Chapter 28
The walk to the Night Races was never a silent affair, hushed but steady whispers rippling among the fields.
But Molly had seldom been so energetic in conversation as she was as they headed towards this gathering.
Having learned of the previous month’s events and of the rides of Lucy Elliot, she now showered her with more questions than Lucy could at any moment respond to.
The maid sorely regretted missing the event and, now she had recovered from her illness, was eager to know whether she was to witness a repeat.
Wishing to raise the hopes of neither Molly nor herself, Lucy did not reply either way.
It was certainly her hope to race, and that she might do so on a coach she herself designed, but until it arrived, there remained a sense of uncertainty, one that lingered until the moment she finally entered the clearing.
Of the assembled coaches, two were unknown drivers from other districts.
As the seasons grew warmer it was more common for racers to travel further afield to test themselves, and their district seemed to be a popular meeting point for the east and west coast rivalries.
Torres and his team were present, but tonight it was not their coach that drew her eye.
It was the remodelled Pemberley Cross, a fine new coat of paint on the timber, polished and ready to race.
The last time she had seen it, all the parts were in place but it was in need of cleaning, tightening and tuning.
Here it finally stood, finer than she had even imagined it.
Captain Dashwood smiled as he walked over to her. ‘I hope it meets your expectations, Miss Elliot.’
‘We shall see. An inspection is in order.’
Lucy slowly paced around the coach, checking various parts and features closely, examining the links, the reins, every spot and joint with diligent focus.
The only element she had not anticipated were the horses, a pair of fine chestnut-brown animals.
They were remarkably nondescript, though clearly well cared for, both aspects she suspected were the deliberate design of Captain Dashwood; the air of normalcy tended to lower the expectation of others, a trick she now saw from the other side.
Even the coach itself, fine though it was, gave little sign of being customised for racing.
‘It is remarkable,’ she commented as she finished her examination of the coach.
‘If it is, then it is to your credit. I might have added a part here and there, but your insight has been invaluable.’
‘And our addition?’
‘In place. But untested. I am torn between trepidation and temptation as to its use. My hope is that it shall not be needed.’
‘If you are to race Torres then I suspect it shall be.’
No sooner had she spoken the name of their rival than she caught the unmistakable flick of the braid of Elsa Reinhardt approaching. The woman’s eyes swept over the coach with a careful study.
‘An interesting choice,’ she commented, ‘to rebuild a ruined coach.’
‘A necessary one,’ Dashwood said. ‘My previous coach was lost to me.’
‘Indeed.’ Elsa smiled, peering over her glasses. ‘I see you have imitated my suspension model.’
‘If one is to copy, one should copy the best,’ Lucy replied.
‘A philosophy I cannot fault. However, the reinforced axles create excess weight.’
‘I balanced it through a lighter rear cross brace.’
‘Better for acceleration, difficult for slowing down.’
‘Well, we don’t intend to slow down.’ Dashwood laughed.
As they spoke, Torres himself appeared, his eyes equally curious and a smile forming on his face.
‘Looking for a rematch, I see?’
Dashwood nodded. ‘If you will oblige me.’
‘If you want to lose another coach, be my guest.’
‘I am not so foolhardy to make the same mistake twice. But it seems only fair that we have some stakes.’
‘What do you propose?
‘Dinner,’ replied Dashwood after a moment of thought.
‘Dinner?’
‘The loser shall host the winner, and his team, for dinner.’
A look of novelty and disbelief crossed the face of the usually unflappable Torres. ‘You’re telling me that you’ll host the four of us at a dinner at your manor?’
‘Of course not,’ Dashwood replied with an aloofness that surprised Lucy. But before anyone could comment, the expression shifted to a sly grin. ‘Because I’m going to win.’
Torres laughed. ‘The loser hosts the winner for dinner,’ he said with a nod.
They shook hands and the driver and his engineer headed back towards their coach.
‘A strange wager to make,’ Lucy commented.
‘Do you know where Torres lives?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I. And I have been unable to learn its location through any connections. So what better way than having him invite us to his home?’
‘So this is another manoeuvre in your investigation?’
‘It is. An extra incentive to win.’
‘And if you lose?’
‘Then they shall dine with me at Elsworth.’
‘And how will you explain this to society?’ Lucy exclaimed. It seemed unthinkable to her to so confound the barrier between the social and racing worlds.
‘I do not plan to tell them.’
‘Oh. That does seem an obvious solution.’
‘And, in any case, by having them to dinner there is still much more I can learn about them.’
‘It is somewhat distressing to think they might be guilty of such crimes.’
‘We know it is within their capabilities. Thus we must learn more of their characters.’ He turned to check on the horses then, perhaps sensing her anticipation, turned back. It took him a moment to recognise the expression of a young woman waiting to be asked to dance.
He stepped forward and extended his hand. ‘Miss Elliot. Will you do me the honour of riding with me this evening?’
She reached out to accept his offer.
‘Yes, Captain Dashwood. I would be delighted.’
The first race of the evening was watched with interest. It was local tradition for visiting racers to go first if facing each other, and the spectators were eager to see how the visiting teams would fare.
The west coast team had a heavier coach, adapted for the harsher Atlantic winds, but with the coach came an attitude of ploughing forward with little regard for life or limb.
The east coasters were driving a lighter coach, more influenced by Continental designs – bright and ornamented, faster, but in need of a sharp driver.
‘The west coasters to win, I think,’ Lucy mused as they waited for the race to begin.
‘They’re slower,’ said Captain Dashwood.
‘On a straight road. The east coasters will lead, but I wager they’ll lose it through overconfidence and overcorrection.’
‘You wager? Upon what stakes?’
‘I was led to believe your gambling proclivities were a pretence, Captain.’
‘One must keep up appearances.’ He gave a roguish grin.
‘And what might you care to wager?’
‘The same as Senor Torres? Dinner? I cannot imagine your parents would object to your inviting me.’
‘Very well.’ She smiled and they proceeded to observe silently the beginning of the race.
To some surprise, the west coasters took the lead from the opening, charging into the night fearlessly.
But then the lighter coach began to gain ground, overtaking on a corner where the heavier vehicle had to slow.
From there they held the lead, gradually inching ahead of their rivals.
True to form, the west coasters pursued relentlessly, never letting up, even as the gap between the coaches grew larger.
‘Foolish,’ Dashwood remarked, peering through his spyglass. ‘The east coasters have a comfortable lead that cannot be taken. Why risk speeding up?’
‘Boastfulness.’ Lucy nodded. ‘Did you spy the flair on the coach? Designed to make it look fancy but actually slowing it down.’
Following this very prediction, the east coasters extended their lead further and further until the very last turn.
Finding it sharper than it appeared, they overbalanced and were forced to slow and correct course.
In their moment of panic, their steady rival came from behind and took a narrow lead.
Back on the straight, the east coast coach began to catch up, but there was only so much the tiring horses could do.
The west coast driver kept his pace steady, leaving no error or opening until finally crossing the line with a clear lead.
‘Well picked, Miss Elliot. You have an eye for human character.’
A laugh burst out of her, bright and loud, and he gave her a questioning look.
‘My apologies,’ she replied. ‘Human character is certainly not an area in which I have natural talent.’
‘One need not have a natural talent to cultivate a skill. Perhaps you lack an innate social ease that some of our peers value, but you have insight nonetheless. How is it that you were suspicious of me at the ball at Elsworth?’
‘That was a matter of noting small things in your actions that struck me as out of the ordinary.’
‘And what is that but perception of human character? I should commend it as a rarer skill than your fellows. Among all those assembled that evening, I dare say you alone noted me as unusual. Sometimes it is more important to see the snake than the grass.’
She nodded and accepted the compliment, not adding that she had not been wholly alone in her observation – that Oliver St Martin had shared some of her perceptions.
The first race complete, there were various barbs and insults exchanged between the winners and the losers, though their tone suggested that, tonight at least, the rivalry would go no further than words.
With that, it was time for Lucy and Captain Dashwood to turn their focus to other matters.
‘Ready to race, Miss Elliot?’ he asked.
Under the light of the moon, his eyes found hers and her heart rate rose. For once, she welcomed it.
‘Most certainly.’