The Marlows Read online

  Tansy received the news that Dominic would see her that afternoon with mingled dismay and relief. Much as she loathed the thought of seeing him, at least the whole unpleasant matter would quickly be over and done with.

  “By the way,” Nina added, turning at the foot of the stairs, “one of our neighbours from Cudlingham Manor was with Dominic this morning. I told him I was Amelia’s niece.”

  Tansy was aghast. “You told such a lie!”

  “It simplified everything. The man has a sister who’ll undoubtedly spread the word and local people will accept it without question. I have absolved you and Judith and Roger from any awkward queries and situations. None of you need say anything. You should be grateful to me. Mama once accused me of being an accomplished liar — did you not know that? So at least I have one talent, however dubious you may consider it, with which to help this family escape a swamping tidal wave of scandal.”

  Her feet tapped up to her room and the door closed after her.

  Tansy changed into her best dress of blue wool for the visit, her black one being shabby and tanned with much washing and pressing, and she did not want to appear at a disadvantage again with Dominic Reade. She also made sure that Roger had a neatly ironed shirt and one of their father’s cravats to wear with his brushed jacket and trousers.

  Dominic must have been watching out for them, for he came into the hall as they were admitted, and his eyes met Tansy’s with a hooded, guarded gaze. “I bid you welcome, Miss Marlow.” He bowed to her and shook hands with her brother. “And you too, Roger. I suggest we go first to the stables and you can see the colt before we enter into any discussion about him.”

  “Yes, sir!” Roger replied keenly.

  “Is that agreeable to you?” Dominic inquired of Tansy. When she gave a nod he indicated the way they should follow and fell into step beside her as they crossed the hall, went through one pair of doors and then another, he answering Roger’s questions as they went. “The colt’s name? It’s Young Oberon, a fine name for a colt which has already shown tremendous enthusiasm for galloping and flies over the ground as fast as any fairy prince. Anyone would think he knew he could number among his ancestors one of the greatest horses of the English racecourse.”

  “Not Priam, sir?” Roger demanded excitedly. “He went to America to sire a line of winners there. My father said he should never have been sold.”

  “No, it’s not Priam, but you’ll get it with your second guess, I’m sure.”

  “It must be Eclipse.” Roger’s tone was breathlessly incredulous.

  “Right. Your father told you about him, I suppose.”

  “Yes. And I’ve read all I could get hold of about him, too. He’s said to have sired a hundred and sixty winners. Three Derby winners among them. Of course my father never saw him run, it being long before he was born that Eclipse won every race he was entered for, but a horse like that is a legend. Do you think — is it possible that — oh, could Young Oberon become another Eclipse, sir?”

  Dominic laughed, well pleased with the boy’s interest. “It’s a dream to cherish, but nobody could make any kind of prediction like that at this stage.”

  Tansy spoke emotionally. “Except perhaps my father. He appeared to have high hopes centred in him, enough to meet the tune of three hundred guineas.”

  Dominic gave her a sober glance, leaning in front of her to open a coloured glass door into a garden room, which they had reached. “Oliver did have some kind of hunch about this yearling, which he couldn’t explain to himself or anyone else. Young Oberon is a thoroughbred, but not classically bred — that is to say, neither his sire nor his dam ever won one of the five great classic races, such as the Derby or the Oaks — and the strain of Eclipse’s blood is now so thinned out as to be counted merely as a compliment rather than anything to pin hopes on.” They passed through the trapped warmth of the garden room with its plants and flowers and aromatic fragrances to go outside to the stables as she made her reply.

  “My father was much given to having hunches about race horses in general, and his successes were far outnumbered by his failures. It would be foolish for anyone to suppose he could be right about this one.”

  Her words were intended primarily to check her brother’s enthusiasm, for it had worried her to see his keenness reaching new heights before he had even set eyes on the colt and it could only make his disappointment in their selling of the animal all the harder to bear, but he was quite lost in his excitement. Dominic answered her as they stepped outside to follow a flagged path.

  “Oliver came whenever he was in Cudlingham to watch Young Oberon and the other yearlings in the paddock over there,” he said, pointing to a stretch of green where a few horses were grazing. “Who’s to say he didn’t see something in the colt that nobody else has been able to define yet? Young Oberon has always been lively, and after coming to the fence to show an inquisitive interest in your father’s arrival he would go galloping off again, sometimes flat out and stretching himself to his limits through sheer exuberance. Those were the times when Oliver never took his eyes from him. But unfortunately your father never saw him ridden, because it was only last month that my trainer began to break him in, but I had no chance or inclination to give Oliver a report when I met him on the eve of his death, the poor man having nothing else but his bereavement on his mind.”

  Tansy looked toward the fence where her father had stood to watch one gambolling yearling with dreams of riches in his eyes and her own misted over with grief and love and sorrow, making her blink quickly and be thankful for the seclusion of her bonnet brim.

  They came into the square stable-yard, its flags clean and swept, the buildings whitewashed with roofs of gray slate. The head stable lad, a wiry, middle-aged man in spite of his title, which was an old established piece of racing jargon as Tansy well knew, came hurrying from the tack room to touch his cap to Dominic and the visitors.

  “Afternoon, sir. It were Young Oberon you wanted to show. He’s ready and waiting. I’ll bring him right out.”

  “Thank you, Harris.”

  The man went hurrying off to disappear through a stable door at the far end of the west block and reappeared almost at once leading the colt, a chestnut with rangy limbs, a prominent white, star-shaped blaze in his forehead, an alert, intelligent head, and lovely dark eyes. Even as she felt herself melt, drawn to the gracefully stepping creature that had won her father’s heart and fired his dreams, she heard Roger give a stifled, half-choked exclamation of wonder and saw the glory in his face. Instantly she crushed down her own feelings, determined not to weaken, and she reached out a checking hand to remind her brother that they were about to sever all connection with the colt, but she was too late to restrain him. Already he had darted forward and was running across the yard to meet Young Oberon. As she watched helplessly he was patting the curved, muscular neck and smoothing a hand over the soft nose with its delicately flaring, amber-tinted nostrils, talking to the colt in a low, quiet voice as though the two of them were quite alone.

  Dominic signalled with a slight nod to the head stable lad to leave the colt and the boy to become acquainted on their own, and Young Oberon, whose ears were flicking with curiosity, nickered appreciatively when Roger dived into his pockets and brought out an apple for him, and then a carrot.

  “Your brother knows how to make friends with a horse,” Dominic remarked to her after they had watched in silence for a while. “I suppose one could say that mentally boy and colt are about the same age. This could be the beginning of a lasting relationship.”

  “That’s out of the question,” she replied firmly, but he did not hear her, having walked forward to speak to the boy.

  “What do you think of him?”

  Roger turned a rapt and blissful face, creased and shining. “Magnificent, sir. He’s a born winner, I’m sure of it.”

  Dominic smiled, clapping the colt and running a hand over its rough winter coat. “Young Oberon has some more growing up to do and a long wa
y to go before he can prove himself. Only three-year-olds are eligible for the Derby. I will say he’s certainly quick and eager to work. He has learned to canter with a man on his back already. The other yearlings are still at the trotting stage.”

  “Could I ride him, Mr. Reade? Just once?” Roger held his breath as he waited for an answer.

  Dominic regarded him thoughtfully, standing with his hands set low on his hips and feet apart. “How much riding have you done?”

  Eagerly Roger told him about the experience he had had under his father’s guidance and at the Brompton racing stables, although the slight raising of Dominic’s eyebrows showed that he had no high opinion of that particular place. In a rush the boy concluded, “I could handle Young Oberon easily. I know I could.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot be so sure about that. Young horses can be skittish and unpredictable at this age. They often take fright without warning or take it into their heads to be playful. In Young Oberon’s saddle you would have to be alert every second to check a trip or stumble, because — like all youthful creatures — a yearling is inclined to be careless about where he places his feet. Come, come! Don’t look so downcast, boy. I just want to find out first how you can handle an older horse, and then it will be up to you to make a good impression on my trainer, Kirby. If he is prepared to let you into Young Oberon’s saddle after seeing what you can do, then you have my permission, too. Be here tomorrow morning at seven o’clock. I’ll tell Harris to give you a hack to saddle up yourself, and then you can ride out under Kirby’s eye with the yearlings and their stable lads to the gallops on exercise. In the meantime Young Oberon is due to be trace-clipped this afternoon. You may stay to watch if you give me your word you won’t get in anyone’s way.”

  “I won’t. Thank you.”

  “Well, now you can walk Young Oberon round the yard and back into the loose box. Your sister and I have some business to discuss in the house. You can come and find us when you’re ready.” He turned and came back to Tansy, taking her by the elbow to escort her indoors, but she broke the brief physical contact immediately by drawing slightly ahead of him, ashiver at his unwanted touch. She felt compelled to bring up the subject of Nina’s visit that morning.

  “My sister told a tremendous lie in your hearing earlier today, Mr. Reade —”

  Briskly he interrupted her. “Don’t let it embarrass you. There is no need to discuss it. I’m only thankful that you and I do not have to play out any kind of charade with each other, social or otherwise. The night we met put us on a unique footing, which cannot be denied.”

  That was true enough. Theirs had been no ordinary meeting, but a violent clash of wills and temperament, the memory of which made her teeth ache with hostility. He dared to remind her of it! At least to him she could speak her mind frankly without any of the pretence, abhorrent to her, which had fastened chains about her and those dependent on her.

  “My family and I are in the state of having no secrets from you,” she conceded with a tilt of her chin, her gaze ahead as they retraced their steps through the house. “I should like to know why my father confided in you in the first place. Nobody else — with the exception of my poor mother — seems to have suspected the fact that he had two homes, Rushmere being the one that all his racing friends and acquaintances knew about, and the cottage tucked away in Hampshire being the hidden part of his life.”

  “Oliver told me the truth that last night of his life. I had seen him at the Newmarket races not long beforehand and mentioned in the course of conversation that I expected to be in Hampshire about the time which — I realize now — he had planned for his home-coming. No doubt he thought to save himself a special journey to Cudlingham by arranging to meet me there. As it was, he broke out with the tragedy that had befallen him as soon as he clapped eyes on me. The situation soon became clear enough. I was astonished, to say the least.”

  “Talk no more to me about that night,” she said on a low note of anguish. “It is a time I do not wish to remember.”

  They had reached a drawing room where tea waited on a small, circular table set with a lace cloth. He invited her to pour the silver teapot, which she did, and when she handed him a cup he sat back in his chair with it, crossing one long leg over the other. She sat straight, all composure regained, her cup of tea untouched on the table beside her.

  “Now we must talk about the colt,” she began in a businesslike manner, painfully conscious of the way he was watching her, a curious look blended of impatience and compassion behind his eyes, which she did not understand. “How did you and my father become joint owners in the first place?”

  “The usual reason. Your father was short of money at the time he wished to buy the foal at a stud not known to me, and I became the owner of a half share in an animal I didn’t particularly want. It was the knowledge that the foal had that faint strain of Eclipse’s blood in him that did at last rouse my interest, I must admit, and I agreed to stable Young Oberon and have him trained when the time came.”

  “What made my father decide he wanted to buy you out?”

  He put aside his cup and folded his arms. “Your guess is as good as mine. He became obsessed with the idea that Young Oberon was going to change his luck and bring him in the huge fortune that he always thought he would win in the next race or the next season. I sincerely believe that when he leaned his elbows on that paddock fence he could see himself leading in Young Oberon as the Derby winner, and made up his mind to share that moment with no one else if it should really come.”

  She did not dispute this idea. It was so typical of her father that she found the explanation entirely acceptable. “Three hundred guineas was a remarkably good offer,” she said. “Far more than anything you could have paid out for that half share in the beginning. In fact, from the few inquiries I have made it appears to be an absurd sum. Yet you turned the offer down.”

  “I did.”

  Her eyebrows lifted mockingly. “You thought your half share worth more?”

  “It was — to me. And it still is.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I had good reasons. There are others as well now.”

  His answer puzzled her, but she did not consider it important. Relaxing, she leaned forward slightly to make her announcement. “I didn’t come here today to increase my father’s offer, as you must have guessed.” She paused while he gave a nod. “But you will be pleased to know that I have no intention of asking three hundred guineas for our family’s inherited half share. I am prepared to sell it to you at a just figure such as it would fetch on the open market.” She picked up her teacup and saucer to take a sip.

  His eyes narrowed at her. “I’m not interested in buying or selling half shares in Young Oberon. I’m content to leave matters as they stand.”

  She whitened, stopping short with the teacup before it reached her lips. “But that’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  Suddenly she was afraid. It wasn’t going to be as simple as she’d imagined it would be. She put down her cup and saucer with a little clatter. “I don’t want to retain that half share. Not under any circumstances.”

  “You have no choice.”

  She drew in her breath sharply. Anger, fired by her strained nerves, surged through her. “I’ll sell out to someone else. I’m entitled to do that after giving you first chance.”

  He shook his head slowly and drew out of an inner pocket in his jacket a folded document which he opened and held out to her. “Under the terms of this agreement, which your father and I both signed, you will see that neither partner can sell to an outsider.”

  She took it with nerveless fingers and saw that what he had said was true. The paper crackled as she folded it up again and returned it to him. With effort she controlled her emotions, determined not to beg or to lose her dignity. “You must see that I couldn’t contribute to the cost of keeping and training a race horse. It’s far beyond our family means.”

  “I realize that. I w
ant nothing from you for stabling Young Oberon. If he’s as good as your father believed him to be he’ll bring in his own rewards.”

  “No. He may never win a race. Then I’ll be in your debt and that I could never tolerate.”

  His face darkened at the animosity that had shown through in her tone. “What do you propose to do?”

  “I’ll give the colt over to you completely. Yes. That’s it. A gift you cannot refuse.”

  “You obviously didn’t read every word of the agreement,” he commented dryly. “Money must change hands.”

  She decided there was nothing for it but to throw herself on his mercy. “Then change your mind and buy from me. I tell you I need the money that the half share would bring in. I need it now.”

  “There would be no money,” he answered quietly.

  She stared at him in bewilderment. “No money? What do you mean?”

  “Even if I agreed to pay you three hundred guineas you wouldn’t feel able to keep a penny of it with your views on the matter of being in debt.”

  “Please explain what you mean.”

  “Your father owed me a sum far in excess of that figure.”

  “How much?” she demanded hoarsely.

  “I have his signed memorandums in my desk. I’d have to go through them to reckon the exact amount.”

  “How much?” she repeated as if in a nightmare trance.

  “It’s somewhere in the region of two thousand pounds.”

  She almost fainted. Her arm fell against the table and knocked her cup over, the undrunk tea spilling, and it roused her to a kind of tearful panic, which was a reaction to the greater catastrophe that had fallen upon her. “Oh, look at what I’ve done! That lovely cloth! Did I crack the cup?”

  She started to dab frantically at the spreading stain with a clean handkerchief that she had whipped from her pocket, but the was beside her chair at once. “Leave it,” he urged and found he had to restrain her wildly dabbing hand forcibly. “It doesn’t matter. A cloth, for God’s sake. It’s unimportant.”