Catherine, however, bore up as best she could. It had been a little over a week now since the duke had discovered the truth of her identity, and since then, she had barely seen a glimpse of him. When she had crept into her bed each night, bone weary, she had wondered if this was some sort of test that the duke had decided to thrust upon her shoulders. It was as though he was trying to have her prove that this truly was what she wanted, what she longed for, simply by having to endure the life of a stable hand. Neither had she seen any sign of the other two jockeys that the duke had been waiting for. A part of her hoped that they would not appear and that the duke would decide, even though she was a woman, to allow her to ride instead.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
Catherine wiped the sweat out of her eyes and turned at once, seeing the duke stepping into the stables. Catching herself before she bobbed a curtsy, she bowed quickly, aware of just how awkward she felt. The duke was the only one who knew the truth of who she was, and the look in his eyes made her shift uncomfortably. Her scalp itched uncomfortably where her wig was pinned but, of course, she could not scratch it, making her wince as she dropped her gaze.
“You there, Leighton,” the duke said, a small smile on his face as he spoke to her. “Have Beauchamp saddled and brought around to the practice grounds. The jockey I spoke of has arrived.”
A stone immediately settled in Catherine’s stomach. “Yes, Your Grace,” she murmured, not looking up at him and feeling the weight of her disappointment pushing her into the ground. “At once.”
“I was to have two,” the duke continued, turning around and waving a hand airily. “But the second has employment elsewhere, it seems. Therefore, I have only once decision to make.” He looked back over his shoulder just as Catherine lifted her head, their eyes meeting with a sharp intensity that stole Catherine’s breath. She did, of course, find the duke handsome, for his dark eyes and thick brown hair, firm jaw and long Roman nose were appealing in every which way, but it was the look in his eyes that sent her heart fluttering. There was still a chance then that she might be chosen as the next jockey. Perhaps she had done well enough this last week to show him that this was the only thing she sought for in life. Or mayhap he was not yet convinced that this new jockey, whomever he might be, was the best sort to ride Beauchamp.
Her heart twisted as the duke turned away. There was also a chance that the duke would care nothing for her dreams and hopes and had decided instead just to find someone new. This would be his opportunity to tell her so, for if she brought the horse out to him, then there would be a few minutes for them to speak alone. Mayhap this was to be the last time she saw Beauchamp.
Her heart ached as she prepared Beauchamp, aware of just how settled he was whenever she was near him. The animal was quite magnificent in every way, and yet she felt something of a kindred spirit between them both. Something they shared. A desperation to be free, to be unrestrained. A desire not to be held back but to run with all hope and all joy. At least Beauchamp, in his own way, could have that freedom, provided the jockey was willing, whereas she was still held back. If the duke decided against her, then she would have no other choice but to return to London.
For a moment, a wave of sadness crashed over Catherine as she thought about London and her family. She had no idea as to what her mother would be thinking of her sudden and unexplained departure for even though Catherine had written a short note, stating that she had to leave suddenly to seek out an opportunity that could not be allowed to pass from her, Catherine had said nothing more. She had not told her mother nor Dinah where she was going nor where such an opportunity was. No doubt Lady Whitehaven must be making as many excuses to her friends as to Catherine’s whereabouts, for she would not dare to state the truth for fear of what it would do to not only Catherine’s reputation but to the family name. Dinah, most likely would be praying fervently for Catherine, although Catherine expected that prayer to be that Catherine would not disgrace herself and would be kept from sin.
Her smile was wry as she leaned against Beauchamp’s flank. They would not easily be able
to understand the desire that held her heart so tightly. The duke seemed to show more understanding than Lady Whitehaven ever had, although that might well be because he had his own passions and could not even begin to think of what it might be like to be held back from them. When she had explained herself, she had seen how the anger in his expression had begun to fade, how he had begun to understand her. For that, at least, she was grateful.
“Get on there, Leighton!” Mr. Griggs exclaimed, making Catherine start violently. “The duke won’t be happy waiting! You’ve not even got the saddle on yet!”
Flushing with embarrassment, Catherine did as she was bade and quickly had Beauchamp ready. Leading him out of the stall and praying that the duke would make his thoughts on the matter known quickly, Catherine set her shoulders and prepared herself for what was to come.
Some half an hour later, the duke was busy watching the jockey as he rode Beauchamp and Catherine was standing a short distance away, watching both the jockey and then the duke. The duke had taken the horse from her without a word and then gestured for the jockey to mount. Catherine had made to turn away, only for the duke to command her to remain, explaining that he wanted Leighton to take the horse back to the stables when the trial was at an end.
The jockey had not so much as looked at Beauchamp before he had mounted. To him, it was just another stallion, just another horse. He had not looked into Beauchamp’s eyes, nor greeted him in a low voice or done anything to try and cement a knowledge of the creature. He had simply climbed on, tugged at the reins, and expected Beauchamp to obey.
Catherine winced as Beauchamp tossed his head, fighting the bit. The jockey had pulled it much too tight, and instead of obeying meekly, Beauchamp was fighting against it. It was something Catherine hated watching, for she knew all too well that Beauchamp did not respond to such a thing. He had to be directed with all gentleness, not with force.
“You wince, Miss Leighton.”
Catherine swallowed hard as the duke turned, wandering over to her.
“You do not approve of the jockey’s ways?” His eyes were inquisitive, his voice questioning, and Catherine did not feel any urge to hold back.
“I believe he is being much too rough with Beauchamp,” she told the duke, looking up into his face and seeing how his gaze flicked to the jockey and back again. “Beauchamp needs the bit, yes, but he cannot be controlled through pain. A gentleness and respect is what he needs.”
“And you believe that force does no good,” the duke replied, a frown appearing between his brows. “Beauchamp is a stallion and a strong creature at that.”
Catherine shook her head, refusing to accept the duke’s words. “A strong creature does not need brute force to restrain it,” she replied carefully, aware of how her heart had quickened somewhat. “It needs understanding and, with that, careful direction. You know that Beauchamp responds well to me, Your Grace. That is because I understand what he needs in order to run well.”
The duke sighed and ran one hand over his eyes, his lips pulled into a thin line. It was as if he were battling with his own thoughts, as though he knew that she was right in all that she was saying but did not want to admit it. As if he wanted to find some fault in her words and prove, in some way, that the jockey he now had was the best rider for Beauchamp. His mouth moved but no words came out. He dropped his hand and frowned, turning his head back towards Beauchamp.
“Take Beauchamp back,” he muttered eventually, hailing the jockey to return. “No. Instead, take him for a gallop across the meadows and then return him.” He gave her a wry smile. “I can see just how much you long for such a thing. I shall speak to the jockey and give him the suggestions you have made for the next time he takes Beauchamp out. Mayhap there shall be some improvement.”
Catherine nodded but did not feel a great surge of joy at the suggestion. It was clear in her mind that the duke had decided against her. Even though the jockey, at present, was not the best, he was, according to society, much more suited to the position than she—simply because he was a man. The jockey did nothing more than give her the briefest of glances before throwing her the reins, leaving her to walk away with Beauchamp in order to find a place to mount.
“My stable hand has some suggestions as to how you might work better with Beauchamp,” she heard the duke say. “If we could first begin to–”
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” the jockey replied, a sneer already in his voice. “But I doubt very much that a stable hand has much to say about riding a stallion! He’s nothing more than a boy!”
Catherine closed her eyes but kept walking steadfastly onwards. No one was going to listen to her save the duke, and even that was not enough for him to consider her a suitable jockey.
“I believe it would be best if you listened,” she heard the duke say, before she drew too far out of earshot to hear any more. Finding something with which to stand on, she made to climb over Beauchamp’s back, only for the horse to settle down again, lying down as he had before with his legs underneath him, so that she might swing her leg over with ease.
“Thank you,” she murmured, leaning back as the horse rose to its feet. “You are quite a magnificent creature, Beauchamp. I am only sorry that I cannot have the chance to prove to all of England that you are the very best racehorse ever to be seen.” She patted his neck, and Beauchamp let out a soft whinny. “Now,” she murmured, her feet securely in the stirrups. “What say you to a proper gallop?” She pressed her heels against his sides, and Beauchamp was off in a moment, making Catherine laugh despite her sadness over the duke’s apparent rejection of her. Glad that she had taken to pinning her wig down with a good many more pins than before, Catherine threw herself into the gallop, enjoying every moment and feeling such a sense of freedom that she wanted to laugh aloud. Even if she had to return to London, even if she had to go back to that life that she despised, she would forever be grateful that the duke had given her the opportunity, at least, to be able to ride Beauchamp across his land. Slowing the horse to a trot, Catherine felt her heart swell within her, thinking that the duke was, despite his reluctance, a kind sort, who clearly gave things due consideration even if he did not agree to what she wished for.