But unlike those racecourses, which Eleanor had never heard of, this one had the royal imprimatur. When she had come through the towering, black wrought-iron gates, she had noted the golden crown mounted in relief at their crest, and it was as if she were entering Buckingham Palace itself. There were rows of concession stands, selling everything from barley water to toffee apples, and all manner of customer, from well-dressed gentlemen with their ladies
on their arm, to scruffy young boys hawking and shilling�and once, she could swear, stealing�from the carts and stands. Sinclair, with Eleanor on one arm and Moira on the other, had navigated through the crowds with absolute assurance, and taken them to this spot, which he assured them provided the best viewing of the race.
It certainly seemed so to Eleanor. The horses were rounding the first curve, and together they made a beautiful blur of black and brown and white, colored by the shimmering costumes and silks of the jockeys. The summer sun beat down on the field, and Eleanor had to fan herself�and beat away the persistent flies�with a program Sinclair had purchased for her. He stood close, much closer than any man would customarily stand to her, and it seemed only in part due to the pressing crowd. Moira was leaning halfway over the railing, her plump arms planted on either side, calling out encouragement to Nightingale's Song.
�Move along!� she cried. �Move your arse!�
Eleanor stole a glance at Sinclair, and they shared a private smile. Moira turned, abashed.
�Oh, do forgive me, sir! I forgot myself.�
�It's quite all right,� Sinclair replied. �It wouldn't be the first time such a sentiment was uttered here.�
Indeed, Eleanor had already heard far worse, and working in a hospital�even one that was dedicated to the care exclusively of women with some breeding�had inured her to both grisly sights and desperate oaths. She had seen people whom she knew would have been perfectly upright and respectable if she had met them in the normal course of their lives, reduced to violence and rage. She had learned that physical anguish�and sometimes merely mental perturbation�could warp a person's character out of all recognizable shape. Meek seamstresses had screamed and writhed and forced her to tie their hands with bandages to the bedposts; a governess, from one of the finest houses in the city, had once ripped the buttons off her uniform and hurled a dirty bedpan at her. A milliner, from whom a tumor had had to be removed, had scratched her arms with sharp nails and cursed her in language Eleanor thought only sailors might use. Suffering, she had learned, was transforming. Sometimes it elevated the spirit�she had seen that, too�but more often than was generally admitted it simply ran roughshod over its helpless victims.
In words as well as in actions, Miss Florence Nightingale had taught her that lesson. �She is simply not herself,� Miss Nightingale would say, overlooking whatever transgression had just occurred.
�Look! Look, Ellie!� Moira cried. �She's gaining! She's gaining!�
Eleanor looked across the racecourse, and yes, she could see a flicker of crimson, like a tiny flame, beating its way, slowly but surely, toward the front of the pack. Only two other horses�one black, one white�were running ahead. Even Sinclair seemed excited by the turn of events.
�Good show!� he shouted. �Nightingale, come on! Come on!� He squeezed Eleanor by the elbow, and she felt as if her whole arm�no, her whole body�was galvanized. She could barely focus on the race at all. Sinclair's hand stayed where it was, though his eyes were on the horses charging around the far post.
�The white one, she's faltering!� Moira called out with glee.
�And the black one looks fagged, too,� Sinclair said, rapping his own rolled-up program nervously on the rail. �Come on, Nightingale! You can do it!�
There was something so boyishly charming about Sinclair just then�the rapt enthusiasm, the pale moustache made nearly transparent by the direct sun. Eleanor had not failed to notice the attention he drew from other women; when they had come through the crowd, parasols had twirled brightly, as if their owners were hoping to catch his eye, and one young woman, on the arm of an elderly gent, had gone so far as to drop a handkerchief in his path�which he retrieved and returned, with a half smile, while moving on. Eleanor had become more and more conscious of her own attire, and wished that she, too, had something more colorful, or stylish, or becoming to wear; she had but this one fine dress, and it was a rather somber forest green, of ribbed taffeta, with old-fashioned gigot sleeves. It buttoned firmly up to her throat, and on a day like this especially, she might have wished for something that bared at least a bit of her neck and shoulders.
Moira had simply opened the collar of her own dress�a peach-colored affair that neatly matched the color of her hair and complexion�and was even then pressing the cool but empty lemonade glass against the base of her throat. Still, she looked about to faint from the mounting excitement.
The horses were barreling around the near side of the oval track, and the white one had indeed faltered. Its jockey was whipping it mercilessly, but the horse was falling farther behind every second. And the black one, a frisky colt, was simply holding its own, hoping to make it to the finish line without any greater exertion. Nightingale's Song, however, was not spent at all; indeed, the horse seemed only then to be stretching itself to its utmost. Eleanor could see every sinew and muscle in its legs pumping and its head bobbing up and down as the jockey, sitting uncustomarily far forward on its withers, spurred it on, the chestnut mane flying into his face. �By God,� Sinclair cried, �she's going to do it!� �She is, isn't she?� Moira exulted. �She's going to win!� But the black colt hadn't given up yet. As often happened with racehorses, this one suddenly felt himself being beaten�saw out of the corner of one eye the contender keeping pace�and unleashed a last burst of energy and drive. They were in the final furlong, virtually nose to nose, but something in Nightingale's Song, some reserve that had still been held in check for this critical moment, was released, and as if she had been borne forward by some sudden wind, she burst ahead of the colt, the crimson silks rippling like flames along its flanks, as she flashed across the finish line, streaming with sweat, and the judge on the scaffold waved a golden flag back and forth and back and forth.
There was a tumult in the crowd, cries of disappointment from the losing horses� bettors, but here and there a whoop of joy and astonishment. Eleanor gathered that Nightingale's Song had not been favored to win, which, even she knew, was what stood so much to their advantage. She studied the paper chit in her hand, and as Moira danced in place, from one foot to the other, Sinclair took it from her.
�Will you allow me to go and collect your winnings?� Eleanor nodded, and Moira simply beamed. Paper chits, torn in half by the losing bettors, wafted like confetti from the grandstands and swirled in the air overhead. As Eleanor and Moira looked on, three of the jockeys walked their winded horses to the circle beside the judging scaffold. Each of them took off his colorful silk jersey, and one of the stable hands tied it loosely to the rope of the flagpole. Then the silks were raised�a yellow one at the bottom
, a purple one in the middle, and at the very top, signifying its win for all to see, the crimson-and-white colors of Nightingale's Song. Eleanor felt, silly as it seemed, a surge of pride, while Moira seemed utterly beside herself at the prospect of her newfound riches.
�I'll not tell my father about the whole of it,� she said, �or he'd surely come to town and beat it out of me.�
At least Eleanor knew that her father would do no such thing.
�But I will tell my mam I come into a bit o� luck, and send some home to ease her days. The good Lord knows she do deserve it.�
Eleanor was still resolved to return her share to Sinclair�after all, she hadn't wagered so much as sixpence out of the small sum she carried in her faded velvet reticule. When he came back, he stuffed a handful of coins and notes into Moira's mesh handbag, then waited for Eleanor to open her own. She declined.
�But it's yours!� he said. �Your horse came in, at very favorable odds!�
�No, it was your horse,� Eleanor said, �and your money.� She could see that Moira wanted no part of this nobility, and she was sorry if it made her friend uncomfortable.
Sinclair paused, the money in hand, then said, �Would it make you feel any better if I told you I'd made my own packet, too?�
Eleanor hesitated, as Sinclair dug into the side pocket of his trousers, withdrew a wad of pound notes and playfully shook them at her. �You two,� he said, gallantly including Moira, �are my lucky charms.�
Eleanor had to laugh, as did Moira, and she could no longer argue when he opened her purse and slipped her winnings inside. It was far more money than she had ever possessed at one time, and she was glad to have the lieutenant there to help guard it.
Dark clouds from the west were only beginning to obscure the bright sun as they sauntered back toward the high main gates. They were just passing through them when Eleanor heard someone cry, �Sinclair! Did you have a winning day?�
As she turned, she saw the two men who had accompanied Sinclair to the hospital that night, only now they were not in uniform, but in handsome civilian attire.
�By Jove, I did!� Sinclair replied.
�Then, in that case �� the big one�Captain Rutherford� said, extending his hand palm open, �you won't mind settling accounts?�
�Are you sure you wouldn't rather consider it an investment and leave it where it is, to seek some future gain?�
�A bird in the hand,� Rutherford replied, smiling, and Sinclair dutifully slapped some of the cash from his pocket onto the open hand.
�But forgive me,� Sinclair went on, taking one step back in order to effect the introductions all around. Le Maitre's companion, a Miss Dolly Wilson, nodded�her face was almost entirely obscured under her wide-brimmed garden hat, garlanded with burgundy and mauve flowers�and Sinclair then asked, �Are you all traveling back to town? I was going to hire a carriage, but perhaps we could make the journey together.�
�Capital idea,� Rutherford replied, �but I've already got a coach waiting, in the Regent's Circle. Plenty of room for all.�
Eleanor glanced at Moira, who looked both thrilled and fearful�this day, for both of them, was taking so many unexpected turns that she herself began to feel as if she were riding a wild horse galloping off across the fields.
�Then right this way,� Rutherford declared, brushing out his muttonchops with the tips of his fingers, �for time and tide ��
�Wait for no man,� Moira piped up, always anxious to complete a saying, and Eleanor noted that Rutherford gave her an appreciative glance�a glance that lingered, most notably, on the glimpse of creamy bosom afforded by her unbuttoned bodice.
�Right you are, Miss Mulcahy� he said, offering her his arm. �May I escort you?�
Moira appeared flummoxed for a moment�a man of Rutherford's stature, wearing a pearl-gray cutaway coat, offering his arm to someone of her social position�but Eleanor gave her a discreet nudge and she slipped her hand onto his arm, and out they all went.
The coach was a brougham, with a family crest�a lion rampant on crossed shields�drawn by a sturdy pair of Shire horses with bay coats. Until that moment, Eleanor had been unsure of the world she had entered, but this�the family coach, the easy way the men all had with money (though her lieutenant, she guessed, was
overly profligate with his)�decided the matter. Both she and Moira were swimming in waters way over their own heads.
The interior of the coach was upholstered in Morocco-finished leather, with its fine pebble grain, and stowed beneath the seats there were lap robes, also embroidered with the family crest. The footrests were of polished mahogany and the front wall�just behind where the coachman sat�housed a small window, like a trap, with a tasseled handle. And though the captain had assured them there would be plenty of room, there was not, what with Rutherford being such a large man and Moira possessing such an ample figure. Room also had to be made for Miss Wilson's striking hat. Sinclair, very courteously, offered to sit between Eleanor and Moira so that they might gaze through the open windows and enjoy the passing view.
They were traveling through a largely rustic landscape, the Ascot racecourse having been built, in 1711, on the fringes of Windsor Great Park, in a natural clearing close to the village of East Cote. The green fields were dotted with sheep and cows, and the farmers and their families, going about their chores, often paused to watch Captain Rutherford's impressive coach rumble by. A boy with a heavy pail in each hand stood stock-still, staring, and Eleanor could well imagine his awe; she had felt it herself, at the sight of such coaches going by, and wondered, as he was no doubt doing, what it was like to be inside of one � to be a wealthy landowner, or born aristocrat, who traveled, and lived, in such a manner. When her eyes met, for just an instant, with the dumbstruck boy's, she felt such a welter of emotion�at first she simply wanted to explain to him that she wasn't in fact one of those fortunate few, that she was merely a simple farm girl by birth, ordained to live a life much like his own�but then, a curious thing happened. She inclined her head slightly, as she imagined an aristocrat would do, and felt in her breast a thrill of delight, and pride, and deception. She felt the way she had when she'd worn a princess costume�as a little girl, at a country fair�and thought the townspeople had mistaken her for the genuine article.
�Winning always whets my appetite,� Sinclair declared. �What would you all say to a buffet supper at my club?�
Le Maitre�or Frenchie, as Eleanor now recalled�said, �Perhaps
we should go to my club? Given certain circumstances, regarding Mr. Fitzroy,� he added, raising one eyebrow at Sinclair, who brushed it off.