Lord Brighton chuckled, slapping Matthew on the shoulder. “I am glad to have been so helpful,” he replied, turning his attention back to the race ground. “Oh, look. The horses are taking their places.”
Matthew’s stomach immediately began to churn, his fingers tightening on the rail as he clung to it, as though his very life depended on how tight a grip he had. He could see the dark navy and scarlet from where he stood, could see Lady Wells as she mounted, holding onto the reins in her usual gentle manner. She had a large kerchief tied around her head, covering her nose and her mouth and hiding a good deal of her face. When questioned, Matthew had stated to the officials that it was to keep dust out of the lady’s nose and mouth, and for whatever reason, they had accepted it. He would have been happy if she had chosen to reveal her face to everyone but was also content to go along with her decision, knowing that she was making it for the sake of her cousin and her family name. Beauchamp was stamping and snorting, but Matthew did not feel any particular concern at that. The horse was clearly in an excitable mood and ready to race, but he had no doubt that Lady Wells would be able to contain him.
He could hear a few loud jeers from all around him, hear the sounds of mocking rushing to his ears as a few of the spectators noticed that a woman was sitting astride, clad in a jockey’s outfit. He did not let them affect him and prayed that Lady Wells herself would not permit them to affect her either. Watching them closely, his heart quickening in his chest, he let out a long steadying breath and waited for the starting pistol.
The sound ricocheted across the grounds, making him start. The horses moved as one, one large creature making its way along the racetrack. His heart moved into his throat as the horses began to separate, his hands holding onto the rail so hard that they began to hurt.
“T
here she goes!” Lord Brighton shouted, his excitement obvious. “Look, she is staying near the middle of the pack! She is not falling behind!”
This was supposed to be something of a compliment, Matthew supposed, managing a small, tight smile as he glanced at his friend. Breathing slowly so as to keep himself calm, he kept his gaze fixed on Lady Wells, seeing how she bent low over Beauchamp’s neck, her hair flying out behind her. She used no crop and did not beat nor shout at Beauchamp, as some of the other jockeys did. Instead, she simply fixed her gaze on the path ahead, her hands loose on the reins. Beauchamp, free to run just as he pleased, suddenly put on a surge of speed, pushing himself forward past the other horses.
Lady Wells was no longer in the middle of the pack. Nor was she merely close to the front, she was, in fact, beginning to overtake the leader.
“Look, look, Blackwell!” Lord Brighton exclaimed, his hand grasping Matthew’s arm as though he was not watching Lady Wells intently. “She is gaining! She is gaining!”
“She is doing more than gaining,” Matthew breathed, his excitement curling upwards in his chest. “She is…winning!”
Indeed, Lady Wells was doing precisely that. She was now at the very front, riding hard and crouched even lower over Beauchamp’s neck. The crowd had fallen almost silent, their evident surprise that a woman was able to ride so fast and so quickly in the most important race of all overwhelming them. Matthew could barely breathe, seeing how Beauchamp galloped all the more quickly, evidently delighted with the open ground and the chance to run as fast as he pleased. The end of the race was growing ever closer and Matthew found himself growing more and more anxious, fearing that something terrible was going to happen, that something dreadful would occur that would prevent Lady Wells from winning.
But it did not. The sound of cheering exploded around him as he stared at the finish line, seeing how Beauchamp crossed it at least several lengths ahead of the others. He could do nothing nor say a single word, his eyes fixed on Lady Wells as the air about him flooded with noise. It was fuzzy, burning into his mind but not quite able to bring about a reaction from within himself. It was as if he could not quite take it in, could not quite let himself believe what had just occurred.
Lady Wells had won. Beauchamp was the victor. He would take home the Gold Cup. And all because he had allowed her the opportunity to prove herself.
“You did it, old boy!” Lord Brighton slapped him on the back and then grabbed his hand, shaking it hard. “My goodness, what a race! I don’t think there’s ever been anything like that before! I’d say that jockey of yours has done what no other jockey has ever achieved before. Several lengths ahead, I’d say, several lengths at least!” He pumped Matthew’s hand firmly, laughing as Matthew looked back at him, a little dazed.
“She won,” Matthew heard himself say, as Lord Brighton laughed all the more. “She did it.”
“She did,” Lord Brighton agreed loudly, letting go of Matthew’s hand and gesturing towards the race ground where Lady Wells had slipped from the saddle and was now leaning against Beauchamp’s neck, perhaps murmuring something to him as she patted his neck. “Hadn’t you better go down and congratulate her?”
Matthew nodded, his legs feeling a trifle weak as he did so. “Yes,” he mumbled, trying to move away from the rail. “Yes, I should. Good gracious.” He turned back to Lord Brighton, blinking quickly. “Has she really won the Gold Cup?”
Lord Brighton shook his head and laughed uproariously. “Believe it, old boy!” he said loudly. “The Gold Cup is finally yours!”
It felt as though every eye was on him as Matthew made his way to the race ground, seeing how Lady Wells eyes were darting this way and that, perhaps afraid that someone else would approach her and tug the band from her face. When she saw him, however, relief flooded her gaze, and he felt certain she was smiling.
“My goodness, Lady Wells.” He shook his head in sheer amazement and wonder as he reached for her hands. “What an amazing rider you are.”
She flushed, her cheeks and temples going a delicate pink. “I cannot tell you how much this meant to me, Blackwell. To ride Beauchamp on the Ascot Heath, to be able to have the chance to ride against those who would consider themselves to be my betters…it was all quite extraordinary.”
“But you have done so,” he murmured, wishing to goodness that he could catch her up in his arms and press his mouth to hers but knowing he could not do so in front of the crowd. “You have shown everyone here that a woman can ride even better than a gentleman, and that they are capable of a good deal more than some might think them.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, looking up at him with shining eyes. “If it had not been for you, then I do not think that I should ever have been able to achieve this wonderous moment. You gave me the opportunity when so many would not have done so. You allowed me to ride Beauchamp and to prove myself to you.”
“And you have done more than prove yourself,” he replied fervently. “If it were not for this crowd, Catherine, I would hold you close and whisper all that is in my heart, for you have become more dear to me than any other.”
Again, her eyes sparkled, and she made to say more, only for an official to clear his throat loudly as he began to make his way towards them.
“I believe you are the winner, Your Grace,” the man said, barely giving Lady Wells a glance. He was tall and thin, with a thin white moustache and a neat grey beard. His top hat was placed firmly on his head, and he seemed to have an air of arrogance about him that Matthew immediately despised. A young lad was behind him, carrying a small cloth bag that Matthew presumed held Lady Wells’ winnings and, in the other arm, a Gold Cup. The cup that Matthew had sought to hold for so long.
“I believe that my jockey here, won the race,” he replied, forcing the gentleman to look at Lady Wells, who was standing tall and proud next to Beauchamp. “You may give her the winnings during the upcoming presentation. I shall not come forward.”
The man cleared his throat, appearing a little uncomfortable. “Your Grace, you must understand that, whilst that is normally the situation, in the current circumstances, we cannot…” Trailing off under the heavy glint in Matthew’s foreboding gaze, the gentleman turned his head away, trying to appear nonchalant. “The situation is vastly different from previous years, and I had hoped Your Grace would understand.”
Matthew did not understand, his frustrations and anger beginning to burn in his heart. Lady Wells had been the victor; Lady Wells had been the one to achieve the win; and therefore, she ought to be treated as any other victor had been done in the past. “You mean to say that, because my jockey is a woman, you will not give her the winnings in front of the crowd?”
The man began to stammer, clearly embarrassed. Matthew made to say more, only for Lady Wells to press her hand to his arm.