‘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 forRolling Stonemagazine. 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 shewatched 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 getmymoney 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.
The jockeys streamed out of the weighing room, shivering like thistledown in the wind dressed in only insubstantial rainbow silks. Josie Moore appeared before them wearing Betsy’s colours of pale pink with a blue hoop.
‘Afternoon, sir. It’s a privilege to ride for you,’ she said respectfully to Dennis. ‘Hello,’ she added good-naturedly, as she turned to Sage and Dolly and shook their hands. She must have been about nineteen, as brave as she was young.
‘Stick to the plan we talked about on the telephone,’ Dennis said gruffly. ‘The main thing is that she has a good start, and that she enjoys it. I’ve put a neck strap on her as she can be flighty – don’t be afraid to use it.’ As he finished talking, the bell rang for the jockeys to mount. Jim, his travelling head lad, pulled off Skylark’s sheet and Dennis legged Josie up. She and Skylark turned the corner into the chute and went briskly away, down to the start.
Hurrying now, as they only had a few minutes, Dennis, Sage and Dolly made their way up to the trainers’ balcony to watch the race. The all-weather track was brightly lit by floodlights and the starting stalls were stark against the moody, dark sky. The breath from the horses’ nostrils looked like plumes of smoke drifting up into the dank, murky dusk. All seven horses were finally loaded safely and the starter waited for all the stall handlers to get out of the way of the gates; then they were off.
Skylark broke slowly out of the stalls, stumbling slightly, leaving her six lengths adrift of the others who had noticeablypulled ahead. Josie was a sympathetic jockey and did not hassle her. Instead she sat quietly and waited, letting Skylark find her feet in her own time. The filly gathered herself and began to gallop in earnest. Within a furlong, they had joined the back of the pack, Skylark travelling easily under a nice hold.
From his position in the stands, Dennis grimaced into his binoculars, watching Skylark’s reaction to the kickback from the horses in front. ‘Go wide, get out in front.’
As if hearing the instructions, coming around the homeward bend, Josie took a slightly wider course than most would have done, guiding her into space where she would be saved a face full of all-weather sand. Making progress now, Skylark passed four of her six rivals with ease, motoring effortlessly up through the gears. Entering the final straight, Josie gave her the reins and encouraged her to make a race of it. The filly duly obliged, switching leads and mockingly skipping past her last two opponents in a matter of strides to win by four lengths.
