At half-past one, Wykeham reappeared, red-faced and enthused. He found her and pulled her toward the front of his carriage. “They are almost ready. The horses will be going to the starting point shortly.”
Clara could smell wine and some other kind of spirit on his breath. He did not eat but ordered another glass of wine as he sat in a throne-like chair near the front of his booth and motioned for her to sit in a smaller one nearby.
“Kennet will be thrashed,” he announced. “This will be the end of whatever pretensions the Ashton brothers have of returning to Society.”
Clara glanced at the Kennet carriage, where Philip seemed to be holding an equivalent court. “They look equally as confident.”
Wykeham made a rude noise. “Philip Ashton is a petty martinet who has too much faith in his sons. He will be humiliated today, as will they all. And they deserve it.”
“I just hope neither of the horses is injured.”
Wykeham stared at her. “That gelding can fall down dead at the end, for all I care, as long as it wins.”
Clara fell silent. She would not argue with a man who was a drunken despot in his own right.
A change in the mood of the crowd told her the horses to be raced had emerged and were heading for the track. Cheers and catcalls rose up, and there was a surge toward the ropes. She and the duke stood and stepped out of the booth. Philip Ashton also moved closer, a cluster of well-wishers around him. On the track, Michael walked alongside a liveried groom as they led a black stallion toward the starting point, the jockey sitting lightly on the horse’s back.
The duke’s groom led the bay gelding alone, as the lithe jockey settled in the saddle.
Clara stared, fear for Michael surging into her throat.What was he thinking?The stallion was smaller both in height and breadth. He had clean, well-balanced lines, but the power in the muscles of the larger gelding were obvious.
“You see now?” Wykeham snarled. “Lord Michael Ashton is an absolute fool, and I am about to prove it for all thetonto witness.”
Clara’s stomach roiled.Why would he risk so much on that horse?
Michael separated from the groom with a pat on the man’s back, then trotted toward his father’s carriage. Clara stepped backwards, putting a tall footman between herself and the Kennets, but she need not have bothered. Michael, with an unexpected agility, climbed nimbly onto the top of the carriage and stood with his feet spread, his arms akimbo. Clearly he saw nothing but the horses.
She turned back to the track, fear gripping her as the horses took their places, and the grooms moved away.
And the race began.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Saturday, 27 August 1825
Epsom Downs, Surrey
Two in the afternoon
As Michael watched,the bay gelding leaped forward, first off the mark. Within seconds, Wykeham’s horse had a commanding lead of two lengths, as Phoenix settled into a sleek, steady gallop. Michael knew half thetonwould be watching him—which is why he climbed to the top of the carriage—and half would watch the race. He tried not to smile—hard, because he knew with certainty what was about to happen.
Epsom Downs, unlike many flat racecourses, was not, in fact, entirely flat. Or straight. From the starting point, it rose, ascending to the top of a hill, a hard pull for an inexperienced horse. The course then went into a broad turn to the left—the Tattenham Corner—which had been the site of many an accident. The half-mile straight that then headed to the finish line was primarily downhill, allowing the horses to pick up speed. The last one hundred yards, however, had a sharp ascent that challenged the endurance of most mounts, even those with good stamina and power.
All of which went into place as the horses dashed across the turf. The bay gelding increased his lead as the hill rose, and as they headed into the left-hand turn, his jockey maneuvered him to the left. The move seemed to puzzle the horse, and his speed dropped suddenly.
Phoenix closed the gap, pulling within one length. He wavered not one iota in the turn, his speed constant and sure. As they pulled out of the turn, the bay found his stride again, maintaining his lead for the next quarter mile.
Michael waited, placid, carefully controlling his expression. Just before the start of the race, Robert had told him exactly how many people had wagered against him and the black stallion. He had not been surprised. Over the last four years, he had done a lot to destroy the faith others, even his closest friends, had in him. But today would be different, and he had spotted the one horse at Embleton’s that could make it happen.
The horses headed into the last one hundred yards of the course and that sudden, steep ascent. The bay’s speed dropped abruptly, his strength spent. Phoenix sailed on, competent, steady, and sound, surging ahead in the final moments.
A gasp echoed through the crowd, almost a split second of silence, as Phoenix crossed the finish line, a half-length in front of the bay. The sound that followed would be one Michael knew he would remember the rest of his days. The shock gave way to a combination of raucous cheers and bellows of outrage. The crowd surged forward, breaking through the ropes, rushing for the horses. Startled, the bay began to balk, rearing in fear. Phoenix stepped smoothly aside, tossing his head, as if celebrating his victory. Little moved in, taking the stallion’s reins and leading him toward the Kennet carriage, as Wykeham’s grooms swarmed around the bay, trying to calm him and move the crowd away.
People clustered around Philip, and several men began to rock the big carriage, throwing Michael off balance. He clambered down to clamps of hands on his back and arms. Curses and congratulations blended merrily. A bottle of champagne appeared, and a glass of it was pushed into Michael’s hand—then quickly plucked away by Philip, who poured the liquid on the ground and handed the glass to a footman. He grabbed Michael’s hand, shaking it wildly.
Michael relished the pure joy on his father’s face. There had not been a great deal of joy in the Kennet household the past few weeks, and Michael felt a jolt of pleasure that he had been able to bring such an expression back to Philip. And he realized for the first time that this had never been truly about his reputation or the horses or Robert’s estate—or even Clara.
It had been about family.
