Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
NEWMARKET, NEXT DAY
Race mornings weren’t like any of the other mornings in Liam’s year.
Every other morning began with his eyes popping open and him rolling out of bed the very next instant and getting on with the day ahead of him.
Race day, however, took on a different cadence from the instant he woke.
He didn’t immediately roll out of bed.
He lay still and pictured.
That was his term for it.
He pictured every step he would take on this day.
He walked himself through the minutes—his feet hitting the floor…
the splash of cold water to the face…donning his race silks…
his walk to the stables, keeping himself to himself all the while…
the rhythm of the brush across his mount’s coat.
Even Rake knew not to speak to him. The finalization of all their strategies and tactics occurred the night before.
Then the groom would fold and layer the blanket beneath Liam’s watchful eye before placing the saddle. Liam saw to the straps. Then, all secure and as he liked, he would mount the Thoroughbred.
The quiet part of his day complete, he and horse ventured from the stable and out into the fray of the crowd.
Today, all would be straining and clamoring to take the measure of Liam Cassidy and his mount Daylily, bouncing on the tips of their toes, some eyes narrowed, others wide, as they decided on whom to place their bets.
Liam would continue keeping himself to himself as they walked to the Rubbing House for the weigh in, then out again into the crowd as they entered the racecourse and took to the turf to warm Daylily’s muscles for the race.
Then they would approach the start…jostling for position, feet prancing, waiting for the firing of the gun, Liam’s heart in his throat, anticipation roaring through his veins…
On race day, all this sat in his mind before he ever ventured from bed.
It settled him.
It focused him.
It solidified purpose.
Up to a point.
He never pictured the race itself. For the outcome of a race wasn’t predetermined and couldn’t be predicted.
Between the weather and the condition of the turf, and the other horses and jockeys, there were too many variables, too many wants and desires.
And everyone trying to attain the same prize—first place.
To picture that outcome, to predict the race, only locked Liam into a fixed direction.
He’d done it before—to disastrous results.
He’d envisaged the race going one way—his way—and when it hadn’t, he hadn’t been able to adjust.
Still, he’d learned a few important lessons from the loss. One must remain fluid, nimble, and in the flow once the starting gun fired—and one must never, ever try to predict a horse race.
These were details Lady Saskia might want to include in the memoir.
If he ever saw her again.
Which was no sure thing.
It had been a month.
A month since he’d left her at her bedroom door.
A month and a day since she’d kissed him—and he’d kissed her back.
In reality, they’d known each other for only a single day. And while he couldn’t precisely say he missed her, strangely, he felt an absence in his life.
A few days ago, he’d raced the Two thousand Guineas on Morningstar—and won.
She hadn’t been there.
And, odds were, she wouldn’t be here today for the One Thousand Guineas, the fillies race.
But now—like all other concerns unrelated to the horse below him as a lad led them through the boisterous crowd toward the Rubbing House—he put Lady Saskia from his mind.
He held all his energies carefully banked inside him.
A passable smile curved his mouth. Monosyllabic responses to any questions asked.
A nod to all well-wishes given. He would need every last bit of that energy, for today promised to be a fight to the end.
It was the Duchess of Acaster’s filly, Lady Midnight, who would bring the fight to Daylily today.
The turf rags had already run with the narrative of day versus night, and the betting around the post was ferocious.
It wasn’t all unmerited puff, either. The odds were, in fact, tipped heavily in favor of Lady Midnight.
However, he was Liam Cassidy, and that counted for something.
His winning record spoke for itself. Further, he held a knowledge that a winning record couldn’t reflect: a skilled, intuitive jockey could take a less perfect or talented horse and ride it to victory.
A belief that had had him and his mount crossing the finish line first on more than one occasion.
Today didn’t have to be any different.
Weigh-in complete, the lad led him and Daylily toward the racecourse.
Liam surveyed the grounds. The crowds were massive, of course, with all the attendant laughter, shouting, and all-around general gaiety on a day like this.
Later, after the race, there would be a few tears, too.
But this was race day at Newmarket, and every emotion available to mankind was to be expected.
What Liam liked about Newmarket more than any other course in England was that pure racing was its raison d’être.
Dry, hard, and straight, the Rowley Mile, the track where the One Thousand Guineas was run, was blazing fast. The fastest course in England, in fact, as it ran flat for the first mile.
But that mile wasn’t where the course tested horse and rider.
The true test came in the final two furlongs, the penultimate of which was a blistering downhill that bottomed out at “The Dip.” Then, from the lowest point, came the final uphill furlong, which was a true test of grit, strength, and resolve.
Newmarket wasn’t a lovely course, like Epsom Downs or Goodwood, but it dug into the soul, this course.
It pulled the fight and the heart from all who raced it.
He found his gaze scanning the crowd with an intensity that could’ve only been characterized as single-minded.
Lady Saskia Calthorp.
That second night at the Drunken Piebald, he’d miscalculated and scared her off.
Disappointing, that.
But as Daylily stepped hoof onto the dense green turf of the Rowley Mile, Liam tucked all thoughts of Lady Saskia into a back corner of his mind and brought his energy into this moment.
A skill he’d developed that was vital to his style of racing.
For he didn’t use whip or spur to assert his will over his mount.
Instead, he employed a number of tactics over the three or so minutes of a race.
He couldn’t explain it with words, but a feeling passed from him to horse as he urged him or her to their fastest. A cellular messaging that they were in this race together.
Their race wasn’t about the domination of jockey over horse—or man over beast. Rather, it was a communion.
A mutual goal—to cross the finish line ahead of every other horse.
Two tactics, in particular, were the difference between a win and a loss: that he conceal his intentions and that he remain attuned to pace through every furlong. The stamina of his mount depended on this, especially in a race like Newmarket where the final furlong was an uphill battle.
As they reached the starting line, Liam muscled Daylily through horses and jockeys resplendent in their liveries, aiming for a place nearest the railing as they could manage.
As the filly was the unrufflable sort, she kept her cool head in the tetchy scrum of the twenty or so other Thoroughbreds. “Good girl,” he cooed into her ear.
None of the other jockeys spoke to him. They exchanged simple, silent nods. They could raise a glass and have a grand, old wassail later, once this race was at their backs.
His strategy for Daylily was simple—start her from the inside and use her quick feet to get out ahead before anyone could notice.
For Lady Midnight, however, Liam noted, a different strategy was at play.
Her jockey, Clifton Ames, angled her toward the outer edge of the pack.
As she was rumored to be a high-spirited filly, keeping her clear of the fractious fray was the better part of wisdom.
But so, too, did that strategy speak of complete confidence.
With her perfect conformation, talent, and grit, said that strategy, Lady Midnight could make up the disadvantage of an outside start.
She’d run at Great Yarmouth in the two-year-old race last summer and had bested every filly in the field, so Liam had no doubt about the threat she posed.
In fact, he fully expected to see her run the Oaks in June and the St. Leger in September.
She looked the sort who would take to the longer races as the season wore on.
Once the field was assembled at the starting line, their positions fixed, the crowd went as quiet as a crowd of thousands possibly could. Here was the moment that got the blood up and rushing through the veins…the breath shallow with anticipation…muscles tensed with readiness.
It was up to this exact moment that Liam had pictured this day.
Beyond the imminent firing of the starting gun lay the unknown.
After all, he wasn’t the only one out here with a strategy.
Everyone had a plan.
And how often was it that the outcome of a race was determined in the very first step?
Every jockey on this turf knew that to miss or falter on that first step was the end of their race before it could even begin.
Liam’s breath held—no part of him moved, in fact—as he waited…waited… The gun fired.
Daylily lurched forward and took her first step…
And it was a good one.
In the space between one instant and the next, the filly bolted into the lead, her lightning quick speed doing precisely what Liam hoped.
Yet, though she wasted no time putting a length between herself and her nearest competitor, this wasn’t one of those races where Liam could relax all the way to a victory.
The work of this race would be coming for them in the second half, he felt the certainty through to the marrow of his bones.
For now, he sank into the ride, the thrill that only one thousand pounds of superior horseflesh thundering below could produce.
He and his mount unified in purpose…bound by trust…
his teeth gritted against the wind blasting across his face…
the ferocity of battle…the exhilaration…
All this was possible to feel at once—a surplus of feeling as they had no choice but to give over and to give all.
At his back—too soon—Liam heard it… What he’d been waiting for: the inevitable, rhythmic pounding of approaching hooves.
Lady Midnight was coming.
Blast.
He’d hoped to have made it to the ninth downhill furlong before she caught them.
So be it. The battle would commence at the sixth.
The truth was Liam didn’t prefer racing from the front and only did so rarely.
His style of riding was better suited to sitting back in the race, while keeping within striking distance of the leaders.
It allowed his mount to conserve energy for the final furlong.
Of course, Ames was well-acquainted Liam’s style, which was why he wasn’t allowing Daylily to dictate the pace and was, instead, bringing the battle early by imposing Lady Midnight’s pace on the field.
Liam dug in for the fight as they thundered toward The Dip, neck and neck.
In the final uphill furlong, however, he sensed it—Daylily was fading.
Sure, from a spectators’ point of view, she would appear to be in the thick of it.
But Liam knew differently. Which wasn’t to say he was about to concede the race, but it had become Lady Midnight’s to lose.
Sometimes that happened. Sometimes, the better horse fumbled the finish, whether it be from distraction or lack of heart.
But that didn’t happen today.
Today, just as they reached the finish line, Lady Midnight pulled ahead by half a length, making her the clear, undisputed winner of the One Thousand Guineas.
Blast.
Liam didn’t like losing.
He’d never developed the knack for taking it in his stride. Through the ferocity and will-to-win roaring through his veins, it was a hard fact to accept in the heat of the moment. One second, it was the bloodlust of battle…the next, gut-wrenching defeat.
But he never took his frustrated ambition out on his competitors—who he immediately congratulated—or on his mount, who he thanked and praised as he cooled her down. “You gave your all,” he said, patting Daylily’s neck. “And that’s all I could ask for, my sweet.”
But he couldn’t count the day as a total loss.
He now possessed information for the rest of the season.
If he were a betting man, he would lay odds that Lady Midnight would not be running in the next fillies’ race, the Oaks.
The Duchess of Acaster would run her in the premier event of the season—the Derby.
Aye, Morningstar would have his hands full with that filly come June. It was rare for a filly to win the Triple Crown—or Triple Tiara, as some liked to say for fillies—but Lady Midnight had the stuff.
A thrill of anticipation for the coming fight pulsed through him.
Let her bring her best.
Once he’d cooled Daylily down and handed her over to Cal, Rake’s most trusted stable lad, a feminine voice different from all the others throwing greetings, commiserations, and curses at him sounded at his back. “You didn’t win.”
He froze.
The chaotic world of race-day Newmarket fell away, and a new variety of anticipation pulsed through him.
If he wasn’t mistaken, the possessor of that voice was…
He turned.
Lady Saskia Calthorp…silvery-blue eyes bright above spectacles perched on the tip of her nose…tendrils of strawberry-blonde hair escaping from beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, its sunshine-yellow ribbon fluttering in the light breeze…her cheeks flushed…her breath shallow…
Liam’s brow creased. “Have you been running?”
She pushed her spectacles up to their rightful resting place on the bridge of her nose, in the process collecting herself.
He wished she wouldn’t.
He liked her like this—a bit out of balance.
“More of a brisk walk,” she said in that cherry-tart voice he remembered.
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, demanding release. “Did you briskly walk all the way from the grandstand to inform me of my loss?”
He caught the instant she registered the tease in his voice, for a sheepish smile sparked in her bright eyes.
A dry laugh drew his attention to her rose-pink lips.
His gaze lingered there a few ticks of time too long.
Perhaps it was the blood yet het up in his veins, or perhaps it was pure and simple inclination, or perhaps it was habit that longed to be formed, but he could kiss Lady Saskia.
Here…now…for all to see…
Again.
And he knew the instant the thought struck him.
It was definitely the third perhaps.