Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

In words as well as in actions, Miss Florence Nightingale had taught her that lesson. “She is simply not herself,” Miss Nightingale would say, overlooking whatever transgression had just occurred.

“Look! Look, Ellie!” Moira cried. “She's gaining! She's gaining!”

Eleanor looked across the racecourse, and yes, she could see a flicker of crimson, like a tiny flame, beating its way, slowly but surely, toward the front of the pack. Only two other horses-one black, one white-were running ahead. Even Sinclair seemed excited by the turn of events.

“Good show!” he shouted. “Nightingale, come on! Come on!” He squeezed Eleanor by the elbow, and she felt as if her whole arm-no, her whole body-was galvanized. She could barely focus on the race at all. Sinclair's hand stayed where it was, though his eyes were on the horses charging around the far post.

“The white one, she's faltering!” Moira called out with glee.

“And the black one looks fagged, too,” Sinclair said, rapping his own rolled-up program nervously on the rail. “Come on, Nightingale! You can do it!”

There was something so boyishly charming about Sinclair just then-the rapt enthusiasm, the pale moustache made nearly transparent by the direct sun. Eleanor had not failed to notice the attention he drew from other women; when they had come through the crowd, parasols had twirled brightly, as if their owners were hoping to catch his eye, and one young woman, on the arm of an elderly gent, had gone so far as to drop a handkerchief in his path-which he retrieved and returned, with a half smile, while moving on. Eleanor had become more and more conscious of her own attire, and wished that she, too, had something more colorful, or stylish, or becoming to wear; she had but this one fine dress, and it was a rather somber forest green, of ribbed taffeta, with old-fashioned gigot sleeves. It buttoned firmly up to her throat, and on a day like this especially, she might have wished for something that bared at least a bit of her neck and shoulders.

Moira had simply opened the collar of her own dress-a peach-colored affair that neatly matched the color of her hair and complexion-and was even then pressing the cool but empty lemonade glass against the base of her throat. Still, she looked about to faint from the mounting excitement.

The horses were barreling around the near side of the oval track, and the white one had indeed faltered. Its jockey was whipping it mercilessly, but the horse was falling farther behind every second. And the black one, a frisky colt, was simply holding its own, hoping to make it to the finish line without any greater exertion. Nightingale's Song, however, was not spent at all; indeed, the horse seemed only then to be stretching itself to its utmost. Eleanor could see every sinew and muscle in its legs pumping and its head bobbing up and down as the jockey, sitting uncustomarily far forward on its withers, spurred it on, the chestnut mane flying into his face. “By God,” Sinclair cried, “she's going to do it!” “She is, isn't she?” Moira exulted. “She's going to win!” But the black colt hadn't given up yet. As often happened with racehorses, this one suddenly felt himself being beaten-saw out of the corner of one eye the contender keeping pace-and unleashed a last burst of energy and drive. They were in the final furlong, virtually nose to nose, but something in Nightingale's Song, some reserve that had still been held in check for this critical moment, was released, and as if she had been borne forward by some sudden wind, she burst ahead of the colt, the crimson silks rippling like flames along its flanks, as she flashed across the finish line, streaming with sweat, and the judge on the scaffold waved a golden flag back and forth and back and forth.

There was a tumult in the crowd, cries of disappointment from the losing horses’ bettors, but here and there a whoop of joy and astonishment. Eleanor gathered that Nightingale's Song had not been favored to win, which, even she knew, was what stood so much to their advantage. She studied the paper chit in her hand, and as Moira danced in place, from one foot to the other, Sinclair took it from her.

“Will you allow me to go and collect your winnings?” Eleanor nodded, and Moira simply beamed. Paper chits, torn in half by the losing bettors, wafted like confetti from the grandstands and swirled in the air overhead. As Eleanor and Moira looked on, three of the jockeys walked their winded horses to the circle beside the judging scaffold. Each of them took off his colorful silk jersey, and one of the stable hands tied it loosely to the rope of the flagpole. Then the silks were raised-a yellow one at the bottom, a purple one in the middle, and at the very top, signifying its win for all to see, the crimson-and-white colors of Nightingale's Song. Eleanor felt, silly as it seemed, a surge of pride, while Moira seemed utterly beside herself at the prospect of her newfound riches.

“I'll not tell my father about the whole of it,” she said, “or he'd surely come to town and beat it out of me.”

At least Eleanor knew that her father would do no such thing.

“But I will tell my mam I come into a bit o’ luck, and send some home to ease her days. The good Lord knows she do deserve it.”

Eleanor was still resolved to return her share to Sinclair-after all, she hadn't wagered so much as sixpence out of the small sum she carried in her faded velvet reticule. When he came back, he stuffed a handful of coins and notes into Moira's mesh handbag, then waited for Eleanor to open her own. She declined.

“But it's yours!” he said. “Your horse came in, at very favorable odds!”

“No, it was your horse,” Eleanor said, “and your money.” She could see that Moira wanted no part of this nobility, and she was sorry if it made her friend uncomfortable.

Sinclair paused, the money in hand, then said, “Would it make you feel any better if I told you I'd made my own packet, too?”

Eleanor hesitated, as Sinclair dug into the side pocket of his trousers, withdrew a wad of pound notes and playfully shook them at her. “You two,” he said, gallantly including Moira, “are my lucky charms.”

Eleanor had to laugh, as did Moira, and she could no longer argue when he opened her purse and slipped her winnings inside. It was far more money than she had ever possessed at one time, and she was glad to have the lieutenant there to help guard it.

Dark clouds from the west were only beginning to obscure the bright sun as they sauntered back toward the high main gates. They were just passing through them when Eleanor heard someone cry, “Sinclair! Did you have a winning day?”

As she turned, she saw the two men who had accompanied Sinclair to the hospital that night, only now they were not in uniform, but in handsome civilian attire.

“By Jove, I did!” Sinclair replied.

“Then, in that case…” the big one-Captain Rutherford- said, extending his hand palm open, “you won't mind settling accounts?”

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather consider it an investment and leave it where it is, to seek some future gain?”

“A bird in the hand,” Rutherford replied, smiling, and Sinclair dutifully slapped some of the cash from his pocket onto the open hand.

“But forgive me,” Sinclair went on, taking one step back in order to effect the introductions all around. Le Maitre's companion, a Miss Dolly Wilson, nodded-her face was almost entirely obscured under her wide-brimmed garden hat, garlanded with burgundy and mauve flowers-and Sinclair then asked, “Are you all traveling back to town? I was going to hire a carriage, but perhaps we could make the journey together.”

“Capital idea,” Rutherford replied, “but I've already got a coach waiting, in the Regent's Circle. Plenty of room for all.”