Suitors and Sabotage(37)
While itching to prove his prowess and start the day with a healthy workout, there was a delay … again. Imogene and Emily had to set a course. There was no need for their fussing. It wasn’t as if Ben and Ernest were wet behind the ears—country races were part and parcel to a proper gentleman’s upbringing—but Ernest was courting and trying to impress. So they acquiesced.
As Ben sketched a corner of the library’s chimneypiece, Imogene and Emily discussed the race route. And then, while Imogene was giving Harriet her lessons, Emily took Ernest and Ben around in her barouche, showing them the ins and outs and roundabouts of the chosen route. It was tedium in the extreme.… But he smiled, and Ernest smiled. Percy and Jake shook their heads and declared they knew the route, which they probably did—giving them the advantage.
At last, when Imogene and Emily could interfere no more, the four excited horses were brought out of the stables and walked to the edge of the cobblestones. The Chivelys, Beeswangers, and Mr. Tabard had taken up position in the west wing conservatory, whence they could see the side of the stables. Harriet had a red flag in hand; she would shout the start.
The first part of the course would take them down the hill toward the lake, veering off at the bottom onto a country lane, across a narrow bridge, then curve to the left, over a gate … sharp turn to the right, or was it left, too … hmm. It was a little hard to recall the middle of the race, but Ben was certain he would recognize it when he got there. Fairly certain. Perhaps the markers hadn’t been a waste of time after all.
Ben pulled himself atop Lancelot as the horse danced away from the groom, affected by the high spirits of those around him. The atmosphere was carnivalesque and Ben thought that the habit of country visits was not such a mundane enterprise after all.
And then Harriet dropped her flag. “Go!” she shouted.
All four riders heeled their horses into a gallop. All four surged forward, finding purchase on the edge of the cobbled yard. In a clump, they raced for the bottom of the hill—Jake and Ernest between Ben and Percy.
Caught up in the excitement, the horses, like their riders, reveled in the speed—the exhilaration of competition. As they turned onto the smaller lane, Ben pushed ahead with Percy, squeezing the other two behind—but only by a length.
Thundering toward the bridge, Ben realized that Percy was trying to force Lancelot into the water. With a laugh, Ben took Lancelot splashing through the brook and up the bank. He had almost caught back up when Ernest barreled past him.
Ben was incensed; he was in third place!
Up and over the first gate, he watched Ernest catch and then pass Percy. As the lane widened, Ben was hard on Percy’s heels, and from the sounds of it, Jake was hard on Ben’s heels. It was still anyone’s race.
In a burst of speed, Ben took the next gate ahead of Percy and Ernest, placing him in front. He patted Lancelot’s broad neck and stared down the lane, looking for the markers. Sure enough, there was one on the right. He would have to slow down to make the sharp turn.
Percy had a different strategy. Racing past—too fast to make the upcoming turn—he left the road early. Percy took Honor over the hedge at a full gallop, raced across the field and then up and over the hedge on the other side. Cutting the corner. A country race was about finishing, not the exact route.
Following Percy’s lead, Ben urged Lancelot up and over the hedge; it was an easy jump for an experienced horse of seventeen hands. Ben leaned back.
Lancelot screamed and balked, turning so quickly that Ben was launched into the hedge rather than over it. Hitting the shrubs, he rebounded back onto the lane, landing hard on his knees and tumbling into a roll. He came to a jarring halt on his posterior and sat for a moment, dazed, confused, and … dazed.
Pounding hooves almost overwhelmed him as Ernest pulled up short, Arthur snorting in protest. Ben continued to reflect on which direction was up and decided he didn’t need to stand as yet.
“Ben! Ben, are you all right?” Ernest shouted.
Ben blinked and was going to suggest that shouting was not necessary when Jake shot past them, riding neck-or-nothing. Ben turned his head to watch Jake sail over the hedge, and then he shouted to his brother. “Go!” A race had to be won. “Go!”
“Are you all—?”
“Go!” Ben shouted again. “Win this bloody thing!”
In an instant, Ernest pulled Arthur around to get a running start over the hedge, and then he, too, was gone. The sound of thundering hooves receded until Ben was left with only the rustle of the wind in the trees and a plethora of songbirds creating enough racket to warrant a frown.
As breath returned to his lungs, and his heart slowed to a normal rhythm, Ben assessed the situation. He was very pleased to see that Lancelot had taken himself over to the other side of the lane and was nibbling on the grass. The horse looked none the worse for wear, though he was twitching and throwing his tail about. Ben would check thoroughly as soon as he stood … whenever that might be. He thought it an admirable idea to determine the damage before moving.
Fortunately, it was a short list: bruised knees, mostly protected by his leather breeches; scratches, predominantly on the right side of his head; a cut on his temple, though not deep, since the trickle of blood was already stopping; and last, but most definitely not least, a tender posterior. Not bad, considering he could have broken his neck.
Now, having finished his inventory, Ben thought he might stand; it wasn’t as difficult as he thought it might be. Even walking was acceptable after the first few steps.