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Sapphire gazed overhead at the puffy white clouds drifting in the clear blue sky. When Red had convinced Cosco last fall to allow “Sam” to ride Prince through the winter while his jockey’s broken bones mended, Sapphire had never imagined she would actually be racing the steed. But as the winter passed it became more and more apparent to everyone that the horse adored the new stable boy called Sam Water, and it was Mr. Carrington himself who made the decision.
A month ago when the snows were still swirling around them, he had watched Sapphire race Prince out through one of the fields, and he had decided by the time Sapphire dismounted, breathless. “Sam” was no longer the lowliest stable boy, but now held the coveted position of one of Carrington Farm’s jockeys. And Sapphire would be Prince’s jockey. She had felt guilty about taking another man’s position, but Red had insisted she shouldn’t because Prince had never liked Jimmy to begin with. Jimmy hadn’t the hands for it. Besides, the pay as a jockey was a far sight better than the pay as a stable boy. A stable boy, besides room and board, only made a couple of dollars a month. But a jockey, if he was good, could earn a small percentage of his race wins.
“Are we ready?”
Sapphire looked up to see Mr. Carrington approaching her. He was a pleasant older man with a shock of white hair and a smile that never left his craggy face. He walked with a cane because of a bad leg break he acquired years ago after a fall from horseback. He no longer raced his own horses, but he had become one of the best breeders on the Hudson and was known for his ability to produce fast horses.
“Ready as we’re gonna be, Mr. Carrington.” Red swiped his cap off his head while still holding tightly to the lead rope attached to Prince’s halter.
The black steed pranced in place. Sapphire could see the other horses beginning to line up for the race a hundred feet ahead. She fingered the reins nervously, thankful for the tan kidskin gloves she wore. Her hands were so sweaty inside them that if she were barehanded, she feared she couldn’t have held on to the reins.
“No need to be nervous, kid,” Mr. Carrington said, reaching out to pat Prince’s neck.
The horse pawed at the ground, snorted, seeming anxious to join the other horses.
“Just along the bank and back, that’s all it is. Just you and Prince going for a ride along the riverbank,” Mr. Carrington assured her.
Sapphire realized this race was of little importance. It was the beginning of the race season and owners just wanted to let their horses stretch, wanted to see how their jockeys would fare, new and seasoned. But Sapphire also knew Prince was already entered in other races; in a few weeks they would be in a place called Long Island where there would be hundreds of spectators, unlike here where mostly horse breeders and racers and their families had gathered to welcome spring.
“You’re not nervous, are you, Sam?” Mr. Carrington asked, looking up at her perched on Prince’s back.
Feeling tense, she shook her head. It had all sounded like a good idea in the beginning, when it was cold outside and she was lonely and missing Blake and spent most of her day grooming Prince. Even when the training had begun and Cosco had taught her how to race, it still hadn’t seemed real. Now, as the other horses and riders lined up and the spectators placed their final bets, there was no denying what she was about to do. She just hoped it didn’t involve breaking her neck….
“I’m not nervous, Mr. Carrington,” Sapphire said.
“That’s my boy.” The older man stepped back. “You win today, Sam, I’m telling you now. It’s dinner at my place tonight and you will have the seat of honor. That and a couple more dollars jingling in your pocket.” He winked.
“Thank you, sir.” Sapphire tipped her hat the way she saw other joc
keys do it.
Red looked up. “Ready, me boyo?”
Sapphire pressed her lips together and nodded.
Red led her to the starting line, marked in the new grass with ground limestone poured from a bucket. Around her, Sapphire could hear the other jockeys and trainers whispering, staring at her, talking of the newcomer who had tamed the wild Prince Caribbean and taken Jimmy’s seat in the Carrington barns. She ignored their stares and whispers and concentrated on the patch of white between Prince’s ears.
“All right, boy,” Sapphire whispered to the horse as Red unhooked the lead rope and stepped quickly out of the way of her mount’s powerful hooves. “Just a ride along the river,” she told him softly. “A quick ride around the track and you’ll be back in your stall with a bag of molasses oats, all right, old boy?”
The horse nickered.
One of the men, an owner of a farm down in the valley, stepped up to the line of racehorses. There were nine in all. Ordinarily, Prince Caribbean would have been the favorite, but he was unpredictable and word had it in the horse-racing community along the Hudson that no one knew if the kid Carrington had hired had it in him to make the mile race and stay on the horse’s back.
The distinguished gentleman in the bowler hat produced a white handkerchief from inside his frock coat and Prince put his head down, snorting.
Sapphire tensed on the horse’s back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the handkerchief fall and she loosened the reins and sank the heels of her new boots into Prince’s flanks. Prince shot over the white line and suddenly the countryside was a blur. Sapphire ignored the horses beside her, and the shouts of the riders as they tried to urge their mounts faster, as Prince pulled away. She used no riding crop. She didn’t even carry one because the horse never seemed to run as good a race when she tried one, perhaps because of his experiences with his previous owner. Instead, she sat high on his back, crouched forward on his withers and let him take the lead.
In no time, they were rounding the elm tree with its budding green leaves and the bank of Hudson was now on her left shoulder. She had only been two lengths ahead of the closest horse before they rounded the halfway mark, and now they were four or five ahead.
As the wind whistled in Sapphire’s ears and the faces of the onlookers flew by in a blur, she found herself thinking of Blake. What would he think of his maid now? Would he laugh? Scowl?
The wind brought tears to her eyes.
As the pounding of Prince’s hooves echoed in her head, she wondered if Clarice had wheedled her way into Blake’s bed, into the house. Was he still seeing Mrs. Sheraton? She didn’t know why she cared. He’d made it obvious to her what she meant to him—what she did not mean to him. He’d told her from the beginning the purpose women served in his life; she’d been foolish to think he had not been entirely truthful. If there was one thing Blake was, it was honest.
Ahead, Sapphire heard the calls of the spectators waiting at the finish line, Red the loudest.
“There ya go, me bully lad!” he called in his Irish brogue. “You got it! Come on!”
