“Sorry, Aunt.” And from the cushioned seat of their open barouche, Hebe flung her head back to view the cloudless sky, then fluffed her spencer jacket, twiddled her toes, sniffed the invite again and hummed.
The matched chestnut pair sped along the carriageway, Watkins the coachman whistling while Cripps alongside him gripped the perch edge with white knuckles.
“I’ve never seen you so excited,” declared Aunt with a wide grin. “You are positively chafing at the bit.”
“But the races, Aunt! ’Twas so kind of Lord Ernest as I’ve never attended the like. So many breeds of horse. And to see them gallop at such speed.”
“Race days are thrilling, I will admit. Some duke I forget the name of invited me to St Ledgers years back and the atmosphere was so vibrant.”
“Were many ladies in attendance?”
“A fair few watching from carriages. ’Tis not quite as ruinous for us ladies as a visit to the Prince’s gambling hell.”
Hebe grinned, foot joggling as five gentlemen on sleek greys overtook their barouche – race attendees heading for Bibury no doubt. The gentlemen tipped their hats, all smart buckskins and elegant jackets, before they kicked their heels and set to a canter.
Yesterday, there’d been neither sight nor sound of Lord Ernest. Or much of anyone connected with the stables, which had suited Hebe perfectly as she’d spent all day engrossed in mixing watercolours to match the hunter’s golden coat. She’d slept like a babe, mayhap aided by that fine-scented herb left beneath her pillow.
Over supper, Garvey had presented them this splendid invitation, alongside a note which had conveyed his lordship’s apologies for being absent as each entrant for the races was required to show their horse to the Club Committee the night before. As it so happened, this committee met at a nearby inn to the racecourse and no doubt a few ales were also imbibed.
Garvey had explained that these races, a mere half-hour ride away, had been held in the small village of Bibury since the reign of Charles I, when His Majesty’s passion for horses had seen most of his court – and his mistress – lodged in Burford. In modern times, the Prince Regent was a regular attendee, a grandstand having been built in his honour.
One of the contests this year, the Burford Sweepstake, permitted society gentlemen to enter upon their own steeds – no trained jockeys – and so his lordship was to ride Lord Jack.
Hebe twisted in her seat at a thunderous clatter of hooves from behind them and spied a smart phaeton bearing down. It swiftly outpaced their barouche, lurching as a rear wheel hit a rut in the carriageway, and Hebe wondered how busy these races might be.
She’d not been able to question Lord Ernest this morning as he and most of the Rothwell grooms had departed for Bibury before breakfast.
“Racecourse ahead!” called the coachman as the barouche slowed, and Hebe leaned over the side of the door to see past his perch.
Oh.
Her shoulders slumped at what must be the queue for entry.
No wonder that phaeton had been clipping quite a pace.
Gentlemen upon horseback, three or four abreast, chatted and gesticulated, beaver hats bobbing. A line of open carriages sat stationary, ladies in silk bonnets languidly fanning themselves. Lads dodged back and forth with messages while pie sellers and newspaper vendors worked the queue, women in ragged skirts hawking picnic blankets of Cotswold wool.
Hebe had imagined the races to be rather a basic and bucolic affair, whereas in fact, this resembled Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon: an elegant scene of London folk taking the country air.
“Don’t worry yourselves, ladies.” Watkins twisted on his coachman’s perch. “Us locals can enter at the second gate.” And off they veered to the right between a copse of trees, past the back of barns and to a wide wooden gate presided over by two thickset men. “I’ve his lordship’s ladies here,” declared their driver.
Hebe winced.
That made them sound like an ordered harem.
With the gate duly opened, they rolled left and Hebe sat tall in the open barouche to view the scene ahead.
“Lawks,” muttered Aunt. “Do you think we’ll even see the race? Where’s the course?”
Though rather unladylike, Hebe stood, hand to the seat back. “Some carriages are in a line. Perhaps that’s it.”
Yet the racecourse was nigh indistinguishable from the field as men on horseback ambled in all directions, curricles and phaetons forced to dawdle through the melee. “I can make out jockeys in their colours though.” And she sat with a bump as their barouche swerved.
Expectation pervaded the air along with the scent of leather and horse, but also of sandalwood and jasmine, for only the titled and rich strolled these grounds, the stabling and training of horses an expensive affair.
“I’ll park us here,” said the coachman as their barouche nigh wheeled over a young buck who’d alighted to tighten his saddle.
“Does this rope mark the course edge?”
