Authors: True Lady
“I noticed your gardener has cleaned up the grounds as well,” Luten said.
Having a gardener added to the household went down very well. “You’ll soon see more improvements in that regard now that spring has finally arrived,” Mrs. Harrington said. “I think I can rescue some of those roses in front, now that the weeds have been rooted out. I should like to set Bogman to work with a bucket of paint as well, but it would hardly pay, when we shan’t be here long.”
“Such an outlay as that is best restricted to your own property,” he agreed, and received a chilly smile for his proper thinking.
It wasn’t till Luten proclaimed the ham the best he had ever tasted that the chill melted from his hostess’s smile. By the time he had requested her chef’s receipt for peach chantilly, he was accepted enough that she confessed she had no chef, but only a plain cook. “For in the country, you know, hiring a male chef is considered showing off. No one has one but Lord Gratton, and he is in London three-quarters of the time.”
Trudie found herself strangely tongue-tied, and though she squirmed at many of her aunt’s rustic utterances, she could think of nothing clever to say herself. Even when a speech occurred to her, she heard it as one in a dream, being passed to Luten through the medium of Aunt Gertrude.
“Perhaps Lord Luten would like some more chantilly, Auntie,” she suggested.
“There’s plenty left,” Mrs. Harrington said, reaching for his plate. “These youngsters will be gobbling it up for breakfast if we don’t get rid of it. You wouldn’t believe what Norman ate this morning. Two pieces of apple tart and a glass of milk. If he had waited ten minutes, Bogman would have had gammon and eggs on the table, but no, he must bolt his food and run. It’s all the fault of this racing mania that’s struck him down. We’ll be fortunate if he doesn’t bankrupt us.”
A little later, Trudie suggested to her aunt that “Perhaps Lord Luten would like another cup of coffee.”
“If he’s not afraid of being awake half the night, I’m sure he’s welcome to it.”
“It’s been an hour, Luten. I think I’ll nip down to the stable, but you stay and have more coffee by all means, if you like,” Norman said.
Luten knew what was expected of him and declined the second cup. “We’ll have port when we come back,” Norman said.
There was no point lingering at the table, so the ladies retired to the saloon. “Lord Luten seems a rational man. I cannot for the life of me imagine what got into him in London, to be playing off those practical jokes.”
It was still odd, but not so odd as it had been before the request for the peach chantilly receipt. The ladies heard Norman and Luten return to the dining room for port. Trudie thought that on this unusual occasion port might be taken in the saloon without breaking any important laws of etiquette. Luten thought so too, and suggested it to his host.
It seemed the evening was to be a repetition of dinner, with Trudie sitting tongue-tied while Mrs. Harrington pointed out to their guest where she had mended the hole burned in the sofa, and the six gouges in the marble mantel from what she was convinced could only be bullets. Luten was suitably impressed with all these domestic details. Before he could find a moment for any private talk with Trudie, Norman hauled him off to the stable again.
In fifteen minutes they were back. The fever was rapidly coming down—another half hour should lower it enough to apply the liniment. Trudie determined that she’d make good use of that half hour and spoke up brightly to Luten before her aunt could ensnare him again.
Her intention was to be charming and gracious, but as this eliminated virtually all of their past encounters, she heard herself saying, “What do you think of Peter’s having bought a colt and joined turfing society, Lord Luten?” She thought she already knew his opinion on that score, and regretted that their first private talk must be a harangue.
His mild answer amazed her, “I’m not surprised. I only wish he had consulted me before making his purchase. If you’re going to race horses, then you ought to race ones that stand some chance of winning.”
“You don’t give Fandango much chance?”
“Not much, the way he’s being trained. It will be a lesson to Peter. Horseracing is like everything else—you may hear lectures till the cows come home, but in the end, we all learn by making our own mistakes.”
He looked across the room, where Norman was talking with his aunt. Assured of some privacy, Luten began veering toward more personal matters. “I, of all people, am in no position to accuse anyone of making mistakes. I hope I haven’t stumbled into your black books again by coming here this evening, after having been hinted away. Norman asked me to come and take a look at True Lady—I hadn’t meant to hang on so long.”
She was impressed at the change in his attitude and rushed in to assure him of his welcome. “I was only afraid Auntie would fly into the boughs, but you’ve conned her entirely, so it’s no matter now.”
His lips moved unsteadily at her plain speaking. “It took some doing, I can tell you! I shall be eternally grateful to the clutch of scoundrels who defiled Johnson’s saloon
.
”
“Well, I shall not! It took us hours to cover up the sofa arm, and besides it still looks hideous.”
“I’ve done my duty in regard to the fixing up of this saloon, Miss Barten. I hoped we might speak of other things.”
“Oh!” she said, on a soft breath of pleasure. “What other things did you have in mind? You must know by now that I’m no wizard in horse management.”
“I’ve also done my duty in that respect, with Norman. There are other subjects available to us.”
“Yes,” she agreed, but none occurred to her.
“You’re acquainted with Mr. O’Kelly, I think?” he asked.
She assumed the subject he had chosen was jealousy of a rival and was well satisfied with it. “More than acquainted. We are very good friends,” she replied.
The quick scowl that drew his brows together was gratifying. “You choose your friends as badly as Norman chooses a filly.”
“Why, Lord Luten, you’re not suggesting that Mr. O’Kelly toes in!” she laughed. “I have always found him to be in excellent form.”
“You’ll discover an odd kick in his gallop before the Season’s over. O’Kelly is a parasite. He lives off credulous youngsters. I wish I could discourage you from any association with him.”
“He’d have slim pickings trying to live off Norman,” she answered bluntly.
“Quite—it can’t be Norman he’s after. I’m afraid it must be Peter.”
“Then it would be up to
you
to handle him,
n'est-ce pas?
I seem to recall you handled that other parasite, whom you imagined to be gulling Peter, quite effectively. Perhaps you could arrange another of those delightful Kent Street Ejections.”
“I had nothing to do with that! My dish is full enough without ladling that mess into it. And I was certainly not putting you and your aunt in the same class as O’Kelly. He is dangerous; you are merely
...
” He came to a stop as a pair of brilliant hazel eyes examined him.
“Pray continue.”
“Oh, no. We’ve just begun to be friends. I came here tonight for that reason. You shan’t goad me into folly this time.”
The tea tray was brought in, and the company sat together around the table. Any privacy was over, but there was one more effort at friendship before Luten left for the stables with Norman.
“Since True Lady won’t be working out tomorrow, Norman,” Luten said, “it would be a good time for you to have a look at Cheveley Park. I promised to take you there one day. I have a mare who is due anytime now, and I’ll be going to have a look at her. Would you and Miss Barten care to come along? And Mrs. Harrington as well, of course, if she’s interested.”
Mrs. Harrington declined at once. Trudie was of two minds. She wanted to see Luten again, but almost any other place than a stud farm would have been more pleasing to her. When Luten mentioned his hope that they would take tea with him after at Sable Lodge, her mind was made up.
“It sounds lovely!” she said.
“I should like it of all things!” Norman exclaimed, much more enthusiastically.
This was the subject of discussion till tea was finished. Mrs. Harrington took little interest in it, but she was always happy for any treat that came Norman’s way, and remained friendly. It was after nine when the gentlemen returned to the stable, and Mrs. Harrington decided it would be overly civil to receive Lord Luten again that night. She and Trudie left the saloon.
It proved unnecessary. Luten did not return to the house but expressed his thanks to his hostess through Norman and left. Trudie spoke to her brother after their aunt went upstairs.
“Did Lord Luten say anything about Okay O’Kelly?” she asked. Her real aim was to hear what he had said of her, but Norman, being a male, was unaware of her subtlety.
“Yes, he says we ought to stay away from him. To tell the truth, I had begun to suspect he ain’t quite the thing. I’ve heard a few unsavory comments. Mind you, he knows as much about winning races as anyone on the turf, but I think I shall hint him away from taking his lunch here.”
“But what’s the matter with him? He seems very nice.”
“He had some run-ins with the Jockey Club. None of the old track hands have a good word to say for him. It’s only the new ones, like Nick and Peter and me, that give him the time of day. Luten is a good fellow, ain’t he? The way Peter talks, I thought he’d be a mile high in the instep, but it’s no such a thing. Taking us to Cheveley—imagine! And he was more than polite to you and Auntie too. Lord, I nearly died to hear her blabbing all that stuff about not being able to afford painting the house. I have half a mind to set Bogman at it.”
“Why don’t you?” Trudie urged.
“Because I can’t afford it. The way Fandango is eating up the stalls, I’ll have to rebuild the stables when we leave. Speaking of eating,” he added, “did Luten finish the peach chantilly?”
“No, there’s some left.”
They went to the kitchen, and Norman ate his breakfast a few hours early. Trudie’s closest questioning did not reveal a single word Luten had said about her, except that he feared she would be bored at Cheveley Park, and he was a little surprised she had accepted the invitation. She feared she had slipped into hoydendom again, but this time it was Luten’s fault, so her mind was easy.
The sky was so heavy with clouds the next morning that Norman doubted he could have taken True Lady to the tracks, even if her leg had been better. No matter how black the sky, it wasn’t dark enough to shadow his spirits that day, with the trip to Cheveley Park before him. Trudie didn’t think the clouds would keep Mr. O’Kelly from his lunch either and was a little worried that Norman would be rude to him when he arrived, but luck was with her. Mr. O’Kelly, having learned that Norman was at home, stayed away.
“I wonder where Mr. O’Kelly is,” Mrs. Harrington said when they had taken their places at the table.
“You don’t mean he comes every day!’’ Norman
scowled.
“No, certainly not,” she assured him, though he came often enough that she had to lower her brows at Trudie to keep her silent.
“I mean to hint O’Kelly away from us. Nick was telling me this morning when he came for Lightning that Luten gave O’Kelly a warning as well.”
“Against coming to us?” Mrs. Harrington demanded, fire in her eye. If this was one of Luten’s jokes, it wasn’t funny. And if he was serious, it was even less humorous. “I hardly think we are so close to Luten that he can decide whom we entertain under our own roof.”
“No, he warned him from trying to gull Peter,” Norman explained. “Luten did a little checking up at the inn, and it seems O’Kelly hasn’t paid a penny since he moved in there. He’s run up an enormous bill and still owes something at the other place he was staying as well. He left his watch as security.”
“He takes a bit much on himself, to be blackening Mr. O’Kelly’s good name with that sort of carrying on. Furthermore, it’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Harrington declared. “O’Kelly is well to grass. He owns a thousand acres of prime dairy land in Ireland. And what did he pay for Sheba, Trudie? Some enormous sum there as well. Very likely that is what’s left him a little short.”
To hear Norman issue a decree was a new thing. As far as Mrs. Harrington was concerned, the matter of Mr. O’Kelly’s admission to Northfield was left up in the air, and that was exactly where she wanted to keep it. She had developed a maternal interest in him, and if the poor lad was actually hungry and unable to pay for a meal, why, it would be unchristian to turn him off. She must certainly guide him away from the turf before Trudie fell in love with him, though. An estate encumbered with mortgages was not what she wanted for her niece.
Miss Barten listened in silence. She was not unusually vain, but she was intelligent enough to know that Luten liked her, and she put his condemnation of O’Kelly down to jealousy as much as anything else. She wouldn’t encourage O’Kelly, but she wasn’t docile enough to cut him dead only because Luten wanted it.
She went upstairs immediately after lunch and began her toilette for the trip to Sable Lodge. In her mind, that was the real treat of the day. Careless of what outfit might suit a stud farm, she knew well enough what would look well behind a tea table afterward, and put on her prettiest sarsenet gown of forest green, which turned her eyes to emerald. She brushed her coppery curls till they glowed, and made sure to take her best lace-edged handkerchief to hold to her nose at Cheveley Park.
At one minute to two, Norman’s chaise drew up to Sable Lodge. “I say, this is a bit of all right, ain’t it?” he said as they approached the sprawling brick house. There was no peeling paint in evidence here, no weed-strangled garden or dusty windows. They were met at the door by a butler and shown into a saloon done up in the first style of fashion. Lord Luten came to greet them even before he was called, and offered wine,
“Couldn’t we do that after we come back from Cheveley Park?” Norman asked, so eagerly that no one had the heart to deny his wish.