Page 41 of Unending Joy
“Do not lose heart yet, Freddy.” She furrowed her brow, considering his question. “Perhaps a house party, Freddy, where you can see if she suits away from Society.”
He sighed heavily, not wishing to force the issue or show partiality, but he was becoming desperate. “I will speak to my parents. You will come, will you not?”
“Anything to go to the country,” she retorted. “However, I know just the thing to lift your spirits.”
“Are you going to tell me?” he asked impatiently.
“We have been invited to Ascot!”
Freddy perked up at the word. “By whom?”
“Thornhill’s Banquet is racing!”
“Whyever is Thornhill inviting you to Ascot?”
Joy looked heavenward so he must be doing something daft again. “Not me, all of us. Carew, Grace, Maeve, Ashley, and Patience—it is to be a party.”
“Then why did you not say so from the beginning?”
“I thought it was obvious that Thornhill is taken with Maeve. The rest of us make it respectable.”
“Well, as you know, I am always game for a race!”
CHAPTER 13
Joy awoke well before the maid tapped at her door, buoyed by a delighted certainty that, for at least one day, London’s stuffy drawing rooms lay far behind. By seven o’clock, two travelling carriages waited in Westwood’s forecourt. Lord Carew, Grace, and Maeve were to ride in the first, Patience and Ashley with Joy in the second. Freddy had gone down the previous afternoon with Thornhill in the curricle, so the gentlemen might see to his thoroughbred, Banquet, which would face the favourite, T.A. Fraser’s Champignon, in the The Gold Cup. To complete the party, Thornhill had generously offered places in his booth to Miss Letty Partridge and Miss Arabella Finch, a merry dark-haired girl fresh from the schoolroom. The extra guests, Grace assured Joy, would remove any hint of preference from one particular lady.
Joy privately doubted whether preference could be disguised when Freddy spent half his waking hours dangling after Letty like sugar plums before a child at Christmas. Still, Ascot was horses and the country. She resolved to enjoy every moment, even if it meant sharing the vantage with Miss Partridge’s insipid sighs.
By the time Ascot Heath shimmered on the horizon, Joy was near to bursting. Carriages four abreast jammed the approach; grooms shouted; footmen established impromptu hierarchies of precedence; gentlemen in morning coats and beaver hats swarmed in the middle distance as the Grand Stand towered over a sea of parasols.
Their party alighted near Selwood Park, where a liveried steward ushered them towards the towering booth Thornhill had had built for the occasion. Joy, trailing after the others, felt her pulse quicken as she took it all in: a famous jockey weighing out, someone haggling over odds with a dapper bookmaker, a merry band blaring, vendors hawking souvenirs, and the smell of crushed turf mingling with roasted meat.
Inside the booth the view commanded the whole straight run to the winning post. Joy dashed to the railing, spectacles catching sunlight, and drank in the scene—shimmering rails, horses in colours, green-coated officials clearing the track, the expectant roar of thousands of spectators.
Miss Partridge soon joined them, a vision in palest jonquil muslin, escorted by her mama. “How delightfully energetic it all seems!” she cooed, executing a curtsy of studied delicacy for Freddy.
Freddy bowed low. “The exact tint of your gown matches the June sun, Miss Partridge—who could ask the weather for better company?”
Letty’s eyelashes fluttered whilst Joy tried not to laugh.
Barely had the party adjusted its formation before Miss Arabella Finch bounded up like a spring tide, curls escaping a chip-straw bonnet festooned with pink flowers. “I declare I am giddy with anticipation of trumpets and the thunder of hooves!” she cried, nearly tripping over her sprigged muslin. Trumpets? Without ceremony the girl linked arms with Joy—whom she hadmet but once—and confided that she had placed a shilling on Banquet.
Below, Thornhill’s bay circled, his coat gleaming like new mahogany. Joy seized the field glasses and whistled. “He moves like Pegasus, missing only wings.”
“You must not lean so perilously,” Letty fussed, edging closer. Freddy produced a programme, pointing out the rival colours—Thornhill’s scarlet-and-white; Petersfield’s purple-and-gold—and bent to explain the odds, his shoulder almost brushing Joy’s. She pretended not to notice the small prickle between her ribs.
Thornhill arrived, wreathed in confidence. “Back him at five to one, Cunningham, and I shall double your stake myself.”
Joy laid a modest wager, causing Letty to gasp, “Ladies never wager!” but, coaxed by Freddy’s low assurances that it was only chicken stakes, surrendered a half-crown to him. Miss Finch flourished her shilling like a banner.
While Joy was absorbing everything, she noticed Colonel St. John in the throng below. She made to wave at him, but he slipped between two booths, and merged with a stranger whose dark coat and slouched hat obscured his face. Their heads bent close—heated words, perhaps? The exchange ended inside a minute. St. John emerged, felt Joy’s stare, and waved with airy cheer before making for the stairs. Unease tingled along Joy’s spine, but she kept her own counsel.
St. John then made an appearance, immaculate in blue superfine and buff breeches, his boots scarcely dusted by the turf. He mounted the steps to pay his respects, offered Joy a bow and congratulated Thornhill on the “fine goer” his Banquet was. Yet even as he spoke his gaze roamed the crowd, searching. After exchanging the barest pleasantries with those present, he excused himself on the pretext of finding an acquaintance and slipped away down the stairs, vanishing into the press ofonlookers and bookmakers before anyone could force him to stay.
Then all was forgotten as a bell rang and horses pranced to the Royal Stand. Joy’s heart hammered while Freddy pressed against the rail beside her and grinned like a schoolboy escaped from lessons.
“Look how he settles,” Joy breathed as Banquet danced into place. “Head low, ears flicking—he knows.”
