Bon Marche (13 page)

Charles marveled at how quickly it had happened. Certainly no more than ten minutes, once started.

Again Statler went to the foal, gently pulling it away from behind the rear of the mother and placing it near her side. Dropping to his knees, he massaged the small body with a soft cloth, drying the curly coat.

“Come here,” Statler ordered, gesturing to Charles. “Feel this.” He placed Charles's hand on the coat.

It was of the texture of the finest velvet. “Good Lord, it's so soft.”

“Hmmm. I'm firmly convinced that God gave us the sense of touch just to have the sheer enjoyment of feeling the coat of a newborn foal. And those who haven't done so have been deprived. I can't think of another sensation of touch that rivals it. None.”

Statler got to his feet again, having completed his small chore. “So you see, son, the best thing, with a normal foaling, is simply to let the mare do her job. She knows what to do, believe me.”

The mare turned her head to nuzzle her newborn baby, and it let out a little squeal.

“What is it?” Charles asked.

“A colt. Another son of Skullduggery, and a beauty, too. Solid bay except for the star on the forehead.”

“It's almost like a miracle.”

“Not
almost,
son,” Statler responded soberly, “it
is
a miracle. It's a proof—every time—that God is in His heaven.”

They waited in the stall until the foal, all legs and wobbling erratically, struggled to its feet and instinctively sought the mare's teats, where it nursed for the first time. Greedily, making surprisingly loud sucking noises. Charles laughed.

Statler sighed contentedly. “Well … it's time we were in bed. It must be well after midnight. The blacks will stay to make sure all goes well, and that the mare passes the afterbirth cleanly. In the morning we can put them out in the pasture and watch while she teaches her son to do what he was born to do—run!”

As they walked toward the mansion, Statler asked, “Would you like to name him?”

“I'd like that very much.” He paused in thought. “Since this is my first foal, so to speak, and the colt is marked as he is, would Premier Etoile—First Star—be appropriate?”

“Just fine, son, just fine.” He chuckled. “Let's hope he's also a premier runner.”

III

“J
UST
when I think I understand that man,” Andrew MacCallum was saying, “he does something that I believe to be out of character.

“You mean the Rebirth decision?” Dewey was grinning.

“Of course, the Rebirth decision,” the tutor snapped. “Don't take Mr. Statler's decision lightly, Charles. It was a difficult one for him to make. I saw how much he admired that Fearnought when he bought it in Charlottesville. He likes nothing better than having a winning racehorse, and Rebirth has the potential to be a winner. And now—”

Charles sobered. “You're telling me that you think Mr. Statler made an error in turning the horse over to me.”

“Of course I'm not,” Andrew responded defensively. “I've observed how good you are with horses. You have a natural talent. And Mr. Statler sees that, too.”

“Then, why do I have the feeling that you disapprove of my training Rebirth for the races?”

“Disapprove?” MacCallum pondered that. “No, Charles, it's just that … well, I have great admiration for you, as I do for our employer. I don't want to see either of you unhappy. But Marshall Statler, you should understand, is not a man who tolerates losers with grace. It's my guess that his heavy wagers on his horses make tolerance most difficult, and—”

Dewey cut him off. “You're making me very uneasy, Andrew.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that.” He sighed. “Mr. Statler has placed a heavy burden on you, and I can only wish you well with it.”

“Thank you.” The words were sullen.

The tutor tried to change the heavy tone of the conversation. “Are you pleased with the horse's progress?”

“Very much so. He has good early speed, and he's well muscled, with a competitive edge, I think.”

MacCallum laughed heartily.

Dewey bridled. “Did I say something humorous?”

“Charles, Charles…” Andrew chuckled. “Six months ago you came here with a raw rear end from your first experience on horseback. I daresay you didn't know one end of a nag from the other. Now look at you!”

The young Frenchman finally smiled. “There has been a change, hasn't there? I think I've found my niche, Andrew.”

“It seems that way, doesn't it?”

“Hmmm.” A hesitation. “Uh, Andrew, have you spoken to Martha?”

“I have.”

“Well, what did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I asked her if she was displeased with you for any reason,” Andrew explained, “and she looked at me rather strangely, as if she considered the question stupid, and shook her head negatively. That was it. To me, that meant nothing. Or next to nothing.”

Charles groaned. “Now what?”

“Let's go back to coincidence. That's what it must be, Charles—just coincidence that has conspired against your being alone with her.”

“I wish I could accept that explanation.”

“Try.” MacCallum laughed again. “It might keep you from doing something rash.”

It had been a day of exhilarating highs and depressing lows for Dewey.

Statler had informed him that the seven-year-old bay horse of the Fearnought line, which had been named Rebirth, was his to train for the races. Statler would step out of the picture, he told the young man, and concentrate on the training of the five-year-old Arab, Elkwood's White, and on the preparation of the three-year-old chestnut colt, which hadn't yet been named because it was unlikely that it would be raced until the age of five or six.

Charles hadn't expected any such move by Statler, but he accepted it readily. He had made a conscious decision to accept all that Statler offered. Statler's passion for horses became his passion. Statler's knowledge of racing became his knowledge. And, if he was to be a surrogate son, he'd accept that, too.

But what of Martha? Andrew's report worried him. If what he had in mind concerning Martha came to naught, all that Statler was offering him might one day simply evaporate.

He
needed
Martha!

IV

C
HARLES
was grooming Rebirth following a workout when Martha came into the barn. She stood watching him at his chores without speaking. It was only when he started to fork some fresh hay into the horse's manger that he saw her standing in the shadows.

“Miss Martha! Have you been there long?”

“Only a moment or two.”

He walked to her. “It's nice to see you here. With the attention this fellow requires”—he jerked a thumb toward the horse—“I'm afraid I see you only at studies these days.”

The polite conversation ended there. Both young people stood silently. Martha gazed at the floor.

“Would you like me to bring Rebirth out for your inspection?” Charles asked, wanting to keep her there.

“No, I didn't come for that.” She looked up at him. “Mr. MacCallum asked me the other day whether I was displeased with you for any reason, and I didn't answer him. Since then—this is so difficult—I've decided I owe you an explanation for my actions.” She hesitated.

“Miss Martha, I—”

“No, Charles, please let me go on while I have the courage. It's true, as you've probably suspected, that I have been avoiding you. But I don't think I can go on that way in light of the fact that we are”—she permitted herself the hint of a smile—“uh … practically brother and sister. Father has made that clear. So you should know why I've been behaving as I have.”

Dewey waited for her to continue.

“I must confess that I felt some attraction to you when you first came to Elkwood.” Again her eyes were avoiding his. “But I'm afraid that attraction was destroyed, Charles, when I learned of your … your intimacies with my sister. There! I've said it.”

Charles groaned, turning away from her. “She told you what happened Christmas night?”

“Yes.” Martha began to sob.

He wanted to scream curses at Katherine's name. “In great detail, no doubt?”

“Yes.”

Dewey turned, coming close to her. “Did she also tell you that I didn't initiate it—that she came to my room uninvited?”

“Yes, she did.” Anger showed for the first time. “But that's a poor excuse for you to make, isn't it?”

Charles nodded.

Her anger goaded her. “Katie's actions were perfectly in keeping with her convenient morals. But that
you
would be party to her … vulgar—” Tears came, halting the words.

“I can only ask that you forgive me,” he pleaded.

“Why should I?”

“Because I love you.”

Martha struck out at him, stinging his cheek with her open hand. “How dare you!” She raised her hand to hit him again, but dropped it. “Oh, what's the use?”

“The use, dear Martha,” Charles replied, taking what small opportunity was presented to him, “is that we've got this terrible thing out in the open. Maybe now, with the kindness I know is in you, you'll be able to find a way to forgive me.”

“No, I can't!”

“Perhaps you could try.”

There was no response. Turning quickly, she left the barn.

Charles started after her, then thought better of it. He stood there, devastated. It was worse than he had expected.

Yet he wasn't really surprised at what had happened. He was trying to fathom the depth of the cruelty of what Katherine had done. Not so much to him as to her sister.

8

D
EWEY
paced nervously, whacking his riding crop against his boots, his mouth dry with tension. All about him at the new Petersburg racecourse, built by George Milton and his monied associates, there was an atmosphere of gaiety. Of celebration.

For Charles, however, it was a day on which he had to prove himself, and the doubts he felt were beginning to crack his veneer of confidence.

Carriages and wagons of all descriptions began arriving early on the lovely mid-June day, discharging their passengers into the open wooden stands that had been erected at the finish line. Many made for the large pavilion built along the home stretch, where the track management offered what had been widely advertised as “sumptuous dinners and the choicest liquors.”

It was to be the first major race meeting in Virginia since Cornwallis's surrender at Yorktown. Although there was still some scattered fighting in the Carolinas, of which less and less was heard every day, a new English cabinet had agreed in March to recognize the independence of the colonies. Thus, the races at Petersburg were in the way of a genuine occasion for public joy.

Marshall Statler and his party had been at Petersburg for several days. The two horses he intended to campaign over the new course—Elkwood's White and Rebirth—had been tried on the track, satisfying Statler that they were ready.

Partly because of his reputation as a horseman, and partly because of his close friendship with George Milton, Statler had been invited to compete for the inaugural Petersburg Cup, a best-of-three, four-mile-heat event, the winner to take a silver bowl and a cash purse of some two thousand dollars that had been subscribed by the merchants of Petersburg.

Statler had used his influence with Milton to select his opponent in the cup race: a good competitor named Falconry owned by John Lee of Marsh Run. As a young horse, Falconry had gained a reputation as a strong runner, although his career had been limited because of the war. At nine, the chestnut horse, a grandson of the noted Maryland imported sire, Othello, was thought to be at the peak of his form. Statler's newly acquired Rebirth, on the other hand, was untested.

Nevertheless, Milton knew that a match race between horses owned by gentlemen of the stripe of Marshall Statler and John Lee would capture the public imagination. And the match was made.

Perhaps as many as five thousand—some would report that the crowd was larger—were on hand for the opening of the Petersburg course. All of them were anxious to wager not only on the longer heat races but also on the dashes—single-heat races of three miles.

Andrew MacCallum had been pressed into service as Statler's accountant. He followed the master of Elkwood around the course, making notes of his numerous wagers; the largest was a bet of “five hundred pounds English,” which he made with John Lee on the outcome of the Petersburg Cup. Before the racing got under way, the tutor had written down wagers in excess of fifteen hundred pounds, plus even a few bets in Continental dollars. Included was a sum exceeding three hundred pounds on Elkwood's White, scheduled to go in the first dash of the day.

MacCallum, had he thought it worthwhile, would have protested his employer's heavy wagering. How ineffective such a protest would have been was indicated by Statler himself: “I'd like to recover the investment in these horses right off, Andrew, and by God, I think we have the opportunity here today to do that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don't approve, do you?”

“It's not in my place to approve or disapprove.” The reply was stony.

Statler laughed. “You Scotsmen have the ability to disapprove just by your tone of voice.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Absolutely. But it doesn't matter, Andrew; it doesn't matter at all. We're going to win today.”

MacCallum waved the copybook into which he had written the wagers. “I certainly hope so, sir.”

“Guaranteed, Mr. MacCallum! I'd like to make a recommendation that you act on that guarantee.” He was smiling broadly.

“Thank you. I'll give that some consideration.”