Chapter 2
That there had always been racing in some shape or form was not in doubt.
The ancient Romans were known for chariot races in the Circus Maximus and even now the Rome spring carnival ended with horse races through the streets.
Though only a little older than Lucy herself, the annual races of The Oaks, St Leger and the Epsom Derby were well on their way to becoming institutions.
Night Racing was different. Its origins were fiercely debated, but no definitive conclusion had been reached.
Among higher society (at least those who acknowledged its existence), it was considered distasteful and its invention placed squarely on the shoulders of someone else.
The English blamed it on the Welsh, the Welsh on the Irish, the Irish on the Scottish, and the Scottish on the English.
Some labelled the whole thing a creation of that uncultured, fledgling nation, the United States of America.
There was equal variation of opinion among those who were enthusiasts of the races, though from the opposite position, each insisting it was their nation that originated it and not another.
Irrespective of its lineage, there was a purity of essence to the affair.
Two coaches at a time would race each other around a strip of road.
The first across the line was victorious.
All manner of other rules and variations might be agreed upon by those racing, but the key points were set in stone.
Like the hours in which they took place, the Night Races were a thing of shadows.
Meetings were arranged and spread by word of mouth.
A code of honour and secrecy covered all those involved.
It was not written law or codified doctrine, more a collective understanding.
To those involved, the ways of Night Racing were every bit as sacred as the laws of the Empire.
That a young lady as proper as Lucy Elliot should not only find herself in such a world, but indeed find a home there, was a proposition that might confound a sound thinker. Lucy herself had pondered over this seemingly unexpected element of her nature.
Her introduction into the racing world came by accident.
One evening, some months after her eighteenth birthday, she suffered from a restless night, as she was wont to do in the event of a full moon.
It was an unusually hot summer in England, and Essex, swept by winds from the Continent, was no exception.
She threw off her bedsheets and minutes later was strolling in the gardens of Atherton.
It was there, illuminated only by moonlight, she saw a group of four or five exiting the north wing and heading across the field.
There was a muted but excited chatter among the group, three men and two women together in what struck Lucy as a scandalously casual fashion.
In the still night she could make out the familiar and distinctive Irish lilt of Molly, a maid attached to the kitchen.
She found herself torn. It would be proper to wake the appropriate staff and give chase to these absconding servants.
And yet, if there was a good reason for their going and no ill intent meant, it would be most improper to ruin several reputations and careers over a misunderstanding.
She therefore contrived to follow them herself to ascertain the precise nature of their activities, and to take appropriate action once she had obtained a fuller perspective.
After half a mile of pursuit, all the way certain she would be spotted in the open fields, Lucy trailed the mysterious party to a walking path through Broaks Woods.
First her ears, and then her eyes, picked up signs that the group was heading towards a much larger gathering.
Whatever her imagination conjured (for even the most rational of minds cannot resist invention when walking on a moonlit night), Lucy was wholly unprepared for the sight that met her as she came upon a roadway clearing.
Dozens of people, both men and women, stood in groups, chatting and laughing, illuminated by torches and lanterns.
It took a moment for her to realise that the five coaches, each of a unique style and construction, were not merely the vessels used to transport the masses there, but were in fact the purpose for the gathering itself.
Each coach was on display, wheels and horses being discussed in technical terms, paint and fluting admired, owners and riders boasting of their speeds.
Lucy had seen many a coach and carriage, but these were something different.
The quality and decoration of a coach for transport might represent wealth and standing, yet here the coach itself was the subject of praise, an artwork to be appreciated – and used.
She could tell by the health and stature of the horses, and the sturdy-looking reins and axles, that these coaches were not built solely for decoration.
They were built for speed. For handling. For racing.
As she stood, still taking in the spectacle, she saw several faces she knew.
Mr and Mrs Easton, a wealthy merchant couple from across the river.
Mr Jacobs, a store owner from Halstead. And more than a few servants who seemed familiar from visits to other houses.
Molly was chatting excitedly with a group of other young women, one of whom appeared to Lucy to be impossibly similar to Anne Mayhew, daughter of Lord Mayhew.
It was quite inconceivable they should be conversing in so casual a manner.
But before she could contemplate this further, a voice came from her left.
‘Are you here for the races, love?’ came a strong Scottish brogue.
She turned to see a man, roughly dressed in breeches and a filthy shirt, but topped with a cheerful smile and shocking red hair.
For a moment the question hung in the wind and Lucy was suddenly aware of the importance of her reply.
Somehow a restless moonlit night had led to a turning point in her heretofore ordered and neatly prescribed existence.
And yet, even as she considered the ramifications and the propriety, she knew there could be only one answer.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Yes I am.’