“So many victories over the years,” Oliver said as he loosened his cravat. He knew his years gave him the right to wax philosophical every once in a while, particularly with James, who was young and unseasoned. Winning was better than philosophizing any day. Doing both was all a man could desire. “You know, of course, that the Warfield stables have been here since the early seventeen hundreds when it was started by my grandfather. Aye, he’d just stepped off the ship from Bristol, one racehorse to his name, skinny as a rail from puking his guts up the entire voyage, and filled with all the optimism of youth.” Oliver Warfield drank deep then sighed. “From father to son and father to son. What a tail-male line.”
“I’ve never heard humans called a ‘tail-male line’ before.”
“Same difference, only I failed. All I could do was breed daughters. Three bloody females. It’s enough to make a man weep.”
“Maybe this is the start of a tail-female line.”
“Not likely. What good are girls? They get married, leave, change their names, and breed—babes, not horses. I’m not complaining. It’s what they’re supposed to do. Look at my females. Just one husband amongst the three of them, and old Bramen is older than I am, James. Have you seen those skinny legs of his and that huge paunch? He’s probably more shriveled than a two-year-old potato. I just shook my head at Nelda and told her she was a fool, but her mother told me to mind my own business, which is horses, and not to interfere. Old Bramen is rich, I’ll give him that. What’s a father to do, James?”
“Nelda seems happy,” James said with no hesitation, lying cleanly. “I saw her today. Don’t worry about it. It’s done. Enjoy life, Oliver. Enjoy your aches and pains. A son-in-law will turn up. Glenda is pretty, well dowered, and men flock around her. What are you worried about?”
“There’s Jessie to consider.”
“Why?” James took a drink of claret. The glasses were old and chipped, but they were of good quality; at least they’d once probably graced a grand table. He wondered if Mrs. Warfield had believed them long ago tossed on the trash heap. “She’ll outgrow her nonsense. She’ll want to be a wife and a mother, just give her a while.”
“Poor child. She should have been a boy. Just like me is Jessie, all pride and vinegar and stubbornness. She’s even got my red hair. As for those freckles across her nose, well, Mrs. Warfield claims that’s my fault for letting Jessie run wild as the colts in the fields since she was just a little mite.”
James remained quiet. He and Oliver both knew a lady shouldn’t have freckles. Nor should she have chapped lips.
Oliver Warfield beetled his thick red eyebrows. “Jessie doesn’t want to marry. She told me so just last week.”
James became even more quiet. He looked at the nearly empty bottle of claret and wished he’d brought two bottles.
“She said that all men were pigs and selfish and short-sighted.”
“That’s quite a lot, even out of Jessie’s big mouth.”
“Jessie never learned restraint. Except with horses.”
“I’ve never thought I was shortsighted.”
“You’re young. Of course you’re shortsighted. That’s why Nelda married old Bramen. She was tired of waiting for you, not that it matters now. Bramen’s got more money than either you or I will ever earn in a lifetime. Just mind that you don’t become Nelda’s lover. Aye, James, I hear things. I know that Nelda would like a lusty young man in her bed and it’s you she wants. What am I to do with Jessie? Yes, that’s right, give me more claret. You have a good cellar, James. Damn, I think we should have the loser bring two bottles. Just ain’t enough tonight. Did I tell you that Mrs. Warfield blames me, claims Jessie is unnatural and I made her that way, letting her ride astride wearing men’s breeches will bring her to no good. She says I’m taking away Jessie’s womanness. Jessie says womanness is boring and the skirts are too tight. She says she doesn’t want to mince around in shoes that make her feet hurt. She doesn’t want to have to treat men like they’re smart and charming, which they aren’t. She says men get married and get fat and belch over their dinner. She says they’re clods and can’t ride worth a damn. I don’t know precisely what she means by all that, but there it is. But she’s a damned good rider, is Jessie. Now Glenda, there’s a beauty for you, the perfect lady. Don’t you agree, James?”
James took another drink of claret. He didn’t know Glenda all that well, but from Ursula’s glazed expression of social pain, he imagined that Glenda was probably just as spoiled as her lovely sister. At least Jessie wasn’t a spoiled brat. She was just a brat, no spoilation about her. As for Glenda, she played the harp and recited poetry that she herself had penned. He’d been spared the poetry but not the harp.
“Glenda would make any man a fine wife. All sweet laughter and giggles.”
James grunted. Glenda was small and round with lovely breasts to which she granted more freedom than other girls of his acquaintance. She lisped occasionally, an affectation that seemed to be making the rounds of Baltimore society. She also had the disconcerting habit of staring directly at a man’s crotch. He’d once had to move quickly behind a potted palm when she’d done that to him at a party last year.
He tossed down the rest of his claret. The sweet, heavy wine sat nicely in his belly. “I’m here to let you gloat, Oliver, not to have you try to marry me off to one of your two remaining offspring.”
“True, but a man has to think of the future. If you married Glenda, you’d combine Warfield Stud and Racing Stables with your own Marathon farm. You could do much worse, James. What’s the size of your breeding farm in England?”
“Candlethorpe is small, half the size of Marathon. The Earl of Rothermere who owns—”
“I know all about the Hawksburys, James. One of the finest studs in all of northern England. I hear Philip Hawksbury married a Scottish girl who’s magic with horses.”
“Yes, Frances is a good sort. Her way with horses is amazing. They oversee my stud along with Sigmund, my head stable lad, when I come to America. Sober John’s sire is Ecstasy from the Rothermere stable, who goes directly back to the Godolphin Arabian.”
“Sell me Sober John.”
“Forget it, Oliver.”
“I suppose I could,” Oliver said. “But I’ll keep after you, maybe send one of my girls to soften you up.”
“Just don’t send Jessie. She’d just as soon put a knife in my ribs as look at me.” James stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles. He closed
his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. He said, “You’ll not beat me again, Oliver.”