Page 42 of Unending Joy
“Better seat than any,” Freddy said of the jockey, nodding his agreement.
Their shoulders touched as they gripped the edge of the balcony.
The starter waved his hand. A thunderclap of hooves tore along the course. Joy forgot decorum and leaned forward, spectacles clenched, the field a blur—scarlet-and-black, purple-and-gold, green, blue. At halfway Banquet lay third. At the wooden distance-post he edged to second alongside Champignon. Joy’s pulse matched each stride. Freddy shouted encouragement, waving his hat aloft. Letty squeaked with excitement, and the Grand Stand roared as horses flashed past like coloured lightning.
With three furlongs to run, Banquet’s rider slipped an inch of rein. The bay lengthened—a beautiful, loping surge that sent a tremor through the crowd. Champignon clung inside, his jockey low, purple cap bobbing.
“Come on, lad—pick him up!” Freddy yelled, voice raw.
Maeve clasped her gloved hands to her mouth, whilst Miss Finch bounced on her toes. Letty then shrank from the rail, murmuring that the pounding hooves made her faint.
Joy could hear nothing now but wind and thunder. In her left eye the two leaders blended, red sleeve against purple, moving as one. She willed Banquet forward, palms burning on the rail.
Inside the final furlong the duel tightened. Banquet gained a neck then Champignon answered, the great chestnut stretching with killer resolve. Fifty yards out, they were nose to nose. A collective gasp rolled through the booth.
“Touch him with the whip, man!” Thornhill shouted.
The jockey gave Banquet a single flick. The bay flattened—then drifted fractionally towards the rope. In that breath, Champignon seized the gap, thrust his head ahead, and they flashed past the winning post and the judge. A hush, a susurration, then the announcer’s bell.
“First—Champignon—by a short head!”
Groans, cheers, the rustle of losing tickets. Joy exhaled a breath she had not known she held. Her knees trembled. Beside her, Freddy closed his eyes, his jaw tight.
“Gallant as St. George, yet beaten,” he said.
Joy turned, laying a hand on his sleeve. “A finer race I never saw.”
He met her gaze; disappointment warred with admiration. “Nor I. Thornhill’s fellow can be proud.”
Joy turned to look behind them to where Maeve comforted her crestfallen beau. Letty fluttered that at least the horses looked very pretty when they ran fast, which earned her a sharp stare from Joy.
Thornhill managed a rueful smile for his friends. “We shall have him at the next one.”
Freddy clapped his shoulder. “Good show! He wants only luck—and a post six inches nearer.”
Joy felt the crowd’s energy shift from tension to convivial chatter. Bets were settled, hampers opened; champagne corks flew in popping salvoes like the King’s birthday salute. Yet under the clamour her unease about St. John returned. Twice she scanned the environs but there was no sign of the Colonel or his mysterious companion.
Thornhill’s servants poured champagne, though not quite for the celebration they’d hoped. Freddy carried a glass to Letty, bowing with an extravagant flourish. Joy watched, an unfamiliar throb tugging beneath her breastbone. Letty’s answering simper set her teeth on edge.
Turning away, she fixed her attention on Banquet walking back, sweat darkening his shining coat. “You will win next time, brave fellow,” she murmured.
Freddy rejoined her while the others picked over strawberries and lobster patties. For a moment they stood alone, looking onto the course where Champignon once again paraded past the Royal Stand.
“There is no thrill like it,” Freddy said, his voice pitched low for her ears alone.
“None,” Joy agreed, daring a sidelong glance. His profile looked stern, almost wistful.
Before the conversation could take shape, a footman appeared to inform Freddy that Miss Partridge desired Mr. Cunningham’s presence. Freddy glanced at Joy, apology in his eyes, and went.
Letty, all dimples and batting lashes, flirted shamelessly, and took possession of his arm while Freddy obliged with impeccable courtesy. Joy’s annoyance rekindled. Why could Freddy not see the emptiness behind those wide blue eyes? What had happened to their agreement to choose friends? Colonel St. John appeared at the back of the booth just as the party lifted glasses in consolation for Banquet’s razor-thin loss. His manner was oddly watchful as he offered courteous congratulations to Thornhill on “the finest second I have ever witnessed,” bowed to the ladies—lingering a heartbeat over Joy with a murmured hope of her continued good health—then, almost before anyone could frame a reply, excused himself and slipped down the stairway, vanishing once more into the milling throng.
Joy scanned the crowd but saw no further sign of Colonel St. John.
***
Freddy had spent the last two hours pretending to listen to Thornhill’s rapturous account of Banquet’s race while his mind rehearsed a far more troubling question: Why, in the name of common sense, did Joy appear so taken with Colonel St. John? He was handsome, yes, being broad-shouldered, with a cavalryman’s skill in the saddle. But when Freddy considered the man coolly, something didn’t ring true: a faint stiffness about the smile, a guardedness in the gaze. It was a thought difficult to voice in mixed company, but circumstance spared him from immediate confession. After the exciting day at the races, the party removed to Thornhill Lodge—a rambling Tudor place. The ladies retired, citing fatigue, and at last, in that satisfied hush peculiar to country houses late on a successful sporting day, the gentlemen gathered in Thornhill’s study.
Freddy followed Carew, Stuart, and Thornhill into a room that proclaimed a man’s domain. Stag antlers bestrode the mantel, and two vast leather sofas sprawled across Turkish carpets patterned in imperial reds and golds. Above the hearth hung a portrait of a snorting chestnut—no doubt an ancestral winner—whilst between two windows glinted twin cavalry sabres crossed in silent salute. Thornhill’s bulldog snored in a basket by the fire.
