The Scorpio Races (34 page)

“She drops nothing but winners. What is that look there?”

Holly frowns as a groom leads by a yearling. “It’s my look for broodmares.”

“No, you and Malvern. What did you quarrel about?”

He rubs the back of his neck and refuses the tray of champagne offered him. “While I was wandering in my altogether, I discovered one of his old flames. I didn’t know that beforehand. I think he fancies me a playboy now.” He looks hurt.

I don’t tell Holly that I’d shared that impression. “I would’ve thought all was well now that you’re here at the auction.”

“All will be wonderful once I buy something,” Holly notes, glancing over his shoulder. “Mettle and the baby-dropper. I don’t mean to buy a broodmare, you know. We have fields of them. Can’t you merely cross her to your red stallion and sell me the product of that happy union next year?”

“Getting a
capall uisce
into the line is not as easy as all that,” I reply. “Sometimes mares are mares to them and sometimes mares are meals.” If there is a rhyme or reason to why an
uisce
stallion would take to a horse mare or why an
uisce
mare would take to a horse stallion, I haven’t discovered it yet. There are Malvern horses with
capall uisce
blood in them, but it is dilute and old, showing up in odd ways. Horses who love to swim, like Fundamental; fillies with shrieking whinnies; colts with long, slender ears.

“That,” says Holly bitterly, “is precisely the way it works with humans.”

I consider whether this means that his blind lover has jilted him or the other way around, but I’m distracted by a glimpse of Mutt Malvern among the buyers. He’s talking and gesturing to a filly standing in the ring as if he knows anything about her, and the feathered and leathered mainlanders listen and nod their heads because he is the son of the owner, so of course he knows something. Holly follows my gaze and for a moment we stand there, shoulder to shoulder.

“Why, good morning!” Holly says broadly, and when I see who he addresses, it makes me glad that I hadn’t spoken against Mutt. Benjamin Malvern stands just behind us.

“Mr. Holly. Mr. Kendrick,” Malvern replies. “Mr. Holly, I trust that you’ve found something that interests you?”

He eyes me.

Holly’s smile is wide and abusively American, rows and rows of white glowing teeth. “Benjamin, so many things about Thisby interest me.”

“Anything of the four-legged variety?”

“I’m looking at Mettle and Finndebar,” Holly says. Despite his earlier protests, he pronounces
Finndebar
without a stumble.

Malvern says, “Finndebar drops nothing but winners.”

My mouth plays at the sound of my own words from someone else’s lips.

Holly nods his head toward me. “So I’ve heard. Why are you selling her, then?”

“Just getting a little long in the tooth.”

“Something to be said for age and cunning, though,” Holly remarks. “I mean, you should know, ha! Ah, this is a fine country full of fine people. Oh, I see we have all the Malverns here now. And there’s Matthew, looking like his father.”

This last is because Mutt Malvern has found his way within earshot and stands there, deep in conversation with a man about a filly. I think he’s trying to look useful in front of either me or his father. I can hear what he’s saying and it sounds ridiculous, but the man is nodding.

Malvern’s gaze is on Mutt, his expression difficult to discern but certainly nothing that could be called pride.

“So I’ll confess,” Holly says, “that I’m quite taken with Sean Kendrick here. You have quite a right hand in him.”

Malvern’s gaze shifts swiftly to me and then Holly, an eyebrow raised. “I hear that you were making a level effort to export him.”

“Ah, but his loyalty was too strong,” Holly says. The smile he turns on me is ferocious in its sincerity. “Which is just disappointing. You treat him too well, I suppose.”

Nearby, Mutt glances in my direction, his eyes narrowed, and I can see that he has caught wind of the subject at hand.

“Mr. Kendrick’s been with us for close to a decade,” Malvern says. “Since his father died and I took him in.”

In just that phrase, he paints a picture of an orphaned boy sitting at his kitchen table, raised side by side with Mutt, reveling in the pleasures of being a Malvern.

“So he’s practically a son,” Holly says. “That explains the bond. These horses all bear his handprint, don’t they? Seems to me he’s the logical heir to the Malvern Yard, if you were asking me.”

Benjamin Malvern had been looking at his son, who was staring back at him, but when Holly finishes, Malvern’s eyes sweep over me in my suit and he purses his lips. “In many ways, Mr. Holly, I think that is very true.” He looks back up to Mutt and adds, “In most ways.”

I can’t think that he means it. I can only think that he says it because he’s playing a game with Holly. Or because he means for Mutt to hear it, which Mutt clearly does.

Holly exchanges a glance with me, and I can see that he’s as startled as I am.

“Unfortunately,” Malvern says, turning away from Mutt, “the blood doesn’t always come through.” He eyes me and suddenly I realize that I have never once known what he’s truly thinking behind those clever, deep-set eyes. I know nothing of him aside from his horses and the little cold flat above the stable addition. I know that he owns much of Thisby but not which parts. I know that he rode once but doesn’t now, and I know that his son is a bastard but not if the mother still lives on the island. I know that I win the races for him and every year he takes over nine-tenths of the purse, as he would for any man in his employ.

Malvern says, “Mr. Kendrick was born on a horse and he’ll die on one, and maybe that’s not something you can breed for. He’s one of those rare men who can make a horse work for him but never asks for more than they have. If he’s told you to put your money on Mettle and Finndebar, then you’d be a fool not to. Good day, Mr. Holly.”

Malvern nods at Holly and then strides away. In his absence, Holly says something to me that I miss, because I am looking at Mutt. Written on his face is furious rejection and disbelief. In just that moment, it doesn’t matter that both he and I have done our part to earn Malvern’s words. It’s only that they were wounding that matters.

I watch his stare become fearsome as he holds my gaze. Something demanding and uncompromising claws inside Mutt Malvern. He pushes his way back toward the house.

“Sean Kendrick,” Holly says. “What is it you’re thinking?”

“That this doesn’t sit easy with me,” I reply. Holly looks at the space Mutt has left behind and advises, “I would bolt your door tonight.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

PUCK

In the morning, before I head to the cliffs to train and possibly find Sean, Finn and I go to Dory Maud’s — him on his bicycle, me on Dove. The truth of it is that Finn means to do some odd jobs for them if he can and I’m hoping against hope that Dory’s sold some more teapots, because we’ve one lump of butter but no bread to stick around it and no flour to make bread.

We trudge into Skarmouth. I lead Dove at the moment to make certain she doesn’t turn a leg in a bit of uneven cobble. Finn leads the bicycle to make certain he can stare into Palsson’s shop without falling off a moving vehicle.

We both look mournfully in the bakery window as we pass, though I’d sworn to myself that I wouldn’t. Nothing says
orphans
like two kids breaking their necks looking at trays of November cakes and platters of shaped cookies and lovely soft loaves of bread still steaming the window they’re next to. Finn and I sigh at the same time and continue on our way to Fathom & Sons. I tie Dove out front and Finn tells his bicycle to stay. I’m not sure if the shop will be open or not; Elizabeth and Dory Maud might be at the booth by the cliff path instead.

But the door opens, and when we push inside, I’m surprised to find both Dory Maud and Elizabeth there, as well as a handsome blond man who is exclaiming over a stone grave pillow that Martin Devlin found in his field last year when he was digging for potatoes.

“— really put the head on this at burial!” he says.

Finn gives me a look. I eye the stranger. He’s a foreigner and in his thirties, maybe, but in the best possible way. I think the word for it is
dashing
or
dapper
or something like that. He holds a red flat cap in his hands.

“Ah, Puck,” says Dory Maud. “Puck
Connolly
.”

Finn and I exchange another look.

“Pleased to meet you,” I say to the stranger.

“Oh, but you haven’t met,” Dory Maud says. “Mr. Holly, this is
Puck Connolly.
Puck, this is Mr. George Holly.”

“Now
I’m pleased to meet you,” I say crossly. “I was just dropping Finn off here and —” Elizabeth sidles up to me and places her claws in my skin.

“Just a moment! I need to steal her,” Elizabeth chirps. She whisks me into the back room and shoves closed the door behind us. So it is just us and four chairs and a table bigger than the floor and an audience of boxes filled with Dory Maud’s love letters to sailors. We are nose to nose and Elizabeth smells like a shipload of English roses. “Puck Connolly, you be your absolute level best to that man.”

“I
was
being nice.”

“No, you weren’t. I saw your face. I’m no fool! We need to encourage him. That American is richer than the Queen and we think he means to take a piece of Thisby back with him.”

I hope he’s taking the fertility statue. “What is it you’re trying to shove off on him?”

Elizabeth leans against the door to ensure no one interrupts. “Annie.”

“Annie!”

“If you’re going to repeat everything I say, I’ll give your tongue to him as well.”

“Does Annie
know
about this?”

“If only you had the brains to match your looks.” Elizabeth realizes she’s still holding my arm and releases me. “Now you go out there and be charming. As you can.”

I scowl and follow her back into the main room. All eyes turn toward me. Finn has somehow ended up holding the stone burial pillow.

“Done, ladies?” Dory Maud asks. I can’t think of the last time she’s used the word
ladies
to refer to something other than our chickens. “Mr. Holly was just expressing interest in you, Puck.”

Perhaps my alarm is written upon my face, because Holly adds quickly, “Sean Kendrick’s spoken of you.”

“You didn’t mention that before,” Dory Maud says, looking at me. “Puck, do you know what would be a wonderful thing, is if you took Mr. Holly and found him some breakfast.”

“Oh —” Holly and I protest at the same time.

“I have Dove outside,” I say.

Holly glances at me and says meaningfully, “And I was going to go watch the training.” I decide that I like him. It helps that he’s dapper, but the clever cinches it.

“Then you should take him by Palsson’s to get him one of the November cakes. Of course Annie knows how to make them as well, even better than Palsson’s,” Dory Maud says. “She was just saying that she’d like to make them for you, Mr. Holly, but of course there’s been no time. If you get them at Palsson’s, you can carry your breakfasts with you.”

Holly’s smile lights the room; Dory Maud and Elizabeth are both blown back fairly by the sheen of it.

“Will you let me buy you one of these things, Miss Connolly?” Holly asks. “And your brother, too?”

I think I may die from the stinging power of the knowing gaze Elizabeth wields. It is a gaze that says,
I told you he was a rich American with money to spend.
I glare at her and Dory Maud. “Certainly. And Dory, if you give me a bit of change, I’ll buy some extra … for Annie.”

We momentarily battle with our eyes, and then Dory Maud relents and gives me a few coins. And so it is two triumphant Connollys who lead George Holly from Fathom & Sons, Finn on one side and me on the other. Holly watches me untie Dove with great interest, and I watch him watching me with even greater interest. The way his eye travels along Dove — hock to stifle placement to topline to shoulder angle — tells me that he’s not just a casual tourist. I wonder how well he knows Sean.

“You know,” Finn says on the way back to Palsson’s, cheerful now that he’s getting food, “that Annie is blind, right?”

“Not entirely,” Holly corrects him. “Not entirely blind, I mean.”

“Is that what they told you!” Finn exclaims. I stare at them. Who is this person who can make Finn so loud so quickly?

“It is,” Holly says warmly. He inclines his head toward Finn and asks, “Now, what, exactly, is a November cake?”

He asks it with such genuine curiosity that of course Finn has to speak even more, describing the moist crumb, the nectar that seeps from the base of it, the icing that soaks into the cake before you can lick it off. It is probably the kindest thing I have ever seen in my life, George Holly asking my brother about baked goods. When Holly glances to me, I give him a sharp look, which I realize might not fall under being as charming as possible. But I’m not sure that clever, kind George Holly could possibly be played as easily as Dory Maud and Elizabeth think.

Together we stroll into Palsson’s. I try to maintain an air of dignity but it’s difficult to not be overcome by the odor that hangs in the air. It is all cinnamon and honey and yeast. Palsson’s is on a corner and made of windows and light. The walls are lined with unstained wooden shelves with open backs, so the sunlight comes unimpeded through the glass panes and makes big squares of gold across the floor. Every shelf towers with bread and cookies, cinnamon twists and November cakes, scones and biscuits. The only wall not so anointed is the back wall behind the counter, which is lined with sacks of flour waiting to become bread. I can smell even the flour, because there’s so much of it, and it’s sweet and palatable all on its own. Everything is golden and white and honey and nectar in here and I think that possibly I could live in this building and sleep among the flour sacks.

Palsson’s is crowded today, as always, with both customers and housewives who hold better conversations near someone else’s baking. George Holly gathers stares and whispers as he and Finn move among the shelves and then into the long line. He fits in perfectly, as blond as a November cake himself.