Afterward, Kate wondered that Lillie could have managed to eat a single bite, and there was certainly no opportunity for her to ask any questions. The actress talked incessantly, punctuating her conversation with practiced gestures and expressive glances from her smoky eyes, which seemed sometimes blue, sometimes gray. She described at great length the amazing success of her most recent theatrical tour of the United States; the fifty thousand pounds she had realized from the sale of her yacht, White Lady, a gift from an admirer named Baird who had died, tragically, before they could enjoy it together; the exploits of her favorite horse, Merman, which she loved above all other things on this earth; her new little house on the Isle of Jersey, which she called Merman Cottage and where Hugo de Bathe often visited her. As she talked, her tone became more confiding and her gestures and expression more intimate, as if she were telling everything about her life. Kate noticed, however, that she failed to mention two other sensational events which the London newspapers had reported extensively: her California divorce, obtained just two years before; and the mysterious death of her former husband, Mr. Edward Langtry.
At the mention of Hugo de Bathe, Lillie paused for a sip of wine and Kate seized the opportunity to speak. “I enjoyed meeting Lord de Bathe,” she said, pretending to more warmth than she felt. “He’s a charming man. He seems to care for you very much.”
“Oh, yes, doesn’t he?” Lillie agreed, smiling languidly over the rim of her glass. “Suggie is a dear, dear boy. I expect we shall be married before the end of summer.” She laughed dryly. “It won’t at all please his father, of course. The old man has threatened to cut Suggie off without a shilling if he marries me.” She added, with a cavalier shrug, “But money matters little to true lovers, don’t you agree? Love is certainly the most important thing in our lives. As my dear friend Oscar Wilde says, ‘They do not sin at all, who sin for love.’ ”
“But Oscar Wilde has also said,” Kate replied thoughtfully, “that ‘one should always be in love. That is the reason one should never marry.’ ”
Lillie looked vexed. “Oscar is nothing if not inconsistent,” she said. She pushed away her empty dessert dish and fastened her eyes on her guest’s face. Her glance seemed to lay claim to Kate’s most precious secrets. “Now that I’ve told you everything there is to know about me, dear Beryl, you must tell me about yourself. I do so want to be friends.”
Kate opened her mouth to speak, but Lillie went on.
“I know that you’re an American, that your novels and stories are amazingly popular, and that you and Lord Sheridan don’t much like to go about in Society. But I’m sure there’s more-much more, hidden away inside your heart.”
“I’m afraid that you’ve already learned all there is to know about me,” Kate said with a small smile. “My life is an open book.”
Lillie threw back her head and laughed gaily. “An open book!” she exclaimed, much amused. “How very clever! But of course, it is your literary work that I most want to talk about. I can’t tell you how excited I am at the prospect of staging ‘The Duchess.’ I know the production will have an enormous dramatic appeal, especially if you agree to the few changes I have in mind. I’m absolutely dying to-”
But at that moment, Williams appeared with a folded note on a silver salver. Lillie read it with a displeased frown and threw it back on the tray, letting out an irritated puff of breath.
“It seems that I have an unexpected caller, Beryl, and after that, I fear I must attend to some business. You and I shall have to continue our conversation at tea.” The butler pulled back Lillie’s chair as she stood. “Meanwhile, I’m sure you would like to look at the house and grounds so that you can tell your readers all about Regal Lodge in your article. Please do ask Williams if you find yourself in need of anything.”
It was some little time later, while Kate was exploring the rose garden within earshot of the drawing-room windows, that she overheard Lillie Langtry’s angry interchange with her caller.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Newmarket, the home of the Jockey Club, was also home to dozens of racing stables. Each trainer ruled his stable with an iron hand, guarding the horses placed in his yard as if they were the Crown jewels, for it was their success on the Turf which assured his own success. The trainer might not be so prominent a figure as the jockey, but he and his methods had a far greater and more lasting influence on the individual horse, and on racing itself.
“Trainers and Stables” Albert J. William
When Charles and Bradford arrived at the Grange House Stable that morning, they discovered that Bradford ’s introduction would not be necessary. After a few minutes’ conversation, it emerged that Angus Duncan had known the two previous Barons of Somersworth and was willing to be persuaded to undertake the training of the two-year-old colt and the filly that the present Lord Somersworth (obviously a foppish fool of a man with more money than sense) proposed to place in his care.
“They’re the last of my brother’s stable,” Charles lisped, affecting an exaggerated, upper-class tone, “and so I’m anxious to do well by them.” He leaned on his gold-headed cane and remarked, “Afraid I’m not a racing man, haven’t an ounce of brain when it comes to horses. My brother was quite proud of the line, but my stableman insists that both horses are bone-lazy and ought to be sold.” He took out a white silk handkerchief and flicked a speck of dust off the sleeve of his morning coat. “But my brother, bless him, wouldn’t’ve wanted that. I’m anxious to see them well trained and give them a chance to run, if they’re fit for it. Of course, I’ll pay the tariff, whatever it is,” he added expansively.
Bradford, with the demeanor of a cautious adviser, gave him a slight shake of the head. “Your lordship ought to have a look around the stables before making a final decision on the matter. There are, after all, other stables at Newmarket.”
“Oh, quite,” Charles said, smiling fatuously. He made a fluttering gesture. “Oh, indeed. A look around, to be sure.”
Angus Duncan frowned. “Don’t like to have owners around horses,” he said brusquely. “Don’t do horses no good, nor owners neither.” He glanced at his lordship, who was stroking his mustache appreciatively, and seemed to conclude that this particular owner was too dim-witted to be dangerous, although the adviser bore watching. “But a quick look shouldn’t do harm,” he said, relenting. “Pinkie’ll take you round.”
As Pinkie was being summoned, two other men appeared, one a jaunty waist-coated and bowler-hatted gentleman, the other distinctly not a gentleman, dressed in tweed knickers and rakish tweed cap, a brown-paper cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Reggie, old chap!” Bradford said, and thrust out his hand to the man in the bowler hat. “I say, dear boy, it really was too bad about that horse of yours last week-Gladiator, I mean. Looked like being a winner before that little scrimmage at the corner.” Deferentially, he turned to Charles. “Should like you to meet Lord Charles Somersworth, who is considering stabling a pair of fine horses here.” He glanced at Angus Duncan. “Very fine horses,” he said emphatically.