Chapter 14
‘I’m not quite sure what he meant by that,’ Dashwood said as he stepped back to Lucy. If he held any concern that she had overheard their conversation, he did not show it. ‘I certainly do hope to race and, so far as I know, I have come prepared, horses, coach and all.’
Lucy nodded. Everything seemed to be in order with his ride.
‘Who is your messenger?’ she asked.
‘I prefer to ride without. I am more accustomed to solo travel.’
‘Then we have easily unravelled the mystery of Senor Torres’s statement. Local rules insist a messenger accompany all drivers. My apologies. I thought the rule so ubiquitous that I neglected to mention it.’
‘I see. That is unfortunate. Had I known, I should have brought Jim, my footman. But it would be unforgivable to wait another month and leave these … fine gentlemen without an opponent.’
‘Perhaps you can find a messenger from the spectators?’
‘I am quite certain I can. And assuage myself of a debt in the process.’
‘I do not follow.’
‘You wished for a ride on my coach, Miss Elliot. Would you be offended if it was a ride at speed?’
‘Do you mock me?’ Lucy replied after an uncomfortably long pause.
‘That is in no way my intention. I am in need of a messenger and you have demonstrated yourself to be as knowledgeable and sharp-eyed as any driver could wish for, with local experience in addition.’
‘You yourself will admit there is a vast distance between observing a speeding coach and racing one.’
‘I admit this freely. But I also believe that the best way to cross a vast distance is by coach ride.’
Eye contact had always left Lucy uneasy, yet now she found she could not look away.
She wanted to ride. That she would not deny to herself. But the mystery of Captain Dashwood still left her uncertain.
She held his steady gaze, trying – against her nature – to read his feelings. Charm, absolutely. Confidence, certainly. And yet …
Just there. For a moment. A flicker of doubt. Of uncertainty as strong as hers.
He needs me, she realised. And he is worried I may not choose to help.
For all the masks he wore, this was one truth in him she saw with utter clarity.
She let out the breath she had been unaware of holding. ‘Very well, Captain Dashwood, I accept your proposal.’
‘I do believe you cautioned me about such language, Miss Elliot.’
‘Then let me say that I place my fate in your hands.’
His eyes darkened almost imperceptibly. ‘And mine in yours.’ Dashwood gave a polite nod, strode confidently to the group of south-east coasters, exchanged polite but terse words, shook hands, then returned to Lucy.
‘The race is agreed upon.’
‘The wager?’ she asked, thinking of it only for the first time. She was certain there had been a change in his humour, and felt frustration that she could not read his intent.
‘Wheels,’ he replied casually.
‘Wheels?’ she exclaimed. ‘You have wagered your coach against theirs?’
‘They’re driving a Pemberley Cross. Fast, but not built for the country. And it’s their first time racing in the district.’
‘It’s your first time racing in the district,’ she countered. ‘And mine!’
‘Fear not, Miss Elliot. I am confident in both our talents. One cannot always plan for every challenge before it appears.’
‘But one can try!’ she said, aware that there was more agitation in her voice than she wished to present publicly. The composed mood she had briefly felt following their exchange was rapidly being replaced once more with anxiety.
Yet there was no changing of circumstances now. Dashwood was already climbing into the driver’s seat, offering her a hand. She took it, stepping up to sit alongside him.
The seat was of solid construction, though well worn by time and the elements. She ran her hand along the railing, her fingers finding a small hole, which she traced with curiosity.
‘Musket fire,’ Dashwood offered as he casually took up the reins.
She nodded without a word. The world of war was as alien to her domestic life as the races.
Beyond the news and occasional shortages of certain delicacies, it seldom made an impression on her day-to-day life.
For a man like Captain Dashwood, it seemed the impression it made could be swift, literal and fatal.
He smiled. ‘We shall see little of it tonight, I hope.’ Urging the horses on, he turned them gently, drawing them up to the starting line.
He glanced over at the other coach, nodding courteously to their rivals.
They replied in kind, but with no pretence of elegance.
They were harder men than often showed up to the Night Races, men who were here for money rather than glory.
‘The first turn is sharper than it looks,’ Lucy said quietly. ‘Take it with caution.’
Dashwood nodded, gripping the reins.
Lucy closed her eyes, focusing, trying to still the beating of her heart and, far worse, the clutter of her thoughts.
‘Underwood, Thornbrook, Rawleigh, Pemberley Cross, Norfolk,’ she whispered to herself. As she opened her eyes, she saw the starter moving into position, checking the riders.
And the race began.
Lucy gripped the railing firmly as Dashwood urged the horses to start, the acceleration pressing her back into the seat. She had galloped on horseback before, but this was something quite different. Here, control was entirely out of her hands.
No. Not entirely, she scolded herself. As thrilling as her position might be, she had a vital role to play.
She scouted the moonlit road before them, the southern coach in her peripheral vision.
The horses of each coach had a similar acceleration, though their lighter competition was faintly drawing ahead.
Lucy marvelled at how much more there was to take in from her position.
The view of the ever-changing ground, the growl of the wheels, the scent of the night air mingled with dust, horses and oranges.
Quite out of season, she pondered before she realised the hint of citrus came from the cologne of her driver. Lucy, now is not the time to focus on orange-scented cologne. And something else. Lavender. Left turn ahead!
‘Left turn ahead!’ she called out over the noise.
Dashwood gave a faint nod, his eyes not moving from the road. Lucy stole a glance at his expression, focused and alert with just a hint of joy. The thrill of the race.
He eased back on the reins as they entered the turn, following her earlier advice.
The other cart, underestimating the angle, tilted off balance, and only a quick counterweight manoeuvre by the messenger brought them back under control.
The delay was enough for Dashwood to take the lead, increasing their pace once more as they edged into a long slow curve.
Lucy alternated between looking forward and back, between the road and their pursuers. The ride was far rougher than she was accustomed to, but remarkably steady given the speed at which they were moving.
So this is Night Racing, she thought. It was like riding a silver ribbon between order and chaos. She was appalled and delighted.
‘Hold course. They’re gaining,’ she called to the captain. ‘We don’t want them ahead of us before the next turn. We can take it faster this time.’
Dashwood nodded again, shaking the reins, the horses speeding up. Despite this, they were still losing their advantage due to their heavier weight. The two coaches ended up rounding the corner side by side.
At Lucy’s advice Dashwood had maintained speed, but the south-east coasters had learned from the earlier turn, again off balance, but corrected by the messenger leaning out, bringing the wheels back down.
The bold move paid off, with the visitors now in the lead, slowly beginning to draw away as the road became a long straight bordered by thickets.
‘Hold close,’ said Lucy. ‘We may be able to take them on the next turn if they try that move again.’
He nodded, steady at the reins.
Lucy let herself sink into the world around her, trying to think of some tactic that might give them an advantage to retake the lead.
The world began to shrink, leaving only the racers and the road; the scents of leather reins gripped tight, of horses sweating as they galloped, orange – no – something else.
Oil in the whirring axles. Hot oil. Hotter than it should be?
Below the hooves and the wheels, she focused on a sound, a metal grinding, faint but sharp.
And not on their coach. Her eyes darted to the others, pulling gradually away from them.
It was almost impossible to see in the moonlight, but Lucy was familiar with the Pemberley Cross.
She had studied the design for days after she had insisted on purchasing a technical manual in a bookshop, much to the chagrin of her mother.
She could envision every part of it in her mind, linking it to the sound she could now hear.
The front axle joint was grinding in a way that it should not. That it could not. The sharp overbalancing manoeuvres must have knocked a link pin loose. Without it …
‘Hard stop left!’ Lucy shouted before the sentence could even complete in her thoughts.
Had Captain Dashwood been a driver of another profession then he might have hesitated, but he recognised the urgency of her order by instinct. He tugged back at the reins, commanding the horses to slow as quickly as their pace allowed.
Not a second too soon, as the events Lucy had predicted unfolded in precisely the way the forces of physics dictated.
Unsupported by the link pin, the joint had pressed against the inner connection to the wheel, grinding down steadily.
Once it was too worn to hold firm, it broke away, jamming into the left axle.
The wheel locked firm, causing the coach to veer sharply with greater force than the axle could support.
At full speed, the front left of the coach crashed into the ground, the rear vaulting upwards, flying into the air as if tossed by an invisible giant.
For a moment, it seemed to hang there. Then it came down with a splintering crunch, directly where Lucy and Dashwood would have been, if not for her sharp senses and his quick reactions.
Amid the disaster, there was a merciful absence of critical injury.
At the first sudden loss of integrity, the automatic release bolt had triggered on the front hitch, the horses speeding ahead of the crash, terrified but well away from the impact.
The messenger had been thrown to the ground, but on his side rather than head first. He had rolled many times, his coat torn and ripped, skin covered in scrapes, nose and lips bleeding.
But his low profile meant that the entire coach had flipped over him without contact.
The driver was even more fortunate given his position on the other side of the coach.
As it flipped, he was catapulted up and over, high into the air and off the road before landing in a tangle of bushes and thorns.
It took the efforts of several men with knives to eventually cut him loose, but aside from pricks and scratches head to toe, he was remarkably unharmed by his unexpected aerial journey.
Dashwood, who had first helped the messenger, then the driver, returned to his coach as others arrived to lend aid. He seemed well at ease, as if in practical action he could drop whatever air he felt compelled to show otherwise.
‘Are you all right, Miss Elliot?’
‘Yes. Thank you … You are bleeding.’
Guided by her gaze he lifted his hand to his chin. ‘Just a bramble. Hardly the worst I’ve suffered.’
His dismissal was in vain, Lucy’s handkerchief already pressed to the thin red line.
‘And what would be the worst?’ she asked, assessing his jaw with all the clinical detachment she could manage.
‘Shaving cut.’
A lie. They both knew it.
‘It was not how I imagined my first race,’ she said.
‘I could not have asked for a better messenger. Few would have spotted that fault on their coach, and fewer still would have seen what was coming.’
‘And few would have stopped so swiftly.’
He smiled and she felt the motion beneath her handkerchief. She realised with a start how close they were standing. Too close to be quite proper, so she quickly withdrew her hand. Avoiding his eyes, she folded the handkerchief and tucked it away.
‘Your coach is ruined,’ she said abruptly.
‘Not at all,’ he replied, confused. ‘A hard stop, but it can handle worse than this, I’m sure.’
‘Not this one. That one.’ She pointed to the wreckage that was just barely discernible as a vehicle.
‘That is—’
‘Your coach,’ she corrected him before he finished. ‘You wagered for wheels. In the result of a crash, the surviving coach is the winner.’
‘District rules?’
‘District rules.’