Of Victory and Defeat
Lichfield, Staffordshire, September 6, 1742
Robert Devington was growing more anxious by the moment. Once more he scanned the crowded and bustling paddocks. The call had already sounded for the first race in which Charles Wallace was to ride the gray mare, White Rose. The filly was entered in this particular race, a one-hundred-guineas challenge for maiden five-year-olds, young horses that had yet to win a race. It was a single four-and-a-half-mile heat, ten-stone weight, and about to start with her rider yet nowhere in sight.
With barely a quarter hour remaining to present the horse and weigh in, Robert was in an agitated quandary. Audibly cursing, he pulled the blankets from the mare’s back, just to put them back on again. He considered the only alternatives before him: to deceive the racing judges by presenting the horse in Charles’s stead and committing an act of fraud; or do nothing and risk both the forfeiture of Sir Garfield’s entry fee—no paltry sum by any standard—as well as this fine young mare’s best chance to win a race, a circumstance that would do nothing to improve his standing with his beloved’s uncle.
His future with Charlotte was nearly a hopeless cause to begin with. He could scarce afford to fall afoul of her guardian’s temper. Robert searched the milling crowd for the last time, desperately seeking a glimpse of Charles Wallace. Still none, blast it all! His last hope now dashed, he cursed with greater vehemence and led the horse out of her paddock to commit an act of fraud for the sake of love.
***
The day, which earlier promised to be sunny and brisk, had warmed with the noontime sun. The lumbering traveling coach, after battling miles of the wheel-sucking mire that barely functioned as a serviceable ingress in the best of times, finally drew near to Whittington Heath. This generously proportioned coach had carried a family of five ninety-some miles from South Yorkshire for the express purpose of the races.
Sir Garfield Wallace, master of the household, was a most avid turf follower, but with limited success to his credit. With his son riding in the first event of the day, he would have been one of the most fervent of spectators, but his damnable equipage was once again entrenched in the blasted muck!
The occupants of the coach fortunate to be nearest the windows espied the hundred acres punctuated with vendor booths hawking their wares of everything from mutton leg to bonnet ribbons. These were complemented by a half-dozen elegant pavilions serving as provisional banquet and concert halls. Farther down the field, countless grooms and jockeys frantically hustled about to ready their mounts.
Growing edgier with each passing minute, Sir Garfield rapped impatiently on the roof, but his signal went unheeded by the coachman, who had already alighted—for the third time this day—to assess the extent of their plight. With increasing agitation and with much greater power than intended, Sir Garfield forced open the coach door. Leaning out to bark his orders, he unbalanced himself and nearly toppled into the mire, saving himself only at the last by grasping onto the top of the coach door. Although he had narrowly escaped a disastrous tumble into the muck, this unfortunate gentleman found himself suspended, one leg in the carriage and the other dangling in midair outside, with his heft balanced precariously in between.
Charles Wallace, seated on the side opposite, moved with dispatch to aid his father, but his way was blocked by his sister, cousin, and mother, who wailed ineffectually and clutched at the gentleman’s coat skirts.
Charles, now half-lying over the women, called out to his father as he reached, “If you will just let loose one hand…”
“Not another bloody word, Charles!” Sir Garfield blustered.
Rescue for the gent appeared from an unlikely quarter, as a young officer of the King’s Horse stopped to observe the spectacle. “A true predicament, upon my word!” he exclaimed with a chuckle. He deftly dismounted in reckless disregard of the six inches of mud and then tethered his horse to the coach.
“Captain Philip Drake, at your service,” he said, concealing his mirth with a flourishing bow. “Need I ask, sir, whether you desire to be inside or outside of the coach?”
“I bloody well shan’t attend the races looking like a pig come from the sty!” the portly gent retorted.
Fighting to suppress an outright guffaw at the mental picture, the officer mastered himself enough to reply, “Then, sir, I shall do my humble best to lend my aid.”
By this time, the bemired coachman had returned from beneath the rear of the vehicle, and betwixt them, the officer and the coachman pushed against the gentleman’s significant bulk and closed the coach door sufficiently for his son to pull him back into the relative safety of his seat.
“Such a chivalrous officer! Don’t you think, Mama?” gushed a sweet and breathy voice, which immediately piqued the trooper’s interest. He stepped closer to peer at the other occupants within the vehicle. To his pleasure, an angelic face did indeed complement the voice.
Red-faced and disconcerted in his struggle for composure, the portly gentleman offered gruffly: “My gratitude for your timely intervention, Captain Drake.”
“If your desire is to attend the races, sir—”
“Wallace. Sir Garfield Wallace,” the gentleman interjected.
“Might I suggest, Sir Garfield, that with your carriage thus entrenched, the labor of dislodging it from the mire might be greatly lessened by the removal of its occupants.”
“Indeed, sir,” piped up the coachman. “’Twould be a good deal easier empty if’n we must push it out again.”
“And just how do you propose to proceed, Captain?” Sir Garfield glowered at the mud below.
“The coachman and I might, by crossing our arms, form a chair of sorts to convey you beyond the danger, from whence you might safely proceed to the nearest pavilion. Otherwise, I fear the races may be well underway before the coach is extracted.”
“The races underway!” Sir Garfield exclaimed.
“Is the hour as far advanced as that?” Charles Wallace inquired anxiously. “I am to ride the first race, and on a filly sure to win, you know!”
As he glanced up at the noonday sun, the officer considered the question. “I fear they may have already commenced.”
“Hell and damnation! We must proceed to the grounds at once!”
Charles had already alighted out of the door opposite, landing in ankle-deep mud. He remorsefully inspected his new riding boots before dashing off in the general direction of the paddocks in a desperate search of his groom and mount.
“Curse it all!” Sir Garfield swore again. “Four years and one-hundred-guineas entry fee to put my horse in this blasted race, only to miss it!”
“Then might I suggest we conduct your remaining party thither without further delay,” said Captain Drake.
Forming the human chair, the two men strained to carry Sir Garfield the ten paces to the grassy heath. They followed with Lady Felicia, another sizeable burden, then returned for the two final and much lighter occupants.
Reaching the coach first, Drake hoisted the seraphic beauty into his arms. Well disposed to this notion, she wrapped her own arms tightly about his neck as he carried her.
“So very gallant, Captain Drake,” she cooed while gazing dreamily into his eyes.
“Mayhap we shall become better acquainted these two days, my lady?” he suggested.
“One may always hope,” she replied à la coquette. Their arrival on solid ground ended any further private discourse.
The coachman arrived, carrying the last occupant, Charlotte Wallace, and Sir Garfield offered another thanks but, having witnessed his daughter in the officer’s arms, with less enthusiasm.
The party now safely assembled on the far side of the road, Drake bowed his departure, crossed the mucky path for the final time, and remounted. Without a backward glance, he waved down a fellow officer in the near distance and spurred his horse toward the racing paddocks.
His every motion was followed by Beatrix’s intent gaze.
***
Robert Devington found he could barely squeeze into Charles’s racing silks. He was now more than a bit worried about making the ten-stone weight for this class. Since attaining the age of twenty, his form had matured, and his added muscle had limited his rides to those assigning weight by inches or by the age of the horse. He didn’t know if he would make the cutoff, reckoning now that he must outweigh the younger and slighter Charles Wallace by a good half stone.
His second worry, if he made the weight, was that this race was sanctioned only for gentlemen jockeys. Although Robert had ridden as a groom for nearly six years, these events had allowed grooms and hired riders. This was not such a race. He approached the weighing station with pounding heart.
“Name?” inquired the clerk of the scales.
“Wall…,” he began but hesitated. Charles might very well be known to these gents. Much better to take his chances with the truth.
“Name,” the clerk repeated.
“Devington. Robert Devington. The horse is White Rose. Owner, Sir Garfield Wallace.”
“I don’t show a Devington on White Rose. Charles Wallace is to be up.”
“Charles Wallace was unpredictably detained. I ride in his stead. Devington, Robert Devington,” he repeated.
“This is a sanctioned race, Mr. Devington.” The clerk spoke accusingly. “No grooms allowed. Gentleman jockeys only. Unless you are a kinsman, the race is forfeit.”
“I am not in Sir Garfield’s employ,” Devington said, dissembling, and nonchalantly sat upon the scales. “I am betrothed to the gentleman’s niece and therefore a kinsman.”
The scales swung in the balance.
“Nine stone, twelve and one-half pounds, ” the attendant announced with raised brows.
Having made the weight by the skin of his teeth, Robert slowly exhaled. He was uncertain if he was relieved or not. Had he not made weight, he would have had a valid excuse not to go through with an act he would surely live to regret.
“Sign the register, then proceed with your mount.” The clerk’s voice was a no-nonsense monotone.
“Next rider.”
As he signed, Devington scanned the book for the other entries in his race. Nine had been slated to run, but strangely, six were now struck from the register: Merry Andrew, Traveler, Miss Romp, Cupid, Phantom, and Othello. All good horses. Curious why they should have withdrawn, Devington continued down the list.
The first name that had not forfeited was Lord Gower’s own Slug, whom Devington knew to be a respectable runner but certainly not one to scare off the competition. Lastly appeared Hastings’s Hawke, Lord Edmund Drake, Viscount Uxeter up.
The horse, Hawke, was said to be unbeatable in his class, and Viscount Uxeter was a man preceded by a foul reputation. He was a villainous rider with a passion for high-spirited but ill-tempered horses and would bloody his mount’s flanks before suffering defeat. He had proven as much last spring with Spanking Roger, son of the famed Flying Childers, and a superlative runner.
The horse had lived up to expectations by running four seasons undefeated in all but one race—the one in which he had viciously tossed his rider. Spanking Roger’s name thereafter became synonymous with malevolence, and Lord Uxeter had relished the challenge of owning and racing him. In the end, however, the fiery steed proved unequal to his rider, who pushed him to his very death in a match race. The combination of names answered the riddle, and a chill of foreboding accompanied Robert to the starting post.
Robert’s own mount, a mare affectionately called Rosie, was the first out of Sir Garfield’s racing stud to show any real running potential. She was a scrawny foal and Charlotte’s pet from the start. Truth be told, though none would ever confess it, Charlotte had trained the mare to run. Although Rosie came to this event green, Robert knew Charlotte had made her as fit as any horse on the Whittington Heath. But how game was she?
The young mare carried champion blood. She was by a Darley son, out of a Darley granddaughter, Amoret. With the noted stallion twice her grandsire, she had the blood of a runner, but did she have the heart to go with it? This was the remaining question to which he would soon have an answer.
Now less than five minutes to start, the bugler sounded the final call. Robert mounted the frisky mare and proceeded at a brisk trot to the starting post, where Slug’s rider waited patiently astride the gelding, and Viscount Uxeter spurred his horse, Hawke, into a dancing frenzy.
The starter gave the command for the trio to line up and wait for all to settle before raising the flag, but Hawke, worked up to a nervous lather, broke forward in a false start. Lord Uxeter, realizing the error, jerked his horse to a hard halt and wrenched him back around to the starting post. Their horses now jigging in heightened anticipation, Devington and Gower had to circle for some minutes to resettle their excited mounts.
For the second time, the starter raised the flag. As it descended, the trio broke forth in a flurry of legs, lunging forward for a single heat, four-and-a-half-mile test of endurance, by a three-time circumnavigation of the track.
Devington knew his mare was up to the distance. Her daily routine for the past six months had included a spirited five-mile gallop on similar turf, but the day prior had been soggy, saturating the ground. The spongy turf pulled at her feet with every stride, but the going was as good as it was going to get.
Devington consoled himself that they at least had the advantage of the first race, before the track became completely pockmarked with hoofprints. The last riders would suffer the most disadvantage, as the now green surface became degraded by day’s end to pure muck. With each lap of the track, the running would get slower and harder and try to suck the horses in.
It paid the rider to understand how turf conditions affect performance and how to manage even those things beyond a jockey’s normal control. It was even more vital to understand how best to manage both the strengths and limitations of one’s mount, even under adverse conditions.
The most superior jockeys were not always on the most superior horses, but were always the ones who knew how to ride smart rather than just hard. Devington was such a rider. He had acquired years of such equine wisdom under two of the best tutors: first his father and later Jeffries, the stable master at Heathstead Hall. In his relatively short career, Devington had ridden a hundred horses if he had ridden one, and he knew how to read them.
Keeping his mare well in hand, he studied the pair with whom he shared the field. Slug, he mused, was aptly named. He was the lazy sort. The type of horse with talent, but with a stubborn lethargy, having the inherent speed within him, but requiring the incessant driving of his rider to bring it out. This kind of horse required constant attention.
Devington knew this would serve him later. They would hang back just a notch and await the precise moment when Slug’s rider would be too worried about driving acceleration to be aware of his competition. This is when they would grab the inside.
That Hawke was another case altogether from Slug was evident from the very outset, the moment he broke for a false start. He was a tightly strung stallion with a fine-tuned flight impulse, needing no encouragement from his rider to run. A horse of his kind ran with a frantic fear, as if his very life depended upon it, burning up excess energy that he could ill afford to lose on a field with worthy competition. Pushing a horse like Hawke with injudicious whip and spur would prove counterproductive, serving only to increase his stress and rarely inciting any willing or renewed effort to the fore.
The third type of runner, well represented by Rosie, the sprightly mare on whom Devington was mounted, was the willing partner. This kind was eager to please and attuned at every moment to its rider, anticipating and responding to the slightest cue of hand, voice, or leg. This was an honest runner, one rarely needing encouragement to perform, a horse to be trusted to run its own race to the best of its ability, simply guided by the intelligent rider.
Devington relaxed almost imperceptibly, trusting Rosie to pace herself for a while. As long as she didn’t drop back or lag more than a length or two, he wouldn’t drive her. Instead, he kept his eyes focused on the competition, reading every sign, developing his plan, seeking his advantage, riding this race to the peak of his horse’s ability.
Either of the other two horses could be managed and run successfully, but success would depend completely on the skill and management of the rider, and Devington could clearly ascertain by the end of the second lap that Slug was decidedly undermanaged by his indolent jockey, and the high-strung Hawke was incontrovertibly terrorized by his.
By the start of the third lap, Devington was crouched low over the mare, well pleased and encouraged that Rosie was up in the bridle, holding her own, and keeping good pace with the two taller, longer-legged horses. Lord Uxeter was already plying the spur into the first bend, but Rosie, keenly aware of her rider, required little urging, voluntarily lengthening her stride to maintain her position.
By the end of the final lap of the arduous run, Lord Uxeter had completely used up his horse, and Slug had completely used up his rider!
Grinning with satisfaction, Devington seized the moment to claim the lead, murmuring low to Rosie, “It would appear, my lovely girl, the race is ours.”
