Sweet Release (28 page)

I don’t expect you to understand.”

“That’s good, because, indeed, I don’t understand, Mr. Braden! Damn your pride!” She whirled and strode from the stables, feeling worse than when she had entered.

Chapter Eighteen

By the time the hunting party returned later that afternoon, with triumphant whoops and baying hounds, the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. The women put down their embroidery and moved to the veranda to enjoy refreshments and the company of their husbands, brothers, and sons. Eager to avoid another confrontation, Cassie kept to herself, watching Jamie play with his new friends on the lawn. In the distance slaves were busy smoothing the fresh quarter-mile track with rakes in preparation for the afternoon’s race.

Some of the older boys had cornered an old gander by the barn and were taking turns trying to grab hold of the poor creature. Its pitiful hissing and honking began to attract the attention of all nearby, including Geoffrey and Landon, who had been sharing hunting stories over strong cider.

“Shall we help them?” Landon asked, watching one boy after another back away from the bird, rubbing fresh bruises. Geoffrey answered by removing his waistcoat and wig and leaping over the railing into the soft grass onto his good leg. It had been so long since Cassie had seen him without his peruke, he looked odd, his blond hair cropped short.

“Oh, Landon, no,” Lucy said, shaking her head as her brother followed suit.

“Leave him be, Lucy,” her father chided, playing another round of whist, this time with William Byrd. “Young men need their amusements.”

“Yes, but a gander pull. Father?”

Cassie felt her stomach turn. She hadn’t seen a gander pull since she was a little girl, but she remembered it well.

By the barn, Geoffrey and Landon had begun to draw an audience.

Even the smaller children had quit playing and gone to watch. Cassie secretly hoped the bird would escape, but it wasn’t long before Landon stepped out of the crowd with the gander pinned beneath his arm. In short order the creature was covered from beak to breast with grease and hung by its feet from the branch of a nearby tree. As the bird frantically tried to free itself, beating its wings and shrieking, Geoffrey, Landon, and the older boys mounted horses brought from the stables by slaves and began taking turns riding toward it at a full gallop and trying to grab it by the neck, each attempt greeted with shouts and cheers from the other competitors. The gander beat its wings, twisting this way and that, trying to evade the hands that grabbed for it.

But it would soon tire, and someone would manage to yank off the poor creature’s head. The winner’s reward for such daring and courage would be roast goose for supper.

“I can’t watch this,” Lucy said, turning with a swish of silk skirts and retreating to the manor.

“Nor I,” Cassie said, turning to follow her.

Then she noticed Jamie holding his hands over his ears in the yard below. The gander’s cries were frightening him. She ran down the stairs toward him, calling his name. A strangled honk and raucous cheers told her that someone had managed to get a firm grip on the bird this time.

“Jamie!”

He did not hear her. His gaze was fixed on the scene before him, his expression one of terror. She followed his gaze to see Geoffrey holding the gander’s head aloft, blood streaming down his arm. “Jamie!”

The boy turned and ran toward her, burying his face in her skirts.

She knelt and wrapped her arms around him. “It’s all right,” she crooned, holding his head to her breast and stroking his pale curls. At the sound of horse’s hooves, she looked up. Geoffrey dismounted and walked over to her, still holding the gander’s head, gore spattered over the lace of his white linen shirt. “Would you like the head, Jamie?”

Jamie did not look up.

The stench of warm blood assailed Cassie, and she fought the urge to gag. “You’ve upset him enough with your puerile games, Geoffrey. Please take that away.”

“I say, boy, you’re not crying, are you? It was just an old bird,” Geoffrey said. “We were going to slaughter it anyway.”

“Leave him be!” Cassie picked up the shaken child and carried him toward the manor.

“You’re raising him to be a milksop!” Geoffrey yelled after her.

It took nearly an hour to calm Jamie and rock him to sleep for his afternoon nap. To his credit Geoffrey had sent up a puppy, his promised gift for Jamie, with a brief note of apology for Cassie. The tiny, spotted, wriggling ball, which Jamie immediately named Pirate, won his heart instantly and now lay curled up asleep beside him.

By the time Cassie left the nursery, the other guests were drifting toward the racetrack, some of the women in carriages. This was the event the men had been waiting for. One by one they appeared riding or leading their favorite horses.

Cassie forced the butterflies from her stomach. It was unheard of for a gentleman to let a servant race in his stead, much less a convict. Though her father was certainly unconventional, there were some unspoken rules even he would never have broken. This was one of them. Surely Cole would back down without making a scene. If he forced the issue, she feared for both of them. She joined the other women, who were discussing the night ahead.

“You’d best take a quick nap before dinner, Mary, dear,” she heard Priscilla say. “If you want to capture young George Braxton’s attention, you don’t want to look like a wilted daisy.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Mary replied.

“Isn’t that your convict?” Lucy asked in a whisper.

Cassie looked up to see Cole leading Aldebaran across the field toward the racetrack, her heart fluttering at Lucy’s choice of words:

Your convict. “Aye.”

“He is devilishly handsome, isn’t he?” Lucy whispered with an excited grin.

“Aye, and damnably stubborn.”

“Are the rumors about him true?”

“What have you heard?”

It was impossible to keep even the slightest bit of intrigue private in this colony.

“That he claims to be a gentleman spirited away and falsely sold as a convict.”

“Aye, it’s true.”

“Do you believe him?”

Cassie paused. Did she believe him? “Aye.”

“Do you think they’ll let him enter the race?”

“Do you?”

The two watched as Cole strode with Aldebaran over to the track.

“You’re not welcome here, convict,” Geoffrey said, leading his roan stallion. “This race is for gentlemen.”

“Really?” Cole said, giving Geoffrey a disparaging look. The crowd fell silent as bonneted and bewigged heads turned toward Cole.

Cassie wanted to cover her eyes.

“Very well,” Cole said, turning Aldebaran and heading back toward the stables.

“Blakewell wrote in his letter you might do this.” “Do what?” asked Geoffrey.

“Back down.”

“Oh, no.” Cassie moaned.

A murmur swept through the crowd.

“Look here, convict, no one is backing down—”

“Shut up, boy,” Geoffrey’s father said, forcing his way through the throng to stand before Cole. “We accept Blakewell’s challenge, convict. The winner against Aldebaran. I’ve called Blakewell a coward more times than I can count. I won’t give him the chance to do the same to me.”

Cassie heard King Carter guffaw, and realized she’d been holding her breath.

“But, Father—“

“I said, shut up, boy!”

Geoffrey’s face grew rigid, but he obeyed.

“Who is that?” Cassie heard one woman whisper.

“Blakewell’s convict,” someone else answered. “They say he was deported for ravishing women.”

“With his looks, it must have been easy work.”

“They’d have done better to have hanged him, I say,” muttered another.

The first several races passed in a blur. It was clear from the outset that the contest would come down to Geoffrey’s stallion and a new horse just purchased by King Carter and ridden by his namesake, as, one by one, all other contenders were eliminated.

“One hundred pounds of Orinoco says my beast leaves yours in the dust,” boasted Carter with a good-natured grin.

“One hundred? Bah! Five hundred says you’ll lose again,” Master Crichton bellowed.

“Very well. Five hundred then.”

A frenzy of betting followed as each man in the crowd picked his favorite. The horses were allowed to rest, then taken by their riders to the starting line.

“This is to be a fair race,” said William Byrd, who was presiding over the races. “Are we agreed?”

Geoffrey and young Robert nodded.

At the crack of the pistol the horses bolted forward, hooves tossing clods of damp earth into the air. The shouts of the spectators were almost deafening as first one horse, then the other pulled ahead. It was Geoffrey who passed the finish line first by a nose.

“It was luck,” Carter said with a frown, handing Master Crichton a bill of lading. “We’ve not had time to train our animal.”

“Luck? It was better horseflesh!” Master Crichton boasted.

Cole had already led Aldebaran to the starting line and stood waiting for Geoffrey’s stallion to catch its wind. Cassie felt her heart quicken. She hoped he would win, for her father’s sake as well as her own. It would be a just return for all the insults they’d endured.

“Care to place a wager?” Master Crichton asked gruffly.

At first Cassie hadn’t realized he was speaking to her.

“Women don’t game, Father,” Geoffrey said.

“He treats his daughter as he would a son,” said Crichton. “What say you, girl? A wager?”

“Don’t blame Catherine. She is just her father’s chattel,” Geoffrey j said.

Cassie felt all eyes upon her, and lifted her chin higher. “One I hogshead of Orinoco,” she said. She was no one’s chattel. Gasps and shouts of outrage filled the air.

“She’s as crazy as her father!”

“A woman wagering? For shame!”

It was a wager she could ill afford to meet, and she at once regretted her impulsiveness. One hogshead held more than one thousand pounds of tobacco. At most she had half that. If Aldebaran were to lose, she’d be in debt to the Crichton’s until the harvest. Master Crichton glared at her, clearly unhappy at being forced into such a high wager, but he nodded his acceptance. Men began to shout at one another, placing their bets, most of them favoring Geoffrey.

“He is such an odious man!” Lucy whispered. “You should not have let him bully you into this.”

“It’s too late now,” Cassie said, giving Lucy’s hand a squeeze.

Geoffrey rode to the starting line and waited for Cole to mount.

“A fair race,” William Byrd said, raising the pistol. “Agreed?”

Cole nodded.

Geoffrey nodded, scowling.

The pistol fired with a sickening crack. Cassie could not bear to watch, but she felt frozen in place and could not turn away. Her pulse slammed in her ears, drowning out the clamor around her. Though Geoffrey’s horse was fastest coming away from the starting line, Cole quickly overtook him and had pulled ahead by half a body length before the halfway mark.

What happened next was a blur. Cassie saw Geoffrey lift the horsewhip, saw his arm slash downward, saw Cole stiffen as the whip tore through his shirt.

“No!” she cried, her voice lost in the din.

Geoffrey raised the whip again and struck, hitting Aldebaran’s flank.

The stallion faltered, and for a moment she feared it would stumble. Geoffrey streaked past to retake the lead, looking back over his shoulder as he rode.

Before Cassie could catch her breath, Cole had managed to calm the stallion and was rapidly gaining.

Watching Cole’s approach over his left shoulder, Geoffrey attempted to block him by riding to the left, directly into Aldebaran’s path.

But Cole was ready. He guided Aldebaran to the right, passing Geoffrey with such an astonishing burst of speed that Geoffrey had no time to react. Cole beat him to the finish line by more than a body length.

Cassie heard herself shout with joy, and felt relief flood through her.

But that relief was short-lived.

No sooner had the riders crossed the finish line than Cole, his face a hard mask, leaped from Aldebaran’s back, and dragged Geoffrey roughly from his saddle, flinging him into the dirt.

“You son of a bitch! If my name were mine again, you’d pay for this!”

“Cole, no!” Cassie shouted. She began to fight her way through the throng, afraid Cole was about to do something that would land him in chains—or worse. But by the time she’d reached the finish line, out of breath and in a panic, he had already turned his back on Geoffrey and was walking back toward Aldebaran.

Geoffrey struggled clumsily to rise, his face contorted with rage, his wig askew. “Stop him!” he shouted.

Except to shake their heads or look away, no one moved. Without looking back, Cole took the stallion’s reins and started for the stables.

“Whatever you are, Geoffrey Crichton, you’re no gentleman!” Cassie cried, fighting the urge to slap him in the face. She turned to follow Cole, but found Master Crichton approaching, his mouth turned down in a grimace. She prepared herself for the upbraiding he was going to give her.