Bething's Folly (13 page)

Bessie was relieved to have Elizabeth home in even better spirits, actually laughing during the frenzied dressing. She had not won the race—it was a tie—but she had done well, well enough to be happily proud, especially with all the approval she’d won. Milbrooke thought the Marquis himself could not have done better; Northwell admitted he’d had to do his damnedest just to tie her; Jeremy, even Jeremy, said they would have won with a few more feet to go. He gave her a wink, saying he’d be able to meet the fellows for a wet, after all. Elizabeth privately believed she could have won easily if she’d had a bit more practice with the bays. Nevertheless, the tie had given a boost to her image of herself, which had been suffering badly recently under Carleton’s disdain. Her confidence only began to waver as Bessie tucked a last flower in her hair at exactly eight o’clock and Elizabeth had to face him.

A quick glance at his stormy expression told her he knew about the race and was furious: the eyebrows drawn low over his eyes, the jutting chin ... “Would you mind terribly if I stayed home, my Lord? My... my head aches.”

He merely snatched her wrap from Henrys, threw it over her shoulders and led her to the waiting coach. She sat against one side, steeling herself for the harsh words. None came, however, though Carleton’s mouth stayed fixed in a sneer. If he was not going to bring the subject up, Elizabeth was certainly willing to accept another silent carriage ride. Milbrooke and the other witnesses to the race could also read Carleton’s expression, so the event was not mentioned until, separated from the Marquis by the length of the dinner table, Elizabeth was again regaled with praise in a continuing spirit of cheerful fellowship. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, however, after their port and cigars, it was a fairly subdued group which gathered at Elizabeth’s side, obviously chastened. The pleasure was taken from the evening for Elizabeth who, despite the consequences, was prepared to have it out with Lord Carleton on the ride home.

“You had no right to say anything to Ferddie and the others, my Lord. If you were angry, the fault was mine and no one else’s. It is unjust of you to—”

“No, my Lady, I laid the blame precisely where it was due. If you do not know any better, my
friends
do.” He grimaced at the word. “And as for you, madam,” he said as the coach stopped at their door and she stepped down, “my horses would have won if you had not held them so tight at the turn.”

After that Elizabeth’s days fell into a routine of sorts. She took Juno to the park in the early morning, careful to stay in Jeremy’s sight, sometimes meeting the Count, more often not, returning home for morning callers and correspondence. She drove with one of her friends in the afternoon, paid calls or went shopping. If Carleton had not left plans for the evening with Mr. Sebastian, Ferddie or one of the others would ask to escort her somewhere. There was a constant round of dinners, balls, masquerades. Elizabeth attended them all, finding her own company oppressive. She began to give small teas, at first just to fill the hours, then for the pleasure of having people she knew around her. Occasionally she invited de Rochefonte, never when the other guests included unmarried women. Soon her gatherings had the reputation of being intelligent and amusing, with few people declining an invitation. Carleton never attended, despite the dates being carefully logged with Mr. Sebastian. Elizabeth never saw her husband except at evening functions where they arrived together, had one waltz, and left together, with not an extra word or smile. They never took meals together at home, nor had any private conversations, all of their dealings being done through the servants. Elizabeth had no idea where her husband went all day and most of the nights, although rumours reached her aplenty, coupling his name with that of Alicia Gilmore, the occasional singer, dancer and what you will. He was as driven as she was to find company, any company, and got as little rest. They were both exhausted, mentally as well as physically, from the emotional drain of this silent warfare. They kept going, telling themselves it was only till the races, only until Elizabeth could return home. Time was running short.

FOURTEEN

The day Elizabeth received word that the Pride had finally arrived at the racetrack, along with Robbie Jackson, two grooms and the jockey, she begged Ferddie to drive her out. They made a party of it, Rutley inviting Miss van Houten to ride in his carriage. Elizabeth had a long conference with Robbie while the others walked around the stables, surveying the competition. The Pride was in fine shape, not disturbed by the trip in the least. Robbie had brought his own feed from home in another wagon and had even taken along one of the Folly’s ponies, to give him some familiar company. One of the grooms slept outside the stall; no chances were being taken. This would be the only visit Elizabeth could manage before the race—the Duke and Duchess were arriving in two days, and Elizabeth was holding a party the race night—and she did not want it to end. Finally Ferddie had to pull her away so they could get home for dinner. As it was, Carleton had to hold the carriage for fifteen minutes before she was ready. She did not even notice his glare. Everyone except Carleton, of course, wanted to hear about the horses. Elizabeth stayed at the party longer than she had planned. The next day she could barely make herself get out of bed, Bessie fussing the entire time until she agreed to forego Juno’s morning exercise. Instead Elizabeth haunted the kitchens, interfering with Mrs. Henrys’s preparations for the party, Elizabeth’s first formal entertainment. It would be either a victory celebration or a consolation party, with all of her friends, but especially the Duke and Duchess and the group they were bringing to London. This included Margaret and Captain Hendricks, and Margaret’s parents and brother Robert, with Miss Sophie Devenance and her mama. Everything had to be perfect, at least. Extra staff had been hired, outfitted and trained; special wines ordered; the menu changed daily. There was even a surprise entertainment planned for after dinner to add more excitement to the evening. Elizabeth had spent days with Mr. Sebastian over the guest lists, trying to combine her friends with her social obligations. Carleton had given Mr. Sebastian a list of ten names or so, most of which Elizabeth had already included. Lady Alicia Gilmore’s name had been summarily crossed through on the grounds that since Carleton’s family was so well represented, Elizabeth’s friends took precedence. After the slightest hesitation, Giles de Rochefonte’s name had been added to the final list. All of the acceptances were in, so that afternoon Elizabeth and Mr. Sebastian worked out seating charts. The Count offered a special problem, of course, that and the fact that most of Elizabeth’s friends were men. What caused the most difficulty was the need of an alternate, contingency plan, if Carleton did not come. Elizabeth refused to face an empty seat if the Marquis decided to avenge Lady Gilmore’s slight. By evening the cards had been juggled every which way, Mr. Sebastian as frazzled as Elizabeth, but two separate arrangements agreed upon. She was having dinner alone in the breakfast parlour, where she had taken to eating when at home rather than her bedroom or the huge dining table, when Henrys cleared his throat at the door.

“Excuse me, madam, but there is a Mr. Jackson to see you. He says it is urgent.” Elizabeth dashed out of the room while Henrys looked on disapprovingly. She returned some time later as twitchy as a rabbit’s whisker, he told his wife, explaining why the entire dinner was returned cold and uneaten.

Even Carleton noted her distress when he picked her up in the carriage for the opera. He had scrupulously avoided giving any notice to her appearance for the past weeks. Now he was dismayed by how gaunt and wan she looked.

“We need not go tonight if you would rather stay home, you know.” Those were his kindest words to her in the same weeks. She hardly heard them.

“What’s that? No, I must see Ferddie.” She turned to look out the window again, missing the despair which showed in Carleton’s eyes for a moment, to be replaced by his now-customary bitter, sarcastic expression. His frown deepened when, arriving at the party, Elizabeth rushed off to take Ferddie’s hands, leading him to a secluded corner. No one interrupted them, not even when the first dance began. Carleton walked toward Rutley and Northwell only to have their conversation cut off at his approach; Devering looked at the Marquis coldly before turning his back to him. Carleton walked to the terrace and around the garden for a while. When he returned, Elizabeth was dancing with some young cub in high shirt collars and Milbrooke was alone by the punch bowl.

“Ferddie, I’ve got to leave. Would you see Elizabeth home?”

“Of course.”

“She wouldn’t listen to me, you know, but perhaps you could convince her to leave early. She’s not looking very well...”

“Oh, so you noticed that, did you?” Ferddie asked reproachfully, moving off to intercept Elizabeth and her partner at the end of the dance. Carleton left, and shortly after Milbrooke and Elizabeth. Ferddie did not notice Carleton standing in the shadows of some trees across from the house, and Elizabeth hardly knew she was home until Henrys took her wrap. Ferddie stood by when she asked if there was any word from Jackson, then made her promise to go straight to bed and stop worrying. He had a few words with Henrys, who was also gravely concerned, then left. When he saw Milbrooke leave after only five minutes, a great weight lifted from Carleton’s mind, out there in the shadows. At least one person would rest easier that night.

The Duke and Duchess of Carlyle were coming to London for the Ardsley Cup races, which meant so much to their daughter-in-law, they said. They were actually coming because of all the rumours filtering back from Town. They had all of Elizabeth’s letters, of course, and news from her Aunt Claudia about all the routs, fetes and festivities of the Season; they also had news of Alicia Gilmore, unsavoury French counts, awkward scenes in public. The Duke was prepared to discount the stories as mere gossip at first, the idle lies of idle people; then his own cook’s son returned from an errand in London where he had visited his mother’s relatives, the Henrys. According to the Duke’s informant, the butler, Alexander never ate home and hardly slept there. In ten minutes letters were sent to open the Berkeley Square house; the Duke was packing.

When the Carlyles arrived in London en masse, they had a quick luncheon then separated, the Duke going to his clubs, Margaret, Sophie and their mothers visiting the shops, and the Duchess paying a call on Elizabeth. They would dine in Berkeley Square, then go on to the theatre.

The Duchess was greeted warmly by Henrys, yet when she asked how things were at the house he mentioned a drafty chimney and a neighbour with barking dogs. Disgusted, she sent him to tell Elizabeth she had arrived. She was waiting in the small sitting room, admiring the way the room now looked, when Henrys opened the door for Elizabeth. The minute the Duchess saw her daughter-in-law she knew all of the rumours were true, and worse. She hugged the girl to her, mentally wringing her son’s neck at the same time.

“Elizabeth, dear, it is so good to see you. Are you sure you are feeling well though?”

“Of course, your Grace. I have been so busy getting ready for tomorrow night, and then there has been some trouble with the horse. You know how much this means to me...”

“Has Alexander been any help?”

“Help? Why, yes, he’s ... he’s stayed out of my way.” It was the first thing to come to Elizabeth’s mind; the Duchess smiled weakly.

“I still don’t think you look very healthy, my dear. In fact, I think you would do better to stay in tonight, with tomorrow such an important day. I’m sure the Duke will be disappointed, but he would rather see you at your prettiest at the races. No, don’t argue; I insist. You are not to come this evening, I’ll tell Alexander myself.” She did not say precisely what she would tell Alexander, but she was determined to see the girl get some rest, then have a few blunt words with her son. She made sure Elizabeth went upstairs, then left a note for Carleton with the butler.

That note put the finishing touch on another awful day for the Marquis. He had been cut dead by another of his friends, had an unpleasant row with Alicia Gilmore over not getting her invited to the coming party, and was in general suffering from feelings of guilt and remorse. He certainly did not need his mother to tell him that he was to blame, for whatever cause, for Elizabeth’s misery. He had taken a happy, spirited country girl and brought her to London to be—what? Sickly, down-hearted, lonely—no, not lonely, judging from all the bouquets in the hall. There was every size of horseshoe made of flowers, “Good Luck” spelled out in carnations, messages of all kinds tied to the arrangements. It looked like Elizabeth would ruin the odds on her horse, with so many well-wishers. He smiled ruefully as he considered a totally unknown horse going off at even odds simply because its mistress was such a favourite of Society. The smile left as he read the card on a small bouquet of miniature roses:
Bon chance, de R.
His mother’s note brought him still less joy. It advised him not to disturb Elizabeth under any conditions but to arrive somewhat early to dinner, as the Duchess wished a few words with him. He was not looking forward to this evening at all, nor to the day of the race and the party, when he and Elizabeth would have to put on a charade. He arrived at Carlyle House late, not early, and greeted his family cordially. He remarked somewhat pointedly on his father’s well-being, following such a strenuous trip.

“You don’t sound pleased to find me in good health, Alexander,” the Duke replied.

“Your health pleases me greatly, sir. It is your scruples which worry me,” he said, leading his mother’s good friend Lady Palmerson in to dinner. He sat between Lady Palmerson and his cousin Margaret at table, avoiding his mother’s eye. The gentlemen stayed long over their port, discussing the race, naturally, and immediately on joining the ladies Carleton excused himself to return to Elizabeth. If he could not put the Duchess off for long, at least this evening was past.

Henrys informed him that her Ladyship was resting, according to her woman, although another groom had been over with a package from Jackson. No, he did not know the contents. Carleton had to be content with that, figuring to question Elizabeth on the way to the track. They would leave about ten, picking up Ferddie and some of the others before joining the carriages with the Duke’s party.

The following morning, however, Bessie was waiting outside his door. Her mistress was not up to attending the races; he would have to make her excuses. Oh, no, Bessie said, he must not go in to her as she had finally fallen asleep after a restless night. Carleton could not believe Elizabeth would miss this day unless she was on death’s door. He was ready to send for a doctor. No, Bessie assured him, she did not think it terribly serious, only that her Ladyship wanted to be feeling better for the dinner party. He was not at all satisfied; something else besides worry was nibbling at the back of his mind. Perhaps it was that “surprise entertainment” planned for the evening, or just the miniature roses, he did not know. Either way he could not burst into her room, shake more information out of the already nervous, red-eyed Bessie, nor stay home all day. One of them had to make.an appearance, so he ate a hurried breakfast before calling for the carriage. At the last minute Henrys pressed on him a heavy leather pouch from all the servants.

“Any horse in particular you would like me to put it on?” Carleton asked sarcastically.

“Oh, your Lordship will know which one,” was his only reply.

It was late, and Carleton had a lot on his mind as he stepped out to the coach, so he only noted in passing that the second coachman was on the box. Must be Jeremy’s day off, he reflected, before returning to wonder how he could explain to the Duke that his precious daughter-in-law was absent again. The three carriages from Berkeley Square were filled and ready outside, and Ferddie’s just filed in behind, without any conversation, so no explanations were necessary yet. It was when they all reached their seats in a box at the finish line that Elizabeth’s absence was noted. No one was terribly surprised after her nonappearance of the evening before, though they were all sympathetic that she, of all people, should miss the excitement. Margaret announced they would have to memorise every detail of the spectacle so dear Elizabeth might not be miserably disappointed. Spectacle it was, too, with all of London’s nobility out in their finery, the ladies especially, in their spring gauzes and new bonnets, looking like fashion illustrations. Bands played, crowds milled about, paying more attention to each other than to the horses on the field. The Ardsley Cup was the third race, with no one giving much heed to the first two. Only when the trumpets blared and the horses were paraded for viewing did the spectators finally show some interest in the proceedings. The horses in the Cup race made a complete round, led by white ponies, and the Carleton box joyfully picked out Elizabeth’s big chestnut. Bets were placed, including the servants’ wages. Ferddie bet deeply, that confident. The Duke also placed a handsome sum with the stewards, joking that he would need his winnings to pay Elizabeth’s stud fees if her horse won. Margaret was nearly bouncing in her seat, to her mother’s displeased eye, by the time the horses were returned to the starting area, where their jockeys mounted up. Field glasses were trained across the oval, but the distance was too great to make out much detail. They could see the colours of the jockeys’ silks easily, the green of the Marquis of Rockingham, the purple and white of the Earl of Oxford, whose horses were the heavy favourites despite the number of Elizabeth’s friends. Bething’s colors were yellow and white.

“Oh, poor, poor Elizabeth,” Margaret moaned as there was some delay in mounting the Pride’s rider.

“She must be really ill, I’m sure,” said the Duchess, believing it to be so.

“She was very nervous about this evening,” Carleton said, wanting to believe this instead.

“No, that ain’t it at all,” said Ferddie. They all turned to him expectantly, purposely not seeing the peculiarity of Milbrooke’s answering for Carleton’s wife. “She was upset about the jockey, mostly, besides being tired and excited. He’d hurt his wrist during a trial run or something, and her man was having trouble finding a replacement. Seems they’d raised the colt like a pet and it wouldn’t take to strangers. See, they’ve settled it.” All eyes turned to look where the handsome chestnut was mounted and turning toward the starting line. Carleton was staring at Ferddie, his mouth open in horror. He snatched up Margaret’s glasses and fixed them on the yellow and white silks. Ferddie followed suit, more in curiosity at Carleton’s behaviour than in comprehension. Then—

“Great God in Heaven!” he exclaimed. “Never say it’s—oof!” An elbow landed in his midsection. A gun was fired and the horses were off in a blur of motion and colour. Margaret pulled her glasses back, while Ferddie simply lowered his, too dumbfounded to watch.

The Pride was far behind at the start, coming raggedly to the line. As the horses passed the finish line for the first time, the big chestnut was somewhere in the centre of the grouped field of horses, boxed in by older, more experienced horses—and jockeys. A horse directly in front of the Pride at the rail suddenly picked up speed to move on the leaders; the Pride followed right behind before an outside horse could nose him out. When the two were clear of the pack, the Pride moved away from the rail. The Duke groaned. Elizabeth’s horse now had more distance to cover, with the two leaders, the favourites, pulling farther ahead as they passed the starting line again, heading for the finish. The chestnut was even as the second two horses passed that mark, and gaining. A nose ahead, a neck, then a length, two, and challenging the front runners!

“Outside! Take him outside again!” Ferddie was howling, recovered in the excitement. The crowd was going wild, too, and Margaret was shrieking in Carleton’s ear. The second horse seemed to be tiring a little, dropping back, so the Pride passed him easily as the roaring grew and grew. At the last turn the Pride was still three lengths behind the strong leader. It did not look promising for the big chestnut. Then suddenly he put on a burst of speed, lengthening his stride as if he had just been out for a promenade before; now he would just show the crowd what racing was all about. The spectators were ecstatic at this display, pandemonium breaking out when the distance shortened... narrowed... closed. Folly’s Pride passed the finish line, just in front of the Carleton box, a good head in front.

Carleton exhaled, not remembering having breathed during the race. He was being hugged and pummelled and shouted at in wild congratulations, as if he had had something to do with the win, while the real champion was making his victory lap around the track. The Pride was prancing like a circus pony, looking for all the world as though he knew the applause and thrown flowers were all for him. The jockey was waving happily to the screaming crowds. Then the circuit was complete and Robbie Jackson came to lead the Pride to the winner’s circle, where a blanket of red roses was draped over the horse’s neck. The officials were standing by with the trophy and the crowd hushed expectantly, but nothing was happening. Carleton only realised why when a steward hurried up to the box and Ferddie gave him a shove, while the Duke muttered “Fool” under his breath. He had been watching the jockey continue to pet the horse; now he went quickly down to the field to accept the congratulations of the officials. The Marquis also shook hands with Jackson before accepting the Ardsley Cup itself, a massive, two-handled silver monstrosity filled with more red roses. Under the eyes of hundreds of people, the officials, his family, happy bettors, he removed a rose from the trophy and solemnly handed it to the jockey. He looked up at a dirt-streaked face with enormous brown eyes, only one brown curl edging out of the yellow cap.