Heading for Doncaster race meeting, settled high on the carriage seat of the horsebox, Jack Wetherley knew he was going to have to suppress his growing excitement of what lay ahead. He flicked at the reins to urge on the two new dray horses in order to keep pace with the carriage that Alf, the chief ostler, was driving sitting alongside Nate Oliver, their valued jockey.
Inside the carriage was Sir Oswald Brandling, and, surprisingly, his wife, Lady Brandling, who had missed the York race, but Sir Oswald had told Jack and Alf, she had decided that this Doncaster meeting was more up-market than the York event.
“So, she has more chance of meeting influential people,” he had laughed. “Who the hell she’s expecting to meet beats me.”
Also, in the carriage, just a little disgruntled, was their niece, Jack’s secret love, Becky Brandling. Her displeasure came from Lady Brandling’s insistence that she wore a bonnet rather than have her hair, as her aunt had put it, “blow about as though you were some wild gipsy.”
Jack had wondered what Lady Brandling might have thought if she knew that when she was in the stable hay with him, she was wilder than any gipsy, full of passion and mad curiosity about her own sexuality.
Flicking on the reins once more, Jack wore a half-smile as he recalled her angry glance as she climbed into the carriage and he had murmured, “The bonnet suits you, m’lady.” Jack had been quite sincere. The narrow fringe of the pale blue bonnet was much more attractive than Lady Brandling’s wider elaboration.
Becky’s glare might have chilled his heart at any other time, but it was accompanied immediately by a turning of her head, and the sticking out of her lovely pink tongue, for his eyes only.
Trafalgar was such a special thoroughbred. Since his six lengths triumph in the maiden race at York three weeks earlier, Sir Oswald had no compunction about spending more money than he had expended already.
Talk of another thoroughbred was still uncertain, but the two dray horses pulling the horsebox under Jack’s guidance were recent purchases, and this outing was the first time they’d been used.
Sir Oswald rarely talked about his wine merchant business which he had operated since leaving military service, but he did have a moan when talking about the expense of thoroughbred ownership, “There’d be no financial concerns if it wasn’t for that bloody Bonaparte fellow messing about with my French trading. Good job the Spanish route remains strong.”
Jack’s rising excitement stemmed from two sources. First, of course, was this adventure of running Trafalgar against real quality thoroughbreds, and over a full mile, two furlongs further than his earlier win. Jockey Nate had been sure the horse could manage that, and their training sessions over recent weeks had confirmed that.
All the runners in this trophy race being two-year-olds the Jockey Club would not support it, but recognising that trainers needed to prepare their animals for the following year they did not object to a self-financing competition.
Initially, each owner of the twelve runners entered had agreed to put up fifty pounds, but subsequently, to Sir Oswald’s chagrin, the richer owners had decided it should be one hundred pounds, with the winner taking the full resultant twelve hundred pounds prize.
Jack had heard that two of the competing horses were already entered in the classic Two Thousand Guineas race for three-year-olds in early May. He could not allow himself to consider what the prospects might be if Trafalgar could win, or even be placed.
Of course, his second source of anticipation was, as ever, Becky. When Sir Oswald had informed them that, since the Black Bull, the hostelry where they’d stayed on the York visit, was equidistant between the two courses, and would, therefore, be their location for two nights as before, they had exchanged happy glances.
Jack knew that Becky would ensure she had a lower floor room for both nights. Two nights, Becky, and a bed. Could any prospect be better? And on top of that, if Trafalgar overcame his rivals, that second night would be extra special. Jack had to keep reminding himself that he had to control such exuberance.
Training Trafalgar had been doubly pleasing over the intervening weeks since the York victory because Sir Oswald had raised no objections to Becky attending the training sessions more frequently. He saw her devotion to Trafalgar as a calming influence on her, without ever knowing what a calming influence she had on Jack.
Becky’s frequent viewing of training, and the increased training itself, had impinged on the time they had for intimacy in the hay of the stable. But it did mean they could be in each other’s company more often. In fact, Becky was overjoyed to have an opportunity to take part in the actual training on three occasions.
It was jockey Nate Oliver who reminded Jack of their worry at York when, briefly, Trafalgar had shown how unused he was to the nearness of other horses at the line-up. He had stomped and shook his head with Nate having to turn him, but it had been agreed that their horse needed greater experience of the start.
Consequently, with Nate on Trafalgar, Jack riding Rascal, Alf on Rusty, and Jack riding Rascal, Alf on Rusty, they tried a practice line up. But Nate thought Trafalgar would meet a greater challenge in a race situation. That was when Becky had excitedly suggested that she could be on Ebony, the horse she rode out on every day.
“Bloody good idea,” Alf said enthusiastically. “I’ll go and saddle him up for you, m’lady.”
Within five minutes, Becky was up on Ebony and circling with the other horses, while Nate tried to get Trafalgar to join them. “He’s just too damned aloof,” Nate chuckled.
Their first attempt at a starting line-up was spoiled by Trafalgar rearing up, before backing out of line despite Nate’s coaxing. On the second occasion, Trafalgar behaved better, and Jack agreed that further practice was essential.
By the time they had three such sessions, Jack, Alf and Nate were all content that Trafalgar was showing that he could handle himself in a crowd of horses. It was pleasing that on that third practice, Sir Oswald came along and had Alf saddle his horse, Charger so that he could take part.
“Rebecca has told me,” he said, with a wry smile on his face, “that if Trafalgar wins this Doncaster race it will be it will be because of her help.”
Becky turned in her saddle and protested, “I didn’t say it like that, uncle.”
Her uncle’s smile broadened, as he said, ”I know, my dear. But if there is to be credit available, you may as well have some of it.”
Jack felt a warm glow inside him. The present situation was as though they were a close family group. Oh, if only that could be the case.
Now, as he urged the two drays pulling the horsebox, Jack could only look ahead with hope, longing and some trepidation.
Having been there only three weeks earlier, the Black Bull hostelry was pleasantly familiar, and for Jack, it was full of good memories. Events like the collective celebration of Trafalgar’s victory, with champagne and sumptuous meal. Then that personal celebration with only him and Becky and a bed for the first time.
God, how many times had he driven his rod up into her eager passage that night? It must have been three, all with much heaving, tugging and her squeals at orgasm.
As on that first visit, Becky helped get Trafalgar out of his box and into the special stalls the hostelry had for racehorses, while Alf saw to the dray horses. Noticing how her beautiful hair was flowing free, he asked about her bonnet.
Becky wrinkled her nose and moaned, “I had to convince my aunt that I couldn’t deal with horses in a bonnet.”
“It framed your face nicely,“ Jack observed diplomatically, he thought.
“Huh,” was all she said, giving him a withering look before turning it into a lascivious smile, and whispering, “I’ve got the same room as last time. Would you like to come and test the window this evening?”
Jack tried to match her wicked smile as he replied, “I’d rather test that bed again.”
She grinned, “That might be possible.” Their hands touched briefly along Trafalgar’s flank, and then Alf was back with them but he was the only one who knew of their liaison.
Unlike their first visit, when they had a celebratory meal after the race, in the gentry building of the hostelry, Sir Oswald collected them together in the main cosy lounge, and, having bought them drinks he told them, “Since we arrived, I’ve been given some very interesting information.”
He turned to Jack, a half-smile on his broad features, “You’ll find tomorrow, Jack, that Trafalgar will be racing against a horse of most high-class background. A horse called Royal Standard.”
Before Jack could query that, Becky broke in, “But surely, uncle, Trafalgar is high class?”
Her uncle laughed, “We know that my dear, but tomorrow, apart from the other top-quality animals, he will be encountering one of the thoroughbreds from the vast stables of His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent.”
Jack knew immediately what that meant, but as he drew in his breath, Alf queried, “His Royal what? Who’s he?”
Sir Oswald turned a kindly look on Alf, “He is the king’s son, also named George.”
“But,” Alf’s face wrinkled up as he tried to ponder this, “I thought he was Prince of Wales?”
It was Nate who came in then, “The King has been ill, hasn’t he, sir?”
“That’s right. Getting worse apparently.”
Nate nodded, “I’ve heard that from the Regent’s two main jockeys.”
Sir Oswald nodded, “Loves his horseracing,” He paused and gave an amused glance around the group, “And the ladies too, if the rumour is correct.” Then, his tone lowered as he added more dubiously, “And now he’s running the country.”
Becky’s voice sounded quietly contemptuous as she said, “But is he running a better horse than our Trafalgar?”
And they all laughed, while Jack was hoping that she wasn’t in for a big disappointment.
Just over two hours later he was telling her just that as he slipped her silken robe to the floor, and his hands stroked the warm curve of her shoulders.
“I have as much faith in that horse as I have-,” And her eyes clouded as she plunged a hand inside his already loosened breeches, and went on, “in this.”
Jack could not suppress a grunt of pleasure as her fingers closed around his iron-hard member. He pressed his lips close to her ear and growled, “But you know how to weaken that.”
“Yes, and it’s fun trying.”
For a long while, after that, with his clothes discarded, they stood clenched close, skin on skin, mouth to mouth, tongue savouring tongue, hands caressing over whatever surface of flesh was reachable, mainly backs and buttocks. His erection hard against Becky’s firm smooth belly, her breasts wriggling into his lower ribcage were blissful starters.
But their ardour demanded so much more, and as their bodies parted, hands were everywhere on each other as their twin breaths panted into each other’s throats. More, much more, was now essential. Jack stooped to sweep Becky up into his arms, and carried her to the bed, and she clung with her arms around his neck.
Gently, he laid her down and Becky immediately spread her thighs revealing her exquisite pink juiciness and Jack was longing for that tangy sweetness on his tongue, But Becky her eyes full of lust, her lips moist, held him off crying, “Tomorrow night we’ll play, but tonight just tup me, Jack.”
Only slightly deflected from his original intention, Jack was every bit as impassioned as this alluringly ravishing lady, to enter the portals of her, now so familiar, delicacies.
Within seconds, as their lips tangled, and Becky squirmed delightedly, Jack’s hardness was powering up her lusciously juicy channel. Jack had kept one hand jammed between their bellies so that one finger found her clit and rubbed gently.
That and their rhythmic thrusts quickly had Becky breaking the kiss, to moan desperately, “Oh, Jack, I’m not going to be—” The trembling and quivering of her limbs, allied to the tossing of her head, and her open-mouthed groaning left no doubt that she was in orgasm.
Jack was able to continue what felt like ever deeper thrusts into the very essence of her, as she mumbled and half-sobbed his name repeatedly, and her whole body went into further climactic spasm. Her twitching and squirming were what brought Jack to a roaring climax that duetted with Becky’s ecstatic squeals.
As they quietened and breathing normalised, Jack had to remind Becky that, as much as he would have loved a repeat, the following day was going to need all of their attention. Reluctantly they parted, with a warm long kiss.
The following morning Jack saw as almost a carbon copy of the morning of the York race. Rising with a now-familiar sense of anticipation, he had hurried down to the stables to check on Trafalgar only to find, as before, both Alf and Becky were already there. “He’s looking good,” Alf assured him, and he nodded in Becky’s direction. “All the more so when m’lady arrived.”
Becky was looking gorgeous in a pale green gown, and her smile was coquettish as she asked, “Sleep well, Jack?”
Relishing her nearness, and that personal smile he said, “Very well.”
“Right,” Alf declared, “let’s get this big day started.”
Becky helped with leading Trafalgar into the horsebox, commenting that she wouldn’t mind having that job for life. Alf and Jack harnessed the dray horses to carriage and horsebox and within a very short space of time, a smiling Sir Oswald, once again resplendent in his military ceremonial outfit, strode out to the carriage.
“Let’s away to the best of days,” he said loudly as he guided Lady Brandling up into the coach. She wore a voluminous floral gown which was matched for elaboration by the wide-brimmed bonnet on her head which appeared to drip flowers. As Becky, with a final loving glance back at Jack, climbed into the coach, he saw Lady Brandling fussily hand her a bonnet.
In less than two hours, they had reached Doncaster track, all elaborate with bunting, and flags. Jack had known that the full race card was richer in prize money than the York meeting had been. That extra value seemed to be marked by the general air of opulence about the place. Gowns appeared more elegant, and Jack wondered if that was only his imagination.
For certain, Lady Brandling’s insistence on being there, in her vibrant finery and flower garden bonnet, while inflicting a bonnet on a reluctant Becky, appeared to bear out the standing of this occasion. Already, Jack was sensing the trembling deep in his gut. Or was that brought on by the frequent nearness of Becky, as she became more agitated as race-time approached?
Early afternoon, Nate took Trafalgar for a loosening-up canter along an extended strip of turf, not unlike the one at York. Jack was overjoyed when Becky joined him and Alf by the rail. Her hair was loose down her back and he commented on that.
“My uncle gave me permission to come down and said a bonnet would be inappropriate if I was tending to Trafalgar.” She gave a happy chuckle as she added, “My aunt was not too pleased.”
They watched Nate ride Trafalgar back towards them. He was smiling as he dismounted, “He feels so full of himself.” The jockey enthused, as they began leading the horse back to his appointed stall, with Becky leading the way stroking the warm muzzle.
As they reached the stables a tall, wavy-haired man, dressed in fancy fawn breeches and a three-quarter length royal blue coat swaggered towards them. He wore a superior sneer on his face even before he began to speak in a plummy voice.
“I’m informed,” he said imperiously, “that this is the one race wonder.”
“Who wants to know?” Becky asked, and Jack was grateful since this was clearly some kind of gentry, whom he was already tempted to punch.
“I am Sir Arthur Devort, second trainer to his Royal Highness, the Regent, after Lord Duckham, who has over thirty horses in his stable.” He turned and glared disdainfully at Jack and Alf, who could only stand quietly fuming. “And I suppose you are responsible for this magnificent stable of one paltry horse.”
Jack’s fists were clenched helplessly as he nodded his head.
“Surely, you don’t think this piece of meat can beat Royal Standard?”
Becky’s angry voice was shrill and sharp, “Sir, you are a boorish windbag. Our Trafalgar will make your animal look like a donkey.”
Jack, feeling so useless in this situation, loved what Becky had said. He held his breath as Sir Arthur faced Becky directly and hissed, “Young lady, I should put you over my knee.” His frown became a leer as he added, “Or perhaps you’d like your fanny stroked and poked–hard.”
That was enough, Jack raised his fists, as both Alf and Nate, grabbed him, holding him back. “Steady, Jack. He’s not worth.it.”
But even before they had performed that little charade, Becky had taken her own action and there was a loud crack as her open palm, swung full force, struck the royal horse trainer high on the cheek.
Shaken, their antagonist, staggered back clutching at his face as Becky almost shrieked, “Sir Oswald Brandling will hear about this.”
Sir Arthur Devort, glanced uncertainly in the direction of the men, before whirling away muttering, “Bitch.”
As he strode away Becky got in the last word, calling after him, “Prig! And that rhymes with another animal.”
Nate began to move away. Jack asked, “Where are you going?”
Nate turned back and told him, “I know Lord Duckham well. I’ve ridden for him. He is a real gent, and, if he’s here, he needs to know about this. That bloke gives racing a bad name.”
Nate rushed away, and Becky, ran to Jack, her face streaked with tears, and without even thinking about it, Jack took her into his arms, and said gently, “Thank you, sweet lady. You were magnificent.”
“Oh, Jack, I so feared he would get you into trouble. I’ve never struck anyone before.”
Holding her at arms-length, he tried to calm her by keeping things light. He rubbed at his neck, looking woeful, recalling her use of the horsewhip at their first meeting.
“Oh, Jack,” she sighed, but the memory had brought a half-smile to her face.
Alf gave a chuckle, “Maybe, m’lady could be a prize-fighter, Jack.”
They all laughed at that before Alf said a heartfelt,” You were really amazing dealing with that wretch, m’ lady.”
Becky reached out a grateful hand to touch the older man’s shoulder, “Thank you, Alf. Would you do me a favour?”
“Leave you two alone.?”
She laughed, “No. I look on you as a friend, Alf. So, when we’re away from higher authority, so-called, would you drop the m’lady and call me Becky?”
Jack was delighted at her offer and was sure a touch of colour came into Alf’s grizzled cheeks, as he shuffled his feet, “I take that as an honour, m’—er—Becky.”
Becky gave Trafalgar’s muzzle a hearty rub, looked into his eyes and said, “Whatever else you do, Trafalgar, you must beat that Royal Standard, for me.” She then excused herself, telling them she’d need to spend some time with her aunt and uncle. After she left, they housed Trafalgar temporarily, as Alf went on about what a fantastic female Becky was.
“I know, Alf.”
They made an occasional check to ensure Trafalgar was all right, and it was not until the start of the first race that he met with Becky again. Jack and Alf were standing in front of the low stand and had watched the horses parade down to the six-furlong mark. Alf had risked one pound on a horse called Maisie’s Luck and had taken odds of ten to one. Jack recalled that Alf’s wife had been named Maisie.
“If she wins, I’m going to put it all on Trafalgar.”
“Such faith deserves a reward,” Jack laughed.
That was when Sir Oswald joined them followed by Lady Brandling looking rather red-faced, and Jack wondered how much champagne she’d consumed. However, when she spoke it was in her usual aloof tone, “I trust we’re in for a successful afternoon, Jack.”
“Hoping, m’lady.”
Becky came from behind them, wearing her bonnet, which, while looking at Jack, she touched and pulled a face. ”He has to beat Royal Standard,” Becky declared. “That right, uncle?”
Sir Oswald cleared his throat before telling them, “My niece has told me about the rudeness of this trainer fellow. I know that Lord Duckham is here. I shall try to have a word with him, “He smiled, “especially if we win.”
“If?” Becky declared,” “If? Uncle have you know faith.”
“Now don’t get your hopes up, my dear.”
They were immediately keen when they heard of Alf’s wager. “What colours?” Becky asked, and Alf told them that the jockey wore all white
The noise of the crowd signalled the race start, and as the white-shirted jockey rode into a clear lead, it was Becky’s voice that rose highest. Maisie’s Luck won by two lengths and Alf’s smile broadened as Becky gave him a hug. Sir Oswald and Lady Brandling joined in congratulating him on his luck.
But, although pleased for Alf, watching the horses speed past, had raised familiar butterflies in Jack’s stomach. Was Trafalgar really as good as they hoped? The race ahead would resolve that question.
He and Alf made their apologies as the time came for them to prepare Trafalgar.
“Are we sticking to the same betting arrangement as at York?” Sir Oswald asked as they began to move away.
“If that meets with your approval, major,” Alf said.
“Fine.”
“I’m putting five pounds on him again,” Becky said cheerily, as her eyes held on Jack warmly before he turned away.
Heading for the stables, Alf groaned, “And I’m putting nearly a half year’s salary on him.” Then he chuckled, “Hell if he wins, I’ll nearly be able to buy my own farm. Not that I want to.”
Reaching the stall where Trafalgar stood, ‘Much cooler and calm than I am.’ Jack thought. Together he and Alf gave him a swift, invigorating brush-down, and they heard the hoofbeats of the horses going out for the second race. Alf gave Trafalgar’s hooves a quick check, ensuring the four shoes were firmly in place.
Trying to convince himself that his nervousness was out of character, Jack mentioned it to Alf. The old ostler lowered the final hoof and stood up to face Jack. “Isn’t this how you felt before the York Race?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And what happened there?”
Before he could answer, a roar from the stands signalled the start of the second race. Jack paused briefly, before answering, “He won.”
“Exactly. Jack, the day you stop being nervous is the day you start getting careless. If you weren’t nervous, I’d be worried” He gave his young apprentice, a slap on the shoulder and a wide encouraging smile. “Now, let’s get this beautiful animal ready for victory.” He shook his head and gave his usual chuckle, “Huh, what the hell would I do with a farm?”
The roar of the crowd rose to a great crescendo before dropping to a low excited mumbling. The second race was over.
Jack and Alf saddled and bridled Trafalgar, who occasionally turned his beautifully shaped head as though to ask what the hell they were doing. As they finished, a smiling Nate appeared all rigged out in the patriotic coloured silks that suited the horse’s name.
After fondly stroking Trafalgar’s muzzle he turned to tell them, “Did you know the Prince Regent’s horse is odds on?”
“What are we?”
“Someone said eight or nine to one.”
Alf pulled a face, “That’s a bit low in a race of this quality.”
Nate shrugged, “His York performance may have attracted attention.”
Jack asked him, ”Did you get to see Lord Duckham?”
Nate shook his head, “He is here, but I couldn’t get near him.”
The caller’s bellowing voice broke in, “Parade ring clear!”
“Time for the show, “ Alf laughed and led Trafalgar out towards the ring, with Jack and Nate following behind, discussing race tactics.
“We know he handles the distance,” Jack said, and Nate nodded his agreement. ”With it being a mile, we won’t see much of the start from the finishing line, but I’m confident he’ll handle the hassle of the other horses down there.”
“I’ll make sure he’s kept quiet,” Nate assured him, and agreed that keeping Royal Standard within view was the most obvious ploy, “When he moves, Trafalgar moves.”
“There may be a surprise package in that field, “ Jack warned.
“Oh, I’ll be ready for that. But final furlong, I’ll have a word in his ear.”
Jack laughed as they entered the wide ring where horses were already circling, and groups of owners, trainers and riders were spaced around, “Just what is it you whisper in his ear, Nate?”
Nate grinned, creasing his young/old face, “Only two words, ‘Get him’.”
They quickly spotted where Sir and Lady Brandling were standing with a bonneted Becky, whose eyes quickly charmed him with the ardour they showed.
“Trafalgar looks magnificent, Jack,” Sir Oswald said, adding, “and you look very sharp, Nate.”
Becky’s face wore a slight frown as she nodded her head towards one, particularly large group. They all looked that way.
“Oh, yes, that’s Lord Duckham in the top hat and maroon coat.”
“And that’s the weasel beside him,” Becky growled, indicating the back of a man in a royal blue jacket.
“Oh, yes, I must try to catch Lord Duckham about that.” Sir Oswald said.
Jack looked at the circling horses and remarked, “A fine collection of horses.”
“In which Trafalgar is king.” Becky declared, with pride in her voice.
“Well said, my dear,” Sir Oswald said with equal pride.
Oh, God, Jack felt those comments piling extra pressure on him.
His tension was interrupted by the caller’s cry, “Jockey’s up.”
Jack held out a hand to Nate, “I know you’ll get him close.”
Smiling as he took the proffered hand, Nate replied, “Or even closer.” He was then given a leg-up by Jack into the saddle.
From the surrounding rival groups there came an assortment of calls of encouragement, and Nate, after tipping his cap dutifully towards Sir Oswald joined the line of horses heading out of the ring.
Only the pleasure of having Becky alongside him as they walked to be near the finishing line, kept Jack’s breathing level. Avoid the tension, he kept telling himself, and, whenever Becky’s arm (accidentally) brushed against his, that was easy.
Given the quality and reputation of the field, they were disappointed when the bookmaker boards came into view. Trafalgar was no better than eight to one
“His performance at York has clearly gone before him,” Sir Oswald observed.
Lady Brandling touched at grey hair showing below her vivid bonnet and put in, “I hope you are not risking too much, Oswald.”
“No risk, my dear,” he replied, smiling around at the others.
“Huh.”
Sir Oswald, Jack, Becky and Alf all moved alongside respective bookmaker boards, Alf choosing the one where his winnings from the first race waited. At a nod from Sir Oswald, they each stepped in and placed their bets. Doing this simultaneously ensured they each obtained the best odds available.
Sure enough, as soon as they’d collected their tickets, Trafalgar’s price showed no better than four to one.
As they came back together, Alf stated, “Well, if our boy wins, I’ll go and live in the Caribbean. Wonder how many cows I could buy?”
Just then a stentorian voice sounded over the buzzing throng, “They’re lining up.”
Surprised, Sir Oswald pointed to the top end of the stand. There on a platform two men were standing, one holding a telescope to his eye, the other a wide tube to his lips through which he was issuing details.
From their standpoint, Jack could only just gain a vague impression of the horses milling about. “From this distance,” Alf said, “they could be ants.”
“An orderly line-up,” the voice called.
Becky gripped Jack’s arm as she giggled, “This is where my training ability comes in.”
“I don’t know what we would have done without you,” Jack murmured, hastily adding, “m’lady.” He loved the grip of her hand on his arm, it helped to keep his nerves under control.
“And they’re off, a good even break.” The voice called.
There had been the vague flash of the green flag, now all they could do was wait, listen to progress, before they were able to distinguish for themselves, at about six or seven furlongs, exactly what was happening.
“Green Mission leads, with Franciscan close up, along with Royal Standard, the Prince Regent’s horse.”
“Where’s Trafalgar?” Becky hissed, and Jack could sense her growing agitation, matching his own, which was being overlaid by excitement, as the voice answered Becky’s question.
“The red and white cap of Trafalgar is in close attendance.”
Oh, God, stay with them, Trafalgar. He longed to be able to throw an arm around Becky as the voice came again, “They’re at the halfway mark and Royal Standard has moved into a slight lead, with Bishop’s Folly moving into second as Franciscan drops away.” That brought a small cheer from the crowd.
“Concentrate on Trafalgar, man,” Alf cried out in agitation.
The voice announced, “Yes, Royal Standard has moved into a half-length leader over Bishop’s Folly, with Trafalgar showing against the rail and Green Mission just outside him with Viking King showing well.”
Don’t get boxed in, Jack was saying under his breath. He was now able to pick out some colour and there was no doubt that the dark blue was leading, running up the centre of the track. The red and white cap on Nate showed close to the rails but Jack was able to estimate that he was no more than one length behind the leader.
Again, the voice, “With three furlongs to go there is no doubt that Royal Standard holds a clear length lead over Bishop’s Folly with Trafalgar, Green Mission and Viking King neck and neck just behind the second horse.
Becky was beginning to dance up and down beside him as her fingers gripped into his arm. Jack was a little relieved to hear Alf, on the other side of her, mutter, “You have a hell of a grip, m’lady.”
The guttural call of Sir Oswald came as a surprise, “Come on, Trafalgar. Show them.”
The reporting voice was hardly necessary as it called, “With two furlongs to go, it is still Royal Standard by a length,” Cheers at that again, “with Trafalgar, Green Mission and Viking King all challenging just behind Bishop’s Folly.”
“He’s got him beautifully placed, “ exclaimed Alf.
Jack could see that, but his heart was pounding so hard he was almost unable to make any response. But he didn’t need to. Still squeezing her fingernails into his arm, Becky was jumping up and down, squealing, above the roar of the crowd, “You can do it, darling Trafalgar. Come on.”
The voice signalled, “Approaching the final furlong.”
Now was the time. Jack saw Royal Standard’s stride lengthen as he started to extend his lead. He watched as Nate leaned forward, his mouth close to Trafalgar’s ear. That was the moment that Bishop’s Folly, seeming to have run his race, lurched suddenly to his right, and Jack could see Nate’s grimace as his attempted forward burst was impeded.
“Oh, God,” That from Becky.
“Damnit,” from Alf.
“Bloody hell!” Loud and clear from Sir Oswald.
“Oswald, language!” Lady Brandling’s shocked tones.
With a heaviness in his chest, Jack watched as Nate skillfully swerved Trafalgar around the offending rival. But by the time he had Trafalgar moving again, the voice was telling the screaming crowd, “The favourite, Royal Standard has moved three lengths clear, ahead of Viking King.
But now Nate was leaning over the ears of Trafalgar as he lengthened his stride. For less than a second, the gap between him and Royal Standard remained the same, but their wonderful chestnut strode past Viking King and was going after the favourite.
Jack could see the gap had shortened, but they were into the final furlong, and Jack found he had stopped breathing, wishing, willing a miracle. The gap was down to two lengths. Trafalgar’s stride was now longer and faster than that of Royal Standard.
Beside him, Becky was jumping up and down, and his own fervour had him mindlessly gripping her hand where it clawed into his arm.
One length only, Trafalgar’s nose was level with the tail of the favourite, whose jockey was desperately wielding his whip. Jack was sure he could make out Nate’s lips moving close to Trafalgar’s ear.
Half a length but would the finishing line come too soon? Jack felt the tears of pride already on his cheeks as the horses were neck and neck. Screams of excitement from Becky. Moans, gasps and groans from the crowd as, with the Regent’s horse nearest to him, Jack saw Trafalgar’s head appear ahead of Royal Standard’s nose. Then they crossed the finishing line
And Jack discovered that there was no doubt about the result in Becky’s mind as she pressed her body close in a wild hug and almost screamed in his ear, “He won. He won.”
Joyful as it all was Jack was compelled to remind her, “Alf too. Alf too.”
Her eyes glowed as she broke from him and grabbed Alf, before moving on to her uncle and aunt.
“Well, I’m glad all that fuss is over, “ Lady Brandling said huffily before shrugging and adding lightly, “Of course, I always knew he’d win.”
“Ah, my dear, “ Sir Oswald replied, with a laugh, “aren’t you glad you paid so much money for him.” He then grabbed Jack by the hand and shook it warmly, half turning to Alf at the same time, “Thank you both so much for the way you’ve handled my risky venture.”
Lady Brandling suddenly queried, ”Rebecca, where is your bonnet?”
Becky looked genuinely surprised as her hand drifted up to her beautiful hair, which was lifting gently in the breeze, Looking around searchingly, in what Jack guessed was a brilliant act, she said, “It must have come off in the excitement.”
“Mine didn’t.”
“Maybe you weren’t as excited as I was,” Becky replied nonchalantly.
Jack struggled to keep the smile from his face as Sir Oswald snapped, “Rebecca,” as though he was about to scold her, but then a wide smile spread across his florid face as he went on, “Oh, let’s go and collect our winnings.”
After completing that pleasant task, they hurried down to the ring where Nate was roundly praised for his brilliant horsemanship. Nate’s modest response was to say, “He is just a dream to ride. Any other horse might have baulked when we were blocked in.”
The next few hours were like a dream for Jack, amid all the euphoria it became clear that a pathway to an amazing future could be opened out. Racing folk came to heap praise on him, Alf and the horse, while fittingly, congratulating Nate on his brilliant ride.
One admirer, the trainer of Viking King, told him, “I felt no disgrace in coming third to two such grand animals,” He paused before asking, “I assume he’s entered for the Two Thousand Guineas?”
“Not that I know of.”
The trainer voiced his surprise before moving away, but the answer to that question wasn’t far away. Still in the winner’s bay, Alf was busy washing down Trafalgar, with Becky keeping the horse calm with her welcome muzzle stroking, which always appeared to mesmerise Trafalgar.
Jack, having taken most of the plaudits, was wondering what was keeping Sir Oswald who had gone to collect the owner’s prize money furnished by their agreed entry fee. Jack had been surprised that, with Royal Standard in the second-place bay, although there were three stable hands tending to the horse, there was no sign of the trainer that had so riled them earlier. Jack had been looking forward to a little gloating.
Then he saw a smiling Sir Oswald approaching across the ring accompanied by a tall distinguished gentleman with thick silver hair, dressed in a long maroon jacket. Even before he stopped to have a few words with the stable hands in the second-place bay, Jack had guessed who he was, and that was confirmed when Sir Oswald introduced him.
“Jack, this is Lord Duckham, head trainer to His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent. He wanted to speak to you.”
Jack had never encountered a Lord before and was just a little uncertain. But a large friendly hand was held out to him, so he shook it, noting the firm grip, but he gave a little deferential nod of his head.
“I wanted to congratulate you on that wonderful victory, even though it was against one of the Prince Regent’s animals. Sir Oswald tells me how much he has admired your manner with horses.”
“Thank you, er- your Lordship,” Jack said, just a little uneasy as to whether that was the correct address. But the attitude of this upstanding man had already impressed him.
“His Royal Highness will be interested to hear that your magnificent animal will be challenging his two best three-year-olds next May. And I’m the idiot who talked Sir Oswald to enter him.”
Jack looked at Sir Oswald for some explanation which was immediately forthcoming, “Lord Duckham pointed me in the direction of a Jockey Club director, and they have accepted Trafalgar as an entry in the Two Thousand Guineas.”
“The classic?” Jack immediately realised that it was an unnecessary question.
Lord Duckham laughed loudly, “I may be setting myself up for a beating, and in that case, you and I, young man, may have so much more to discuss.”
Jack saw that Becky, drawn by the laughter, had made a tentative approach. Lord Duckham had noticed too. He turned to Sir Oswald first and asked, “Is this pretty young lady your niece?”
When Sir Oswald affirmed that fact, his lordship turned back to Becky and said, ”I understand I owe you a massive apology for the ungentlemanly behaviour of my one-time deputy. There have been a few too many incidents when his attitude to ladies has been unpalatable. This was the final straw. You accept my apology, Rebecca?”
“Of course,” Becky replied, and Jack could not recall her being so subdued.
“You may rest assured that when the Prince hears about this, as well as losing his job, Sir Arthur Devort will quickly become plain Mr Arthur Devort.” And for the briefest of moments, his eyes fixed again on Jack as he added, “And I’ll be short of a second in command.”
Then he and Sir Oscar moved off towards the reception area.
Just as had been the case after the York success, when they arrived back at the Black Bull hostelry in the early evening, Sir Oscar insisted on treating them all to a chicken dinner, usually provided for only the more privileged customers.
The champagne toast he gave to Trafalgar and the success they had shared began a most cheerful evening. Much of that, for Jack, came from being close to Becky, who had somehow managed the seating so that they were side by side facing Alf and Nate, while Sir Oswald and Lady Brandling were side by side to their left.
Other racegoers staying at the hostelry came across with words of admiration for Trafalgar. Strangely, Jack felt that during his speech Sir Oswald seemed to want to say more about future prospects yet held back.
Alf had them laughing when he outlined what he might do with his winnings, “You know, I could buy eight horses, or eighteen cows,” He paused, his lined face beaming, “or a hell of a load of sheep. But, much more likely, many, many barrels of ale.”
Some hours later, Jack lay, his naked body sweated against Becky, looking into her lovely, wide-eyed face as she made her gasping return from an early, swift orgasm. His gentle thrust, had her eyes widening, as she realised, “God, Jack, you’re still hard.”
Trying to sound casual, Jack murmured, ”Yes, you have little effect on me.” He bent to tongue at her hard, aroused nipples and tried to avoid her expected elbow at his ribs.
“Oh,” she groaned, “I love you so much. Love what you do to me. Love the lewd thoughts that plant themselves in my head when we’re apart.”
Her hips took on a steady upwards rhythm around his manhood, leaving Jack no option but to join in the thrusts, feeling his own bursting so very near. She tried to roll to be on top of him, but he resisted, and his thrusts became more frantic, reaching up to the very core of her.
The power of his initial expulsion drove her, crying out, higher up the bed as they shared a deeply passionate mutual climax, moaning like wounded cattle.
After a long, slow recovery, she whispered, “Oh, Jack, can it get any better?”
“Only when we know it’s permanent,” he admitted.
Becky sat up and leaned over him, ”Did you get the feeling that my uncle was withholding something this evening?”
He agreed that he had a sense of something being withheld, but then their passion overtook them and squashed any other feelings other than the joy they found in each other’s bodies.
As they slept that night, neither, in their wildest dreams, could foresee the future that was ordained for them, and the part that Trafalgar would have in triggering that.
