I smiled at him conspiratorially, and dropped my voice to a whisper. “Then take comfort, Henry. You shall not travel there alone. The excellent Mr. Bridges is to cheer your solitude, for he named the Commodore as the salvation of all his hopes.”
“Am I then to encompass others in my ruin?” Henry groaned in mock despair. “The reproaches that shall be mine! And how am I to face Lady Bridges, his redoubtable mother? I suppose we may expect the unfortunate curate to wait upon us at Godmersham before the day is out?”
“He had better wait upon Mrs. Grey,” said Neddie, who had caught something of our conversation. “She is undoubtedly more amenable to charity at present.”