Regret Not a Moment (18 page)

There was an awkward moment of silence as the members of the group studied one another.

“We’d like to take a look at the stables. Have you go over which horses are running,” said John. John had no intention of becoming involved in the stables on a day-to-day basis, but he wanted to restore the business to its former stature. With fewer horses running, the operation had been losing money. More horses would cost more money, but prize purses could offset the additional cost. In addition, winners always created more business for the breeding operation.

Willy looked from John to Devon and back again. “You can finish the rounds with me if you like. You can watch the exercise. Then we can go to the office,” said Willy in a grudging voice. He didn’t like interruptions during morning rounds. The Hartwicks had always been careful not to disturb him in the morning.

Devon sensed O’Neill’s annoyance at being interrupted and accepted it philosophically. She was eager to learn about the world of horseracing and believed that O’Neill could teach her a great deal, but she knew that he would resist doing so. Racing was a man’s world. There were few women breeders. Certainly no women trainers. Trainers of O’Neill’s stature were highly valued. She did not want to get off on the wrong foot and risk losing him to another farm. An angry departure of a good trainer could ruin the reputation of an owner in the racing world, making it impossible to recruit another equally qualified trainer.

It gratified Devon that John recognized her superior skill with horses and was thus willing to turn the racing operation over to her while he pursued his career in New York. Both agreed that her skill in breeding and training hunters, and her natural ability with horses, would make it easy for her to grasp the essentials of raising racehorses. Still, she knew that Willy O’Neill would not be eager for her presence on a daily basis. She would have to handle him with the utmost tact. For now, she resolved, she would keep silent.

Devon and John watched Willy examine every horse, unwrapping the bandages around their legs, checking their hay racks and feed buckets. The Alexanders were impressed by his thoroughness. Then it was time to watch the horses exercise.

The group went to the private racetrack that lay behind the barns in a flat area surrounded by gently rolling green hills. Of course, horses scheduled to run in the near future would be taken to the track at which the race would be held.

“This filly here is Ginger Snap. Okay, Jeremiah, take ’er slow,” Willy said. When the horse had worked enough for Willy to determine that she had no injuries, he instructed Jeremiah to pick up the pace.

The filly had a particularly large stride, so even when Jeremiah galloped her, it felt as though he was going slower.

Devon noticed the characteristic and mentioned it to Willy, who grunted an acknowledgment. He was aware that she had bred a couple of good hunters, and that she was highly thought of in the Fauquier County horse world. But as far as he was concerned, she was a dilettante. A pretty, spoiled dilettante.

Now the filly was galloping at high speed around the track.

“Gettin’ ready to prop,” Willy mumbled.

Devon knew the term. It meant the horse was getting ready to stop short in an attempt to shoot the rider forward off her back. Jeremiah obviously had observed the same thing because he snapped his crop briefly, causing the horse to keep moving.

“It was her ears, wasn’t it?” Devon asked Willy. The filly’s ears had moved in such a way as to indicate that the ploy was forthcoming. Devon had seen it many times in hunters.

Willy nodded in response to Devon, but refused to be impressed. Any experienced rider should be able to recognize such a signal, he told himself.

“Pull ’er back a bit!” Willy yelled as Jeremiah rode by. He didn’t like his horses to exercise too fast. He preferred to save it for the racetrack.

After a few more minutes, Willy signaled Jeremiah to bring the horse to a walk. A groom ran to the horse and rider and waited for Jeremiah to dismount, then proceeded to walk the horse for several minutes around an adjoining paddock. Later, the horse would be washed, as would its tack.

Jeremiah mounted another horse but kept it off the track while another exercise rider took his mount through its paces. Devon and John were impressed by the military precision of the stable’s organization. Willy O’Neill was obviously a very important asset.

“Willowbrook is lucky to have you,” Devon said quietly.

Willy did not reply, simply followed the galloping horse with his eyes. But he heard the comment and was gratified that the woman recognized the quality of the operation. A lot of people didn’t even know the difference.

“We’ll go to the office after this.” Willy directed this remark to John. “You’ll want to look at the books. We’ve been winnin’, but…” Willy completed his sentence with a shrug.

Later, as John sat at Willy’s scarred oak desk and carefully read the ledgers, he realized the cutbacks in personnel that Willy had had to contend with.

“No money. Can’t afford jockeys. Can’t afford hot walkers. Can’t afford enough exercise riders. Can’t afford to race,” Willy explained in his usual staccato fashion.

“I commend you for what you’ve been able to do,” John said, leaning back in the old captain’s chair and pushing the ledger away from him. Willy stood beside him, while Devon sat on the only other piece of furniture in the room, a green leather love seat with one cushion that had been torn, then carefully taped. As everywhere else under Willy’s jurisdiction, the office was spotless, but strictly utilitarian. “I hope you’ll want to stay on,” John continued.

“As long as I have a free hand, no reason not to,” Willy declared, looking John coolly in the eye.

“You’ll have that,” John assured him, careful not to look at Devon. He knew she wanted to learn about the racing operation, but he would have to persuade her to approach Willy gently and to defer to him on all matters.

Willy looked at Devon for a moment, but he said nothing. Then he turned back to John. “A free hand would mean that I’d hire back the boys we laid off.”

“Fine,” John agreed.

“We’d probably want to buy a few mares. Give the brood operation a pickup.”

“Just tell me how much you’ll need.”

“Won’t be cheap,” Willy answered. “Then there’s travel to auctions. We’ve had to cut back on that. In any event, I’ll have to be gone a bit. Keeneland’s this month.” The famous Kentucky sale took place each July. It was universally considered to offer the highest quality horseflesh on the market.

Devon was tempted to say that she could fill in for him at Willowbrook during his absence, if he would only teach her how, but she was afraid to alienate him at this crucial point in the negotiations.

“That’s no problem,” John said. “Go wherever you need to go. Hire whomever you need.”

“Well, then. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be gettin’ back to the barn,” Willy said, putting the green Brooklyn Dodgers cap back on his head.

Devon stood up and gave Willy her most winning smile. “Thank you for showing us around, Mr. O’Neill. It appears that your reputation is well earned. I know it’s been difficult for you since the cutbacks.” She was tempted to put out her hand to him, but was oddly apprehensive that he would not accept it.

“Ma’am,” he replied, touching his fingers to his cap. Then he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, Devon and John stared at each other, saying nothing.

“Seems like a very able fellow,” John finally said, “though he’s a bit of a chatterbox.”

Devon burst out laughing and went to sit on John’s lap, giving him a warm kiss.

“I don’t think I’m going to have an easy time with him,” she said.

Within a week Devon had assembled a household staff. In addition, Alice was permanently ensconced as her lady’s maid, while John’s manservant, Wilkes, settled into his Willowbrook quarters, knowing he would be called upon to travel with his master between his homes.

Meanwhile, Willy O’Neill acted quickly to rehire the stable staff previously let go by the Hartwicks.

“It’s good to be back operating at full force again, isn’t it, Mr. O’Neill?” Jeremiah asked.

“Not there yet,” Willy responded gruffly as they walked together to the barn. Though it was still dark, the weather was already balmy, promising a scorching day of high temperatures and equally high humidity. Willy lifted his cap up, ran his hand over his bald scalp, then replaced the old green hat. “There’s still the auctions,” he added.

Jeremiah wished that Willy would ask him to go along on the trip to Kentucky. His secret ambition was to be a jockey, then later a trainer. But there were no black jockeys in the racing world, and it seemed an impossible dream. In the period from 1875—the first year of the Kentucky Derby—to 1911, black jockeys had dominated the sport, and there had been several black trainers as well. But for some reason that was no longer the case.

In any event, as far as the auction was concerned, it was not usual for trainers to be accompanied by their exercise boys. Still, Jeremiah was certain that he could learn a great deal from Willy.

As though reading his thoughts, Willy said, “You’ll be needed to look after things here while I’m gone.”

Jeremiah nodded, proud at the trust implicit in Willy’s comment.

“Mr. O’Neill.” A cultured feminine voice came out of the darkness, startling the men. Willy spun on his heels to see Devon in riding clothes walking rapidly behind them, trying to catch up. He would have liked to continue walking, but knew that the young woman had done nothing to warrant such rudeness. Somehow, though, she irritated Willy. Threatened him, really. It was not that he feared her authority over him. He simply did not want his meticulous routine disrupted. And it was clear that Mrs. Alexander, who thought she knew quite a bit about horses, wished to be involved in the running of the stables. Oh, she had done nothing to infringe on Willy’s prerogatives; she carefully asked questions rather than issued orders. Always stood quietly observing the exercising rather than chattering on about inanities. In sum, she conducted herself as the perfect owner. But in the week since she had returned from her honeymoon, it seemed she was always
there.

Jeremiah, in contrast, liked the young Mrs. Alexander. She was beautiful in a way that melted his sixteen-year-old heart. And she was kind. She treated him with respect and often asked him questions about his work. She seemed to appreciate his skill with horses, a skill that she also possessed.

Politely, the teenager said, “Morning, Miss Devon.”

“Good morning, Jeremiah,” said Devon with a warm smile. She liked the fact that he called her Miss Devon rather than Mrs. Alexander. He used the more familiar term because he had known her before, as a friend of Brent Hartwick, but it made her feel accepted in the current situation. Willy O’Neill was another story. It was clear he did not welcome her presence.

“Mr. O’Neill, I’d like to accompany you on your rounds this morning,” Devon said evenly.

“You’re the owner,” the trainer responded with a shrug. He turned then and walked quickly into the barn, Devon and Jeremiah trailing behind him.

The first horse they approached was named Winning Spurs. The three-year-old had placed fourth in the Kentucky Derby, a severe disappointment for Willy.

“If we could’ve hired Kurtsinger to ride ’im, he would’ve placed,” Willy had told Jeremiah. But the skilled jockey had previously committed to another trainer and had piloted the winning horse, Twenty Grand, with a time of two minutes one point four seconds. The purse had been $48,725. The owner had been a woman, Helen Hay Whitney. Ownership was quite acceptable for a woman, but the day-to-day running of a stable was thought to be man’s work.

“I understand you decided against running him in the Preakness,” Devon commented.

“Couldn’t get a good jock. Your husband was away and I had no authority to offer the kind of pay I needed to get Kurtsinger or Sande, or any of the top guys.”

“Well, that won’t be the case from now on,” Devon promised.

“So your husband said,” said O’Neill. His agreement had been with Mister Alexander, his tone told her.

“Will you run Winning Spurs anymore this year?” asked Devon, leaning back against the stall opposite the colt’s.

Willy grunted an assent as he bent down to examine the horse’s left foreleg, turning his back to Devon in the process.

Devon’s eyes met Jeremiah’s where he stood holding the horse’s halter. She read there a mixture of sympathy and amusement, and she gave him a wry smile in return.

“You’re going to exercise him today?” she asked no one in particular.

“No, ma’am,” Jeremiah responded, “Bertie is.”

“Well, I’d like to do it myself,” Devon said firmly. She might as well make her desires known to O’Neill because no matter how diplomatic she tried to be, he behaved as though he were offended by her very presence.

Devon almost laughed at the expression on Willy’s face as he stood. His caterpillar eyebrows were drawn together in a frown of puzzlement, and his thin, mobile mouth was a grim line. He was confused as to how to respond, Devon saw. She was glad she had turned the tables on him for once.

“We have hands for that,” Willy said.

“What are their qualifications?” Devon asked coolly.

“Weight. Riding ability. Knowledge of Thoroughbreds,” Willy barked.

“Good. Then I’m perfectly qualified. I weigh one hundred and eight pounds, I’ve ridden for twenty years, and I’ve bred and trained Thoroughbreds for hunting. I doubt if you have an exercise rider as experienced as I,” Devon said defiantly.

Like a bystander at a tennis match, Jeremiah turned his head back to Willy to see how he would respond.

“You want to be an exercise rider?” Willy asked, incredulity filling his voice.

“Not as a career, no,” Devon answered. She would offer no more. Why should she? He never offered more than the minimum in his responses to her.

“Well, hell,” Willy said, wanting to shock Devon and daring her to upbraid him for the language. Let her object. He would walk right out on her. Here and now. An interfering woman was a handicap he didn’t need. But Devon did not respond as he had expected.