I follow Petey into the stable and we put the Sheik into his stall and I get his oats and put some in his trough and he eats.
"I wonder why you get on so well with the horse, Jacky," says Pete. "He'll do things easy for you that he won't do for me."
I thinks for a bit and then says, "You know, it may sound stupid, but I think it's 'cause he knows I'm a girl."
Pete raises an eyebrow.
"Aye, and don't think this rogue don't know it. Aside from runnin', gettin' with the mares is his main occupation. So he knows."
"Ah, what's the big difference?" asks Pete, the track-hardened jockey. His age, after you get over his boyish size, is about thirty, thirty-five.
"The difference is, with male jockeys, he sees competition, like ... and so he acts that way. He runs good for you 'cause he wants you to see just how good he is, so you'll go away in shame. With me, he sees someone he wants to ... well, impress. He wants me to admire him ... and like him." I blush a little at this speech, but I think it's true.
"Pretty deep there, jack-o," says he, laughing.
I laugh, too, and think how long it's been since I've been called by that Cockney name.
I spend a good deal of the rest of the afternoon with Pete, learnin' the tricks of the trade, listenin' to his stories—and that time at Ascot when I was on a big dumb hammer-headed black, and four o' the bleedin bastards had me boxed in against the wall and I...
He's a good sort and we become fast friends. When I leave the stable, night is falling and Randall is no longer at the gate.
I go into Amy's room and she is sitting there scratching her quill in her manuscript, as she calls it. She rises and we dress for dinner.
We take our evening dinner with Randall at the great long table in the grand dining room. Amy wanted to take our dinner in the kitchen, all jolly and easy like we usually do, but Randall insisted, so here we are. I like being here, and look about like any simple country girl. Candles are lit in a crystal chandelier above the table where we sit, and the lights from it reflect warmly on the polished top of the huge table. It reflects, also, on the fine china and silverware laid out before me. At least I know what to do with it now, and don't have to cringe in fear.
There are about twenty, twenty-five chairs ringing the table, and we three sit in the middle, Amy and I together, and Randall across from us. There are windows at the end of the room and they are covered with thick red drapes, gathered with gold cords. Behind me is a big double door that opens on the hall and through which we came in, and on the other side is another set of wide doors that open on what seems to be a big, dark ballroom. What a thing, I thinks, to go to a real ball in there.
"So how go your studies, dear Brother?" asks Amy. A soup is brought and placed in front of each of us, and I lay into mine thinkin' I just might keep my mouth shut just now and let these two go at it. "I'm sure you are finding Homer and Virgil most exciting."
"Boring," says Randall. "How goes the girly school? I'm sure you're finding your courses in the changing of the baby's nappies quite entertaining?"
A man in livery—a footman? Randall's valet? the butler? I don't know—comes to serve the wine.
"And you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow to me.
"I like my French and I love Art and Music. Could do without Embroidery, though, and as for Household Management, which is where the changing of a diaper might someday come up, well, Amy and me don't like it much, but all knowledge is useful, is what I hold. And as for Equestrian, well, you know I like that. I've gotten so I can do medium jumps now." I figure a little girlishness wouldn't hurt just now, and I flutter my eyelashes and clasp my hands all helpless and flighty. "It's dreadful scary, but I can just do it."
"Indeed?" says Randall, puffing up till I swear his waistcoat buttons will pop. "Well, perhaps we shall ride to the hounds in the summer." He raises his glass and looks at me over the rim.
"Only if you spare the fox, Sir." I raise my glass in return and look back at him over my own rim. "Or the vixen. Whichever one is being chased."
"That would depend on how fast the vixen runs." Randall smiles lazily.
"Or how clever she is in evading capture," says I.
He nods his head in a kind of bow.
Two girls with trays come in and serve the meat, potatoes, and greens. I take some and thank them. They dip and go.
Randall notices this and I know he wants to say that I'm too familiar with the servants but he don't.
"Another glass of wine with you, Jacky?" Randall is feeling good, I can tell.
"Just half, please." The man fills my glass halfway. "Thank you." I take my water glass and top off the wine, turning it from deep red to pink.
"A travesty," snorts Randall, leaning back in his chair. "Leave it," he says to his man and the man places the bottle on the table and leaves the room.
He turns to his plate and shovels some in and while he's chewing and tossing back the wine, I think how different he is from his father, as different as Amy is from her mother. Well, maybe it's only in appearance that they are different, Randall being tall and slim and the Colonel being medium-sized and built like a door. But I got to admit they got the same arrogant kiss-my-royal-bum look in their eyes. The Colonel was civil to me over Christmas, but it was plain that he had very little use for such as me.
Randall pushes his plate away and wipes his mouth and fills his glass again and lobs the mortar: "The Sheik will race all comers on Saturday, April the nineteenth."
Amy drops her fork to her plate.
"Yes, and Clarissa will arrive here at Dovecote, the day before. You know Clarissa Howe, do you not, Jacky?" He smirks, obviously recalling the grand tea party at the school.
I own that I have had the pleasure of her acquaintance. I look over at Amy. She is not happy.
"You will excuse us, Brother," says Amy. She throws her napkin down and rises.
He takes out a long thin cigar and curls back his lips and places it between his teeth. "Perhaps we'll retire to the piano room?" He looks at me with his sly look.
"Perhaps not," says Amy, and brother and sister glare at each other as I get up, a bit more regretfully. Pity. I was having fun.
So. We will return in a month to see a fine horse race, where the Sheik will certainly conquer all who dare to challenge him...
...Or we will witness the fall of the House of Trevelyne.
That evening, after we're dressed for bed and I'm brushing out Amy's long, black, shiny hair, I ask, "What's a piano, and why does it have a room?" She has already brushed out my hair and I have put on my mobcap, which now has an anchor worked in blue thread on top of it—might as well use that embroidery, I figure. Although I still ain't near as good as the other girls, I got to admit it looks right smart. I think Faber Shipping, Worldwide shall use that as its flag. The Blue Anchor Line, from Cathay to Bengal, from the rocky shores of New England to the sandy beaches of Mexico, from the—
"Come. I'll show you." She gets up and puts on her own cap and takes up the lamp and goes to the door.
We creep down the broad staircase and down a hall and into a darkened room. Amy goes forward and puts the lamp down on a big ... what? It's got four thick legs and is flat on top and is all rich and smooth and glossy and warm and...
"It's called a piano," she says, sitting down at a bench in front of the thing and lifting a wooden cover that slides back to reveal a row of gleaming black and white keys. "Or, actually, a pianoforte, which is Italian for 'soft-loud,' which is appropriate because, unlike my harpsichord, it can make a note loud or soft depending on how hard you hit the key. Like this." And she strikes a white key hard and lets the sound die out, and then does it again, only this time lightly and the note is much quieter.