“But you still do, Kevin.”
“It’s different now. My brothers are gone south to work and that’s more final than when my dad died. I can visit his grave and put flowers at the cross, but Tim and Mike will never come back here, you can be sure of that. Soccer games we played at the top of the street, that’s all over now. There’s nothing but my mother with her beads at night, the telly and waiting for news from them, the two of us with hardly a word between us when we sit down for our supper.”
“And is that why you were angry with me, Kevin?”
“We’re friends and I’ll tell you the truth. I was angry when you said that Miss Charity had talked about Mr. Brown and the troubles. She has the right to speak her mind, of course, but there are some things better kept silent. It’s what’s torn us apart as a country, Jessica, the hatred between countrymen over religion and politics.”
He looked at the moon just slipping up past the crest of Skyhead and said, “It’s time I’m going. Mr. Dalworth will be back directly.”
He stood and looked steadily at her. “I won’t be coming here again this way, Jessica. It’s no longer a game and we’re no longer children. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Jess?”
“I think so. It’s what you said about things changing.”
He smiled and said, “And something more than that, too.”
“But, Kevin, I don’t want things to change. I know that’s foolish, but it’s the way I feel.”
“And I know how I feel. Things have changed, so goodnight, Jessica.”
When he had gone, Jessica closed her windows and sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands locked tightly in her lap and the faint moonlight glinting on tears in her eyes.
She looked at the clothes laid out for tomorrow morning and realized that there was something mocking and irrelevant about them now, the boots upright in their blocking stays, the gray jodphurs, the blue jacket and yellow silk scarf. She knew she wouldn’t be wearing riding clothes in the morning and she realized with a twist of terror that Kevin had lied to her tonight, unwittingly, but lied nevertheless. She knew he would come to her room again on another occasion...
Jessica saw then a play of shifting colors in her consciousness and the shapes behind them were so suggestive of menace that she shook her head quickly and helplessly. Closing her eyes, she covered them with her hands, but the childish gesture couldn’t erase the blazing white radiance in her mind, diamond-sharp reflections as clear and pitiless as a cold winter sun.
She saw with hideous clarity, as clearly as she had seen the bloated form of the poisonous ray-fish with Kevin, saw there in her scented room exactly what would happen to Andrew.
She leaped to her feet and faced the door of her bedroom, hearing voices raised in the great hall below and knowing what they meant. Then another sound, the frantic footsteps coming up the stairs, and Jessica knew with a sad and terrible certainty just what message was being brought to her.
Old Flynn’s voice sounded in the hallway, breaking with anguish. “Come, Miss Jessica, come at once! Mr. Dalworth’s had a terrible fall. They’ve sent for the priest and the doctor...”
Chapter Fourteen
The point-to-point race over four miles of rough country was underway, and when the powerful field of hunters came into view from the low meadows, an excited cheer rose from the crowd, but Eric Griffith thought bitterly, “I should have bet Plover’s Egg... dammit, dammit, dammit!”
The big roan mare, notably a strong finisher, had a length on the favorite, High Pockets, as they swept past the tawny row of maples that marked the start of the last quarter-mile to the finish line. Instead of Plover’s Egg, Eric had committed a reckless share of his dwindling funds on Harlequin, because he had overheard Colonel Innis making a sizeable bet on that entry, and now the pig was running dead last, its tail swishing about like an electric fan.
The crowds watching the point-to-point had gathered on the sprawling Cadwalader estate in eastern Maryland for a day of spring racing. In tweeds and cashmeres and burnished boots, they lined the homestretch, cheering on the tightening contest between High Pockets and Plover’s Egg. Others watched from cars on the high ground above the race course, tailgates loaded with wicker baskets and sparkling cocktail shakers.
“Plover’s Egg,” Eric thought again. Then he repeated the name aloud and a group of grooms standing near him laughed and one of them, without glancing at Eric, said, “He could be right, of course, which would make it an even once...”
The groom, a stocky man in his forties, was employed at the Cadwalader stables. His name, Eric knew, was Hank Dunker.
“That’s pretty good, Hank,” another groom said and laughed again. “Plover’s Egg... just to make it an even once.”
When Griffith realized they were referring to him, he felt a sudden warm and prickling heat in his cheeks. Sly, boorish louts, he thought, a sustaining anger growing inside him.
So far, it had been a disastrous day. He had lost the last four races and there was no hope for this one now, with Harlequin forty lengths behind the leaders. This was his last chance...
“Hank!” he said suddenly.
The groom turned and regarded him with masked eyes. “You call me, Mr. Griffith?”
“That’s right. I gather you don’t agree with my estimate of Plover’s Egg.”
“Well, you’re entitled to whatever you think.” His friends grinned and looked away. “But I don’t see this here Plover’s Egg holdin’ off High Pockets.”
“How would you like to back your judgment for, say, fifty dollars, Hank?”
“I expect you know the books are all closed on a race that’s runnin’...”
“Yes, I’m aware of that and I know from the fumes drifting my way that you and your friends have been drinking rot-gut. But isn’t that all beside the point? I have fifty dollars that says Plover’s Egg wins it.”
Hank glanced down the home stretch at the horses, only two hundred yards from the finish line now. His eyes narrowed alertly, and he rubbed his stubbled beard with the back of his hand. “Thing is, Mr. Griffith, I know where them horses will be after the race, they’ll be back in their stables. And I know where I’ll be after the race. Thing I’m not sure about is where you’ll be...”
“I see they’re teaching impudence on welfare now,” Eric Griffith said angrily, and pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. “Here’s my money. I suggest you put up or shut up now, Hank.”
Obviously resenting Griffith’s tone, the groom said in a surly voice, “All right, you got yourself a bet.” Climbing onto a fence that kept spectators off the course, Dunker cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted toward the charging horses.
“Move it, High Pockets! Stir those damned stumps of yours!”
The groom’s friends fanned out behind him, pounding each other on the shoulders and yelling encouragement at the favorite.
And to Eric’s dismay, he saw that the tide of the race was turning inexorably to High Pockets, who was now running like a smooth and effortless engine, while the roan mare was fighting the reins, her ears twitching — a sure sign she’d lost interest in the race.
He couldn’t even win here in a country meet, he thought in rage, with the purses provided by local charities and the proceeds from the refreshment booths marked for a pumping engine for a volunteer fire company. No, not here, and never mind the dream that had become a tiresome exercise in futility over the years — the thoughts of vindication in singing, winning weather at Hialeah or Del Mar or the fabled courses at the Curragh or the fence and brush at Aintree where they ran the Grand National.