The mad clap of hooves rushes by us at breakneck speed. The roar is nearly blotted out by the screams of our fellow racegoers, each one rooting for a different horse. Even Papa leaps to his feet, shouting for his stallion to cross the finish line first.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the yelling stops. Two horses, it seems, have galloped across the finish line simultaneously, and the officials have been called over to assess the results. But since neither one of the horses belongs to Papa, our party gathers back together, sipping drinks and chatting about the race.
This gathering may be one of my favorites of those hosted by my parents over the summer. Before the war, my parents always invited a slew of guests for a weekend that culminated at the Newbury Racecourse, for which Papa is a steward. The schedule included a tour of the Highclere Stud, which Papa founded to breed Thoroughbred racehorses. He situated the facilities on three hundred acres of rolling grassland in a lovely valley near Highclere Castle, and it has produced some winning racehorses and created excellent Thoroughbred bloodlines. Last summer was the first time the tradition resumed since the war.
This year, I have a special guest of my own: Lieutenant Beauchamp. It is his first visit to Highclere Castle, and I’ve been delighted with his interest in our historic home and Papa’s Egyptian collection.
We wander across the carpeted, tented area Papa has constructed next to the track, so our guests can sip and nibble inluxury while getting as close to the action as is safe. Every one of my parents’ friends is dressed in the latest fashions, the women in silk dresses—myself among them in a peach silk number with embroidered roses and a matching hat—and the men in lightweight, pale-colored suits. We make an elegant display, and one could almost forget that, until recently, Newbury Racecourse had been requisitioned by the War Office and once served as an internment camp for prisoners of war.
I try to banish the thought of the barracks erected on the track and the stables used to billet enemies, and smile up at Lieutenant Beauchamp. One of the servants hired specially for today pauses before us, and we reach for a flute of champagne and a small plate of perfectly ripe strawberries from Highclere’s gardens.
“Will your father be in a fury because his horse didn’t win?” he asks me, glancing over at Papa.
I know Lieutenant Beauchamp is more than a little intimidated by my father and terrified of making a misstep in front of my mother, which I find endearing as I assume he’s anxious to impress them on my behalf. We joke about it between ourselves, and I do my level best to assuage his fears. Not that my parents have helped by softening their manner.It’s astonishing, I think,that Mama, who so desperately wants me to find a suitor I actually like, cannot muster her best behavior for the one gentleman to whom I’m drawn. It’s impossible to know where one stands with her. Is she simply harboring a grudge because I’ve managed to convince Papa that I should participate in the archaeological season in Egypt?
“No,” I assure him. I don’t want him avoiding my father. “Papa has entered six different horses from Highclere Stud in today’s races, and Robert le Diable and Mauvezin Valens are predicted to win upcoming races.”
“Robert and Mauzevin?” His brows are furrowed, and he looks utterly confused.
I can’t help but smile. “Those are the names of Papa’s two best racehorses.”
We place our empty plates and glasses on a passing silver tray, thenglance at the program, and I point out Papa’s upcoming horse. “If you ever want to engage my father in conversation, I strongly suggest two topics—racehorses and Egypt.”
He laughs, and says, “Consider it noted.”
But then, a horror creeps through me. Was that too forward? By offering Lieutenant Beauchamp subjects to ease his discussions with my father, does it seem as though I am being presumptuous about his feelings?
“Is that my little sister, Eve?!” A voice calls to me across the tent.
I turn to see my older brother, arms outstretched. “Porchey!” I shout back and dash across the room.
He sweeps me into his arms and swings me around, as he did when we were children. How I’ve missed my ally in this family. The only one who adores me unconditionally. Even though he does tease me terribly.
“How handsome you look!” I exclaim. “The new Hussars uniform suits you well. Not to mention you have a healthy color about you!” After the war, Porchey had stayed on with the 7th Queen’s Own Hussars, and he’s most recently been stationed in Constantinople, where Uncle Aubrey is posted as well.
“Living on the Sea of Marmara will have that effect,” he says with a smile, and his teeth look especially white against the bronze of his skin.
“Eve, there is someone I want you to meet.” Porchey reaches behind him and brings to his side a lovely young woman with bobbed, dark-blond hair and a winning smile. “This is Miss Catherine Wendell of New York City. She and her mother have been staying with family in London and Hertfordshire, but we actually met in Paris.”
“Lovely to meet you, Miss Wendell,” I greet her, and gesture for Lieutenant Beauchamp to join us. “And I’d like you to meet someone as well. This is Lieutenant Beauchamp of the Life Guards.”
As the men exchange their military backgrounds and the officers they have in common, I welcome Miss Wendell, trying not to gawk at the fact that she and my brother continue to hold hands. Porcheyhas hadmanyflirtations and paramours over the years, but to my knowledge, he has never brought anyone home to Highclere Castle. This must be serious.
After another glass of champagne, Miss Wendell and Lieutenant Beauchamp realize that they share American acquaintances. Lieutenant Beauchamp’s mother is American, and although she hails from Columbus, Ohio, she has family and friends in New York with whom Miss Wendell is familiar.
“Best not highlight to Mama that our friends are from America or have strong American ties,” I whisper to Porchey with a mischievous smile, as our companions chat. “You know how she shudders at interacting with Americans.”
I mean to make him laugh, but his face only grows more serious. “That’s what I’m worried about. The Wendells are esteemed—”
“For Americans,” I interject in Mama’s voice, hoping to prompt a smile.
Porchey only gives me a weak half grin, before continuing: “But Catherine has little in the way of a financial settlement.”
“Surely money doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’d imagine that the American heritage would be more the concern. Assuming you are serious about Miss Wendell, that is?” I give my brother a long, meaningful glance.
He ignores my question altogether, and instead stares at me with one eyebrow raised. “Of course, money matters. You’ve spent the better part of the past two years in our parents’ company—at home and in Egypt. How can younotknow that money matters? That’s all Papa talked about with me in Paris last month—his lack of money.” Porchey references the rare weekend alone he spent with Papa.
I am flabbergasted. I’m not blind. I know taxes have been on the increase at the same time Highclere Castle’s agriculture income has been falling and, of course, the expeditions to Egypt are very costly. But Ialsoknow that Mama’s father left her his entire fortune when he died three years ago. Surely that should suffice for familial needs and that of Highclere Castle, at a minimum.
