In the Brief Eternal Silence (2 page)

Lizzie nodded. “I understand. I had so hoped
to race her before she became brood stock, though.”

“Aye. I know it. But you know as well as I
that we could use the brass. And if these gentlemen that are coming
today are impressed. . . well, could be a right good turn to our
fortunes.”

“Or lack of them,” Lizzie smiled. “Don't
worry, father, it'll all come out right. I only hope she has at
least a modicum of sense today. What is this man's name again? The
one you met yesterday?”

“Tempton. From over Lincolnshire way.” Her
father looked over his shoulder at her again. The rain was running
down the heavy, over-indulgent lines of his face and dampened the
thick gray of his hair. He was portly, and the walk was making him
huff. “But t'won't be him that'll be interested. A friend of his is
supposed to be joining him and his brother. That's the one we want
to impress. Tempton said this other fellow owns Behemoth.”

“Behemoth,” Lizzie breathed. “That certainly
shows he knows his way around horseflesh. Unless,” she frowned,
“he's one of these in name only owners that leaves all the work to
his grooms.”

They arrived at the beginning of the oval,
but there was no one else in sight. “Do you think they won't come
because of the weather?” she asked.

“I don't know. We'll give them a minute, any
rate.” Her father stopped her mount and turned to come to her knee.
“Get yourself settled in, Liz, and try not to be nervous. I know
this isn't what you had in mind when you picked out this little
filly, but at least we can maybe cut a deal where we can keep
her.”

“I know,” she returned and fingered her hair
more fully up beneath her riding cap. She was in breeches tucked
into her boots, and the short jacket she wore was large on her.
“But what use will she be once she's foaled is what I ask myself.
Unless she has a really outstanding colt, she'll not be in demand
as a broodmare either and I still can't help wishing we could have
given her a shot at the track.”

Her father chuckled. “And you would like to
see if your training has been any good, I'd lief bet. Never mind,
Lizzie. At least we can mayhaps get enough to see that you have a
real dowry instead of a four-legged one.”

“As if I have need of one at all,” Lizzie
countered but she grinned. “You'll not be rid of me as easily as
that, father, even if you have a thousand pounds with which to
entice the local gentry, instead of an untried filly.”

But he didn't respond to her teasing, only
said, “They're here.”

“Oh,” Lizzie said and turned in her saddle. A
trio of men was moving up the lane, evidently leaving their mode of
transportation, whether mounts or carriages, back at the stables.
Two were tall, with wavy red hair, although one, the older looking
one, was much stouter than the other. The brothers, Miss Murdock
surmised. The stout brother was in a bright, nearly overpowering
yellow coat. There was nothing significant about the tall, rawboned
younger brother's attire except for a fine, shining gold watch
chain that dangled in an extravagant loop from his pocket.

The third man was slender and not as tall.
His hair was a dark shade of brown that, with the rain upon it and
in contrast to the paleness of his face, appeared nearly black. His
coat was a heavy navy blue, with many capes, and it came down to
the tops of his high riding boots. It was November and the rain
falling was cold and Lizzie had a sudden wish that she were half as
warm as he appeared to be.

Lizzie's father took two steps forward to
meet them. “Lord Tempton,” he said, and pumped stout, yellow coat's
hand. “Happy to see the weather didn't keep you.”

“No, indeed, Squire Murdock.” Lord Tempton
turned to pocket watch. “This is my brother, Ryan Tempton,” and
then indicating the third man, “and my friend, St. James.”

Squire Murdock shook Ryan Tempton's hand as
Lord Tempton was making the introductions, but he halted for a
second, his hand half out-stretched, as the other man was named.
“St. James?”

“Yes. The owner of Behemoth,” Lord Tempton
prompted.

The man designated as St. James extended his
hand to the half-held out one of Squire Murdock. “Squire,” he said.
“Forgive us for being late but I fear I'm a bit hung-over and have
a lethal headache. I didn't receive word from Bertie of your filly
until this morning and so did not have this meeting in mind last
night.”

“Well,” the Squire answered. “I'm the last
fellow to hold that against a man. Now, if you wish to take a look
at our girl, here, go on and do so, and then when you're ready,
we'll give her a run.”

The two Tempton's remained back, but St.
James went forward after thanking the Squire. The Squire went again
to the head of the filly.

“Her name?” asked St. James as he ran his
hand down the filly's chest and front legs.

“Leaf,” the Squire answered.

St. James' hands moved back along the horse's
barrel and he glanced up at the rider. Lizzie looked down and was
met with a pair of startling eyes, an odd color that bordered
between hazel and gold. They flashed for a second as she met his
glance and his eyebrow lifted. “Rather unusual,” he said.

And for some unaccountable reason, Lizzie
felt herself blush.

“Aye. T'is indeed. But my, uh, daughter, um,
named her. She's visiting right now, my daughter is. Not at
home.”

Lizzie tried not to start, and when she
looked to her father, all too aware of the man that had passed
behind her now and was feeling down her mount's hocks, her father
only risked a slight shake of his head.

“I see,” St. James said. Then he stood back
from the horse. “Have your groom trot her about in a circle there,
and then let her loose on the track, shall you.”

“Yes, milord,” The Squire said and turned to
do as he had been asked. Lizzie, relieved to be doing something,
had no time to wonder why the man called St. James had suddenly
been elevated to 'my lord' by her father. She was only
concentrating on getting Leaf to go as smoothly as possible through
her paces.

“What do you think, St. James?” She heard
yellow coat—Lord Tempton ask.

St. James ran a hand through his wet hair,
raking it back from his eyes. “I think she should do, if the
circumstances are right.”

“It was only a cursory look at best,” his
friend muttered. “You have no idea what you may be saddling
yourself with.”

“And I said that if the circumstances were
right that I did not bloody care. Really, Bertie. You were the one
that brought her to my attention.”

Then Lizzie heard no more, for her father,
with a glance at St. James, who nodded, called for her to walk the
filly to the head of the track.

She settled into earnest business now, and
despite herself, she could not help a surging thrill. No, it was
not a race, and she was fairly certain her father would have drawn
the line at her jockeying in one at any rate, but it was nearly as
exciting having spectators to what she had achieved with her
training. Maybe they would be so impressed, she thought with giddy
guilt at her fancies, that they would entrust her with some of
their stock from their stables. But it all depended on Leaf, and
Leaf could be woefully undependable.

Then the man, St. James, was there at her
mount's head. He looked up at her for a moment and she still could
not determine if he had realized she was a female rather than the
boy she must appear. “Don't push her too hard in this slop,” he
advised. “I'm not looking for speed. If she impresses me enough
with her action, I'll make a point of returning to see how fast she
can go on a better day for it. Maintain control and keep her in
hand. If she seems to be doing well with her footing then you may
extend her on the last quarter. Understand?”

Lizzie, mindful of her father's inexplicable
lie, only nodded. Then the man released Leaf's head. Lizzie
gathered herself, could feel Leaf responding to her rider's intense
focusing. They remained still for a second playing off each other
through reins, legs and body movement, and then Lizzie loosed the
reins and tightened her knees, bent her body forward and the horse
hurled out into the middle of the track.

Lizzie controlled her, kept her steady as her
feet slid around in the mud with her great effort to find her
stride. Then she had it and her legs were extending and sailing
about the track, and Lizzie half laughed with the wind stinging her
eyes and the mud flying into her face. Her father and the other
three men were forgotten. She only saw the faded grey of the rail
as it flashed by, the overgrown infield of the track. Leaf was
pulling hard at the reins and Lizzie's arms ached from the effort
of holding her to a less reckless pace. The filly's feet hit the
slop with more and more confidence and Lizzie relented and allowed
more rein.

They swept around the first turn and in to
the back stretch. The last quarter was coming up and Lizzie settled
down tighter in the saddle. Now her concentration was total as she
gauged every flying step of the filly. She was holding in the mud
well now, but would she in the final turn? But the final quarter,
which included part of the final turn, was where the man, St. James
had allowed she could extend her. It was banked, Lizzie reminded
herself, but it hadn't been graded for years. Still, she knew this
track well, had spent innumerable hours out here with her father,
and the filly knew it well also. There should be no problem.

She loosened the reins more, concentrating,
wanting the filly up to her utmost speed as she entered the last
quarter. They were half through the turn and the filly was still
going easily through the heavy slop. Lizzie felt a burst of pride
at how well her horse was doing. “Easy now, I'm going to let you
out a little more.” The track showed pristine in front of them, the
mud unchurned and untouched. There was a puddle in their line but
Lizzie could not think it was any more than surface water and
should not be any deeper than the surrounding mud.

Leaf came up on the puddle, fully extended,
running with grace and power. Her sudden spook to the side caught
Lizzie unawares.

In mid-stride the horse attempted a sudden
shy away from the water. The jump was awkward and bone-jarring and
when her feet landed, they no longer were placed surely but
skittered out from beneath her. Lizzie had kept the filly hugging
the rail to make the best time and with a piercing shriek of panic,
the horse slid into the fence.

The old boards splintered and broke. Lizzie
flew from her mount and landed in the infield. Leaf went down into
the midst of the broken fence and wallowed in an agony of
confusion, her legs scrabbling as she tried to roll to her feet but
was hemmed in on all sides with broken boards.

Lizzie was jarred hard in her landing. Her
cap was half knocked from her head and the straps that were meant
to hold it in place dug into the flesh beneath her chin. She rolled
to her back, the mud seeping through her jacket and breeches to
freeze her skin, and swiped at her eyes in an attempt to clear them
of the mud that was ruining her vision.

She made an effort to get to her feet but her
body refused to do more than allow her to sit up and that with a
great deal of regret. Lizzie gathered herself, tried again and
wasn't sure if all the pain she was feeling were coming from
injuries or simply from the freezing mud that enveloped her.

“Lizzie! Are you all right?”

It was her father, running as quickly toward
her as his stout figure would manage. With him, in front of him,
was the man, St. James, and between he and her father were the two
Tempton brothers, the younger one, Ryan, and then Bertie.

“Leaf,” Lizzie called. “Get her before she
does anything further to herself.” And she was amazed to hear her
voice so close to tears. She wasn't crying, was she? But with all
the mud in her eyes, she couldn't tell.

“Ryan, get the bloody horse,” St. James said.
“You,” he said as he came to her. “Stay still. I'm sure the horse
will be all right and you needn't risk your neck trying to get to
her when there are others that can take care of it.” He crouched
down beside her, and as she was still struggling to try and get her
feet beneath her he placed both hands on her shoulders. “Stay
still, you little fool. I knew I should have yanked you down from
that damned horse as soon as I saw you were a female. If I had
known you also couldn't control your mount, I most certainly would
have.”

“It was the mud puddle,” she said, the
freezing mud making her gasp. “I can control my mount.” But he had
turned his head, his hands still on her shoulders, to check to see
that Ryan had gone to the horse. Ryan had and Bertie as well and
only her father was coming the last few panting strides over to the
infield and them.

“Is she to be all right?” Lizzie asked.

“I don't know, but I will find out for you in
a moment. Forgive me if I'm more inclined to be worried about her
wretched rider for the moment.”

“I'm surprised,” Lizzie, still gasping, was
stung into retorting, “that you are not more concerned about your
wretched headache.”

“This has certainly not done it any good.
Now, are you hurt?”

“I'm not sure. All this mud is freezing and I
can not tell if I am hurt or only suffering from the cold. Oh,
please do tell them to be careful with her. I am sure they are only
frightening her more.”

“Try moving your arms. Pain? No? Your legs.
Yes? Where?”

“My knee. I may have twisted it, I
think.”

“This one?” and he moved his hand to her
right knee.

She flushed, was thankful for the mud on her
face that hid it. “Yes. But really, I'm sure that if you can just
give me a hand up that I shall be quite fine—”

“Please, milord, I must ask you to unhand my
daughter,” the Squire broke in as he arrived next to them.