Chapter 29
At the start of her third race, Lucy still felt apprehension, perhaps owing to the new level of uncertainty involved. The past events had relied only on her insight and sharp wits. Here her design – her very worth as a creator – was to be tested.
Dashwood was silent, knowing her well enough now to leave her in the moment. He turned his attention to the coach beside them, the messenger with her eyes closed, the driver confidently holding the reins.
‘Just so you know,’ the Spaniard offered, ‘I have a preference for spicy food.’
‘Excellent. I shall know what to expect when I come for dinner.’
Torres laughed, clearly enjoying the novelty.
Both riders and messengers had closely watched what they could of the race prior, putting into their minds the various twists and turns.
But there was always a keen difference between perception and practice.
As the starter signal went, the two elements merged into the instant and both coaches accelerated into the future.
Lucy found herself balancing three areas of focus at once – the road ahead, the performance of their coach and the tactics of their rivals.
Now that they were in motion, she could hear the roll of the wheels, feel the shift of weight beneath her, her mind calculating the forces that the coach was bearing on each joint and axle.
She committed to memory the sound of smooth running, listening for any change.
When she was satisfied she had a sense of it, she adjusted her primary focus to the road.
It was a simple circuit with only a few twists and turns, and she was certain her driver already held them in his mind.
With the road ahead clear, the remaining obstacle to their victory was the team in the other coach.
Torres was riding at a swift but steady pace.
Unsure of the rival coach’s capabilities, he was cautiously testing them.
Dashwood kept them in line, eyes fixed on the road and reins as the horses galloped steadily. The first turn would be the key point.
‘First corner. Medium turn,’ said Lucy.
Dashwood nodded as the turn approached. Torres took the outside, steering the curve tightly. Dashwood fared well, but with a tighter angle he was forced to slow a little and their rivals inched slightly ahead.
It was just as Lucy had suspected. Both coaches bore Elsa Reinhardt’s suspension springs, but Torres was more experienced with taking the turns, knowing just how much he could manage. Dashwood, on the other hand, was cautious, learning how his new coach handled.
‘Rough ground ahead. Hold speed.’
Where the other carts earlier in the evening had both slowed, now both racers kept their pace.
Hooves clattered over the path, unimpeded by the slight imperfections in the stones.
But the coach wheels had no such flexibility.
It wasn’t an issue for daytime travellers, who simply dropped speed for a time, but for racers speed was the difference between victory and failure.
Here the suspension system came into its own and Lucy was pleased that what she had installed was a match for her Swiss rival.
Engineering had its limits, though, and she still held the rail tightly as the coach shook beneath them, Dashwood hooking his feet into iron loops, legs tensed to hold him steady while he gripped the reins.
Lucy briefly caught a glance from Ulcha, seemingly taking note of their matched pace.
On the second turn, Torres again took the outside, but this time Dashwood was ready, pulling an even tighter angle, losing a little speed but gaining ground.
They gained no distance on their rivals, but nor did they lose it.
Again they were back to matched pace on the straights, the Pemberley Cross holding its own against the custom coach, Dashwood matching reins with Torres.
If there were to be a change, it would come from the messenger catching a surprise early. Without looking, Lucy knew Ulcha would be thinking the same, equally alert with her night vision piercing the darkness ahead.
But despite Lucy’s heightened alertness, no challenge appeared, only the next turn approaching. She turned her attention to Torres, trying to gauge his next move.
‘If he moves off the line, slow and bank long,’ she said quietly.
Dashwood cast her a curious glance, but returned his focus to the road with a nod. He might not know precisely what Lucy meant, but she knew he trusted her judgement.
As soon as Torres began to move as Lucy had suggested he might, Dashwood reacted.
The Spaniard turned in, veering sharply and cutting across them to take the inside turn. In doing so he denied Dashwood the sharper turn he needed to keep level. A cut-off turn was a brazen move, dangerous but effective, forcing opponents to suddenly change tack.
But Dashwood was forewarned, guiding the horses into a slower turn without need for correction, so that when they came back into the straight, Torres had strengthened his lead but nowhere near as much as he had expected.
The Pemberley Cross built up speed again, closing slightly on the lead coach, but Torres held his nerve, riding at a steady speed, knowing he held the advantage.
‘Last turn. Tight,’ Lucy offered.
‘Can he try a cut-off again?’
‘Only at risk. And he has the lead.’
‘Take the inside and hope it works?’
‘Yes.’
Now in front for the final turn, the Spaniard had no need of taking risks, once more taking the longer curve that allowed him to retain his speed. Dashwood turned sharply again, faster than ever. There was no doubt he was a swift learner.
With no turns left, they entered the final straight.
The excited spectators watched from a distance.
It seemed as though it might be a repeat of the previous race, a coach giving chase but unable to catch up.
Dashwood coaxed the horses, but there was little speed to be gained.
Torres held firm, steady and cautious, not trying to push harder than needed, knowing that a win was a win.
As the finish line came into view, it was clear that Torres could not be overtaken. Dashwood and Lucy simply did not have the power in their horses.
Despite Dashwood’s earlier confidence, Lucy had always suspected the race would come to this. The skill of Torres and his team meant they had been able to anticipate everything the new team and their rebuilt coach could bring. Nothing short of the unthinkable could gain her and the captain victory.
So it was time to do the unthinkable.
‘Pull it?’ she asked, the calmness of her voice disguising her pounding heart.
He nodded, gripping the reins and urging the horses. ‘Pull it.’
Lucy reached to her side, drew back a cover and pulled the cord.
In the workings below them, a pin was pulled, a bolt springing out to remove a larger pin. With that, the foot-wide coil of wound spring unfurled with fearsome force, teeth locking into the cog by the axle. The full force of the coil now spun into the wheels, driving them faster.
As the wheels spun, the horses, briefly relieved from the load of the coach, sped forward, urged on by Dashwood.
He and Lucy were pressed back into their seats by the sharp acceleration.
It took only three seconds for the full energy of the spring to exhaust itself, but that was all they needed to boost them into the lead.
Lucy caught sight of Torres, looking on in disbelief at the sudden burst of speed out of nowhere.
It was as shaken as she had ever seen the stoic Spaniard.
Seconds later they crossed the finish line with a slim but clear lead, to the roar of a crowd that could not comprehend what they had just seen, but recognised a phenomenal last-minute triumph.
Though they came to a gradual halt, Lucy still felt as if she was racing. Her heart certainly was.
‘It worked. It really worked!’ she exclaimed, staying seated as she didn’t yet trust her legs.
‘Was there ever a doubt?’ Dashwood smiled, stepping down from the coach, circling and checking the horses.
‘Well, yes. There was at least a five per cent chance it would rip the axle off.’
His grin faded. ‘You might have mentioned that before.’
‘I thought it might throw off your focus.’
‘It probably would have.’
‘But it worked.’ She stood excitedly. ‘Of course we’ll need to check whether anything was damaged when it engaged and—’ She peered towards the undercarriage, misplaced her foot and tumbled into space only to find herself standing on solid earth facing the captain, her face inches away from the lapel of his coat.
Unlike hers, Dashwood’s reflexes were unhindered by the race, and he had caught her about the waist, spinning her smoothly so she reached the ground safely in his arms.
She was standing now. Why, then, did she feel weightless?
She stepped back, the arms that had caught her effortlessly making no attempt to contain her. It was as if it was her first race again, time slowing but rather than the road ahead she saw only his face.
‘Thank you,’ was all she could muster.
‘You’re … welcome,’ he replied, his tone as awkward as hers.
In their every encounter, Captain Dashwood had seemed unflappable. Why now did he seem to have trepidation in his gaze?
‘Now that was a nice trick.’ Torres laughed as he approached, his eyes carrying a mix of equal amusement, curiosity and caution.
‘Perhaps I’ll share it over dinner.’ Dashwood had snapped back to his sociable self.
‘A deal is a deal.’ Torres nodded, drawing away to meet his team.
Hekili was laughing heartily and Elsa was already peering at Lucy’s coach, trying to understand what had happened. Lucy watched them happily for a moment before a darker thought struck her.
‘You realise that if they are behind the robberies, you’re going to be walking right into their territory without backup?’
‘I’ll have backup.’
‘Who?’
‘You.’
Lucy’s gaze whipped to his.
Dashwood shrugged, a sly smile lighting up his face at her expression. ‘I do owe you dinner.’