Highest Stakes (7 page)

  "Indeed so, but 'tis a great distance 'atween a biddable hack and a courser, miss."

  "But they both have four legs, don't they? I fail to discern the difference."

  "Do you not, indeed?" He chuckled indulgently. "Then ye'd best study more closely. Come wi' me miss." He handed her down from the fence and led her across the stable yard to the carriage horses, a grazing group of big-boned bay geldings.

  "Fine old English stock, they be, Yorkshire coach horses and unsurpassed for carriage work. If we compare this great gelding to Amoret over there, you see how he was bred to drive? You see it in long, well-muscled neck, the power of his forequarters, with his broad, deep chest. His shoulders are big, strong, and built to pull. His back is long, withers low. His legs be short in relation to his carcass but heavy in bone. This is a hardy breed, long-lived and docile in temperament, but not built for speed. Now cast yer gaze back to Amoret."

  The contrast was unmistakable, even to Charlotte's uneducated eye.

  "A horse bred for running has a well-chiseled head on a long neck, is high in the withers, has a deep, narrow chest, a short back, good depth in the hindquarters, a lean body, and long legs. A racehorse is a completely different creature, bred for dash, spirit, and bottom. Not for a lass to hack about the countryside."

  "But Amoret is
the very picture
of docility," Charlotte protested.

  "Aye, she may have the look of a lamb, but on the turf," he added with a scratch under Amoret's chin, "this one has the heart of a lioness. The difference lies not as much in the form of the horse but in its spirit."

  "Amoret, a lioness? I can't conceive such a vision."

  "She's right docile enough now, but don't mistake this one for no soft-hearted jade."

  "How do you mean?" Charlotte sat forward with a rapt expression.

  "This mare is from one of the great running families, ye see. It's deep in her blood. Her grandsire was the Darley Arabian hisself."

  "Indeed?" she responded with wonderment. "But who is this Darley?"

  "I was but a lad working at Aldby Park stud when Thomas Darley brought a horse all the way from the Syrian desert to Yorkshire. No more handsome beast have I ever seen. The Darleys knew he was a prime one. They stood him 'specially for their own mares, taking few outsiders. And they got some of the best whatever ran in these parts: Childers, Almanzor, Aleppo, Cupid, Brisk, Daedalus, Dart, Skipjack, Manica, and Lord Lonsdale's Mare."

  "They were all winning racehorses?"

  "They all could run like the wind, but the primest of the get was crack as any horse in his time or ever since. That was Flying Childers, bred right over yon at Doncaster, out of a daughter of Old Careless, another what was the best o' his time."

  "Did you ever see him run, Flying Childers?"

  "Right enough, I did. I disremember the exact date, but 'twas the Beacon Course at Newmarket. Flying Childers bolted over it, well over four miles of hill and dale, in seven-and-a-half minutes. Bless me, miss, if I ever seen another horse run like that! His next races was all won for lack o'takers, so early on the Duke of Devonshire put him to stud. 'Twas his full brother what sired this 'un right here." He rubbed Amoret's ears.

  "Is it truly so, Jeffries?"

  "Aye, 'tis so."

  "But Amoret doesn't race."

  "Not any longer, she don't. But in her heyday, no mor'n half a dozen years back, she was right full o' piss 'n' vinegar, Amoret was. As game a little filly as they come. It was at the two hundred guineas for fillies in Hambleton that I first seen her. 'Twas on the Round Course, which was dedicated to runnin' only mares since the time of Queen Anne. I was up on Lord Portmore's Favorite, Isaac Cope from Middleham was up Amoret, and Johnny Singleton rode Lord Rockingham's Lucy. A gamer lot of fillies never was than that trio.

  "And this little mare run that course up the hill, round the bend, and down the straight as if driven by the devil. She could flirt wi' the best of 'em for half a day and give 'em treble the distance in her time.

   "'Twas a sad day I laid eyes on her at the blood sales, right dwindled to naught and lookin' like a rail. Sir Garfield wanted naught to do wi' her, but I knowed what she was, carrying the blood of the royal mares of King Charles on the one side and nicked wi' the full brother of one of the best runnin' horses e'er lived on the other."

  "Indeed? What had happened to her that she went to auction?"

  "Same's happens to many o' the best runnin' mares. Raced young and hard, pinched o' feed to keep their carcasses light 'til they be too weak and broken to run anymore. Then when the runnin' is completely wasted from 'em, they be turned out to the breeding shed completely sapped of juice and in no condition to propagate.

  "Full in flesh and vigor is what a broodmare should be. Drained in body and spirit, a mare's in no condition to breed, leastwise not and produce a strong, healthy foal."

  Charlotte looked at the mare pityingly.

  "She had a yearling filly still suckling on her and further dragging her down, while she was breeding again. Bred back to her own sire, she was. Damned incestuous habit, goes against natural law, if'n ye ask me." He spat in disgust. "If'n the Almighty don't countenance such breedin' habits in man, why should man practice it in his lower creatures? But the high and mighty ones has some queer notions on blood. I'd as life nick a Darley granddaughter like her wi' a Byerley blood any day. Best of blood top and bottom, but there you be." He ended his tirade with a gesture of resignation.

  "But what then became of her foal? You said she
was
bred, not
is
bred."

  "Though we weaned her filly what was draggin' 'er down and give her the best of victuals to pick 'er back up, she slipped the foal right enough. 'Twas much to be expected, considering her miserable state."

  "But how could anyone be so cruel and negligent to such a lovely animal?"

  "Ignorance and neglect abound wi' running bloods who don't keep their owners flush in the pocket. The lot of the racer is to run and win or to breed winners. A blood horse that can do neither is nigh useless. Even with this one's high breeding, if she don't produce, she'll soon be back at the auction block."

  "Does my uncle intend to breed her again?"

  "Sir Garfield won't abide to keep her about if she don't earn her oats, but she be not ready to breed back again. She's had no time off to soften her condition. Like as a farmer need leave a hard-worked field fallow for a season, the racing mare must be roughed off for a time. Her owner didn't care to rough her off. 'Tis some wonder she even took on the first leap, but a mare that don't get a rest and time to recover throws a weak foal, matterin' not what blood she's bred to. Moreover, continuous breedin' will only make 'em go barren well afore their time."

  "But what of the filly? You said you weaned her filly, didn't you? Did my uncle keep her, Jeffries?"

  "Aye, and a right scrawny thing she be. That's her o'er in yon paddock. The gray. Daughter of Whitefoot she is, and her blood goes back to the White D'Arcy Turk. She be bred well enough, but as feeble as she looks, she's more'n likely to be useless as a runner. Mayhap her blood will tell as a broodmare, but I've a fair notion not to trouble training her to run. Sir Garfield has some colts what look to be far better racing prospects."

  "But 'tis hardly a fair assessment to make so soon. You've not even given her an opportunity to prove herself," Charlotte protested indignantly.

  "Mayhap so." He shrugged, adding philosophically, "Yet oft expectation fails where 'twould appear most promising, and nigh as oft it succeeds where hope is coldest. 'Twere never more true a sayin' than with blood horses."

  "Well, I for one think she deserves an opportunity, especially having come into the world at such a disadvantage."

  "You've a tender heart, lass."

  "Maybe I just understand what it's like for her to be abandoned like that."

  "Aye, lass, just mebbe ye do."

  "Jeffries, since you have so little time and have already deemed her a poor prospect for racing, might I train her?"

  Jeffries laughed. "You! Ye've ne'er even been in the saddle! What would you know of training a horse?"

  "Well, nothing," she answered defensively. "But you could teach me couldn't you? You could give us both a chance." Her wide eyes spoke much louder than her voiced entreaty.

  "Training a racehorse ain't hackin' about the heath, miss. 'Tis hard work, and not at all suitable for a young lady."

  "But I shall prove my mettle to you if you give me the chance," she pleaded. "I'm made of much sterner stuff than you might think." She jutted her chin mulishly.

  Suddenly moved by her eagerness and determination, Jeffries spoke without weighing the possible consequences of his actions. "If ye truly have a mind to learn the blood horse, I reckon there be no better teacher for ye than Amoret." The mare answered by rubbing her head against his shoulder.

  "Do you mean to say you'll actually let me ride her?" Charlotte's face lit, and her pulse quickened.

  "She grows heavy and idle out to pasture. Some light exercise can do her no harm. We'll start ye on the longe line with her tomorrow morn, if'n ye can be up and mounted betimes. The boys muck and feed well afore the cock even crows and are riding by first light. If ye can drag yerself from yer pallet afore light, none should be the wiser." He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  "You mean Beatrix. She never rises early."

  "Then ye'd best be at the rubbin' house by daybreak."

  "Indeed, I shall! I am a very early riser. I regularly watch the sun come up," she prevaricated with a broad grin and then turned to Amoret. "Until the morrow, my lovely."

  She kissed the little mare on the nose and departed with a skip in her step.

  Her heart fairly skipping in anticipation, Charlotte strode eagerly down the gravel-laden pathway and along the waist-high yew hedge to the stable block. The gray slate roofs of the low redbrick buildings had only begun to reflect the rays of the rising sun. By midmorning they would cast their shadows upon the large, bedewed, grassy plot in the yard's center, but for now, the yard was a low hum of activity.

  Charlotte wandered to the center of the bustling stable yard, watching as seven or eight boys methodically carried out their morning chores. One or two of them yawned and stretched, with stray pieces of straw and litter still clinging to their hair and clothing from the night spent in the lofts above the stables.

  They set about their work, leading horses out of their boxes, fetching buckets of water, and mucking out the nightly refuse from the stalls. She had been to the stables on many prior occasions. Why had she never noticed any of this activity before?

  Someone, presumably one of these same boys, always had her cousins' horses ready and waiting when they were appointed to ride. Upon their return, the boys collected and tended the horses and then faded back into the woodwork from whence they had emerged. She had never before given thought to all that was required to care for a stable of twenty-some horses.

  Impatient to locate Jeffries and be about her own business, Charlotte dismissed further reflection. She scanned the yard, expecting to find her own saddled mare or, at the least, for someone to take notice of her. Ignoring her presence completely, the grooms continued about their morning routine, much like ants busy on their nest.

  With Jeffries nowhere in sight, she looked about, huffing in disappointment mixed with annoyance. Suddenly she remembered. Jeffries had said to meet him in the rubbing house.

  But which of these confounded buildings was the rubbing house? Turning about, she attempted to arrest the attention of a small boy straining to transport his manure-teemed wheelbarrow to the dung pit.

  "Excuse me, lad?" Charlotte began. The boy glowered and continued on his way.

  "Pardon me," she said louder now and grasped him by the sleeve. The slight pull was all it took to completely unbalance his precarious load and dump the manure—all atop her boots.