Chapter Thirteen
Christmas Day came and went; for Geraldine it was a blur. She’d kept to her stance and not spoken to Blaine for the rest of the Christmas Eve party, although it had taken some creative movements to ensure it didn’t happen.
The following day she tried her best to do and say all the right things, to enjoy the food and warmth, the sharing of Christmas wishes, and helping dispense the treats and gifts to those who worked so hard for them all year long.
Although that was an activity more traditionally occurring on Boxing Day, at Holly Grange and most places in Upper Bicklesworthy, it took place on Christmas Day itself.
Boxing Day was reserved for the race.
And it was upon that morning that Geraldine awoke filled with resolution. She would race, she would win, and then she would confront Blaine.
If he was still of a mind to wed, then she’d agree. If not – and part of her brain shuddered at the notion – she’d thank him politely and walk away.
There would probably follow several years of mourning and the possibility of joining a convent, but a few moments of thought along those lines reminded her that nuns did not own horses. And she couldn’t bring herself to even consider leaving Flora.
It would be a day of reckoning on many levels, but she lifted her chin, stared at herself in the mirror, and vowed to make it all work.
She wanted this race for herself, for Flora, and for all the women who had been prevented from doing such a thing.
She needed to show Blaine her capabilities and have him understand that a wife didn’t have to be protected every minute of the day.
Would her actions be regarded as outrageous?
By some, yes. In London, she’d most likely be shunned, or given the cut direct.
But here in the country, where reputations were less important, and especially in Upper Bicklesworthy where everyone had watched her grow up, she felt comfortable believing they’d support her actions.
Her parents would be shocked, but she knew they would eventually be proud of her. After all, they’d raised her to be the independent woman she was.
She had decided to change at home since it was so early. Her parents would understand her leaving the house at this hour, knowing her interest in the race, so she was able to gather her newest wardrobe in the privacy of her room.
Thankfully, the breeches she’d “borrowed” from her brother’s trunk were suitably disreputable, showing signs of considerable wear and more than a few permanent mud stains. Since they were his old riding breeches, she assumed nobody would pay much attention.
The shirt, however, well, that was a different matter.
A splendid shade of red, with the traditional embroidery of mistletoe, holly and a pinecone…
it looked and felt wonderful. How Blaine had obtained it, she had no idea, but looking at herself in her mirror, she knew her heart leapt beneath it.
Of course, there were a couple of garments in between her skin and the silks, for warmth and for protection if necessary.
Branches could whip a nasty weal into an unprotected arm, and she acknowledged that riders sometimes had little care where their riding crops went in the heat of the race.
She’d appropriated an old cap and tucked her hair into it, planning on adding some mud to her face before arriving at the starting line.
She was ready. Gerry Smith was now fully attired and eager to mount Flora, and since the coast was clear with everyone involved in their own preparations, she left Holly Grange for the stables, a note to her Mama on the hall table letting her know she’d gone on ahead and would see them later.
The familiar building was a welcome sight and with a sigh she let go of her worries about marriage and Blaine, diverting all her attention to Flora, and Jepson, who was putting on her saddle as Geraldine arrived.
“Mornin’. Still goin’ through with this silliness, then?”
“Did you doubt it?” She walked in and gave the horse a pat. “Good morning, my girl. And are we ready for some fun today?”
Flora nosed at the cap, snuffling through her large nostrils.
“Yes, it’s me. We have a stiff ride ahead of us, love.”
“She’ll do.” Jepson turned to walk her out. “Ready fer a good run, she is.”
They moved to the courtyard, empty now as the grooms were enjoying a morning of rest. Most of the other horses were already cared for, and munching contentedly on their hay.
“Mama and Papa?”
“Carriage,” answered Jepson. “Gotta pair ready when they are.” He nodded at two horses poking their heads out of their stalls. “Now then. Up with yer…”
Geraldine put her foot in his hands and let him toss her up into the saddle. She settled immediately, her stirrups the perfect length, the reins held comfortably in her gloved fingers.
“We’ll go easy, Miss Gerry. Don’t wanna tire ’er too early.”
She chuckled as she watched Jepson mount his horse. “Not likely. She’s as ready as I am.”
“That’s what I’m afeard of,” he muttered. “C’mon then. Let’s be at it.”
Overnight, the temperatures had risen, which was good for the riders, since the air lacked the vicious bite of icy winds. But it wasn’t so good for the horses.
“Messy, most like,” Jepson observed, as their walk across the first field toward Kendall Manor resulted in a distinct squishing sound.
“Not afraid of a little mud, are you?” teased Geraldine.
“Me? No, but going’s gonna be rough if there’s mud an’ river’ll be higher than normal…”
“Good points.” She made a mental note of his comments. “Glad I’m not wearing anything important.”
The sky above them showed signs of clearing and although the ground was still snow covered, it was quite clear that some melting was taking place.
It seemed like hours before the Kendall Manor paddock appeared, with the bunting flying in the breeze, and more than a few people already gathered to watch the start of the race.
“‘Ere we go, then. Yer ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied firmly. “Here. You’re to give this to whoever is making the announcements this year.”
He blinked at the piece of paper she handed him. “Ridin’ fer the Wildes, Master Gerry Smith.”
“That’s me.” Sitting straight, she slipped her cloak off her shoulders and rolled it up, giving to Jepson and then pulling down the brim of her cap low over her nose. “I’m Master Gerry Smith.”
Jepson took in a breath of air. “Yer be careful. Anything ‘appens ter yer, I’ll kill yer meself.”
“Thanks, Jepson.” She gave him a sweet smile. “I love you too.”
He snorted. “An’ take care o’ that ‘orse.”
Gathering the reins, she moved to where the racers were lining up, a colourful mass of jockey silks and sleek, shining horses.
Recognising several of the riders, she steered Flora to a spot between two men she didn’t know and gave them a brief nod.
This was the hard part, waiting, terrified someone would call her out and reveal her identity.
The ground was damp here, snow free, and already the legs of just about all the horses were showing spots of mud.
Jepson was right; it would be very wet crossing the stream, and along the stretch that bordered the river.
Mentally, she reviewed the course, making adjustments for the conditions.
Then the announcements began.
There were around two dozen or so entrants, and as each jockey’s name was called, he would acknowledge it with a wave.
The Vicar was handling that, since the owner of Kendall Manor was in the lineup at the starting gate. She’d seen him immediately but tried not to look at him. Right at this moment, Blaine was a distraction she neither needed nor could afford.
She gave a wave when her name was called, hiding a smile at a single hurrah which had to have come from Fitz, somewhere in the crowd of onlookers.
Silence fell as the final name was read, the rope pulled taut across the starting line, and then…it dropped…
And they were off.
She was there, damn her.
Blaine saw her shirt, saw Flora, and cursed luridly as he moved to take his place in the starting line.
He’d spent most of the time since the Christmas Party trying to come up with a suitable solution and had failed.
Now he was confronted with the woman he loved astride a huge horse, preparing to race shoulder-to-shoulder with lads who were determined to win and didn’t care how they went about it.
It was a nightmarish situation, but since his prayer that she’d not show up had gone unanswered, he had to make the best of it.
If he could stay close to her throughout the race, maybe he could do his best to see her safe. It might mean pulling Thunder up a bit, because he wasn’t too sure Flora could outpace either himself or some of the other horses.
It was, he admitted to himself, a terrible plan, but it was all he had.
And before he fully realised it, they were off.
The field stayed together over the first paddock, a straight run toward the end and the first hedge. It was a high one, pruned level only a few days ago, but enough to slow several of the newer lads, and one who promptly fell off as his mount soared over the leaves without him.
There were some laughs, cheers, and jeers, but the rest of them pounded on, heading across a very wide field. Here, the going was rougher, with tufts and dips, small hollows, and hillocks. Thunder ignored it all, as did Flora, who was now amidst the leaders.
Clouds settled in once more, and for the next few minutes all he heard was the pounding of hooves, the creak of leather, and the heavy breathing of both horses and riders.
Another jump – a large stile this time – and another field. Two more riders fell back, leaving five by Blaine’s count, leading the way. And Gerry was there, Flora easily taking every challenge with disdain.
Thunder was enjoying himself, too. Blaine hadn’t needed anything but a touch of his heels and a guiding hand on the reins. The lad was born to race.