She just shook her head, and he slapped it back down on his head. They rode side by side shivering, each cursing the rain silently, each wondering what the other was thinking until James said, “Jessie, why were you in the elm tree?”
“To save you.”
“Well, you did save me. But why were you there in the first place?”
“To save you.”
He sighed and got a mouthful of rain. “Ah, I guessed as much. You knew what Glenda and your mother had planned, then?”
“Yes, and I did eavesdrop—lucky for you, James. So don’t rip a strip off me.”
“Oh, I won’t. If you hadn’t saved me from Mortimer and possible extinction, then you would have what, Jessie? Shot Glenda when she swooned against me or grabbed the buttons on my breeches and pulled them open?”
“I was going to shoot the ground near both of you. Glenda hates guns and jumps ten feet into the air whenever one goes off close to her. She would have run as fast as she could back into the ballroom.”
“Why did you want to save me from Glenda?”
She turned to look at him then. Her hair was plastered against her face, falling in sodden strings down her back and over her shoulders. Her lips were blue from the cold. She had to look as wretched as he felt.
“I had to,” she said finally, then kicked her booted heels into Benjie’s sides. He obligingly scuttled forward, eager for dry hay and a dry stall.
James called after her, “I’m cold and wet. I hurt. I know you feel the same way. I’ll make you a deal, Jessie. Tomorrow, after the race, you and I will make some sense out of all this.”
“No.”
“What did you say to me?”
“There’s no sense to be found anywhere, James. Just forget all of it. I don’t want to be forced to save you again, so take care with all those vicious jockeys tomorrow.”
She bolted away from him, soon turning off onto the beautiful wide drive of Warfield Stables and Stud Farm, the words all fashioned over the top of the wide gate in iron letters at the beginning of the drive.
He didn’t slow Dimple, the sweet old mare from his boyhood. She liked a steady pace. She didn’t like the rain any more than he did, but she was old enough to know that if her legs kept moving she’d be home soon enough.
If he’d only known what was going to happen in the next two days, he would have been sorely tempted to ride north and never look back.
10
If he were a horse, nobody would buy him.
—WALTER BAGEHOT
IT WASN’T RAINING, thank the good Lord. But the track was pitted with mud puddles. As a result, few ladies were present for the races today. Only the hardier men were there, betting with less abandon than usual, but still, there was excitement in the air. Everyone liked a quarter-horse race. It was fast and hard.
James would ride Console in the third race. Console was eager, snorting and throwing his head around. Oslow patted his muscular gray neck and said, “You just wait a minute, old boy, and Mr. James will be here to give you a fine ride.”
“That’s right,” James said, and quickly checked the girth, tightening it automatically as Console breathed out. “Now, let’s you and I take a nice walk and talk about things.”
James led Console away from the crowds, talking to him all the time. “We won’t try to run Jessie off into a ditch today. Maybe next week, but not today. But that jockey of Mortimer Hackey’s is another matter. See that withered beggar old Mortimer has entered?” Console turned his head around and snorted.
“Exactly,” James said. “I want to make him very sorry.”
Console snorted again.
* * *
It was a dangerous flat stretch because of all the wretched mud and fallen branches and uncovered rocks. James pressed himself close to Console’s neck and talked to him. Then he listened. Console was ready. He was bored. He wanted to fly.
Console passed Jessie, riding the black three-year-old Jigg, in a matter of moments. He didn’t acknowledge her at all. There were twelve horses on the flat. Since this was the third race, it was rapidly becoming an obstacle course, with clumps of mud flying, slamming against the horses and their riders.