The Valentine Legacy (11 page)

James called after her, “I'm cold and wet. I hurt. I know you feel the same way. I'll make you a deal, Jessie. Tomorrow, after the race, you and I will make some sense out of all this.”

“No.”

“What did you say to me?”

“There's no sense to be found anywhere, James. Just forget all of it. I don't want to be forced to save you again, so take care with all those vicious jockeys tomorrow.”

She bolted away from him, soon turning off onto the beautiful wide drive of Warfield Stables and Stud Farm, the words all fashioned over the top of the wide gate in iron letters at the beginning of the drive.

He didn't slow Dimple, the sweet old mare from his boyhood. She liked a steady pace. She didn't like the rain any more than he did, but she was old enough to know that if her legs kept moving she'd be home soon enough.

If he'd only known what was going to happen in the next two days, he would have been sorely tempted to ride north and never look back.

If he were a horse, nobody would buy him.

—WALTER BAGEHOT

I
T WASN
'
T RAINING
, thank the good Lord. But the track was pitted with mud puddles. As a result, few ladies were present for the races today. Only the hardier men were there, betting with less abandon than usual, but still, there was excitement in the air. Everyone liked a quarter-horse race. It was fast and hard.

James would ride Console in the third race. Console was eager, snorting and throwing his head around. Oslow patted his muscular gray neck and said, “You just wait a minute, old boy, and Mr. James will be here to give you a fine ride.”

“That's right,” James said, and quickly checked the girth, tightening it automatically as Console breathed out. “Now, let's you and I take a nice walk and talk about things.”

James led Console away from the crowds, talking to him all the time. “We won't try to run Jessie off into a ditch today. Maybe next week, but not today. But that jockey of Mortimer Hackey's is another matter. See that withered beggar old Mortimer has entered?” Console turned his head around and snorted.

“Exactly,” James said. “I want to make him very sorry.”

Console snorted again.

*   *   *

It was a dangerous flat stretch because of all the wretched mud and fallen branches and uncovered rocks. James pressed himself close to Console's neck and talked to him. Then he listened. Console was ready. He was bored. He wanted to fly.

Console passed Jessie, riding the black three-year-old Jigg, in a matter of moments. He didn't acknowledge her at all. There were twelve horses on the flat. Since this was the third race, it was rapidly becoming an obstacle course, with clumps of mud flying, slamming against the horses and their riders.

Console would have danced with enjoyment if James had let him. He was running his heart out, not caring if he barely missed a jagged rock in the middle of the track, ready to kill any other horse or jockey who tried to push him out.

James saw Mortimer Hackey's horse just to his left and whispered to Console, “There he is. Let's get him.”

Console veered to the left, smashed his big head into the other horse's neck, sending the horse stumbling away and his jockey flying into a shallow pond of mud, and raced over the finish line with all the joy of a vicar who's just baptized every sinner in his flock.

Console won two hundred dollars. He tossed his head, not even breathing hard, ready to go again, but James handed his reins to Oslow. “Give him an extra bucket of oats. He smashed Mortimer Hackey's horse out of the race.”

“I saw him do it. Well done, my fine lad.” Oslow patted the big gray's neck, and Console neighed loudly.

There were six more quarter-mile races that day until just after three o'clock, when it started raining again—heavy sheets of rain that sent all the spectators scattering.

James also won first place in the fifth race and second in the sixth. Bonny Black, ridden by Jessie, won the sixth race.
Tinpin, grumpy and indifferent, managed to pull in third. James was surprised he had done that well.

Oslow and three of the stable lads were covering the horses with blankets and leading them off for the long trek back to Marathon when Mortimer Hackey stomped into view. James grinned at him. “How's your foot, Hackey?”

“You bloody bastard, you sent your horse right into my horse! My jockey has been knocked crazy in the head, thanks to you. Hoolahan says it'll be three weeks before he's fit to ride again.”

James yawned. “You did try to shoot me, Hackey. Did you think I'd turn the other cheek? Besides, that jockey is always too ready to use his riding crop. He deserved a lesson.”

“You take one step closer, and I'll shoot you again, Mr. Hackey.”

James shut his mouth on another yawn. “Jessie, for God's sake, Mortimer isn't up to no-good, at least not today. He's just a mite miffed because his jockey took a tumble in the third race.”

Mortimer snorted, waved his fist at the two of them, and walked off in a snit. He barely avoided careening into a deep mud puddle.

“I saw it. Well done.”

“Thank you. Console enjoyed himself. He can be a mean bugger when he wants to. How are you feeling, Jessie?”

“Me? Oh, I'm fine. You?”

“I'll live. Wyndhams are too ornery to croak.”

Jessie just nodded and walked away, with rain running over her in waves. She was bareheaded. He wanted to ask her how her family was treating her, but he didn't. She seemed just fine. She'd been right when she'd told her father that it was all ridiculous.

It stopped raining as suddenly as it had begun. Of all the perverse things: the sun was brighter than a fireball in the
sky. But there was no more racing as more entries had already headed home.

James was whistling as he came to Luther Swann's famous wagon covered with its white canvas and painted with blue stripes. He went around the corner of the wagon and stopped dead in his tracks. Jessie was pressed smack against the side of the wagon. Luther, as mean as a snake whenever he touched a bottle of whiskey, which was too often, was all over her, kissing her, his hands fondling her breasts, pressing his groin against her.

James roared as he strode forward: “Get off her, you damned, sorry bastard!”

Why the hell wasn't Jessie fighting him? Why was she just standing there, letting him do whatever he wanted to do?

“Eh? Oh, James, I was just enjoying myself a bit of fluff here. Yep, I always wondered what Jessie Warfield would feel like. Lordie, she's got breasts, nice 'uns.”

“Get off her, Luther. Now!”

“You want her, do you? Well, that's the word. You took her last night in the Blanchards' garden and everyone saw you take her and you didn't care, just cast her off, you did, and her pa let you. So why can't I have her, too?”

James grabbed Luther by the scruff of the neck and literally jerked him off her, hurling him to the muddy ground with a thud and a yelp.

He whirled around to see Jessie still pressed against the wagon, pale and silent. “Jessie, for God's sake, why'd you let him touch you like that?”

It was then that he saw the trickle of blood staining her throat. He touched the small gash. “He held you still with a knife?”

She was even whiter, if that was possible, not moving, not even pretending to pay attention to him. She just stood there, staring at Luther, who was now shaking himself as
he rose slowly to his feet. She saw him put the knife away in the pocket of his wet coat.

James turned on his heel, grabbed Luther Swann by his coat lapels, jerked him forward, and sent his fist into his face. He kept hitting him until he fell, then he just hauled him up again, and hit him until he felt hands pulling him away, heard men's voices telling him to stop it, to control himself.

He finally realized that Luther was unconscious at his feet. He shook his head.

“What's going on here, James?” Oliver Warfield shook him again. “Why the hell did you beat Luther up?”

“What the devil do you mean? You're her damned father, for God's sake. He was forcing himself on her, Oliver. He made her stand still for it with a knife to her throat. Ask her yourself.”

“I can't ask her, James. She's gone.”

Luther was sitting up now, shaking his head. “I was just taking what she offered, James,” he said, and whimpered when James took a step forward.

“Stop it, James! Look at your hands. Your knuckles are bleeding.”

“It's true, Mr. Warfield,” Luther said, seeing possible help from Jessie's own father. “Your daughter acts just like a man, and she wears those tight trousers. All of you know she's just asking for it. Well, she gave it to Wyndham last night. It was my turn, that's all. You, Sam, you told me you wanted her, too. Don't you remember? We flipped a coin to see who would get her first.”

“My God,” Oliver Warfield said. He jumped on Luther, pounding him in the belly with his fists. James managed to pull him off. “My God,” Oliver said again. He shook his head and walked away.

James strode after him. “Oliver, wait. Dammit, we've got to do something.”

Oliver stopped. He turned and looked at James, silent for a very long time. Then he shrugged. “You walked away from her last night. What do you expect me to do today? You want me to beat up a dozen men? Is that what you plan to do?”

“I don't know,” James said slowly. He felt more helpless than he had when he'd been dragged by a huge black stallion for fifty yards. “I just thought it was all nonsense, just as Jessie did. I couldn't imagine anyone believing that Jessie and I would be making love in the Blanchards' garden.”

“Folks love scandal. If it isn't real, they'll tug on it and jerk on it and mold it about until it's real enough to hurt a person really bad. You had a good day, James. You beat Jessie in all three races. If you don't mind, I'd just as soon not come to Marathon tonight with that God-awful champagne you like so much.”

He turned and walked away.

James just stared after him. He felt swamped with guilt and anger. None of it was his fault. Damn Glenda and her wretched mother. And curses upon Jessie's head as well. If she hadn't interfered, well . . . actually, if she hadn't been up in that elm tree with a gun, he would have been dead and none the wiser today for it.

 

Glenda came into Jessie's room without knocking. At first she didn't see her sister. She rarely visited this particular bedchamber. Indeed, she hadn't been inside for some three or four years, since she was young and tended to idolize her older sister until she'd learned that Jessie was peculiar. Since Glenda was a lady born and bred, she couldn't afford to pay any attention at all to this strange female who just happened to share her parents with her. The room wasn't all that large; indeed, it was a bit smaller than Glenda's bedchamber. But what it had that Glenda's didn't have was a nearly full wall of windows that faced west. Precious Baltimore sunlight
streamed into the room, so bright it hurt the eyes to look directly into it. There were no draperies. None at all, which of course wasn't the right thing. Glenda wondered if her mother knew that Jessie had removed them. Other than that ghastly bright sunlight, there was only a bed, a large armoire, and a small writing desk. There was no vanity table. There was, Glenda remembered, a long skinny mirror on the inside of the armoire.

“What do you want, Glenda?”

“Ah, Jessie, there you are. I didn't see you sitting there in that window seat. The sun's so bright. I just wanted to speak to you for a moment.”

“Yes?” Jessie didn't move. She was tired, was sore from her adventure of the previous night, and bruised and battered from the five races she'd ridden in today. The knife cut on her throat throbbed gently. She'd bandaged it herself and loosely wrapped a colorful scarf around the bandage.

“Mother asked me to come tell you that you shouldn't come to church with us tomorrow. Not after what happened today. Mother doesn't think it wise for you to show yourself for a while. She said that if the men were trying to get at you, the ladies would shred you.”

“Shred me?”

“Yes. Mother says that ladies swoop down on their own sex with more abandon and joy than an army of men. She said they'd make hash out of you and shred you.”

“Mother didn't send you, Glenda. Doubtless she doesn't want me with you tomorrow, but I'm sure she'll come to tell me herself. Now, what do you want?”

“I want you to go to Aunt Dorothy in New York City. If you ask Papa, he'll send you as soon as possible.”

Aunt Dorothy, her father's younger sister, was as gracious as a mad dog, more pious than a reformer, the widow of a minister of too ample means. She'd terrified all three Warfield sisters since they'd been born. Jessie had overheard her
father telling her mother once that he never doubted his brother-in-law's money came from stealing half the money in the tithing plate every single Sunday.

“I would rather die than go to Aunt Dorothy. You know what she's like, Glenda.”

“Yes, but what else can you do? If you go out of the house, men will think they can take you at their whim. They believe you're a slut, that James has already had you. The ladies will shred you. I heard Papa say he couldn't allow you to race anymore. You're ruined, Jessie. It's that simple. You must leave.”

“If I leave, then you and mother will somehow try to trap James again into marriage.”

“It's none of your affair. Oh yes, I realized last night that you were there because you'd eavesdropped on us. You were there to keep me from having James. I deserve James and I'll have him.”

“He doesn't deserve you, Glenda.”

“If he is really honorable and generous, then perhaps one day he'll come to deserve me. He will work to deserve me. But he must know that the Warfields would bring him great consequence. Marriage to me would bring him Warfield Stables.”