Summer Races

Chapter One

Lady Gayle Summer opened the long doors to the veranda at Bethencourt Castle, stepped outside into the glorious sunshine and shivered. About to turn back into the house, she smiled gratefully when Fredericks, the butler, held out her thick cardigan.

‘It was much warmer in Tuscany,’ she said.

Fredericks gave his usual deft bow. ‘So I understand, my lady,’ he said. ‘Alice has been regaling us all below stairs with the delights of the Tuscan countryside. I trust you were able to rest a little?’

‘I was, thank you, Fredericks,’ said Lady Gayle. ‘It was lovely to be away, but it’s always good to come home again, isn’t it?’

‘It is my lady. I have always found it so.’

‘Have you travelled much yourself, Fredericks?’ said Lady Gayle.

‘I travelled to Africa in 1899; that’s where I met your Uncle Percival. I had the honour of being assigned as his batman. We served together, and when he was injured, he asked me to return to Bethencourt Castle with him.’

‘Golly, was that the Boer War?’

‘The Second Boer War, my lady. There was an earlier conflict in late 1880—the second war was much longer—two years, seven months, and twenty days, to be precise. The Boers were fierce fighters.’

Fredericks’ voice faded into silence, and Lady Gayle turned to look at the old man, who, in reality, was not as old as she’d thought when she was a child.

He certainly wasn’t as old as her friend’s butler. Snelling had to be seventy if he was a day. She rubbed her arms again, trying to chivvy warmth and blood into them.

‘Are you still cold, my lady?’

‘Yes, I think I’ll come in now. It’s far too cold to be loitering on the veranda. I’ll head to the stables straight after breakfast.’

‘Very good, my lady,’ replied Fredericks smoothly. He waited for her to walk inside and glided towards the French windows to close them.

***

Lady Gayle took breakfast in the dining room as usual. She could have taken her first meal of the day in her bedroom as her mother usually did, but she preferred to scan her post and the newspapers with her toast and eggs. She was still new to running an estate as large as the one left to her by her father. Before her, it was bequeathed to papa by her great uncle. Neither man kept to their rooms; they always prepared to meet the day head-on. It was a method she chose to continue.

After she ate, she strode to the stables. Eager for adventure, the dogs followed. Gaspod the bloodhound, lumbering along, heavy-paced and sniffing the ground. Molly, the black-and-white springer spaniel, dashed around, sniffing eagerly, her short tail wagging furiously. Even though it was early, an air of peace lay over the stable courtyard. The aroma of hay and fresh straw hung in the air as she made her way to the loose box of her uncle’s horse. Try as she might, she was still getting used to the idea of calling the eighteen-hand grey gelding Plantagenet her horse. She leaned on the loose box door, the dogs leaning against her legs. Plantagenet noticed her and stopped munching hay long enough to nuzzle her hand for treats.

‘You missed me then?’ she teased. She reached in her pocket for a crust from her toast to feed him. Holding her hand flat, the sound of her father’s warning voice in her ear, Lady Gayle smiled at the twin sensations of the horse’s warm breath and prickly whiskers on her palm. When he finished, he raised his head and nuzzled her hair, blowing out the curled tendrils that Alice, her maid, had clipped into place. Scratching Plantagenet on his muzzle, she whispered, ‘I’ll be back later.’ Lady Gayle wandered around the courtyard. All the loose boxes were prepared, thick straw coating the cobbled bases. Hay bags hung from hooks. Water buckets were in place. It was happening. It was really happening.

She whirled around at the sound of a cough behind her. Shepherd, her head groom, stood hat in hand, as usual, seemingly awaiting orders.

‘Everything seems to be under control, Mr Shepherd,’ she said.

‘Yes, my lady. Just waiting for our guests,’ he replied.

‘Nervous?’

‘A little, my lady. Billy here is as giddy as a spring lamb.’

Lady Gayle grinned at the stable lad. He was barely more than a boy—still at that gangly stage between child and man.

He returned the grin, and then, at a cuff on his ear from Shepherd, he remembered himself and ducked his head.

‘I’m really looking forward to seeing the racehorses, milady,’ he mumbled.

‘So am I, Billy. So am I.’

‘We’re expecting them early afternoon, my lady,’ said Shepherd. ‘Is that still the case?’

‘Yes, here overnight and then onto York ahead of the race. Lord Ridgewell is hoping for a win with his new horse,’ replied Lady Gayle.

Shepherd nodded. He said nothing, and, for a moment, Lady Gayle wondered how much was known about Lord Ridgewell and his gambling problems.

‘I must get back to the house. Mama will be wondering where I am. I’ll let you know if there are any changes to the plans, Shepherd.’

***

Lady Gayle entered the castle from a side door near the kitchens. Although they were her kitchens, it was still not the done thing for the lady of the house to venture “below stairs”, and she moved rapidly up the back stairs to the hallway. She was unlikely to run into anyone, but with two large dogs at her heels, it was equally unlikely that her choice of route would go unnoticed.

Panting slightly, she arrived in the hallway close to the foot of the main staircase. She glanced up at the minstrels’ gallery and the family portraits. The last paintings commissioned had been for her cousins Maxwell and Rupert, who had died in the Great War. She saw no point in adding to the collection, although if you marry again, the little voice in her head whispered. She shrugged. At one time, she would have fiercely decried the thought of another marriage—now she wasn’t so sure—but she needed to make sure the gentleman in question was equally keen. Her return from Tuscany was almost two months ago, and she and her land agent had met most days. She still hadn’t been able to have that conversation with him. However, their time together had been both pleasant and cordial—they were fast becoming friends. She crossed the hallway rapidly but halted, her hand resting on the drawing room door handle. What her mother would think of her marrying a man who Mama considered to be little more than a servant was another matter.

With that in mind, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and opened the door. The room was empty. Where is Mama? Lady Gayle glanced at the Louis XV carriage clock on the mantelshelf. It clearly showed that it was ten in the morning. She knew that her mother, although not a morning person, only stayed in bed if she were ill, and even then, she was rarely ill enough to warrant bed rest.

Approaching the fire to warm her hands, she frowned at the sound of the door opening behind her, but all the same, she turned to see who it was.

Followed by her new lady’s maid and a tiny Yorkshire Terrier was her mother. Lady Ethel, the Dowager Countess of Bethencourt, swept into the room.

‘Good morning, Mama.’ Lady Gayle dipped her head to her mother. Despite now holding the senior rank in the family, she preferred to show her mother, who still clung to many Victorian values, this mark of respect.

‘Swann couldn’t find my black shawl,’ said her mother, as if that explained everything.

Lady Gayle flicked her eyes towards the maid, who was carrying at least three black shawls. ‘That must be very trying when you have so few to choose from, Mama.’ She bit her lip when she heard Swann cough. It wouldn’t do to get the maid into trouble. She had enough difficulty getting maids to suit her mother. This new one, so far, seemed to bear the old lady’s tantrums rather well.

Lady Edith lowered herself onto one of the two sofas facing each other in front of the fire. ‘When are your guests arriving?’

‘Early afternoon, Mama. Lord Ridgewell wants to ensure the horses are settled after their journey.’

‘He’s not worried about his wife or child?’

‘I’m sure he is, Mama, but if they are worried or concerned about something, they can speak for themselves. The horses can’t.’

‘The baby speaks already, does she? She can scarcely be more than a few months old.’

Lady Gayle bit back a laugh. ‘She is almost seven months old now, but I don’t believe she can talk just yet. Bundle does assure me that Sylvia is remarkably advanced for her age, but I think all mothers say that, don’t they?’

‘I never did, Gayle,’ replied her mother haughtily. ‘I seem to recall you were distinctly average.’