Chapter 15
The mood back at the clearing was a curious mix of sobriety and excitement.
Crashes of this scale were a rarity in the district, where greater rules and decorum were in place in comparison to some wilder regions.
Lucy had heard tales of races on the back streets of London without respect for life, limb or property.
No serious harm had befallen the team, and yet at the same time the crash had been spectacular, and everyone felt something of a shared thrill at the risks that came with the Night Races.
All pitched in to help with the recovery effort, so the moon hadn’t moved far in the sky when the last of the scrap had been loaded into the cart of Mr Kelly, the town blacksmith.
If ever one wished to locate the nearest Night Race in a foreign district, the local smith was always the best place to start.
Either through repairs or acquisitions of scrap, they were usually involved.
For the more technically minded, there was also the opportunity to analyse the cause of the crash.
‘Front-left axle failure?’ Elsa Reinhardt asked, confident in her assumption.
Lucy nodded. ‘A lock pin came loose.’
‘A flaw I believed to have been corrected in the Pemberley Cross.’
‘Only those made in the past three years. I suspect they hadn’t upgraded their coach in quite some time.’
‘A shame. The Pemberley Cross is an excellent starting point for customisation.’
‘Forgive my rudeness,’ Dashwood interjected. ‘Captain James Dashwood.’ He bowed courteously.
‘Elsa Reinhardt,’ she responded in kind. ‘I must commend your driving, Captain. A coach like yours is not easy to manage. British Army, I believe?’
Lucy felt a prick of irritation as Elsa smiled – smiled! – at Dashwood.
‘Former.’ He nodded. ‘With the war on they’ve been replacing and upgrading them rapidly. This one was put out to pasture, but I purchased it for my own use. Now, your vehicle on the other hand, is far from common stock. I do not recognise its make.’
‘Custom-built.’ Reinhardt preened.
‘That cannot be cheap.’
‘No.’
As Lucy felt her temper rising inexplicably, Torres approached, eyes darting over Dashwood again. For Dante Torres, every moment seemed like a race, checking for dangers, scouting for advantages.
‘Trying to get our technical secrets, Captain?’
‘Merely interested. An enthusiast of the Night Races must be as invested in the coach as the driver.’
‘A shame you didn’t get a full race on your first night in the district.’
‘There will be others, I’m sure.’
‘Some people would say it was bad luck not to cross the line on your first time out.’ Again there was a challenging tone from Torres, more daring than mocking.
‘I’m not a superstitious man.’ Dashwood smiled. ‘But if that is your concern, it is one that can easily be rectified.’
It was rare to see Torres caught off guard, but even Lucy picked up on it.
‘Are you challenging me, senor?’
‘My horses only ran half a circuit, but yours are more rested. I believe it would be a fair race.’
‘No,’ Torres replied inscrutably.
‘No?’
‘It wouldn’t be a fair race. The horses might be evenly matched, but we have the better coach, the better driver and the better messenger.’
‘If you really think so, then it would certainly be worth your while to accept, wouldn’t it?’ Dashwood didn’t break eye contact.
Torres held firm, his curiosity piqued. ‘What stakes?’
‘Wheels.’
‘I already have a coach,’ said Torres.
‘Wheels and reins then.’
Lucy and Elsa exchanged a glance. It was rare indeed for a racer to wager both coach and horses.
A confident smile grew below Torres’s finely maintained moustache. ‘Then I must accept. I’ll let the organisers know.’
Torres and Elsa walked off, leaving Dashwood and a visibly flustered Lucy.
‘Are you all right?’ Dashwood asked.
‘I am,’ she replied, though with muted enthusiasm.
‘I apologise if I was presumptive. A crash can shake your confidence.’
‘There is no hesitation in my being your messenger once again, Captain Dashwood.’
‘Yet there is hesitation?’
‘Had I not been previously informed of your imprudence with gambling, I should now be given to form such an opinion of my own accord.’
‘I do not bet when I believe I cannot win.’
‘No gambler does.’
‘Nor do I wager that which I cannot afford to lose.’
‘How then did you come to be at Elsworth?’
‘Through misfortune entirely not of my own making,’ he replied with a firm tone. It was clear he would follow this topic no further.
Masks behind masks, Lucy thought.
‘Very well then.’ She nodded, begrudgingly. ‘Let us check over our ride.’ She turned and crossed to the vehicle, leaving Dashwood to follow.
The army coach seemed unharmed by the emergency stop. There was certainly some wear and tear, but Lucy ascertained that there was no risk of structural failure.
‘The suspension is a little soft for country lanes, Captain Dashwood.’
‘Still tuned for West Africa,’ he explained.
She wondered how many roads the coach had travelled, and in how many countries. The wood kept record of its history through scars. She pondered idly whether Captain Dashwood had similar.
More than a shaving cut, I am sure.
Before she could follow the thought further, he arrived with the horses, the captain impressively calm given the incident earlier.
Almost, Lucy thought, as if he had intended to race again all along.
The racers were called, the crowds excited by the addition to an already thrilling evening. Third races were uncommon in the district, where it was unlikely that six coaches would turn up on one night. For a racer to ride twice in once night was equally rare, taxing as it was on the horses.
As they approached the start line, Lucy looked across to Ulcha, whose eyes were closed with an eerie calm. If Napoleon’s army charged suddenly out of the darkness, Lucy wondered if that haunted expression would change even a fraction. She turned her attention ahead once more, focusing on her role.
Torres nodded to them and Dashwood replied in kind.
There was a wave of quiet anticipation.
Then Lucy’s second race began.
Both coaches came to the start line quick but steady.
Lucy knew Torres would have a strategy for the race, but until it presented itself, the wisest approach was simply to race to the best of their abilities.
Dashwood was more familiar with the course now, and his focus was on the road and the reins.
Lucy allowed her eyes to drift over the road ahead, briefly feeling a ripple of disorientation.
‘The moon is in a different position,’ she murmured softly. ‘Different shadows.’
The coaches built up speed, but neither was driving the horses hard, aware they had all been taxed earlier in the evening. She glanced over at the other coach, spotting Ulcha signalling and Torres nodding his head faintly.
There was a plan. But what was it?
Don’t race the horse. Race the man.
‘He expects us to slow on the first corner. But you know the track this time,’ she said.
Dashwood nodded, gripping the reins as they approached the turn. Lucy held the railing, ready for the sharp forces, leaning to one side to counterbalance better.
This time, instead of slowing, Dashwood took the corner at a steady speed. Torres tried to overtake, but his coach’s suspension slowed him just enough that he fell slightly behind as they entered the slow curve.
Lucy glanced to her side. Not only was she racing, but she was now ahead of Dante Torres.
For a moment she was lost in the thrill of it, the uncertainty of the night pressing against her.
This was most unlike her. But then, who was she really?
Surely her parents could not imagine that their daughter was out at midnight racing a coach beside a man she had met only a few weeks earlier.
If the Night Races were another world, was there another Lucy?
She shook herself from her philosophising. There was a race to be run. The road was clear and colourless as they sped forward, making the next turn. Torres drove his horses faster, bringing them in line with his challengers, then drawing slightly further ahead.
‘He cannot hold this pace,’ Lucy reasoned. ‘What is he planning?’
Suddenly he sped on even further, seeming to accelerate out of nowhere.
It took her a moment to realise Dashwood had slowed.
Torres had timed his charge perfectly to emulate the positions at this stage of the previous race, just where the crash had occurred.
Out of instinct, Dashwood had slowed ever so slightly, allowing Torres to pull ahead.
Sure enough, now that they were back on even ground, Torres eased his speed slightly, maintaining a steady lead.
‘He is quite the racer,’ Dashwood noted with a mix of admiration and frustration.
‘He is.’
They were now on a section of road that Torres had raced many times, while Dashwood was heading into uncharted territory. Lucy eyed their path with a heightened awareness, knowing that her spotting was vital on a novel trail.
Torres manoeuvred fluidly over the terrain, but Lucy’s sharp wits and Dashwood’s quick reflexes meant they held pace without losing further ground.
‘Another hard turn ahead,’ she advised.
‘Like the first?’
‘Almost identical.’
‘Excellent.’
Lucy was unsure what he had planned, but she held on tightly. Whatever was coming, she expected turbulence.
Dashwood urged on the horses, gaining some ground so that the two coaches were side by side as they entered the bend.
Gripping the reins, he turned the coach into the same overtaking manoeuvre that had given them the lead on the first corner.
This time Torres was ready for it, moving in sharply to cut off their path.