We rode into town on Sunday. I knew it was Sunday by the sound of church bells ringing and the lineup of buggies and broughams in front of the church. It was a handsome stone building with an impressive bell tower and parsonage next door.
The town square was in front separating the stores from the church and the river bisected the two sections of town with the railroad on the high side. I plodded wearily to the front door of the mercantile and searched for the livery.
The contents of my wallet would purchase me a hot meal, new cookware and some staples but I’d need considerable more for another saddle, pack saddle and bridles, bedroll and horse feed. The only way I knew how to do that was a horse race and on the Sabbath that was considered a sin.
There was only one man in the general store. I forked over a pence for a crisp pickle out of the barrel and casually mentioned I had a horse that could out run anything in these parts. I had to put up a gold piece but sure enough, my challenge drew a crowd on their way out of church and headed for the taverns.
We settled on a horse race from the far end of town to the mill and back, a distance of four miles and each of us put up a gold piece. There were two other riders on a long-legged mixed lot of horses; one was a thoroughbred but I knew Diomed could take him.
A crowd gathered. The impromptu race on an otherwise boring Sunday had peaked the town’s interest and betting against me was hard and fast. We were sneered at especially since I had no bridle or saddle and in the daylight, the stud horse looked weedy and light boned.
We lined up at the church gate and the preacher set us off at the drop of his scarf, the big chestnut gelding dug in, was first out followed by the red roan mare. I let Diomed loose, hugging his barrel with my knees and leaning close to his neck. I missed his mane for a handhold, his strides lengthened as he settled into the legendary stride of a thoroughbred racehorse. His neck extended and his nostrils flared as big around as a man’s fist, pounding the dirt and throwing dust and grass out as we rounded the first curve.
I had no idea which way the road went, we were merely content to follow the other pair. I let them set the pace and the way.
We galloped through a grove of willows and meadows roughly following the river. The road rose and fell but never climbed higher than a few hundred feet before dropping again. I saw them whipping their horses as we came up to a crossing and a great big building with a waterwheel churning just downstream of a covered bridge. They rode up to it, turned their horses and came back heading for us.
I was only a few strides behind and let Diomed increase his speed coming up on the mare. Her rider laid the whip on her flanks and she gave us second burst as the stud flashed past her without any effort. He even had the energy to threaten her with a curled lip and a small buck. I laughed and told him to mind his manners and fly.
We caught up to the thoroughbred gelding and his rider let him go, he opened up a four length lead in seconds catching Diomed by surprise. He gritted his teeth, leaned low into his stride and ate up the ground as if his honor was at stake. Neck and neck we went for a good quarter-mile and it was one final lunge and whisper to him that he passed the chestnut in two strides to come tail ablaze beyond the church. In the lead. It took me nearly a hundred yards to stop him and he danced, pranced and blew all the way back to the church steps.
I slid off his sweaty back and walked him until his wind came back and his ribs quit heaving. I checked his legs and hooves as the other riders loped into town.
Everyone was babbling about the speed of the race, someone had used a stopwatch on Di and clocked him at a blistering fifty-seven seconds for the last furlong, wanted to know his breeding and was he for stud.
The mood of the crowd was decent, I hadn’t pissed anyone off by defeating their home champions and taking a goodly portion of cash from them. My winnings came nearly to a hundred gold pieces and local paper script from their bank, more than enough to buy new tack replacing everything I had lost and a room for the night.
I put the horses up and headed for the store happily spending the newly earned local script. I kept the coins in my pockets and jangled them as I perused the aisles. The weight of the gold dragged my breeches down.
I bought a new cast iron skillet and coffee pot, tin plate, cup and fork, a spoon. Salt, pepper, flour and coffee. Tea and a psalter for the leaves. Cheese, hard tack and bacon. A new Hudspeth Bay blanket and bedroll. I hesitated over the new flannel shirts and splurged spending most of it on a used Erhen made officer saddle and a small A-frame pack saddle. The merchant eyed my growing pile with a frown, I would’ve thought he’d have been happy with my extravagance.
“What?” I said defensively. “I have money. Script and gold.”
“I know,” he grumbled. “I put up two gold pieces against you. What your horse’s name? And breeding?”
“Diomed by Socrates out of Lazy Rosalind,” I put out six gold coins and received change back in bank script from the local trust. Finally, I learned the name of the town.
“Out of True Briton?” He named the horse in most Oldlander racehorse pedigrees in this area.
“No. Out of Eclipse.” As usual, not many were familiar with the breeding of Ehrenberg thoroughbred horses unless they were in the breeding business. Whereas, everyone knew the name of the local favorite, Rydsk. I had a mare at the farm who was a daughter out of his last son, Woodlyn and she was due in the spring. I suspected the crossbreed would be instrumental in the trotting line down the years.
“Lose your outfit? Or did you leave home without the fixings?”
“Somebody stormed my night camp and I run off,” I admitted.
He laughed which made me feel even more cowardly but then, he said, “you done a smart thing, boy. Taking on a crowd of night riders is not the safest thing to do even if you are armed. You needing powder, ball and caps for that pistol?”
“Yes sir, I’ll be needing those, too.” He added the ammo to the pile and offered to send a boy out with the bundles. I asked if he could deliver it to the hotel under my name as I was headed there for a bath and a room for the night. He recommended the hotel livery stable and coach barn which had its own guard posted as they had been the victims of the midnight theft themselves.
“I believe anyone who tries to take the stud again will find that they bit off more than they can chew,” I laughed. “He’s an ornery cuss around strangers. In fact, he’d already turned himself loose and found me.”
“Is he up at stud?”
“This spring. Ten gold coins a service,” I said and he didn’t bat an eye. “We’ll be racing him at Alban Springs in May.”
He called back and a gangly youth my own age came out of the back. He had dark hair and eyes, was taller than me and wearing old trousers with a blue long-sleeved shirt under wool vest. “Brian, take these packages to the hotel for Mr. Spencer, stop at the butchers and bring back my order of bacon.”
“Yes, Mr. Pearson,” he slowly picked up my two bundles and ambled out the door. I didn’t wait for him but hurried over to the hotel to be congratulated by patrons who had risked betting on an unknown racer.
When I saw the girl behind the desk, I stopped dead in total amazement. She was a blonde angel with blue eyes that had come down to earth to mock ordinary women. Her long blonde hair was the gold of a new coin, her figure enough to melt a snowman and her eyes–the blue of heaven’s sky. And her lips, I ached to kiss them till mine fell off.
A hand pushed me forward and I nearly stumbled and fell. I blushed at my clumsiness.
“Boy wants a room, Cinders.” the boy from the mercantile snorted. “And a bath.”
She wrinkled her nose and I was suddenly aware of my stink, one of horse, sweat and smoke. “Room twelve, Brian. Sign here,” she pushed a register over and I signed in shock, with my whole name. She looked at my name and said it sending chills down my spine. “Tobias Lynette Swan Spencer. What kind of name is that?”
I heard Brian mutter, “Sissy name.” Flushed.
“It’s Ehresh. My father was the Baronet Spencer, second son of the Earl of Gleneden.”
“Was?”
“My parents were murdered,” I said in a terse manner. Her face softened.
“Oh. You’re that boy that’s looking for his lost horses.”
“They’re not lost. They were stolen,” I snapped angry that she called me a boy.
“Your horse won the race against Jacobson and Sanderson?”
“By a furlong,” Brian enthused. “He was flying!”
She came around the curve of the desk with a key. She was just a head shorter than me, smiled wickedly and said, “Follow me, Sir Spencer.”
“Toby,” I murdered. “I’m not a sir.” She led me down the carpeted hallway, past big potted plants and sideboards loaded with books and photos to the bottom of a staircase made of cherry and polished with beeswax so that it shown red in the afternoon light. It came in from the big front windows.
I nearly drooled as I followed her up the stairs with that delicious bustle in front of my eyes and she must’ve known I was watching because she wiggled it more than I’d ever seen one wiggle before. Brian came up behind me, sniggering the whole way. Down the hallway we tramped until we came to the one with a brass number twelve and she unlatched it, handed me the key and stepped aside.
I saw a nice room with two curtained windows, a twin bed with feather comforter and mattress, desk, table and night stand. There was a pitcher and bowl, a mirror over a dresser and a bookcase filled with volumes. My eyes lit up, I loved to read and the titles called to me like old friends.
“The Passion of Magic, Tenant’s Essays, Greystone, Gibbons and Voltage.”
“You read Ehresh? And Freidsch?”
“Yes.” I picked up The Passion and thumbed through it, lost in the remembered world of spells and sorcery to come back to earth as Brian kicked me in the ankle. He’d dropped my purchases on the bed and was waiting.
“Oh. Sorry.” I tipped him a quarte-pence and paid up front for the room. “Bath?” I asked and tried not to blush again. She pointed to a door on one wall and it opened to reveal a closet with a copper hip tub and a chamber pot. At least I wouldn’t have to traipse through the hallways in my underwear.
“I’ll have Chang bring up your hot water. Guess you don’t need a shave,” she said eyeing my hairless chin and knocking my ego down a peg. “Thanks, Brian,” she told him and held my doorknob.
“Yeah, thanks, Brian. Don’t forget to pick up the bacon,” I said nastily and shut the door. The first thing I did was go through my rucksack and pull out my clean clothes. I wanted a bath, a fresh set of breeches and shirt before I went calling on the dining establishment I’d seen in the hotel’s lobby. I hoped the pretty Cinders was part of the dinner crew, I was surely eager to see her again.