Page 35

Chapter 34

The grounds at Aintree Racecourse teemed with spectators poring over their programmes as they waited eagerly for the forthcoming races. Bookmakers wove among them, shouting out odds and taking bets. Concealing his nerves beneath a calm facade, Cormac led Bridget through the crowds, Emily beside them on Rory’s arm. The grandstand was visible in the distance; he glanced around and wondered what were the odds of them reaching it without someone making a show of their disdain towards them.

‘If this proves to be a categorical disaster,’ he said, ‘then we may just have to accept our social exile.’

The three of them nodded soberly. At least one point in their favour was the fact that the throng consisted of all classes, from aristocrats to commoners; this wasn’t an exclusive occasion where they would stand out for being the only ones beneath the ton’s esteem. The working-class folk were as numerous as the nobility, and, on a further positive note, they probably wouldn’t have even heard of the adulterous Lady Courcey and her paramour, given that the majority lacked the means or ability to read the papers that carried the scandalous story.

‘Good gracious !’ an appalled voice burst out. ‘The indecency of it!’

Swivelling his head quickly to locate the owner of the voice, he spotted her about a dozen feet away wearing a wide-brimmed bonnet and a sour expression. He felt his own expression curdle at the sight of her: it was Lady Talbot, the woman who had walked out of a gathering at Sinclair Manor because Cormac and Bridget had been in attendance. Next to her stood her husband, Lord Talbot, and their son, Mr Grover. Cormac clenched his fists; Mr Grover had been an utter cad to Emily on multiple occasions and deserved nothing but vilification for his poor opinion of women.

In an act that no one could misinterpret, Cormac turned purposefully away from the trio, steering Bridget in the opposite direction and trusting that Emily and Rory would follow suit. Even above the noise of the crowd, he heard Lady Talbot’s affronted gasp; he hoped it had galled her not to be the one to deliver the snub.

As he strode on, he noticed several people in ordinary clothing eyeing them, though their gazes seemed to be curious rather than accusing. No doubt rumours would spread during the course of the day and these folk would ultimately find out why the fancy lady had been so dismayed. Remembering that the whole point of today was to show their fearlessness, he slowed his pace so that it wouldn’t appear like they were trying to run away from the situation.

‘Mr McGovern!’

He halted, as did Bridget, Emily and Rory. When he turned, he perceived the straight-backed figure of Lord Sinclair marching towards them and gritted his teeth. This would be a true test of who they could rely upon to stand by them. Apart from a rocky beginning, Lord Sinclair had been perfectly gracious in all his private interactions with Cormac. How would he now behave in full view of his peers?

The viscount came to a stop and regarded Cormac shrewdly from beneath his heavy brow. ‘Audacious of you to show your face here, is it not?’ he said. ‘You certainly know how to set tongues wagging. The ink has hardly dried on the newspaper reports.’

‘Audacity was not our intention,’ Cormac said warily. ‘We merely decided to grasp the nettle instead of waiting to be stung.’

Lord Sinclair barked out a laugh. ‘Indeed. I don’t know whether to commend you or question your sanity. Still, let me assure you that you do not need to fear a sting from me or my family.’ He gestured behind him, where three figures hovered at a distance. ‘I have warned them to be civil.’

It looked like Lady Sinclair had swallowed the warning with some difficulty, judging by her pained expression. The Sinclairs’ son, Mr Bertram, only radiated boredom, while their daughter, Harriet, offered a hopeful wave in Emily’s direction. Emily returned the gesture cautiously.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Cormac said with genuine gratitude. ‘It’s encouraging to learn that we are not entirely without allies.’

‘I see no reason to sever our acquaintance. You have amply demonstrated that a man’s worth ought to be measured by his character, not his breeding. The lady, too, has proven that true worth is calculated in how one rises above adversity.’ He inclined his head towards Bridget with respect and she bobbed a startled curtsey in response. ‘Others, meanwhile, have made it plain that noble birth does not always yield noble conduct.’

This time, he shot a scathing glance over at Lady Talbot, who was watching them with blatant revulsion. Shaking his head, he returned his attention to Cormac, leaning in to lower his voice.

‘While I don’t wish to delay you, I do want to briefly apprise you of the latest developments with regard to that unfortunate discovery at the sawmill.’

Cormac sensed Emily tensing nearby, but he kept his own demeanour as composed as he could manage. ‘Has the man been identified?’

‘Regrettably, no,’ Lord Sinclair replied. ‘Apart from a missing tooth, his features were unrecognisable, and his presence doesn’t align with any reported disappearances in the area. The authorities checked as far as Bedford.’

‘How puzzling,’ Cormac said, loathing himself for lying to the gentleman after he had just asserted his steadfast support for him.

‘They’ve concluded that he was probably a traveller passing through, and that he must have been intoxicated and strayed too close to the river. There’s no telling when he fell in or how far he drifted before reaching the mill. The chances of him getting caught in the wheel had to have been one in a hundred thousand—quite a ghastly discovery for the millworkers when they removed the bracing beams and let the wheel turn for the first time.’ Lord Sinclair shrugged and sighed. ‘Aside from that, they are making satisfactory progress, and we should see profits before the year is out.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ Cormac said, forcing a nod. ‘I hope the work will continue without any more…interruptions.’

‘As do I. Now, I’ll leave you to enjoy the day with my fervent wish that you won’t be subjected to any further recriminations. By the by, there are a couple of horses running that might take your fancy as they have an Irish connection.’

With that, Lord Sinclair shook Cormac’s hand and bowed to Bridget before returning to his family. Emily released a jagged breath.

‘Does that mean it’s over?’ she asked shakily.

‘It does,’ Cormac answered, relieved. ‘Maud is safe, and so are you.’

Not to mention, they had won the explicit backing of Lord Sinclair, a fine confidence boost at this juncture. Encouraged, Cormac snagged the attention of a passing vendor and purchased two programmes, one of which he handed to Rory. Flicking open the programme, his gaze landed on a list of the competing racehorses.

‘Ah, look at that—there’s a runner called Tipperary Boy. Might be worth a punt, don’t you think?’

***

As they approached the grandstand, the crowds grew even thicker and Emily lost sight of her parents. Clinging more tightly to Rory, she heard him murmuring under his breath, ‘This, that, these, those. This, that, these, those.’

She brushed her fingers along the inside of his elbow in reassurance, though she was certain he didn’t need it—she had every confidence that he would rise to the occasion. He had continued to persevere in his lessons with Mr Humphrey and she knew how much he had refined both his education and his etiquette. In fact, given the consistency of his dancing instruction, he was likely a far more accomplished dancer than she was now. The timing, however, was unfortunate – after her mother’s divorce, would there be any opportunity for him to put those hard-earned skills to use? Ahead of their excursion to Aintree, Emily had presumed that the family would never be invited to another social gathering. Still, Lord Sinclair’s lack of prejudice gave her hope that they would not be ostracised forever. Perhaps she ought to join Rory in his dancing lessons, if only to ensure that she could keep pace with him when the time came.

Another student intent on improving himself was Gus, who had recently voiced a desire to become more involved in the family’s exploits, since, with Jack away at school, he was now the only one being left behind. He had been sorely disappointed to be excluded from the expedition to the races, but he’d had no grounds upon which to object – a severe cold had settled in his lungs, confining him to bed for days with a rattling cough. Emily suspected that her parents had been quietly relieved to have a valid reason to keep him at home; it was another way to delay his exposure to society a little longer, though that day was drawing ever nearer, considering how attentively he’d been applying himself to his lessons of late. To console him for missing the trip, Mr Comerford had promised Gus that as soon as he’d recovered they would undertake a bout of night-time surveillance to investigate the source of the flickering light in the fields. Thus, when the rest of the family embarked on their journey to Liverpool, they’d left Gus sitting up in bed, a mustard plaster warming his chest as he enthusiastically sketched maps and compiled lists of necessary provisions.

As Emily glimpsed the racecourse beyond the grandstand and contemplated the sketches it might inspire her to create, she heard a tentative voice behind her.

‘Emily?’

She and Rory both twisted around to find Harriet Bertram hovering there.

‘Um,’ she said. ‘Good day, Harriet.’

She didn’t really know how to feel towards this woman. Although they had come to reasonably amicable terms when they last met, Harriet had still been a chief collaborator in a scheme to ruin Emily’s reputation on the Hutchville Estate, along with the detestable Mr Grover.

Harriet cringed as though she could tell what was running through Emily’s mind. ‘I won’t intrude on your day,’ she said softly. ‘I just wanted to say hello and enquire after your wellbeing.’ She glanced from Emily to Rory. ‘I hope married life is everything you wished for, and more.’

Perceiving no guile in her demeanour, Emily replied, ‘That is kind of you. Yes, we are very happy.’ An image of a rocking cradle crept into her thoughts, but she resolutely pushed it away.

Harriet looked genuinely relieved. ‘I’m pleased to hear that. May you have an enjoyable time today at Aintree.’

She made to turn away, but Emily said quickly, ‘And you? Are you well?’

Harriet paused. ‘Oh. I’m fine, thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘I…you might be interested to know that I…received a marriage proposal. From Lord Dartry.’

Emily tried to mask her surprise but she was sure her wide eyes betrayed her. ‘I-indeed? Allow me to offer my congrat—’

‘No need,’ Harriet cut in. ‘I refused him.’

This time, Emily couldn’t hide her astonishment. She knew her own reasons for rejecting Lord Dartry and had no regrets, but what could have led Harriet to turn him down? Granted, he had probably asked for her hand in order to gain her dowry, and yet the marriage would have elevated her to the rank of countess.

‘I was at least his fifth choice for a bride,’ Harriet said. ‘A kind-hearted acquaintance taught me to have more self-respect than that.’

Emily blinked and then smiled. Harriet smiled back. A bubble of sincere warmth swelled between them…only to be punctured by a sneering tone.

‘What a charming reunion—so very touching.’

Emily’s skin crawled as Mr Grover materialised out of the milling crowd, clutching a race programme. Rory went rigid, his hand flexing at his side. Emily reached for his wrist and squeezed it. While Mr Grover himself was a most unpleasant sight, at least there was one gratifying feature to note: a distinct crookedness to his nose.

Harriet stepped back in distaste. ‘Excuse me, I must return my mother,’ she said and hurried off.

Mr Grover’s gaze followed her retreat with amusement. ‘Poor, dear Miss Bertram. A spinster in the making, without a doubt.’

‘Go away,’ Emily said, disinclined to afford him even a shred of civility.

He ignored her. Flipping through his programme with exaggerated interest, he said, ‘Have you decided yet where to place your wagers?’

‘No,’ Rory said shortly.

‘Neither have I, although I’ve ascertained where I won’t be wasting my money.’ He pointed to a name on the list of racehorses. ‘This one is going by the nickname Little Ab because he’s so diminutive. However, his size isn’t his greatest shortcoming. He has an Irish trainer, and I can’t think of a worse gamble than backing a horse trained by an Irishman. There’s no way he’s finishing the race today.’

Emily frowned, trying to grasp the thread of his insult.

‘The Irish have quite a lot of trouble finishing what they started, don’t they?’ Mr Grover grinned. ‘I seem to recall reading about some disturbance in Ireland that they fancifully called a “rebellion”. That was, what, a year and a half ago? And yet, not a whisper about it since.’

Emily despised him all the more because his assertion was unfortunately true – the Young Irelander rebellion had not turned into a more lasting resistance. It had sputtered out, leaving Ireland still shackled to British rule.

Rory exhaled a slow, controlled breath. ‘You mistake endurance for surrender. The Irish are a patient people—we know how to wait for the right moment. And when our time comes, well…’ He let the words hang in the air, his gaze steady. ‘You may find we finish things in a way that leaves a permanent impression.’

Mr Grover gave a derisive laugh. ‘Is that so? And here I thought you Irish preferred raising glasses to raising rebellions.’

‘It’s easy to mock from the safety of English soil, isn’t it? I suggest you exercise some discretion.’ Rory’s voice remained smooth, but there was an unmistakable steel beneath it. ‘Unless you fancy having that nose of yours broken again, of course. This Irishman can certainly finish what he starts.’

Mr Grover’s hand twitched towards his face for just a second before he scoffed. ‘I hardly think you’d be foolish enough to instigate a brawl in public.’

Rory shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. I suppose you should pray that I’m feeling civil today.’

Mr Grover hesitated. His bravado didn’t completely crack, but his feet shifted as though he was considering whether to stand his ground or make a dignified retreat.

‘I see no point in arguing with a fellow who thinks only with his fists,’ he muttered, before turning and stalking off into the throng.

Emily stared up at Rory in awe. ‘I am so impressed,’ she said admiringly.

He blushed. ‘The Duke of Desmond put on a good display.’

She shook her head. ‘You know what? I believe that was all Rory Carey.’

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking disconcerted but quietly pleased.

And then, to top it all off, Little Ab won the Grand National later that day.