Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
One of the worst lies Lyness Eastwood had ever told was to himself. He reflected on this as he stood with his brother at the race track, looking out over the crowd, watching for a particular person to arrive.
The sunlight set off the pale stone arches of the Knavesmire Grandstand well enough that he could imagine what it looked like in its heyday, nearly a century before.
The murmur of voices echoing beneath the vaulted arcade, the scent of dust and horses carried on the wind, was familiar in a way that ought to bring comfort.
But his own thoughts distracted him.
The lie he told himself was simple. It was that there was no harm in being a friend to Mr. Jack Sterling and his sister, Lady Emily Sterling.
As he had determined to believe that lie, he had repeated it when visiting her twice between the night his heart broke and that very day.
The first time he visited was brief. He brought her a book on botany.
The illustrations were beautiful, the information helpful, and her pleasure on receiving the book made it worth the pain of pretending he had no greater interest in her than friendship.
The second time he visited was to give her strips of paper with his writing samples on it, to ask which she preferred to use for her bottled herbs.
He was delighted that she had continued to insist he make the labels for her stillroom ingredients.
Delighted. Like a fool.
Given her obvious pleasure, though, he could not help but smile even as he took himself to task. Her eyes had glowed with excitement, and she had looked over his samples with an attention to detail that no one had given his handwriting since his time at Harrow.
“I have not seen the Sterling party yet,” Roman said at his side, glancing down again somewhat casually.
He leaned against the rail of the balcony, studying the building behind them.
“I am glad someone thought to touch up the old building. The new paint brings her up to date. But something must be done about the chips in the staircases. I have heard some argue for an addition, but perhaps an entirely new building would be wiser.”
“And more expensive,” Lyness muttered from where he looked over the rail. “Doncaster’s races are growing in popularity. And I hate to say it, Roman, but the crowd does not look as large this year as the last.”
Roman turned to rest his elbows on the railing and let his clasped hands hang over the crowd below, for a moment looking like a supplicant about to ask the heavens for divine help. “The Duke of Sussex rejecting our invitation to speak at the Whig dinner did not help matters.”
Yes, that had been a blow to Roman and all the members of the Whig club. The news had leaked, too, and their political rivals were practically celebrating this mark against more progressive ideas.
Changing the subject seemed advisable. “I am surprised you prevailed upon Mother to attend today with us.”
A slight shrug came before Roman’s answer.
“She likes the indoors for speaking with her friends. I am certain she will witness none of the actual racing.” Still, his lips quirked upward.
“She seems more herself of late. I had worried her good humor would not return. This is something of a blessing.”
“I agree.”
Inside the Grandstand, the reception hall hummed with conversation and rustling of fine gowns and paper fans.
They were on the first floor, above the ground, but never went so high as the top floor that was open to the sky.
It made their mother light-headed, and there was no relief from either sun or rain, should either make an appearance.
From the balcony where they stood, the crowd below moved like a river, though full of color and sound, sweeping across the green of Knavesmire.
Carriages lined the nearest roadway, and the officials were having a difficult time keeping them moving so more passengers could step out into the excitement.
“Did they not put a notice in the paper about this?” Roman asked, pointing to the line of carriages. “I saw it. You saw it. Did the rest of York miss the directions for staging their carriages?”
Lyness looked down at the line of carriages as a door opened, and out came Sterling. He was impossible to miss, with his height and bearing so distinct from other men’s. Seeing him made Lyness grow still, because that meant after he handed down his wife, he helped his sister next.
Lady Emily. She looked up at the Grandstand balcony, and immediately his eyes found hers. His heart stopped for a long, painful moment. Then she waved, and it started up again at a faster tempo than before. His stomach dropped. He could not help but smile and lift his hand in return.
“There they are. At last.” Roman clapped Lyness on the shoulder and moved away from the rail, going inside to the stairs.
Lyness followed, tugging at the sleeves of his coat. Adjusting his hat. And he had nearly caught Roman up when a hand touched his sleeve.
“Mr. Eastwood. A moment of your time?”
He turned to the voice, unfamiliar as it was, and stiffened when he recognized the speaker. One Victor Patchett, son of a magistrate, stood there with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Mr. Patchett.” Lyness stepped away, double the distance needed for a stiff bow. Patchett was not someone Lyness knew well. The man was older than Roman, a Tory, and an arrogant lout who fancied himself far more important than he had any cause to be.
He was of similar height to Lyness, broad of shoulder, and some would likely call him handsome. But he was not a gentleman in most of his conduct, from what Lyness knew of gossip.
“You detain me from meeting my party, Mr. Patchett,” Lyness said, slowly and carefully choosing words that would keep him from stuttering.
The frustration of knowing his brother would welcome Lady Emily first, as well as having her to himself for her first impressions of the Grandstand and racing spectacle, threatened to trip him more than anything.
He looked away for a moment, trying to find her in the crowd, but a chuckle from Patchett brought his focus back.
Amusement brightened the other man’s expression, and his teeth flashed, like a hostile creature showing off its fangs.
“Yes, I saw your brother pass by. I am certain he needs your support at this critical juncture in his party’s history.
I understand the Duke of Sussex snubbed every Whig in York, and some say the Kingdom, with his decline of the supper invitation. How bleak.”
Lyness’s eyes narrowed. “I am here for the r-races. Not politics.”
“Of course not.” The arrogant man placed both hands on his walking stick and leaned his weight upon it on the ground before him.
“We are all here to enjoy ourselves. I merely thought I would share a touch of caution with your brother. Everyone knows he is the driving force behind your club. He’s made a nuisance of himself lately, with the pamphlets and papers he has sponsored. ”
The man’s rudeness and overreaching arrogance put Lyness out of composure. Which he hated. His irritation rising would mean a more difficult time getting the words out. Best to get things over with.
“Th-there is nothing w-w-wrong with his s-s-sponsorship of opinion pieces.”
Patchett smirked. “Not everyone agrees. Some say he is supporting those who hover near treason, when it comes to speaking against our monarch and government. One cannot help but think of recent conspiracies. I do believe there is hope he will be less...hm…prominently displayed by the Whigs in future.”
Roman was charming, spoke well, and possessed intelligence. Lyness had witnessed his brother winning any number of debates and humiliating Tories when they could not contradict the points he made.
But the hint about conspiracy made Lyness’s ire rise.
Two years had passed since the Cato Street affair—when radicals were caught plotting to murder the Prime Minister and the Cabinet.
The whole business had left many in politics keenly aware of how swiftly ordinary days could plunge into chaos.
When Lyness made no move to answer that ridiculous hint with more than a narrowing of his eyes, Patchett took a small step back.
“It seems you understand me. Your brother’s reputation is tied closely with the radicals of York. He would do well to separate the two, before one harms the other. A mere piece of advice, from one man of York to another.” He did not bow so much as nod.
Lyness turned away and went to find Roman, already escorting Lady Emily to the balcony while her brother and sister-in-law followed.
He had missed the exchange of greetings and was out of sorts besides.
So when he also arrived at the rail, he made his bows quick, though his gaze lingered on Lady Emily.
She looked elegant in a soft pink gown, her bonnet trimmed in yellow and pink ribbons.
The smile she bestowed on him as she said, “I am happy you are here, Mr. Eastwood,” made his heart soar.
Then she turned back to Roman. “All right. I am ready to learn all about racing.”
Roman chuckled and gestured to the race course.
The balcony of the grandstand overlooked the Knavesmire like a stage set for spectacle. Parasols dotted the terrace, gentlemen leaned forward with their quizzing glasses, and far below, the green sweep of turf.
Lyness stood a pace behind his brother and Lady Emily. Close enough to hear their conversation, far enough to pretend he didn’t listen. Roman was in his element, confident as ever, his voice carrying easily above the hum of the crowd.
“You see the white flag at the far post?” Roman gestured. “That’s where they’ll start. Two miles round, perhaps more. The best of them will keep something in reserve for the second heat.”
Lady Emily followed the line of his hand. “I can just make it out,” she said. “It seems a tremendous distance for one race.”