Lady Bess

“Aye, they put up the wrong time for you before—it has been corrected, and they are now just going to announce the winner! Looks like you and Donna have it—I believe you two have it!”

Her father beamed broadly and said, “Shall we head on over to the hunt secretary’s booth?”

Everyone started up the grassy slope, chattering away all at once and with great jesting between them.

Bess looked at Fleet, who was without a hat, his brown hair a rumpled mass around his face and his clothes disheveled. His grin was bright, however, and his brown eyes sparkled with his excitement. She pulled at his riding coat, as its tail was caught up into itself, and laughed to ask her long-time friend, “What about you, Fleet? What was your time?”

“Blasted ugly cob of Jeff’s lost a shoe, so we are a good five minutes behind you. I told him to take one of mine, but, no, he had to have his cob. Idiot.”

By then a crowd had gathered around the booth. Bess looked to see what her father had done with her horse and saw that he had given both hers and Donna’s horses to their groom, who was quietly grazing them.

Robby leaned in and said to her, “Look at old Wendricks. He is looking at you, and I’ll be damned if his eyes aren’t twinkling. You’re a favorite, have always been a favorite of his, and with him looking pleased, well then …”

“Oh, how wonderful that would be, if only to show up that dratted Sweeny. He is forever cutting in front of us when we hunt, and he made the fuss about not letting females race today.”

The hunt master put up his hand for silence; when this did not work, he rapped on the table with his riding crop.

Chatter died down, and everyone looked expectedly up at the hunt master. He cleared his throat and thanked the wives of various members of the hunt for the hospitality booth with its wonderful cakes and sweets. He thanked the subscribers who helped set up the fences for the race and those who plotted it out with their arrows and markers to indicate the route. He thanked all the participants for their enthusiasm, and then one jolly participant interrupted him and shouted out jovially, “Come on, Art, get on with it.”

This made all and one break out with laughter. When this died down, the master once again cleared his throat and said with a look at Lady Bess, “And now, I suppose it is time for the ribbons, eh?”

Jesting and a bit of tomfoolery ensued, and once again the gathered group had to wait till this died down. The master of the hunt then announced the ‘turtle award’ for the slowest team, and that went to Fleet and his friend Jeff.

Once again, back slapping and jesting ensued, and once again the master had to rap the table with his crop.

The next few moments went by with Bess and Donna both holding their breath each time another set of ribbons were handed out. Nine ribbons had been awarded when the master announced that only one minute kept second and first place apart. Second place was handed out, and Bess’s hopes rose.

Was it possible? Had they taken first place?

They knew from past experience that it was a rare thing for a female to race, let alone be awarded a prize over a male. Usually, if the race was close, it went to the male riders.

However, the master of the hunt regarded them with some affection and a wide grin to say, “And so, first place goes to two of our favorites. They have worked for this hunt since they were old enough to ride to hounds. They have taken their tumbles and jumped right up and dusted themselves off, and now it gives me great pleasure to say that after checking and re-checking, our dear Lady Bess and Lady Mabry … come up here and get your blue!”

It was some time afterwards, during which a great deal of congratulations and hugging took place, that Bess turned and found the Earl of Dunkirk’s blue, so blue, eyes on her. She found herself flushed over the fact.

He grinned as he murmured, “Congratulations, lass. I see this race is a major event here.”

“Oh, I suppose we are making too much out of it … you must think it all very silly,” Bess said, her lashes shading her eyes as she looked at her boots.

“I doona think that at all, lass. I think it … refreshing.”

She saw that his smile always seemed to start in his eyes and was immediately drawn to him. This was awful, she told herself.

He was a rogue, Donna had said. He probably was no doubt laughing at her inwardly. She was sure he saw her as nothing more than a chit just out of school.

Well, but, she wasn’t. She had already enjoyed a London Season, she had just turned twenty, and if only she could stop acting like a fool … say something intelligent, but nothing, absolutely nothing came out of her mouth. All she could do was smile like a simpleton at him.

Sir George Fleetwood came up behind her at that moment, picked her up bodily, and swung her around. “See that!” he exclaimed in high glee. “My girl sweeps them all off the map.” He set her down and winked at her. “Knew you would. As soon as the old man said that you and Donna would be allowed to race with the big boys, knew you two would take it. Stands to reason.”

Bess laughed, not at all disturbed with his ‘manhandling’. They had been friends since they were able to crawl. “Stands to reason?” she returned. “Stands to whose reason?”

“Mine and anyone who has ever seen you hunt. Know how to get the best out of your animal. Now all you have to worry about is your horse’s suspensory. It was pretty muddy out there, but your man, I see, is already applying a treatment.”

An inclination of his head made Bess turn and exclaim, “Oh, Isaac is the best, isn’t he? Knows just what to do,” and then with a sudden frown she said, “Fleet, did you see something? Was she off? I didn’t feel it …”

“No, she wasn’t even stiff, but good idea to look after her like he is. As you said, he is a good man,” Fleetwood acknowledged.

The earl said quietly, “She’ll do. Doona worry yer head over it. I saw him walk her out, and she wasn’t in any discomfort.”