CHAPTER ELEVEN #3
‘I just wanted to say … I’m serious, Sage. I’ve thought about this – it’s all I have been able to think about. I didn’t know if you would ever consider it. Consider me, I mean. I know it’s not simple – your and Hal’s situation with Santiago – but I am not taking it lightly …’
Sage wanted to burst into tears at his good, kind sincerity that recognized that Hal would always be her priority. The mention of Santiago brought her back to earth with a bump, however.
She smiled and, placing a featherlight kiss on his lips, let herself out of the stable. Not trusting herself to say any more, not knowing what to say or even what she was feeling, she whispered the one true thing she did know in that moment.
‘Thank you. I can’t wait to see you tonight.’
Sage found Betsy and Dolly sitting at a table in the bar with Constance and Louis Dunbarton.
Taking in her mussed hair and feverishly bright eyes, Louis asked sardonically, ‘How were the horses?’
‘No Casper?’ Sage asked in dismay, ignoring Louis.
She could do with some help, her thoughts were so scrambled.
Casper would be able to keep things on an even keel; he was so good in social situations like these, having perfected the art of small talk over the years on the legions of owners he rode for.
More importantly though, she needed his honest, intelligent council.
‘Oh, he’s here, Sage. They are at the bar.’ Dolly’s eyes were slightly wild as she motioned, dramatic in her subtlety of limited movement, over her shoulder.
Sage looked up and with a sinking heart saw that Casper was indeed at the bar, and next to him, dressed in a completely inappropriate pink mini-dress and cream pashmina, was Isabel Delemaine.
Oh shit, she thought, her hot air balloon of newly found happiness taking another plunge. This was all they needed.
Plastering on a big smile, Sage made her way through the room, edging around tables and winding between the people who were milling about waiting for the next race. Reaching Casper and Isabel who were ordering drinks, Sage leant against her brother for a moment.
‘Hello, dearest.’ She gave him a quick, tight hug. Then rallying, she said, ‘Isabel. How are you?’
‘Oh, hi. I’m exhausted. Casper, can we go soon?’ Isabel pouted her huge painted lips and looked pointedly at her watch.
‘We can go after this race, Issy,’ Casper said placatingly but his smile was tight.
‘Are you all right, Sage? I did try to call you, but as usual you’ve turned your bloody phone off.
You look all pink and flushed.’ He had been punishingly busy with work and had not spent enough time with her, and he was relieved to see that her cheeks were less hollow, her face looked noticeably less gaunt.
There was even a sparkle back in her eye.
The healing power of our grandparents’ love and Maggie’s cooking, he thought with satisfaction, comforted that Sage was clearly being cosseted at North Place.
‘I need to go down to the paddock, I promised Bumpa. Can you hold the fort here? It’s important.
I really want to talk to you but …’ She could see that was now impossible with Isabel here so she spoke in shorthand.
‘Can you charm the socks off Lady Dunbarton for me, please?’ Sage could see the horses being saddled down in the stalls and was running out of time.
‘Ha! I can try. I’m not sure how potent my charisma is at the moment though.
’ Casper glanced at Isabel. She was sitting on one of the bar stools looking fashionable, incongruous and extremely fed up as she intently studied her pink, diamanté telephone.
She was glaringly out of place amongst all the warm, earthy colours of the tweedish country folk like a pink carnation in a field of buttercups.
Sage thought how pretty Isabel would be if she did not look so perennially sulky.
Casper regarded Dolly with a reluctant swell of emotion. Her face was also flushed, her manner naturally warm and inviting in contrast to Isabel who was bristling with defence and animosity. He tried not to compare them, focusing instead on his sister.
‘I’ll take Dolly down with me.’ Sage tried to rescue the precarious situation. ‘It’s freezing outside – keep Gammy up here with the Dunbartons and watch the race from the balcony, OK?’
‘Yup, OK. I’m on it.’ Casper squared his shoulders, gathered up the drinks and made his way over to the table, apprehensively looking back to check on Isabel who was still tapping away on her phone, not moving from her stool. Sage raised an eyebrow at him.
‘She was up at five for work in London this morning. Shooting for Rolling Stone magazine. She’s tired.
’ He wanted to excuse her bad manners but he was exhausted, too.
He had ridden two winners at Huntingdon and he was starving as he had been fasting to make the weight.
He wanted to dive into the plate of sandwiches on the bar but he was riding again the next day so he could only afford to eat a boiled egg for the rest of that day.
‘I didn’t say a word,’ she smiled, raising her hands in mock surrender.
Sage beckoned for Dolly to follow her down and let herself out of the warm bar into the cold gloom of the afternoon which was losing light fast. Pulling her dark blue cashmere coat tightly around her, she felt a wave of affection for her brother as she watched him through the glass.
He was leaning over to kiss Dolly hello as she was putting on her coat to leave.
Isabel was still sitting on her own at the bar, now talking animatedly on her telephone while simultaneously watching Casper like a hawk.
Sage stamped her feet in the smart leather shooting boots that she had borrowed from her grandmother, trying to warm them up as she waited.
She was glad she had worn thick leggings and a cashmere jumper today.
Isabel looked utterly ridiculous so dolled up, like Barbie reincarnated: totally absurd for a day at the races in this cold weather.
Dolly finally made her way out.
‘Come on. They’re in the parade ring already.’ Sage took her friend’s hand and pulled her along until they had joined Dennis who was standing in the ring, watching the horses circling.
‘Mr Wentworth must have opened his bloody trap,’ he muttered. ‘The filly’s strong in the market.’
Dolly looked questioningly at Sage.
‘What do you mean, Bumpa?’ Sage asked, not understanding either.
‘That infernal little shit, Fred Wentworth – you remember, Sage, that clot who rode Skylark in her first serious gallop – he must have told one of his punters that he liked her. Her odds have shortened dramatically throughout the day, meaning that more than one person thinks she stands a chance of winning and has had a gamble on her.’
‘Why is that bad?’ Dolly persisted.
Dennis looked at her, his fierce face softening into a wry grin.
‘Because I didn’t get my money on her in time!’
All seven runners had now entered the parade ring. They were all wearing woollen quarter sheets over their saddles to keep their backs warm.
‘Which one is Skylark?’ Dolly asked, trying to read the trainer’s initials on the individual horses.
‘She’s there.’ Sage pointed out the little filly, who was skittering about on the end of the lead rope. ‘Poor Katie has got her work cut out,’ she added grimly.
‘Oh, she’s so pretty, I love her flaxen mane and tail.’ Dolly’s artistic eye was drawn to the beauty of the copper coat and contrasting creamy golden mane and tail of the striking thoroughbred.