Chapter Ten
It was, as accurately predicted, a good snowfall. By the following afternoon, lads with heavy brooms and shovels were already out clearing pathways around Holly Grange, and Jepson had the two largest workhorses harnessed to a massive log.
Everyone knew it was one of his favourite winter chores, riding astride a seventeen-hand cart-horse, keeping the other next to him on a tight rein, and slowly rolling the log over the lanes.
The crunch of the wood as it flattened the snow was a delight, and when the sun finally broke through the clouds, it illuminated a magical world of crystal sparkles and brilliant white mounds.
Geraldine waved to him from her bedroom window as he rode past the main house. She wished she could be out there with him, but her Mama had made it quite clear that this was her day to help with the preparations for the party.
Since her Papa had added similar comments, she’d felt obliged to stay indoors.
There was plenty to keep her busy. Piles of holly and fir boughs waited just outside the front door, ready to be brought in, beribboned, and arranged tastefully throughout the house.
This year, someone had stumbled across some mistletoe, which Geraldine decided deserved pride of place, given that it was also the name of Upper Bicklesworthy’s most auspicious race.
She blithely ignored the fact that it was Upper Bicklesworthy’s only race.
So for several hours, she and the rest of the household scurried around, tucking greenery here and there, adding ribbons for an even more festive look, and stopping now and then to admire their achievements.
The rich green fragrance of the evergreen boughs, coupled with the strong scent of cinnamon emanating from the kitchens, circulated throughout every room of the house.
To Geraldine, this said Christmas. No matter where she was, if she smelled pine or cinnamon, she was instantly reminded of these moments, the parlour at Holly Grange, in front of a blazing fire on a snowy day in December.
The sky had cleared, but the cold remained, and since there were only a few days left until Christmas, she spared a moment to wonder if the roads would keep guests away from the party.
For her mother’s sake she hoped not, but then again, the weather was nobody’s to control, so they would simply have to work with it or around it.
Crossing the hall with a bundle of ribbons in her hand, she was surprised to hear the knocker sound loudly. At a loss as to what to do with her burden, she simply shoved them all into the pocket of the small apron she wore to protect her gown and answered the door.
“Good afternoon, Miss Foster,” smiled Blaine. “I do apologise for dropping in unannounced, but we decided the fresh air was too delightful to ignore.” He gestured to the man grinning beside him. “You will remember Mr Wilde?”
Stunned, Geraldine blinked. “I…yes, yes, of course. Um, do come in.” She stepped aside. “You must forgive the informality, but we’re putting the finishing touches on the decorations for the party.”
A maid hurried up to take the gentlemen’s coats. “There’s tea in the parlour, Miss,” whispered the girl. “Your Mama said to tell you.”
Geraldine nodded. “It would seem you have arrived at the perfect moment. We have tea.”
“Excellent.” Fitz rubbed his hands. “Nothing like a nice hot cup after a winter’s ride, wouldn’t you say, Miss Foster?”
“I would indeed, sir,” she nodded. Then rolled her eyes. “Forgive me. I had forgotten you disliked the formal address. I apologise. Fitz.”
“I would forgive you many worse sins, my dear.” He took her hand and dropped a kiss on it. Geraldine blushed.
“Fitz, stop flirting with Miss Foster. It’s only the afternoon, and this isn’t London.” Blaine rolled his eyes. “You’ll have to excuse him. Something comes over him when he’s in the vicinity of an attractive woman.”
She sighed and shook her head. “Tea.”
Walking away, she hoped they followed, but refused to turn and look because she knew her cheeks were on fire. London ways, she assumed. But this wasn’t London, and she didn’t have to listen, charming though it was.
Mrs Foster, already in the parlour, sprang to her feet. “Sir Blaine, how delightful. Geraldine never mentioned you planned on visiting us today?”
“I didn’t know, Mama.” She shot a look at Blaine. “And he’s brought his friend, Mr Fitzallan Wilde.”
“Ma’am.” Wilde walked to Mrs Foster and raised her hand, saluting it with a brief touch of his lips. “I see where your daughter gets her looks.”
Geraldine rolled her eyes as Blaine managed to muffle his laugh.
“Oh hush, Mr Wilde. You will turn an old woman’s head with your pleasantries. Please sit. Geraldine will pour.”
“What?”
“Tea, dear.” Her Mama’s teeth clenched together firmly as she smiled.
“Of course.” Geraldine dutifully set out cups and saucers. “Mr Wilde – if I may enquire – when you’re not kissing hands or flirting quite shamelessly, how do you take your tea?”
Mrs Foster’s gasp was overshadowed by Blaine’s full-throated laugh.
“She’s got you there, Fitz.” He grinned up at Geraldine.
“Milk for both of us, and he’ll have sugar.
” Glancing at Mrs Foster, he spread his hands.
“I beg you to excuse my friend’s behaviour.
’Tis in his nature to tease, but he means nothing by it, I can assure you. ”
“I find him most charming, Sir Blaine. You must not scold him for bringing a little happiness with him.”
“There, you see?” Fitz turned to the woman defending him. “I declare, Ma’am, were you not already wed and the mother of such a delightful daughter, I would be – at this very moment – on my knees before you, demanding your hand in marriage.”
“Oh good heavens.” Geraldine sighed. “Here’s your tea.”
Clearly aware that a potential “accidental spill” lurked in her eyes, Blaine neatly intercepted her move, took the cup and saucer and ferried it successfully to Fitz. “Behave,” he mumbled.
Fitz chuckled. “Thank you, Blaine. I could mention what a fine maid you could have been in another life, but…” he glanced at the hot tea, “perhaps it would be wiser not to risk it.”
Mrs Foster laughed. “What a delight to have some jests with our tea and scones.”
Geraldine bit her lip against an improper response and simply set a plate of the warm pastries down on a side table, within reach of the gentlemen.
“All humour aside,” began Blaine, “we do have a reason to visit. My friend Fitz here was fascinated when I told him about the Mistletoe Cup race.”
Geraldine stilled, wondering what would come next, and readying herself for whatever it was.
“Ah yes. Something our little spot of England cherishes,” her mother replied. “Country traditions are quite wonderful things, are they not?”
Fitz nodded in agreement. “You have the right of it, Ma’am. Sadly, I have no such traditions in town, and I regret that fact. But…” he leaned forward, “I am hoping I will be able to take advantage of yours.”
“Whatever do you mean, sir?”
“Well, you see…I have this young lad in my town stables, and I believe he would make an excellent jockey…”
Geraldine heaved an internal sigh of relief and force herself not to look at Blaine. The conversation was proceeding along planned lines, and all she had to do was nod and look interested as the gentlemen related their plans for this “jockey”.
“Goodness.” Mrs Foster raised her eyebrows. “Flora? Geraldine’s Flora?” She turned to her daughter. “Isn’t she an Andalusian? I didn’t think they raced.”
“She is an Andalusian, yes, Mama. But she’s as fast as any horse around here…”
“Except Thunder,” mentioned Blaine.
“Possibly.” Geraldine waved the interruption aside. “I believe that Flora might stand an excellent chance of winning the Cup, since she has the strength to cover such a distance in bad winter conditions. A fact which has, as you well know, Mama, overwhelmed many hopeful horses and their riders.”
“A rough course, is it?” Fitz sounded interested.
“Very,” answered Geraldine. “And it changes according to the temperature, let alone the rain or snow.” She leaned back in her chair, casting formality to the winds.
“If we have a dry spell, the going can be very fast over the turf, but then you hit hedges that are brittle and unforgiving. A very cold dry spell will have the same result, with the added risk of ice instead of water on the stream behind the last hedge. And the reverse applies to rainy periods prior to the race. Slow, wet turf, flooded streams and mires of mud all over the place.” She shook her head.
“Snow? Anyone’s guess as to what the course will be like. ”
“You know it well,” Blaine commented.
“I do,” she answered, meeting his gaze. “I have ridden it myself on many occasions. Not in the race, of course, but sometimes Flora and I like to stretch our legs.”
“I’m impressed.” Fitz smiled at her. “Your Flora sounds like an excellent lady.” He touched his lip with one finger, as if deep in thought. “So might I persuade you to allow my jockey to ride her this year?”
There it was. The suggestion she’d been waiting for.
Hoping to keep the conversation as normal as possible and not tip off her mother that a plot was unfolding before her very eyes, Geraldine took a breath.
“Goodness, Fitz. It is certainly an interesting idea.” She turned to Mrs Foster. “What do you think, Mama? Would a jockey who doesn’t live around here be permitted to ride a horse that does?”
“I don’t see why not,” her mother looked thoughtful. “But you should consult your Papa first.”
“Of course,” Geraldine smiled. “And he’ll turn it to me, asking if I’d be happy with Flora participating under another rider.” She looked at the two gentlemen. “I believe I would like to see that. To be able to give Flora a chance to show her talents in the race has long been a dream of mine.”
“Well then…” began Fitz.
She held up a hand with an apologetic smile. “But. And yes, there is a ‘but’ here…I would prefer you to visit with Flora first. I believe you might be better able to gauge the abilities of your jockey were you to see the horse he’ll be riding.”
“An excellent suggestion, Miss Foster,” grinned Fitz.
“But may I have a few more moments to finish my scone? And possibly beg another? These are the best I’ve had in years.
” He flashed a broad smile at Mrs Foster.
“If I lived nearer, Ma’am, you’d see me every day, just for these alone, I swear.
” He popped the last morsel into his mouth and groaned with pleasure.
Blaine and Geraldine shared a glance of patient tolerance, while Mrs Foster beamed at all three.
Once Fitz had declared himself sated, and all the usual pleasantries had once again been exchanged, Geraldine was able to drag the two men from the parlour, leaving her mother with a happy grin on her face.
God only knew what plans were fomenting in that maternal brain of hers, but for now, all that could wait. It was time to get Blaine and Fitz to the stables and wring more information out of them about the race, and their plans for her.
“Damned cold down here,” grumbled Fitz, bundled up to the eyeballs in his cloak, hat, and thick muffler, which wound twice around his neck.
“Does he complain a lot?” Geraldine asked Blaine.
“All the time.”
“I do not.”
“Do too.”
“Gentlemen – and I use that word loosely since you’re both turning into annoying eight-year-old boys – I would like to interrupt this fascinating argument and ask if you’ve made the arrangements for the race? The ones concerning myself and Flora?”
Two faces turned to her, pink with cold and grinning. They truly did look like little boys up to no good. She couldn’t help but grin back.
“I want to see this wonder horse first,” declared Fitz. “I know I’m outnumbered, and you’ll be atop her, but still…”
“And she’ll want to see you.”
They arrived at the stables and hurried into the warmth, so familiar to Geraldine it was as if she’d walked back into her own home.
Nodding at the grooms, she led the men along the centre aisle, to the final stall where a grey head was already peering down the length at her.
“Hello, my darling,” she said, rubbing Flora’s nose. “Here’s Sir Blaine to see you. And he’s brought a friend with him, so be very nice to Fitz, please. It’s because of him that we’re going to race in the Mistletoe Cup.” She whispered the last words very low.
Flora, who clearly understood every word, turned her head slightly and surveyed the two gentlemen, a long and assessing look from those dark eyes.
“I feel as if I’ve just been measured and found wanting,” murmured Fitz. “Damn. She’s beautiful, though. Absolutely beautiful.”
Flora lifted her head, then neighed and nodded, making them all laugh.
After several minutes in her stall, observing her carefully, running his hands over her chest and patting her, Fitz turned to Blaine with a determined expression. “Any chance I can put a few shillings on this race? I think this lady’s going to walk away with the prize.”
Geraldine’s heart thudded with excitement. “You mean you approve of…of…the jockey too?”
Fitz reached out and ran his hand over Flora’s mane. “Yes, Miss Foster. I certainly do.” He dipped into a pocket concealed within the recesses of his cloak. “Provided you’re wearing this.” He passed her a small packet.
She carefully peeled away the outer paper and took a deep breath. Inside, amidst the tissue, she could see a brilliant red fabric, and on it was a familiar piece of embroidery.
It was her shirt – for the Mistletoe Cup race.