Chapter 15 #2
But the instant Torres began to change direction, Dashwood slowed and turned back to the straight.
To avoid collision, Torres had to veer off the edge of the lane, momentum throwing him off course.
With expert skill, Torres steadied the coach and drew them back to the straight line.
But it was too late. Dashwood had gained the lead in a shallow curve.
The double bluff had put them back in front.
Lucy marvelled at her driver who, with only a few moments’ notice, had crafted a trap that had drawn in a skilled racer.
The two coaches sped along the curve at a steady pace. How long had they been racing? Surely the end could not be far. And yet Lucy knew there was one more turn to come. Time itself had seemed to slow again.
She caught a glimpse of Ulcha whispering something to Torres. Lucy stared ahead, trying to scout whatever it was the Irish girl had seen.
‘Pheasants!’ she exclaimed.
The birds flapped up in a flurry, catching Dashwood by surprise and causing him to slow slightly. Torres used the moment to draw alongside them.
The birds that were flying off into the night, flustered but unharmed, had been spotted by Ulcha well before Lucy had seen them, even forewarned. Lucy might have quick wits, but the vision of the Irish girl was almost supernatural.
All Lucy could do now was focus and think. The two coaches were level and the final turn was ahead. Would Torres use the same tactic or would he try something else?
‘Even turn ahead. Driver’s call.’ She put her fate in the hands of her companion. Lucy knew that reading other people was one of her greatest weaknesses. It seemed to be one of Dashwood’s strengths. She held tight, unsure what to expect as the coaches neared the turn.
Dashwood drew them in a tight but steady curve. Torres did the same. Neither driver tried to pull a trick and neither wished to fall for one. Instead they came into the final stretch neck and neck.
The road was clear, but Lucy kept her focus, lest anything unexpected appear.
Like the rest of the race, the section drew out longer than she thought possible. Dashwood gripped the reins, fixed forward. Torres did the same. No more tricks now, just a hard rush to the finish line.
Then, almost imperceptibly at first, Torres began to draw ahead.
‘He’s outpacing us!’
‘I know,’ Dashwood replied.
There was a tone in his voice Lucy had not heard before. Doubt. Resignation. His features were difficult to read, but she felt there was a decision being made beneath the surface, a difficult one. He let out a slow, steady breath.
Torres’s lead began to grow. It was not a huge lead, likely to be uncertain to the spectators until the two coaches crossed the line.
But the result was indisputable. Torres was in front by half a horse length. He had won his second victory of the night.
Dashwood brought his coach to a gradual halt. Before them the horses were panting heavily, the exertion from one and a half races weighing upon them.
‘Well,’ Dashwood said eventually, ‘you seem to have experienced your first win and your first loss on the same evening, Miss Elliot.’
She nodded, running over the race in her mind.
As if reading her thoughts, Dashwood interjected. ‘Do not dwell on what you might have done differently, only let it be experience for what you might do next time. It is possible to do all one can with one’s abilities and yet fail.’
She sighed and nodded. For a blithe and reckless man, he had hidden depths. But wise as it was, the advice to not overthink things was certainly not her nature.
He descended from the coach, helping her down and bowing as Torres approached. ‘Senor Torres. I am honoured to have lost so closely to a racer such as yourself.’
‘The honour is mine.’
The two men shook hands firmly.
‘Might I request water for your horses?’ Dashwood asked.
‘Already tended to.’ Torres pointed to where Ulcha and Hekili were looking after the puffed creatures.
‘I meant your horses here.’ Dashwood nodded towards the coach he had just descended from.
‘Ha. I suppose they are in fact now my horses. Elsa, please bring some water.’
‘They are fine animals. Army horses. Demanding to care for, but obedient and fearless.’
‘By my honour, they will be well looked after.’
‘Do you wish to take the reins now?’
‘No. Elsworth Manor, correct?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Give your messenger a ride home. We’ll collect our winnings in the morning.’ Torres bowed and left the two in silence for a moment.
Dashwood broke it with a faint chuckle. ‘He was wrong about one thing.’
‘Which was?’ she asked curiously.
‘It was a fair match. It all came down to the horses.’
‘The horses …’ she considered. ‘That was what you were deciding on in the final stretch. To drive the horses harder—’
‘Or to lose.’ He nodded. ‘I know the horses. Army horses are bred and trained to do as they’re commanded no matter what. They’d have won us the race, but it might have broken them.’
‘But you lost them anyway. What is the difference?’
‘I lost them. The world did not. That is the difference.’
‘You are … quite right.’ She nodded, blushing slightly at having overlooked it.
‘Sacrifice is sometimes necessary. But not tonight.’
I am undecided whether he is a gentleman, she mused. But I feel assured that he is a good man. As she watched him, another thought occurred, more practical than personal.
‘Torres was not wrong.’ She smiled.
‘How so?’ he asked.
‘It was a fine choice not to harm them. But it was your choice to race – one he baited you into, knowing his horses could outpace yours where needed.’
Dashwood nodded then laughed. ‘Perhaps you are right, Miss Elliot.’
‘I endeavour always to be so.’
‘A fine but impossible aspiration.’
‘Why impossible? Because we are flawed human beings?’
‘Impossible because one cannot know all possible outcomes beforehand. There are circumstances, on the spur of the moment, where one must wager on the outcome to the best of one’s knowledge.
It may therefore be the case that the outcome itself may be right, but the decision cannot be called correct. ’
‘Midnight is too late for philosophy, Captain Dashwood.’
‘By the turn of the clock it is only the first hour of the day.’ He smiled.
‘The first hour of the day is also too late for philosophy. If you wish to take it further, I suggest you converse with my sister.’
‘Is that an invitation to Atherton, Miss Elliot?’
She tensed slightly. ‘This is the Night Races, sir. It does not overlap with daytime hours. It would be inappropriate to invite to my house a man whom I had met but once.’
He looked at her curiously. ‘Then all that remains is for me to drive you home.’
A slow moonlit ride alone with a mysterious man beckoned.
That, I think, might be more dangerous than any race, she thought.
‘I am grateful for your consideration. But to dance three times in one night with the same gentleman would be unseemly.’
He nodded in amusement.
‘It has been a remarkable evening. But there is moon enough left for me to safely walk home with the others. Goodnight, Captain Dashwood.’
‘Goodnight, Miss Elliot.’
She curtsied, he bowed, and they parted ways into the night.