Chapter 6
The first race had been an uninspiring affair.
There had been some hope that the visiting coach would offer a novel challenge, but it was outpaced by Lord Rathbone.
To the untrained eye it seemed a given from the start, with Rathbone pulling away from the moment the flag fell.
But Lucy Elliot was possessed of sharp vision, astute knowledge and a fine pair of repurposed opera glasses.
Rathbone excelled on the straights, but his heavier vehicle lagged on the curves, allowing the other coach to gain ground.
In the end it was two factors that resulted in victory: the superior breed of horses in Rathbone’s possession, and his willingness to drive them harder than most riders would dare.
Lucy watched with some sympathy as the groom took charge of the pair, walking them to cool them down.
She might even have risen to mild anger at their treatment had not Rathbone and the groom clearly exchanged words, with His Lordship nodding in understanding, patting the white horse’s mane in appreciation.
‘Do you think the second race will be closer?’ Molly asked, faint disappointment in her tone.
‘It is difficult to tell with a new racer,’ Lucy replied. ‘They seem to have stronger horses than Torres. Their driver looks sharp – I’d suggest a former racer by his size. But I don’t think they’ll win.’
‘Why?’ Molly asked, fascinated by Lucy’s ability to assess the field.
‘Their messenger. He didn’t watch the first race. He’s not observant.’
‘Is that enough to make a difference?’
‘Quite often, Molly, that is everything.’
Despite her confidence in her analytical skills, Lucy did feel a pang of doubt as the race began.
The visitors pulled away strongly at the start and, on the first corner, Elsa’s new spring system did exactly as Lucy had predicted, turning comfortably but losing speed.
Dashing through the moonlight, the coaches drew apart on the second straight.
However, in the Night Races, the only lead that mattered was the one at the finish line. As the second corner flew by, there was a collective muttering among the spectators, the lead suddenly shrinking by a seemingly impossible amount.
‘Acceleration on the hard curves,’ Lucy whispered to herself, marvelling at Torres’s driving ability as, even through her glasses, she could see no loss of control.
On the third turn the distance was shortened to less than a coach length, though the gain was not quite so much as the previous one. With only one tight turn left, it seemed Torres couldn’t possibly make up the distance.
‘They’re not going to make it,’ Molly gasped in disappointment, her affection for Torres and Ulcha notable in her voice.
‘You cunning Spaniard,’ Lucy muttered under her breath.
Lucy Elliot was perhaps, with the exception of Dante Torres and his team, the only one who saw it coming. Certainly the driver and the messenger of the visiting coach did not.
As they rounded the final curve, the lead coach slowed slightly to keep its balance.
As it did, there was a flash of motion, Torres and his coach overtaking them altogether.
The straight run to the finishing line was on and, while the stronger horses pulled nearer, there was no question as to the outcome.
Torres crossed the line a full two seconds before his competitor, amid cheers rising up from the crowd.
‘How did he gain so much ground all of a sudden?’ Molly wondered aloud. ‘It was like magic.’
‘It was, of sorts,’ Lucy replied. ‘Like the kind Oliver St Martin is fond of with his cards. The first corner was a feint. Torres gave up ground deliberately, testing how well the coach cornered. Then on the second corner he accelerated into the turn, building that large gain. But on the third, he held back, just enough to put him close to the lead without seeming a threat. A sharp messenger would have spotted it. When they rounded the last corner, they didn’t think to try a blocking manoeuvre.
Torres pushed hard and swung right in front of them.
From there it was a matter of holding ground, which he knew he could do. ’
As she finished her explanation, Lucy took stock of Molly’s expression.
The servant girl was often impressed at Lucy’s analysis, but something in her stunned look was markedly out of sorts.
Following the girl’s gaze, Lucy looked back over her shoulder, catching sight of Torres and Ulcha nearby, listening intently to her detailed explanation.
A thin smile grew on Torres’s lips and he tilted his head with an almost imperceptible nod before turning away. Ulcha’s gaze lingered longer. Lucy could not help but meet it, and an inexplicable, and therefore greatly uncomfortable, shiver ran down her spine.
The girl raised a finger to her brow, then pointed to Lucy and turned to follow her driver.
Not a word had been spoken but the message was quite clear.
I’m watching you.
The group from Atherton chatted softly on their way home, aware that the still night would carry their voices far.
Molly was engaged in conversation with an older groundsman, leaving Lucy to her thoughts, a circumstance she rather preferred, running over the races and tactics in her head.
Doing so took her mind off the disconcerting impression that the messenger’s gaze had left on her.
Lucy was someone who preferred to be the observer rather than the subject, and while she had cultivated a connection with some of Torres’s companions, she was a little uneasy about them having an interest in her.
As they approached the grounds, the chatter became whispers, the group knowing that their clandestine outing would have harsh consequences were it to be discovered.
They came and went via the servants’ entrance at one end of the house, away from the main sleeping quarters.
It was a simple matter of leaving it unlocked well after everyone had gone to bed, then securing it again upon return.
It was a method that had never failed them until that evening.
Upon reaching for the handle, Jackson, Mr Elliot’s dresser, gripped and pulled, only to find it jammed.
He tried again with more force, but it became evident that the door resisted opening.
For whatever reason, one of the staff had noticed the door unlocked and, thinking it an oversight, helpfully locked it.
Helpful to all but those now assembled outside in the night.
Another mode of entry would need to be sought.
Lucy was already theorising. As the person with the highest status in the group, a lady of the house, she would be best positioned to knock upon a door and contrive an explanation to her absence with the least repercussions.
She would accrue some suspicion for such behaviour, but an excuse would not be beyond remedy.
She was about to speak when the cook, Mrs Harris, quietly announced a solution.
From Lucy’s earliest memory, Mrs Harris had been an old woman, and in the intervening years she seemed not to have aged a day.
She ran the kitchen in a soft but strict manner such that there was scarcely ever a need for reprimands.
The mere thought of being on the receiving end of her tenderly announced disappointment was more than enough to keep the kitchen staff focused on the task at hand.
They would use, the cook announced, the elves’ entrance.
Despite the fantastical name, it was of a most nondescript nature – a small window at ground level in the kitchen.
Its name came from the district tradition of slipping food out to children on holidays.
That evening, the entrance would be used for race-watchers slipping in.
As they discussed who was best to enter, Lucy realised that the proximity to the house had re-established their social order and that despite her being the slimmest and spryest among them, no one even mentioned the possibility of Miss Elliot being the one to do it.
But under the circumstances, she felt that practicality ruled.
‘I shall enter,’ she stated plainly. And that was that.
So it was that Miss Lucy Elliot of Atherton found herself wriggling through a small window in the dead of night to climb off a kitchen table, circle back to the servants’ door and unlock it for their entry.
She did so in fear that, should she fall or make a noise that attracted attention, it would defy any reasonable explanation.
By good fortune and natural dexterity she was able to shimmy through and descend to the floor with neither incident nor damage to her dress.
Likewise, her walk through the corridors, shoes in hand, was swift and silent.
The door opened, the servants entered, nodding in thanks, each going their own way in silence, the order of Atherton restored.
With rays of moonlight guiding her, Lucy drifted through the halls to her room, only feeling a wave of fatigue after she had closed the door gently behind her.
She wondered briefly as to whether it was possible to illicitly enter your own home.
Before she could adequately resolve this, sleep had already taken her.
But not far from the quiet walls of Atherton, far worse crimes than the covert deeds of Lucy Elliot were taking place.