Kilpara Page 18

  “Bad hand, Arthur?” Sloane prompted.

  Purcenell counted out his chips and grinned at Sloane as he laid them on the pile. I waited for Austin to throw in his cards and was surprised when he called. Wilde reluctantly threw in his chips. Ligham’s hand kept rushing to his mouth.

  “Make your decision,” Sloane snapped.

  Shakily, Ligham called. Sloane’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Is Pandora ready to race against Guardian tomorrow?” Sloane asked Purcenell. It was an attempt to goad the older man and it worked.

  “You’ll see for yourself, so you will,” Purcenell retorted sourly.

  I had enough and decided to make my move. I called the pot and raised it fifty pounds. This caught Sloane and Purcenell off guard.

  “That’s hardly a gentleman’s bet,” Sloane said. “We play friendly poker here.”

  I nodded toward the pot but said nothing. If game rules were set among these men, they were unwritten ones. I knew I was taking advantage of this and feigned beginner’s ignorance.

  “I’ll play along,” Sloane said after some thought. He threw his chips onto the pile and grinned slyly at Purcenell who frowned. Very deliberately, Sloane raised the pot another fifty pounds.

  I expected Purcenell to throw in his cards and felt a sense of satisfaction when he called the bet and stayed in. The man was a fool. Sloane had provoked his pride and he would not be faced down. A smug smile spread over Sloane’s face.

  Austin and Ligham threw down their cards.

  I guessed Sloane had a decent hand but not an exceptional one. I called his bet and raised him one hundred pounds. He was about to remind me this was a gentleman’s game, but thought better of it when I stared straight at him. Purcenell groaned and slammed down his cards.

  Had I managed to persuade Sloane I held a winning hand? I wasn't sure. He picked up his glass, downed the liquid then handed the glass to the houseboy for a refill. Relief shot through me when he smiled a conciliatory smile and threw his cards into the middle of the table. “I concede,” he said.

  The pot was mine.

  “That’s the biggest pot ever, of course, it is,” Purcenell said, admiration in his voice.

  “May I see your hand?” Sloane asked.

  I didn’t answer, just grinned and casually threw my cards onto the discarded pile.

  Sloane said offhandedly, “I say, would you care to make a one hundred pound wager on tomorrow’s race?”

  “I would gladly oblige—” I said hesitantly, watching a sly grin spread across Sloane’s mouth, “—if I had a chance to observe both horses.” The grin froze on Sloane’s lips and his jaws tightened.

  The rest of the hands were uneventful. After staying long enough to give the players a chance to win back some of their losses, I rose to leave. I thanked Sloane, whose response was cordial but cool. Purcenell let his admiration show. He slapped me on the back and reminded me of my commitment to attend the race the following day. I had accomplished what I set out to do. I had gained favor with my family's adversary. Riding on this wave of camaraderie, I had to find the right moment to convince him my parents should be buried at Kilpara. Even as I contemplated this, Aunt Sadie's nagging words crept into my mind that I was on the losing end of such a quest.

  Not yet ready for sleep when we returned to the convent, I bid Gully Joyce goodnight and quietly slipped into the stables. Brazonhead nickered when I put the bridle over his head. Guided by the stars and a full moon, we trotted through the silent streets of Galway. I had no particular plan in mind until I saw a light blinking in the priest’s house at St. Augustine’s Church. I had met Father Matthews on one of his frequent visits to the convent and liked him. On impulse, I went up to the door not stopping to consider what I would say to whoever answered. I was relieved to see the tired pleasant face of Father Matthews stare at me in surprise when the door opened.

  “Mother Superior’s nephew, right?” he asked, sighing.

  “Yes, Father.”

  He opened the door wider. “Come in. The kettle’s on the boil. Join me in a cup of tea?”

  I followed him into the warm kitchen.

  “I’ve just come from administering the last rites to one of my parishioners. ‘Tis the saddest part of my calling.” He took two cups from a cupboard. “Is it because of your mother that you’re here?”

  “No,” I said.

  He paused to look at me. “No?”

  “I’m not here about my mother.”

  “What else would bring you out at this late hour?”

  I emptied a bundle of bills and coins on the priest’s kitchen table.

  He looked at me with shocked eyes. “What’s all this?”

  I knew he would refuse the money if I told him I won it gambling so I said, “A gift for the people of Brandubh.”

  “Then why are you bringing the money to me? Where did you get it? Is it stolen, or from some illegal society?”

  I raised a hand to stop him. “It’s from a kind benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous, hence the late hour. He wants it distributed among the tenants of Kilpara, Larcourt and other local lordships. Most of them attend the church at Brandubh, but I don’t know the priest there, which is why I came to you. Each family should receive an equal portion.”

  The priest stood speechless for a moment. “Why would some benefactor show kindness to the people of Brandubh?”

  “He’s an Irish sympathizer.”

  The priest smiled sadly. “That’s never happened before.”

  “You’ll do it then?”

  The priest looked at me for a long moment. “Yes, as long as the money hasn’t come from ill-gotten means.”

  “It hasn’t.” I smiled to myself. It comes straight from the landlords themselves.

  “Then I’ll consider it a blessing from God. It will go a long way to ease the difficulties of those poor people.”

  “One more thing. You must agree you never saw me tonight. I have to protect the benefactor, so we never met.”

  The priest nodded. “I only saw an angel who delivered a gift of generosity.”

  CHAPTER 13

  It wasn’t a good day for a race. Clouds hung low and moved swiftly westward as if pushed by an invisible hand. The carriage fought against the blustery wind and along the way small bursts of blue occasionally broke through the heavy overhang. Gully Joyce had risen early to polish and ready the carriage. Once a jockey himself, he skipped about outside with the excited anticipation of a child expecting presents under a Christmas Tree. When we got underway, he hummed tunes all the way to the racetrack, undaunted by the harsh weather.

  With the carriage safely parked behind a row of others, I dismounted and walked toward the worn patch of ground where the crowd had gathered. Drops of rain fell slantwise, smacking my face like tiny darts of ice. I paused to watch Gully scamper off to greet a small man who wore the official referee cap.

  “You’re here,” Purcenell said, walking toward me. “Of course, you are. You want to see Pandora race. She’s in fine form today. There’ll be no problem with her winning, so there won’t.” His words were spoken more to convince himself than me. “Use the whip on her early, Edward,” he ordered the jockey who came over to receive last minute instructions. “You'll get more speed out of her that way.”

  Edward raised the whip in acknowledgement at the same time Kilpara’s grooms came over leading Pandora. Her eyes turned wild at the sight of the whip and she reared up in protest. I fought down the urge to snatch the whip from the jockey’s hand.

  Sloane and Thornton stood beside a long-legged brown and white stallion. The animal showed dislike for the slanting rain and strong breeze. He snorted, sneezed, turned this way, then that way, in an attempt to find a comfortable stance. The jockey mounted the horse and together they rode round in circles. Thornton and Sloane continued to give instructions as the jockey positioned his body into one of control. He leaned forward, tightening the rein in his grip, a whip held ready in his right hand.

&nb
sp; Ligham joined the small group and talked amiably with Sloane. They walked over to where Purcenell and I stood, as Edward mounted Pandora. Horse and rider moved toward the starting line.

  “Get ready to call me son-in-law,” Sloane taunted Purcenell.

  “You’ll never marry my daughter, so you won’t,” Purcenell said, shaking his head. “But I won’t object to taking the five hundred pounds from you after the race. No, I won’t say nay to that.”

  “You know my marrying Morrigan would be a blessing, Arthur,” Sloane said. “Kilpara is falling into ruin and you need better control of your tenants.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Purcenell snapped. His hands at his side doubled into fists.

  Sloane smoothed the corners of his mustache and made “tut, tut” noises. “We’ll see about that.”

  The referee came over and collected written agreements from Sloane and Purcenell. With these in hand, he crossed the track and stepped into the box close to the starting line. In a sober voice, he shouted through a megaphone, “The race will consist of three consecutive laps. The first horse and rider to pass over the finish line will be declared the winner.” Wind tugged at the jockeys’ colored jerseys and raindrops lingered on their billowed caps as they waited for the signal. The referee held up two green flags that immediately flapped in the breeze. “On your marks! Get set! Go!” The flags went down and the horses and jockeys took off.

  It was clear almost from the onset that Guardian was the better horse, but he had difficulty dealing with the elements and the rough track. He was obviously accustomed to smoother racecourses. After a couple false starts, then hesitation, he almost balked. The jockey used his whip to gain control and forced the horse into the unyielding wind. He struck out reluctantly, his stride longer than Pandora’s. I groaned inwardly as thoughts plagued me about the inevitable outcome should Pandora lose this race. Morrigan would become Sloane’s bride. I pushed the notion aside while observing that the mysterious Morrigan had taken possession of my waking thoughts and invaded my sleeping ones, too.

  Pandora was stealing the upper hand. Her hooves plodded the rough track with ease, and she found the wind even less a deterrent. Guardian, with the longer gait, should have been out in front, but he struggled from behind.

  I looked farther down the track toward a hedge where Gully Joyce and the other grooms watched with interest. Gully’s small body was tensed like a boxer ready to meet his opponent. He urged the horses on; which one he was cheering for, I didn’t know.

  Thornton, Sloane, Ligham, and Purcenell stood close to the finish line, their eyes glued to the horses. They shouted orders that drifted away on the wind as the jockeys raced past. I noticed that Daphne had arrived and stood apart from the crowd some distance away. She followed the horses' progress through small binoculars. By the second lap, Guardian had caught up to Pandora and it looked like he might stretch out and overtake her. Rain had started to turn the track to muck, which didn’t bother the sure-footed Pandora, but worked against Guardian and his dislike for this environment.

  The horses were on their third lap coming up on the home stretch, neck and neck. Edward, who had been using the whip all along, brought it down even harder on Pandora’s flanks. Reacting to the strikes, she strode out ahead of Guardian. The whip came down on Guardian, but just enough to urge him forward. The characteristic slaps did nothing to quicken his pace as he struggled to maintain the same speed. I was sure fresh marks would appear on Pandora after the race.

  Purcenell jumped up and down waving his hands. Sloane, Ligham, and Thornton cheered for Guardian. The referee moved from the box to the middle of the track waving red flags furiously when the horses thundered past him. Pandora had managed to pull ahead of Guardian by a neck when they crossed over the finish line. They flashed by kicking muck onto the referee’s gray pants and jacket. Flags continued to fly wildly back and forth to indicate the end of the race. Rain came down steadily now, carrying with it the heightened smell of grass and the damp odor of black clay. No one seemed to mind as elation filtered through the crowd. I heaved a sigh of relief.

  Purcenell strolled over to Sloane, his chest puffed out, and stopped just inches from the other man's face. “Is there any doubt in your mind now, Charlie?” he almost spat. The referee rolled up his flags and handed the winning documents to Purcenell.

  “You owe us a rematch,” Sloane demanded obstinately.

  “I’ll grant you no such thing,” Purcenell retorted. “Indeed I won’t. I’ve been telling you all along, Pandora is the champion.” He laughed a hearty laugh and went over to the jockeys who were bringing the horses off the track.

  “Good race,” Thornton said, shaking Purcenell’s hand. “Perhaps we should arrange a rematch in England sometime. You and your daughter should come and visit us at Glenside Manor.”

  “We will,” Purcenell promised, suddenly gracious. “Join me for a victory drink at the Traveller’s Inn?”

  “Gladly.”

  The horses had been taken to a makeshift stable beside the track. Grooms fussed over Guardian, one wiping him down while another stood ready to cover him up with a blanket displaying the Thornton coat of arms. Kilpara grooms applied salve to Pandora’s new wounds. She reared at each application, eyes wild with pain.

  The spectators, anxious to get out of the rain, had already taken to their carriages that lined the road to the Traveller’s Inn. I turned to look where Daphne had stood, but she was nowhere in sight.

  Late afternoon business at the Traveller’s Inn had turned brisk when I arrived. Race enthusiasts, glad to take refuge from the outside elements, downed glasses of black beer.

  “I daresay, Arthur,” Sloane said to Purcenell, “it was obvious today’s conditions were unfavorable for Guardian. A repeat competition is in order.”

  “Indeed, you say,” Purcenell said, ignoring the bait. He waved his glass in Sloane's face. “You know, Charlie, if your horse had won, you’d be singing a different tune, wouldn't you? You’d expect me to honor the bet and hand over my daughter. You wouldn’t be one bit concerned about a rematch. But you see I knew Pandora would win. You didn't believe me, did you? I proved to you once and for all that I was right and you were wrong. You may have high hopes that you’d start turning Kilpara into your kind of estate. Well, Kilpara and my daughter will never be yours to own. But this draft—” Purcenell pulled the folded agreement from his jacket, “—will help my finances considerably.” He bellowed a loud guffaw.

  Sloane’s eyes narrowed. Thornton interjected, “A rematch in England would prove beyond all doubt who the champion horse is. Race Pandora on a proper racecourse and let's see if she can beat Guardian there.”

  “A rematch would prove nothing,” Purcenell spat. I could tell he was enjoying his opponents' attempt to regain the upper hand and was decidedly not giving in to them. “I’ll say it over and over Pandora is the best racing horse in the world.” He stood nose to nose before Sloane. “There’s no horse anywhere who can beat her. Of course, there isn’t. I’d wager everything I own on Pandora. But there’ll be no rematch.”

  “Would you wager Kilpara?” I spoke up, impulsively voicing an idea that had been forming in my mind. I pushed aside nagging thoughts that I should consider the situation more carefully. All that mattered to me was an opportunity had presented itself that could solve my dilemma. Throwing myself at the man’s mercy and pleading for Mother’s cause had little chance of success. With any luck, my plan just might succeed.

  Several pairs of eyes swung my direction the same time Purcenell's head jerked toward me, surprise registered on his face. “What do you mean?”

  I moved closer to Purcenell and locked stares. “I have a horse that can beat Pandora.”

  Everyone fell silent. Purcenell heaved and laughed out loud spreading a stale smell of ale. He put a friendly arm on my shoulder.

  “Haven't you been listening, lad?” he said. “There’s no horse anywhere that can beat Pandora. You may have luck at cards, but horseracin
g is a sport best left to the masters. You'd be wasting your time.”

  The group erupted into “Hear, Hear.”

  I waited until the noise died down then said evenly, “My horse will beat her.”

  Purcenell frowned. “Your horse? What horse? Why haven’t we heard about this horse? Americans ride prairie horses. Pandora is a thoroughbred. You know that already.”

  Agreeable laughter circled around us.

  Sloane moved closer and looked at me suspiciously. “I find it rather strange that you, an American and a stranger in Ireland, should claim by some strange coincidence to own a horse that is good enough to race against champions.” He ran his thumb and forefinger along his mustache. “How convenient. Who are you, Mr. Ellis, and what are you really doing here?”

  “A gunslinger escaping from the Wild West perhaps?” Ligham offered nervously. “Or a Civil War rebel come to Ireland to stir up the illegal societies?”

  Sloane glared at him.

  Ligham shrugged lamely. “He could be toting a pistol.”

  “What exactly is your business?” Purcenell added through squinted eyes.

  This was not how I intended the situation to go; things had the potential to turn dangerously nasty against me.

  I thought quickly and opted to partially tell the truth. “I’m here for two reasons,” I began, hoping to quell the unrest that was brewing. “The first one you already know—to acquire the marble quarry. The second one was to bring my mother back to Ireland. My parents immigrated years ago to America. They raised a family there. My father died a couple of years back. When my mother learned about my intentions to come to Ireland on business, she saw it as a sign that she should return home. She’s quite ill. She wants to die here.”