Part 32 (2/2)
Randall appears to hand me up and I settles myself on the saddle. He is dressed today in a red velvet jacket with white front lapels and a high stiff collar that goes up above his ears and his dark hair curls over both collar and ears. Above his black boots stretch spotless white britches. He looks up with hooded eyes and then reaches up and pats me on the leg and says, ”Be careful now, Jacky.” I smile and nod. The Sheik s.h.i.+es away and I turn him and we are off.
The first time around the track I take him around slow-slow for the Sheik, that is-my hair is flying out straight behind me and the great muscles of his shoulders flex and stretch and roll under my legs and the white fence posts fly by. When we get to the last turn, we go by a small pasture that has some mares placidly grazing and I've been told that three of them are with foal by him and we shall have some fine colts and fillies by summer. I know the Sheik notices them, 'cause he speeds up a bit as we pa.s.s, as if to say, ”Ain't I some fine horse?”
As we pound by the grandstand I notice that Amy and Randall are standing at the rail, watching, and I stick my bottom up a little higher in the air-to gain better balance, of course. Ain't I some fine rider?
And this time around we really let go.
After the last lap, I pull up the Sheik, all hot and frothing but still ready for more, but no, that's it for now-George had waved the flag and I knew I had to bring him in or else not be allowed to get up on him again.
Sheik's capering around, wheeling and whinnying, and he rears up on his hind legs, but I soon get him calmed down by whispering in his ear and patting his sweaty neck. As he's standing there blowing, I slide off and hand the reins to ... what?...
It is a tiny little man, no bigger than me, wearing the silken colors of Dovecote Farm-green and white striped top, tight white knee pants, white silk stockings, and a green cap. He wears also a little man's c.o.c.ky grin and says, ”Ain't it a wonder, a female jock,” and since I don't hear an accent, he must be another c.o.c.kney.
”Hullo, jock,” says I. As we stand, I look directly level into his eyes, something I ain't used to doin'. ”London? Cheapside?”
”Couldn't be more right, Missy. Peter Jarvis, called Pete. Sometimes Petey. Whelped and weaned in Ludgate. You, too?”
”Takes one to know one,” says I, patting the Sheik on his flank. We lead him, all blowin' and snortin', on a coolin'-off walk. ”Jacky Faber, Blackfriars Bridge.”
”You lived near the bridge?” He looks quizzical.
”Under it,” says I.
”Ah,” he says, and he don't press it. ”You ride real fine, Miss. The nag seems to like you.”
”That's some horse. Is he the best you've ever seen?” I ask, wanting the real expert's opinion.
”He's right up there, Jacky,” he says, looking up with admiration at the Sheik. ”But, then, any horse can be beat, given the wrong day, the wrong rider, the wrong luck.”
When we're done walking the big horse, we go back to the stable and I see Randall waiting by the racetrack gate. Not that he gives any indication that he's waiting for me, exactly, just sort of lounging about and surveying the scene and talking with some others.
I follow Petey into the stable and we put the Sheik into his stall and I get his oats and put some in his trough and he eats.
”I wonder why you get on so well with the horse, Jacky,” says Pete. ”He'll do things easy for you that he won't do for me.”
I thinks for a bit and then says, ”You know, it may sound stupid, but I think it's 'cause he knows I'm a girl.”
Pete raises an eyebrow.
”Aye, and don't think this rogue don't know it. Aside from runnin', gettin' with the mares is his main occupation. So he knows.”
”Ah, what's the big difference?” asks Pete, the track-hardened jockey. His age, after you get over his boyish size, is about thirty, thirty-five.
”The difference is, with male jockeys, he sees compet.i.tion, like ... and so he acts that way. He runs good for you 'cause he wants you to see just how good he is, so you'll go away in shame. With me, he sees someone he wants to ... well, impress. He wants me to admire him ... and like him.” I blush a little at this speech, but I think it's true.
”Pretty deep there, jack-o,” says he, laughing.
I laugh, too, and think how long it's been since I've been called by that c.o.c.kney name.
I spend a good deal of the rest of the afternoon with Pete, learnin' the tricks of the trade, listenin' to his stories-and that time at Ascot when I was on a big dumb hammer-headed black, and four o' the bleedin b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had me boxed in against the wall and I...
He's a good sort and we become fast friends. When I leave the stable, night is falling and Randall is no longer at the gate.
I go into Amy's room and she is sitting there scratching her quill in her ma.n.u.script, as she calls it. She rises and we dress for dinner.
We take our evening dinner with Randall at the great long table in the grand dining room. Amy wanted to take our dinner in the kitchen, all jolly and easy like we usually do, but Randall insisted, so here we are. I like being here, and look about like any simple country girl. Candles are lit in a crystal chandelier above the table where we sit, and the lights from it reflect warmly on the polished top of the huge table. It reflects, also, on the fine china and silverware laid out before me. At least I know what to do with it now, and don't have to cringe in fear.
There are about twenty, twenty-five chairs ringing the table, and we three sit in the middle, Amy and I together, and Randall across from us. There are windows at the end of the room and they are covered with thick red drapes, gathered with gold cords. Behind me is a big double door that opens on the hall and through which we came in, and on the other side is another set of wide doors that open on what seems to be a big, dark ballroom. What a thing, I thinks, to go to a real ball in there.
”So how go your studies, dear Brother?” asks Amy. A soup is brought and placed in front of each of us, and I lay into mine thinkin' I just might keep my mouth shut just now and let these two go at it. ”I'm sure you are finding Homer and Virgil most exciting.”
”Boring,” says Randall. ”How goes the girly school? I'm sure you're finding your courses in the changing of the baby's nappies quite entertaining?”
A man in livery-a footman? Randall's valet? the butler? I don't know-comes to serve the wine.
”And you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow to me.
”I like my French and I love Art and Music. Could do without Embroidery, though, and as for Household Management, which is where the changing of a diaper might someday come up, well, Amy and me don't like it much, but all knowledge is useful, is what I hold. And as for Equestrian, well, you know I like that. I've gotten so I can do medium jumps now.” I figure a little girlishness wouldn't hurt just now, and I flutter my eyelashes and clasp my hands all helpless and flighty. ”It's dreadful scary, but I can just do it.”
”Indeed?” says Randall, puffing up till I swear his waistcoat b.u.t.tons will pop. ”Well, perhaps we shall ride to the hounds in the summer.” He raises his gla.s.s and looks at me over the rim.
”Only if you spare the fox, Sir.” I raise my gla.s.s in return and look back at him over my own rim. ”Or the vixen. Whichever one is being chased.”
”That would depend on how fast the vixen runs.” Randall smiles lazily.
”Or how clever she is in evading capture,” says I.
He nods his head in a kind of bow.
Two girls with trays come in and serve the meat, potatoes, and greens. I take some and thank them. They dip and go.
Randall notices this and I know he wants to say that I'm too familiar with the servants but he don't.
”Another gla.s.s of wine with you, Jacky?” Randall is feeling good, I can tell.
”Just half, please.” The man fills my gla.s.s halfway. ”Thank you.” I take my water gla.s.s and top off the wine, turning it from deep red to pink.
”A travesty,” snorts Randall, leaning back in his chair. ”Leave it,” he says to his man and the man places the bottle on the table and leaves the room.
He turns to his plate and shovels some in and while he's chewing and tossing back the wine, I think how different he is from his father, as different as Amy is from her mother. Well, maybe it's only in appearance that they are different, Randall being tall and slim and the Colonel being medium-sized and built like a door. But I got to admit they got the same arrogant kiss-my-royal-b.u.m look in their eyes. The Colonel was civil to me over Christmas, but it was plain that he had very little use for such as me.
Randall pushes his plate away and wipes his mouth and fills his gla.s.s again and lobs the mortar: ”The Sheik will race all comers on Sat.u.r.day, April the nineteenth.”
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