Matthew sniffed coldly. “I hardly think you will be fit to ride Beauchamp today, Healy,” he stated, seeing how the man staggered back. “Therefore, that is a day gone where I shall have to pay you wages whilst you do nothing to earn them!” He shook his head, his decision made. “No, you are to leave my employ this very day. If you go by this evening, then I shall make certain to write you a decent reference.” He turned away, making to walk to the door, only for something heavy to hit him hard right between the shoulder blades.
Something that left a dank and disgusting odor all about him like a cloud. Horrified, Matthew turned around sharply, only for Healy to throw yet another clod of horse manure towards him. This one splattered against the front of his coat, the residue making Matthew’s stomach twist.
“How dare you!” he shouted, as Healy reached for another clod; his aim surprisingly accurate for one so lost in liquor. “Healy, if you dare throw another then I shall—”
The man ignored him, throwing yet more which Matthew had to dodge. Making for the door, he almost bumped into Mr. Griggs who, with one look at Matthew, seemed to know precisely what was going on. He hurried into the stables and grabbed Healy, marching him to the door with one hand pressed up behind his back. Matthew, still shocked by what had just occurred, could only lean heavily against the stable wall, watching as Mr. Griggs handed Mr. Healy over to two other stable hands, giving them quick instructions as to what they were to do.
“I presumed he was to leave this property, Your Grace,” Mr. Griggs commented, hurrying back towards Matthew. “I did not do wrong, did I?”
“No, indeed you did not,” Matthew replied, pulling off his coat and giving it a small shake, fearing that it was entirely ruined. “Healy is no longer employed here.” He watched Mr. Griggs closely, seeing how a tiny quirk of his lips betrayed his apparent agreement. “You did not care for Mr. Healy?”
Mr. Griggs, who was always a fairly staid chap, turned to Matthew and, as he often did, spoke without hinderance.
“No, I did not like him, Your Grace,” he stated, firmly. “He didn’t treat other folk well at all. I had to pull him away from the stable hand only a few days ago. Left that lad’s face as red as could be.” Shaking his head, he stretched out his hand for Matthew’s coat. “Should I take that inside for you, Your Grace?”
Matthew blinked rapidly, a stone settling in his stomach and immediately weighing him down. “You say that Healy hit the lad?” he asked, handing the coat to Mr. Griggs. “On what account?”
Mr. Griggs shrugged. “Didn’t much like how the lad knew more about Beauchamp than he did,” he replied with a quick jerk of his head. “I know you asked me to keep an eye out for the lad, Your Grace, and I’m only sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”
Matthew shook his head, not wanting Mr. Griggs to feel any guilt whatsoever. “It is not your fault, Griggs,” he told him, slowly becoming aware of just how smelly he now must be. Sighing, he gestured to his coat. “Might you take that indoors? And ask a bath to be prepared, if you please. I must find Mr. Leighton and then shall return inside.” He let a small smile touch his lips as he caught sight of Miss Leighton making her way from the house towards the stables, her head bowed low. “Leighton is to be the new jockey.”
Mr. Griggs said nothing, although he did not display any sort of surprise. Instead, he merely nodded, bowed quickly, and then hurried off to the house, although Matthew felt certain that Mr. Griggs approved of Matthew’s choice. His heart began to fill with a sense of anticipation as he made his way to intercept Miss Leighton, wondering what her reaction would be.
“Leighton!” he called, seeing her head jerk up, her eyes widening as she saw him coming closer. “Leighton, I must have a word with you.”
Miss Leighton, her wig and cap carefully in place, stopped at once and kept her head bowed. “Your Grace,” she said, her soft voice displaying a touch of hesitation. “Is something wrong?”
“No, indeed not,” he replied, a smile plastered across his face. “Why should it be?”
He saw how she glanced at his chest and then looked up into his eyes for a moment, her lips pressed tightly together as a flush of color began to creep up into his face – and realized precisely what she meant. One glance down at his crisp white shirt told him that some of the horse manure that Healy had thrown had splattered across his shirt and, no doubt, carried a good deal of odor with it. His own embarrassment mounted as he cleared his throat, trying to push the knowledge of how he must look from his mind.
“Mr. Healy has been let go from his position here,” he told her, seeing how her eyes caught his, widening slowly as he spoke. “I have decided, Miss Leighton, that I shall permit you to ride in the Gold Cup race this year.” Spreading his hands wide, he shrugged. “It may be that 1816 will be the year that a woman wins the Gold Cup across Ascot Heath.”
A smile filled his heart as he saw how Miss Leighton reacted. She had now gone quite pale, the flush gone from her cheeks, and her eyes searching his face as though she might find some sort of untruth hidden there. Her hands were tight in front of her, clasping and unclasping together as if waiting for him to turn around and state that he had not meant a single word.
“You are to be my jockey for the Gold Cup, Miss Leighton,” Matthew said again, wondering if she was ever going to speak. “If you will accept the position.”
Miss Leighton’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she looked away, her head bowed low. “I will,” she replied hoarsely. “Yes, of course I will. Thank you, Your Grace.” Her head lifted, and she looked at him again. “Thank you.” The words were spoken with such genuine spirit, with such obvious gratitude, that for a moment, Matthew felt hims
elf a little embarrassed to have garnered such a thing by what was a simple decision.
“You cannot know just how much this means to me,” she continued, stepping forward and, to his surprise, grasping his hand with hers. “Your Grace, it is more wonderful than I ever believed it would be.”
Something began to snake up his arm from where her fingers touched his skin, sending a strange lump to his throat. Clearing it away, he smiled briefly and stepped back so that her hands fell to her sides. “But of course, Miss Leighton,” he said firmly, trying to speak through the strange emotion that was swirling through him. “We shall begin this very afternoon. Ensure that Beauchamp is ready at three o’clock precisely.”
She nodded, a smile beginning to spread across her face. It was, Matthew considered, one of the most joyous smiles he had ever seen. “I shall, of course,” she replied, dropping into a curtsy – which looked quite ridiculous given the fact that she was dressed as a stable hand – and then she tried to correct it by almost falling into a bow. Flushing crimson, she ducked her head and turned away, hurrying towards the stables in evident embarrassment and happiness.
Matthew chuckled and shook his head, rubbing at his forehead. He hoped to goodness he had not made the wrong decision, for this Gold Cup race meant more to him than anything else in the world. He wanted to win, wanted to prove to himself, to his mother, to his friends, and to all of the beau monde that when it came to horses, he was the one who had the greatest knowledge, the greatest experience, and the sharpest eye.
Gratified, Matthew turned on his heel and walked back into the house, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he caught another whiff of the stains of horse dung that clung to his shirt. He would need a long bath to rid himself of that particular smell and hoped that the coat was not entirely ruined. But, at the very least, Healy was gone and Miss Leighton now in his place – and that brought Matthew a good deal of satisfaction.
Chapter Eight
“Again.”
Catherine bit her lip but turned Beauchamp around obediently. She had been overwhelmed with delight when the duke had told her that she was to ride Beauchamp at the Gold Cup race across Ascot Heath, but now that she was under his thumb when it came to training and practice, Catherine found that she was beginning to resent his heavy handedness. She was fully aware that under his employ she had very little else to do other than obey, but still it grated on her.
“Beauchamp is not tired yet,” the duke said with a small smile that did nothing to lift the dark expression from his face. “We shall have at least another hour or so.”