Sunday had arrived at last, and the weather was set fair, for which Jack Wetherly was grateful. Aunt Rose had placed a breakfast of bread and dripping in front of him together with the tea, that only Aunt Rose could produce so stewed.
Jack and his late father had lived with Aunt Rose, ever since his mother, who Jack was too young to remember, had died. Plump, always aproned, dolly sized, Rose was his mother’s sister and had been one of the more placid parts of his life.
As she poured his tea Aunt Rose commented, “You seem far away, lad. I thought Sunday was your quiet day.”
Jack nodded, she was right, he was far away. Ever since the magic of Friday his brain had teemed with only one overriding thought: Becky! The look of her, the sweep of her raven hair, the promise in her sensuous glances, the touch, the aroma, the taste, the very surprise at the way she had come on to him when he was bedevilled by social restriction.
As Becky so succinctly and contemptuously put it, “This bloody society.” That summed up one of the earliest shocks she had for him, her rejection of the privileged status Jack would have placed her in. On Friday they had been skin to skin, by the lakeside, sated, each knowing society’s view of the unacceptable nature of their union.
Jack was an apprentice ostler, lower class, and Becky was the orphaned niece of Sir Oswald Brandling, ex-army officer, now a wealthy wine merchant and landowner. The revelation of their intimacy would have dire consequences, especially for Jack.
Jack adored her rebellious spirit. In spite of her upper-class upbringing, she could see how difficult intimate meetings were going to be, and when they had talked about it in the afterglow of their passion, she had been delighted with his plan that would give them a pleasantly lengthy session on this Sunday.
Saturday afternoon Jack had made the first steps in setting up the plan. He rode his favourite horse, Rascal into the nearby village of Merevale, leading Rusty behind them. Rusty was booked to be shod by Vic the blacksmith. He was to be left overnight and collected on Sunday morning, which aided the plan perfectly.
The following Saturday would be very different with the village fayre, funded largely by the local gentry, where local farmers and their wives really pushed their wares.
Having housed Rusty in a paddock at the rear of the blacksmith’s, Jack had walked into the clash of metal on metal inside the shop. Vic was just dipping a horseshoe on tongs into a bucket of water, and with a hiss, steam rose up.
Still holding the tongs, the smithy turned to Jack, his smiling face as red as the coals burning in the tray, sweat pouring through the facial grime and bare upper chest into his leather apron. “He’ll be ready for the morrow morning, Jack. Before midday?”
Jack nodded his acceptance before asking if he could leave a spare saddle and bridle. “I’m expecting someone to ride Rusty tomorrow.”
“No problem,” Vic said and then asked, “You want Rascal done before next weekend?”
Agreeing on the following Thursday for Rascal, Jack was soon riding back to the manor, and passing the thicket that had shrouded their joyful activities on Friday had him worrying over how they could keep their meetings going. The idea that suddenly struck him seemed brilliant, yet so logical. They had probably been in a too ecstatic state of mind to think straight. But, with certain shortcomings, it was so obvious.
Now, at last, it was Sunday. Alf Winter, his boss and chief ostler, always allowed more free time on a Sunday, although the horses still needed some attention. But the older man was just as eager as Jack to see Rascal gain some success.
Well before their agreed time to meet, Jack, having dismounted from Rascal, was holding the horse’s reins, his eyes fixed on the gentle grassy slope down from the mansion and the copse from which Becky had first burst into his life. He was holding Rascal just out of sight on the fringe of the thicket where they had been naked together.
With waiting came the unwelcome thought that maybe she had changed her mind. Perhaps she had told herself that there could be no future for them, that it was too risky. Maybe she had told herself that she could do better. There were so many reasons for her not to come.
That was the moment that he detected movement on the edge of the copse. The figure in a blue dress, long black hair billowing about her head, set Jack’s pulses racing. Even from a distance of nearly a furlong, Becky was enchanting. As she neared, he was bathed in her happy smile, and he noted how her skirt, tied high up to her neck and tight over her upper body still managed to flare loosely around her legs.
Becky came directly into his arms, pressed her whole length against him as their lips met in a warm but gentle kiss. As they parted, Jack told her, “I thought you mightn’t come.”
She said, “I thought you mightn’t be here.”
Their duetted response, “You knew I would be,” set them both laughing and hugging.
Jack guided her alongside Rascal, “Foot in the stirrup and into the saddle,” he told her.
“What about you?”
“You’ll see. Just hold the reins. Rascal won’t move.”
Becky swung herself up easily, and Jack was pleased to see how her skirt did not impede her movement. He grabbed the edge of the saddle and heaved himself up to sit behind her. Rascal turned his head as though to ask what was going on.
“Oh, this is cosy,” Becky sighed, as Jack put his arms around her.
“Just give him a click and a shake of the reins.”
Rascal’s response was perfect, and with Jack giving an occasional pat on the horse’s rump they were soon moving at a steady trot.
“Where are you supposed to be?” he asked over her shoulder, before kissing the back of her neck.
“Ooh, steady,” she sighed, “I might steer him into the lake.” But she went on to tell of how the wife and daughter of a local landowner farmer called Parker had called on Lady Brandling earlier in the week. ”Daughter, Clarissa is two years older than me, and they asked me to call sometime.”
“Oh, yes, the Parker place is just fifteen minutes the other way. So that’s where you’re supposed to be headed? Won’t Lady Brandling find out?”
“From what she said, she sees the Parkers very rarely. I’ll fit a visit in, sometime.”
“Some lady, you are,” Jack laughed in her ear. Once again, he was flooded with disbelief at this situation.
Now he told her of one worry, “At this moment, riding like this, we are at our most vulnerable. If anyone chanced upon us, well, gossip spreads fast.”
“I don’t want you to be hurt because of me.”
Nearing Merevale, Jack advised Becky to make a wide arc to head around to the other side of the village. Once there, they dismounted, and Becky took cover in the small wooded area, where the trail to the hills began, while Jack, after a quick kiss, rode quickly to Vic’s.
Reaching the blacksmith’s, he was delighted to find that Vic had already saddled and prepared Rusty. Thanking him and confirming Thursday for Rascal, he quickly rode around to the north of the village, leading Rusty behind him.
Becky appeared from the trees as soon as she heard them, “A cosy little spot that,” she giggled, and Jack would have loved to clutch her in his arms, she looked so delectable. But he knew he needed to keep the importance of both parts of this ride in perspective, and their time was not too far away. Having decided to hold back on the bright prospect he had thought of earlier, he wondered why she looked rather downcast.
“I should have told you earlier, but I have some ‘not good’ news.”
As ever, Jack was fearing the worst as she leaned against him. Was it some kind of breakaway? “What is it?”
“My aunt has a sister on the coast, Newmouth. They are going there for a few days and insist that I go with them.”
That was disappointing news, but Jack asked, “Were you tempted to say ‘no’?”
She smiled, “One of my responses they’ve become used to. But, given our togetherness, I thought it wise to stay on the right side of them.”
Jack nodded his agreement, then a sudden thought struck him, “You won’t miss the village fayre, will you?”
“No,” Becky reassured him. “Back on Friday. Uncle Oswald has to present his prize.”
Jack wondered how he could ever face all that time without seeing her but decided that his new ideas for a meeting could wait, and pointed to their mounts, “To horse!” he cried.
Becky went to Rusty and ran a hand over his flank, “What a lovely colour.”
“Hence his name. Meet Rusty.”
“Hello, Rusty,” she said stroking his nose.
Rusty gave a snort and a shake of his head. “What does that mean?”
“It means he thinks you’re lovely too. He’s a good judge.”
Becky smiled and reached out to squeeze Jack’s hand, but he quickly broke the grip. “Riding time. Can you get on him yourself?”
“He’s bigger than Ebony or Rascal.”
“A little.” Jack agreed but stood back in admiration as Becky put her foot in the stirrup and easily swung up with a swirl of her skirt, and just a hint of knee. Very quickly he was alongside her on Rascal.
He told her how he wanted Rascal to be at a steady gallop, the pace he would be doing in the first two-thirds of the race. “On the return trip, I want him to go full out for at least halfway. This track will be the last stretch in the race. Now, just a gentle trot until you get the feel of him.”
That was how they set off. Jack knew that half the journey was on a wide trail between waving fields of almost ripe grain. Then it was scrubland up to the lower slopes of the hills, which became too rocky to risk horses any higher.
After a couple of furlongs, Jack told her that he was going to set the galloping pace he would expect in the first part of the race. “If you can keep Rusty up with that, fine. If you can’t, don’t worry.” He paused and gave her a sly grin, “Will you be able to get him to gallop—without a whip?”
She gave him a mock frown, leaned forward, and Jack saw her knees jerk into Rusty’s flank. “Go, Rusty,” she ordered and immediately the chestnut horse was away.
Laughing, Jack set Rascal after her, and once he drew level, he set the pace he wanted. He was delighted when Becky urged Rusty to remain alongside and together they galloped to the lower reaches of the Bascombe Hills, where Becky, following Jack’s example drew Rusty to a halt.
Jack had dismounted and was tying Rascal to a sturdy shrub, as he said, “Excellent riding.”
Sliding from her saddle, Becky secured Rusty and after thanking Jack, she looked up at the rocky slopes to the top of the hills. “Higher than they look from a distance and much rockier.”
Coming up behind her Jack pointed out two taller rocks, one almost lost behind the other, about a hundred yards up the slope, “There’s something very special up between those rocks. Want to see?” Now Rascal was a secondary consideration.
Becky had no hesitation in agreeing, and in no time, they were scrambling up the slope. They stepped between the two tall rocks and were instantly shaded from the heat of the sun. Jack could not resist a smile as he saw the puzzled frown on Becky’s face as she gazed around her. He deliberately stood a few feet apart from her.
All she would be seeing were the greyness of the two huge rocks and the green grass under their feet. “What’s so special?” Becky asked, turning her eyes to Jack, saw his smile, and it thrilled him to see the puzzled frown that creased her brow.
Jack stepped in close, and drew her body against his as he whispered, “The speciality is-“ And he paused dramatically, “-privacy.” His lips found hers and after a quick laugh her own lips responded, and Jack was forgetting all about class as his hands roamed almost frantically over her body.
Becky broke the kiss and stepped back, and at the same time, her fingers were at the neck of her dress. “You must hear this,” she giggled, as she unfastened the tie there.
A little surprised, Jack watched as Becky opened the collar of the dress. “My aunt made me fasten it up to here,” she said, and there was the happiness of rebellion in her voice. “Didn’t like the way this dress fastened.”
Her eyes fixed on Jack’s face and pulled at another tie-up letting the dress part to reveal a hint of cleavage. “She told me it made me look like a strumpet.”
Jack stood transfixed. He knew what a strumpet was. Becky was continuing to untie fastenings all the way down the front of her dress.
“She was so quick to fasten up the neck. Fortunately, I had the dress on before she came into my room. I wonder whether she might have fainted-“ She was bending low to unfasten the last tie-up, “-if she knew about this.” With that, she spread her arms to part the dress and reveal that there was nothing at all under it.
Nothing, but the perfect breasts and luscious body he had been longing to see again, ached to touch. The ache now was due to rising pressure inside his breeches as Becky, with a seductive sway, moved closer and her fingers fumbled at his belt buckle. At the same time, she leaned in to place her warm lips on his.
Jack accepted the kiss willingly and soon the passion of it was increased by the fact that his hands had slid inside her dress, one on her waist, the other savouring her delectable breast. Becky was pushing down his breeches, and Jack felt his hard member come free.
Immediately, with a speed that surprised Jack, Becky had dropped to her knees, and her lips were trailing along his throbbing length.
“Becky, no. No need.”
“Every need.” she murmured. “I owe you this.” And, as his hand moved ineffectually through her hair, her lips closed around his hardness, and Jack moaned at the pleasure of this new experience. Her mouth felt to be encouraging him to grow in there. Yet, at the same time, he had a weird feeling of guilt. He shouldn’t let a lady debase herself in this way, should he? Oh, God, that fluttering tongue.
He was very conscious of what could happen if Becky continued, so he put his hands on either side of her head, and half pulled, half eased her away from her task.
“I might shoot,” he groaned.
She gave a little chuckle, “That might be interesting.” But she continued stroking him.
Their lips came together again, a hot and eager kiss, as hands roamed, searched and teased. Jack pushed Becky’s dress off her shoulders. Her clouded glance, her gentle grip on him, her moistness when his fingers probed lower and deeper, all told him what their next step should be.
Very carefully he laid her down onto where her dress had fallen, and as he lowered his own body over her, she gripped his solid shaft tightly and moaned, “Immediate, Jack. Immediate.”
No delay and he was inside her, inside the warmth, the wetness, the very essence of her amazing power over him. With his every thrust, she responded with equal heaves from her hips. Each stroke brought forth a grunt, then a groan, a cry until together they hit a mutual climax that gave the birds no rest.
Lying tight side by side as they calmed, Becky murmured in his ear, “Sorry.”
“Sorry for what we’ve just shared?” Jack was sure that his tone would reveal his surprise.
She gave a half-smile, “Never that. No, about going away tomorrow.”
Jack shrugged, “Probably a sensible idea. Keeping you on the right side of your uncle.”
“I’m not looking forward to it. Although getting together will be difficult when I am back.”
Jack sat up and leaned over her, “There may be a way of being together, for an hour, at least.”
Becky’s eyes brightened, “What is it?”
Jack bent and kissed her moistened brow before asking, “What is the riding program most mornings?”
Becky frowned, “Jack brings Ebony for me to ride for an hour.”
“And then?”
Jack could see something dawning behind Becky’s eyes, “Alf brings Ebony back to the stables, collects my uncle’s Charger, and–Oh, Jack, you mean-?”
Jack kissed her again, and nodded, “From then, I’m all lonely in the stables.”
Her excitement and enthusiasm gave him such a lift as she laughed, “And I could just take a casual stroll that way.”
“And I could capture you and throw you into the fresh hay.”
“And tup me until my eyes water?” Her beautiful face was lit by the thought of it. “Oh, Jack, it sounds so exciting. I have only one question.”
“What is that?” Jack asked, knowing the answer because he had been aware of the movement of her hand.
Sure enough, her fingers closed on his semi-erect member, “When will you be able to do me again? Ooh, not long, I think.”
They kissed long and tenderly and when he entered her this time it was all warm, slow savouring. Nothing was rushed, he pushed deeply into her, she squirmed in delightful fashion around his shaft. Deep, slow and deliberate, they absorbed each other, taking and giving with equal salacious resolve.
Becky climaxed only seconds before Jack spurted inside her. They lay, belly to belly, for a long while, and it was Becky who raised the worry that clearly troubled both of them.
“Are we going to be discovered, Jack?”
“That would mean being separated.”
Her eyes moistened, “Oh, Jack, I can’t bear such a thought.”
“Well,” he told her honestly, “I’m prepared to fight to keep you.”
Their eyes held, knowing it was merely bold talk.
As the afternoon dimmed they came together once more, a fast, almost desperate coupling, as though each was thinking it might be their last. Recovered, they scrambled down from the rocks and were soon mounted and moving back through the scrubland.
Jack leaned across and told her, “When we get to the point where the grain field starts, I am going to set Rascal at a full speed gallop. This will be the last part of the race next week, apart from the final push to the far end of the village. You can ride as you wish, but don’t try to keep up.”
Becky murmured her agreement. So, just as the yellowed corn came into view, Jack gave Rascal a little nudge to raise his pace. Then, level with the waving grain, he gave him a slap on the rump accompanied by a shake of the reins and a bellowed, “Go, Rascal. Go.” And Rascal did exactly what he expected of him and quickly hit top speed.
Leaning over Rascal’s neck, Jack thought he heard Becky’s call of encouragement. He was satisfied with the way Rascal responded under him; when he reached the patch of woodland where Becky had waited for his return with Rusty, he slowed Rascal and waited for her.
As she approached, she was nodding her head in appreciation, “He looked very good,” she said.
“He was,” Jack agreed. “We must veer left to avoid the village.” As they rode, he told her he would take her to the road just outside the main gates of Brandling Manor. “So, you can stroll casually up the drive, as though you had been a good girl.”
She giggled, “Well, wasn’t I?”
“You were very good. In every way.”
In the trees just outside the gates, they dismounted and clung together, and Becky almost sobbed, “Oh, Jack, I don’t want this to end, ever.”
“We’ll have to think about it. Deeply.”
“This afternoon’s events are going to carry me through the next few days.”
“Me too.”
Jack watched Becky stroll away up the drive, not as casual as he had suggested, as occasionally she half-turned to look back, but too soon, she was out of sight and Jack rode Rascal and led Rusty back to the stables.
He entered what he knew was going to be a long week, and images of Becky, in all the situations he had experienced with her were never far away. But as well as his usual work, and he had Alf’s support here, he concentrated on Rascal being prepared for the Merevale village fayre race.
He took his mount on another fast gallop down the trail from the Bascombe hills and had to endure the lump in his throat when he recalled his last visit up there. Jack was becoming very excited by the prospect of the race on Saturday, and this was heightened by the prospect of seeing Becky again.
On the Thursday, he rode Rascal into Merevale for his shoeing at Vic, the blacksmiths. The main street was busier than usual, especially where the main street skirted the small village green. There, a few stalls were already being raised without any indication of what would be on sale or show. A group of women in their simple plain frocks were chatting and by their pointing and gesturing were planning what would go where.
The small chapel at the end of the main street had a notice board on which various church matters were displayed: coming service, wedding dates. That sort of thing. But Vic had advised him that until Saturday a map of the course for the race was on show.
“Couple of variations from last year,” he told Jack. “Manford Cleese is allowing access to the upper part of his top field. Altogether maybe a couple of furlongs further.”
“I suppose he’s entering his Brigand again this year,” Jack said, already knowing that if Cleese was adding some of his land, he would be fancying his chances.
Manford Cleese was a wealthy farmer, owner of several horses and extensive grain fields. His son, John, had ridden their stallion Brigand in the previous year’s race and beat Rascal by just half a length. Jack had done little real training with Rascal then but was hoping this time might be different.
Looking at the posted map, Jack saw that as before, the race started at the Green and went to the end of the main street. After tracing the ground behind the village, it returned at the other end of the village, did the full length of the main street. This gave villagers the opportunity to cheer on their fancies. The race then moved onto Sir Oswald’s land just short of the far end of the lake, before crossing the main track and entering Cleese’s section up to Bascombe. Then down the stretch which Jack had travelled with Becky on Sunday. He sighed in recalling that.
The chapel vicar, the Reverend Allan had banned any gambling on the race, but most folks knew that a number of surreptitious wagers were laid between villagers. Vic the blacksmith ran a secret wagering service and told Jack that Cleese’s horse Brigand was odds on, and Rascal was being given at three to one. Another horse which was owned by Sidney Sowerby was second favourite. “Pure white, he is. Called Snowy. Not surprising, eh.”
When he got back to the stable and told Vic about the extended course, the old ostler said, “Aye, that Cleese is a wily character. But I’ve got a couple of pounds on this fellow.” And he patted Rascal on the neck.
“Two pounds? Can you afford it?” Jack asked, quite amazed.
“I can if the bugger wins,” Alf laughed.
Saturday morning found Jack all a-tingle. There was no need for Aunt Rose to wake him up, as she often had to do. The race, and the possible prospect of seeing Becky had him glowing. He had to advise himself that his chances of getting anywhere near her would be remote. Although, on previous fayre days, the local upper crust had mixed with the villagers, and, since the local gentry funded much of the day, Jack reckoned they were more sociable than many areas he had heard of.
But, equally, he knew that it was important to recognise that there was a line that could not be crossed. He and Becky had already crossed that line, so caution was always advisable.
About an hour before lunch, he and Alf rode slowly down into the village. Jack knew that Aunt Rose was being given a lift on Joe and Helen Barker’s cart. Everyone knew that horses and other transport were banned from the main street on this special day.
The village elders, backed by the support of landowners, played a big part in the organisation. Beyond the chapel grounds, a special paddock had been fenced in a shady area for horses that would be racing. A field next to that was where other horses could be grazed. One other area was where the phaetons and curricles of the upper set were waiting.
Having unsaddled Rascal and hung the saddle where it was handy for later, Jack turned and viewed the hustle and bustle of the main street. Merevale was usually a quiet little village. Quite a contrast to when this annual event took place.
Late morning, and already the main street was packed with people from near and far. They were mainly farm folk, spending their meagre, hard-earned cash but enjoying the sights and sounds around them. At one point two fiddlers played while young girls performed what, to Jack, looked like an elaborate dance.
The race would be mid-afternoon, and before moving up the street, Jack pretended to view the stalls that were on the green alongside the road. But his eyes were viewing the awning that had been stretched over tables and chairs at the rear of the green.
All the gentry had not arrived yet, but more importantly, Jack couldn’t see Becky.
He longed to see Becky but caught sight of Sir Oswald, resplendent in his red military uniform, which he only wore on such occasions. He stood alongside Lady Brandling, in a vivid yellow gown and built like a battleship in full sail. They each sipped at a drink.
Alf had said that “The major only wears it to let people know what he used to be.” Alf had chuckled when he added, “Bet he’ll swear ‘bloody Yorktown’ to somebody.”
That was a reference to a lost battle in the Americas which had, in time, led to his disgruntled retirement from armed service
He made his way up the street, viewing stalls selling home-made jam in earthenware jars. The smell of frying sausages at one stall had stomachs rumbling and had drawn an eager crowd. Jack decided that would be where he took lunch. An urchin squeezed against the crowd and suddenly darted his hand between two bodies and came out clutching a sausage. He quickly disappeared into the throng, laughing loudly.
“I’ll bet you used to be like that,” said a so familiar rough tone behind him. It was Alf, smiling, as he bit on a current bun.
“I was a good lad,” Jack told him. “Cake good?”
“Aye, but you must starve yourself. Don’t want Rascal carrying too much weight.”
There was much happy banter outside the Sheaf and Bull. Betsy Maine chuckled as she yelled across at him offering him, “A village fayre lift- over.” Jack took snacks at various stalls, before wandering back to the green and looking towards the landowner’s awning. There were more people seated now, and there were frequent sounds of popping corks.
Jack wondered how much of the drink Sir Oswald had supplied. As that thought struck, Becky appeared from the shadows. She wore a slender dress on which the neckline was loosened, and he wondered if Lady Brandling had relented. Becky was looking the other way and the temptation to wave was overpowering but dangerous.
If she would only turn, but someone must have called to her from inside as she turned back under the awning. Disappointed, Jack thought about going back up the street, but at that moment he heard the faint call from that direction and knew exactly what it was.
A caller always wandered the length of the main street calling, “Riders! To horse!”
Jack was relieved, At last, the race was due. Now he would find out just how good Rascal might be. He moved quickly to the paddock, where Rascal seemed pleased to see him, as he trotted to him giving a light snuffle of greeting, Jack liked to think.
In all, there were fifteen horses taking part in the race. As he saddled Rascal, Jack saw John Cleese, who he knew from the previous year move to his horse. He gave a wave, and John waved back and called, “Fancy your chances?”
“We’re about to find out,” he called back,
“Good luck.”
“And you.” There had been no hard feelings after last year’s race, and it was good to know that the rivalry was friendly.
As the horses filed out towards the starting point midway along the edge of the green, Jack noticed that some of the fancier dressed ladies and gentlemen had emerged from the champagne cover. He couldn’t see Becky among them. Just as well, he thought with a wry smile, she would surely distract him. Oh, such a distraction.
All in a rough starting line-up, Jack saw the pure white horse belonging to Sidney Sowerby. Definitely well named at Snowy. Jack saw that it was being ridden by a rather dour-looking young man.
He saw the red-clad figure of Sir Oswald easing between two stalls. He was clutching a plain blue flag in his hand. Tall and still an imposing figure, he cast his eyes along the line of horses, and was that an imperceptible nod as he reached Jack?
“Welcome, gentlemen,” said in his deep stentorian voice. “I will raise this flag, and when I drop it you are on your way. Good luck to you all.” And the flag was up over his head.
Jack fixed his eyes on that blue piece of cloth, concentrating for the moment it dropped. A good start was essential. He didn’t want to get mixed up in a ruck of slow horses.
Then his line of sight moved beyond the blue flag and Becky was standing there on the green, a gentle warm smile on her face. Her wide eyes on him. The flag dropped, and his reaction was retarded.
It was the surge forward of Snowy that brought him back from staring at the vision that was Becky. He dug his knees into Rascal’s flank, and called, “Go, Rascal!”
Being the good horse he was, Rascal went. But they were trapped in the pack and ahead of them, he could see Snowy, Brigand and another horse making for the first bend. It was no time to panic. Jack’s worry was that slower horses might impede him.
However, when they were running the long straight ground behind the village, he was able to steer Rascal through gaps between horses, until, by the time they reached the turn back onto the top of the main street, there were only four horses in front of him. As they straightened, Jack saw them move to the inside.
Thinking ahead, Jack was recalling how tight it might be when they took the bend out of the village for the second time. Consequently, unlike the leading four, he guided Rascal onto the outer side of the street. From the sound of hooves, he knew that many had followed his example.
Rascal was easily keeping pace with the leaders, and Jack leaned over and muttered a word of encouragement in his high-pointed ears. “Good boy. You can do this.”
Up ahead he saw the beginnings of the Green. No looking for his favourite distraction. Concentration was essential. Next time they came this way, this would be the winning post. And his confidence in Rascal was rising.
Suddenly a tiny figure darted out into the road directly in front of him. No time to swerve. Jack hauled on Rascal’s reins, as the little tot fell in front of them. A woman’s scream was echoed by others.
That scream made Rascal veer to his left as Jack’s heaving on the reins stopped his eager gallop. Below him, the little figure was crying just as loud as the screaming women. Jack held Rascal tight so that he stood at right angles across the street, shielding the fallen child from other horses, which galloped on past. The whole incident had taken less than ten seconds.
A woman raced out, snatched up the youngster, and looked up at Jack with worried eyes, “Oh, God bless you. I’m sorry.”
Jack nodded, seeing the last of the horses disappearing around the last house. The leaders would be well into Brandling land by now. As he urged Rascal into a gallop a voice called out, “Bravo!” There were other similar calls and a smattering of clapping hands. Then he was leaning over Rascal’s neck, and talking into his ear once more, “Hard work now, lad. Now we’ll find what you can do.”
Heading away from the village, Jack judged that the straggling horses were catchable. And Rascal’s pace soon proved that. By the time they reached the lake, they had overtaken six horses. Jack’s worry now was knowing what sustainable pace he could fairly keep Rascal doing.
But he had to admit that his wonderful horse was showing all the enthusiasm needed for this chase, and by the time they entered the Cleese stretch of land, four more horses had been accounted for. Jack let Rascal take it on, as he worked out that there were now five horses in front of them, and two of them were Brigand and Snowy.
When they reached the stretch leading close to the Bascombe hills, they passed a grey horse that had pulled up. The rider sat disconsolately patting the horse’s head. As Jack drew alongside, he called, “Fetlock gone. Good luck.”
That saddened Jack. There was a horse that wouldn’t see the end of the day. God, if that happened to Rascal. Feeling the power of the animal beneath him lifted his spirits. If there was any justice in this world, Rascal would be a winner.
And there were the two large rocks where he and Becky had shared such ‘privacy’. But no time for a recall, as they turned on the long trail to the village. The trail he had galloped with Becky. His heart lifted when he saw up ahead of him four horses, all stretched out in full gallop. The two closest were neck and neck, and further down the trail, one dark horse, Brigand, and one white, Snowy. At last, the targets were in sight.
But were they catchable? By the time he had reached the point where the grain swayed he had overtaken the first pair. Now he leaned close to Rascal’s neck and once more was urging extra effort. “You can do this, my friend. Come on.”
He felt the surge of the precious animal under him as Rascal responded. When they passed the wooded area where Becky had waited while he collected Rusty, he saw that Brigand had edged ahead of Snowy, who was palpably slowing.
Turning onto the main street, Rascal simply stormed past Snowy. Yes, yes, surely now, Brigand was reachable.
But the Cleese mount looked powerful. Suddenly, Jack became aware of the high-pitched cheering from the wildly waving spectators lining both sides of the street. “Come on, Rascal. Take him.” As though he understood, Rascal’s neck stretched, and his nose moved alongside Brigand’s flank. Then level with the saddle, two more paces and with the Green very close, Jack glanced sideways.
John Cleese’s nod showed his acknowledgement that he knew Rascal had the beating of his mount. With unprecedented joy in his heart, Jack, with roars and cheers filling his ears, urged his ever-eager horse past the waving blue flag.
As he eased his brave mount to a halt, Jack was surprised to feel the tears on his cheeks. They had won. He slid down from the saddle and moved to Rascal’s head, hugged the dear animal that was panting in his ear. Then wiping the tears away, he took Rascal’s lead and walked him towards the crowds of people rushing to greet him.
The next hour was to live forever in Jack’s memory. There was much back-slapping, hand-shaking, and warm female kisses on his cheeks. The mother of the runaway toddler hugged him and tearfully expressed her undying gratitude.
Alf came with a huge smile on his face, “How the hell did you miss that little ‘un? I feared my cash was lost. Marvellous, Jack, just marvellous.” And the elderly man unashamedly hugged Jack like a long-lost son.
He took the reins from Jack, “You’ve got much to see to here. I’ll take your lovely Rascal and give him a good cooling down.”
Jack gave Rascal another neck hug before Alf led him away. In front of him, there was a stern, “Excuse me,” the crowds parted, and Sir Oswald marched toward him, smiling broadly, with a small entourage behind him.
He stood in front of Jack and held out a white envelope, “Congratulations, young man. I’m so very proud. Proud of Rascal, and your skill, your horsemanship and gallantry. This prize has never been so deserved.” He held out the envelope which Jack took and placed in his left hand as Sir Oswald held his large hand out for a handshake.
Jack slid the envelope inside his shirt, as other gentry stepped up to congratulate or commend his avoidance of the youngster. This was almost too much, being praised by the upper classes.
All of that was forgotten in the next seconds as there, standing in front of him, an eager smile on her gorgeous face, was Becky. Before he could catch his breath, she had wrapped her arms tightly around him, calling out loudly, “Oh, so very brave.”
Then, as though kissing him on the cheek, she put her lips close to his ear and whispered, “I can’t wait. The woods where I waited for Rusty. Soon as possible.”
She stepped away and half stunned, Jack to his dismay saw Sir Oswald standing with a deep scowl on his face. Oh, hell, that could be it. Could he now dare to go through with Becky’s suggested assignation?
His admiration group was beginning to disperse as Aunt Rose came up to him. Her reddened eyes and flushed cheeks, emphasised by her slightly slurred speech when she spoke, told Jack she’d been drinking. Jack stooped to receive her embrace.
“Ooh, Jack, I had to shelebrate. My nephew doing that. Your father would have been sho proud.” As Jack felt a slight pang at her words, she reached up for another hug, before staggering up the street, muttering, “Now where did I leave the Barkers?” Jack watched her stagger away. God, she deserved a happy break in her lonely life.
Becky, are you waiting? He began to move up the street. Individuals stopped him frequently to add their good wishes. Jack realised he would be much delayed if he walked to the end of the village.
On an impulse, he cut down the side of the Sheaf and Bull, passed the section of wall where Betsy had spread for him. Out behind the village, he made rapid progress to the wooded area. Would Becky be here yet? In spite of the look on Sir Oswald’s face, Jack knew that after the highly charged events of the afternoon he was deeply roused.
It was gloomy and cool among the trees, but it wasn’t a large wood. Finding her, if she was here wouldn’t be difficult. And it wasn’t.
“I’m over here,” her welcome tones came from his left, and through the trees, he saw her leaning against a fallen tree, which lay at a wide angle. Becky’s intent was very clear as she began hauling up her dress.
“Your uncle saw you,” Jack said.
Becky laughed as she lay back along the green mossed tree trunk, “He scolded me for it. And I ran away, pretending to be upset. So, here I am. Take me, Jack. I got so wet, watching you.”
Jack looked at her bared thighs; her black triangle was sparkled with her moisture. He pushed at his breeches as he moved over her. “Feel me first, Jack. Feel what you did to me as Rascal raced past the Cleese horse.”
Not really needing such an offer, he reached out to run his fingers between her thighs, and her gasping cry was instant. She was soaking wet. His fingers dabbled for a few seconds, but his swollen member was throbbing with his lust for her. And she was reaching for it.
“God, Jack, you look massive, Oh, please do it. And you feel so hard, I need your force. Inside me. Do it.” Her voice had an anguished quality that he had never heard before, and her pulling on his hardness had him desperate for the tug of her eager inner walls.
Without delay he allowed her to place him and he was in her and pushing his rod deep into the wetness of her. He was thrilled to hear her cry as she climaxed almost instantly. As his thrusts increased in pace and force, she cried out again and again. Her fingers scratched under his shirt.
“Oh, yes, Jack. I was so ready for this. Oh, yes, ride me.”
It didn’t take long for his own pulsing to begin, and he poured spurt after spurt into her, while her own hips rose up from the tree trunk to accept every drop.
As they recovered, and he moved his weight off her, he whispered, “I’ll wager the folk on the street were looking up at the sky and wondering where that strange noise was coming from.”
“But it was such a relief. I was desperate for it.”
“Stay that way.”
“Only if you agree to remain available.”
Jack was recalling that look on Sir Oswald’s face and hoped he could stay available.
They knew time was short, and before parting they clung together and agreed that Monday would be the best opportunity to go for that morning one-hour meeting.
He showed Becky the route down to where she could enter the main street opposite the Green, while he returned and entered from the top end. Most of the crowd had gone. There were still a few calls of “Well done!” to enjoy. He collected a well-rested Rascal from the paddock where he was the only horse left and took a slow ride back to the stable.
It was the following morning that the shock call arrived. He and Alf were only going through the usual Sunday morning routine of letting the horses out to graze. A lazy morning. Until Vincent, the Brandling family butler arrived, dressed in button-up black jacket and gaiters, and his instruction had Jack’s heart beating madly.
“Sir Oswald,” he said, with the pompous tone of someone who thought himself one of the upper set, “would like to see Mr Jack Wetherley without delay.”
“Not sooner than that,” Alf said whimsically. Jack knew Alf couldn’t stand the airs Vincent put on.
“Immediately,” Vincent snapped and stalked away.
“Thank you, messenger boy,” Alf called after him. Laughing, he turned to Jack, “Now what can that be about?”
Jack shrugged, his insides churning.
“Maybe he wants to give you a medal,” Alf said with a grin.
But Jack, recalling once again that scowl on Sir Oswald’s face, just knew it was going to be something much more life-shattering than that.
Is this the end of the affair?
Watch for The Ostler and the Lady. Chapter Three
