Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
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23
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35
Epilogue
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
PENDRAGON
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2002 by Catherine Coulter
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-1913-3
A JOVE BOOK®
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JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: May, 2004
1
The Cat Races
A bright Saturday afternoon, April 1823
near Eastbourne, England
The McCaulty Racetrack,
“MR. RALEIGH, GET Tiny Tom out of Mr. Cork’s way. Blessed Hell, he’ll run right over him!”
Tiny Tom was jerked off the track just in the nick of time, not more than two seconds before Mr. Cork would have laid him flat. Tiny Tom was Mr. Raleigh’s great hope, but he just wasn’t yet ready for this level of competition. Tiny Tom, black as the devil’s familiar with small white paws, was, after all, only one year old, not fully grown or as yet well trained.
But when the runners had scampered and darted past, Mr. Raleigh set Tiny Tom back on the track, swatting his hindquarters and growling in his little ear. That growl, evidently, promised chopped-up chicken livers. Tiny Tom, tasting those chicken livers going down his little gullet, shot forward.
Meggie Sherbrooke scanned the racers, cupped her mouth with her hands, and yelled again, “Blessed Hell, Mr. Cork! Run! Don’t let Blinker II catch you! You can do it, run!”
Reverend Tysen Sherbrooke tended to ignore his daughter’s very occasional lapses into the favored Sherbrooke curse, since it really was quite fit for the racetrack, and yelled himself. “Run, Mr. Cork, run! Cleopatra, you can do it, sweet girl, go!”
Mr. Cork, who’d finally finished growing into his paws six months before, was a big tabby, all orange-striped on his back, the top of his head, and snow white all over his belly and legs, strong as Clancy, Mr. Harbor’s prize bull. He ran only to the smell of a trout, about six pounds and thankfully always dead, baked with just a squeeze of fresh lemon, held by Max Sherbrooke at the finish line, who waved it back and forth like a metronome, keeping Mr. Cork’s attention focused on that trout in front of him. When not in strict training, however, Mr. Cork many times spent his mornings beneath the dining table, his orange-striped tail waving lazily from beneath the tablecloth, announcing that he was ready to be served a nice strip of crispy bacon, or perhaps a small bowl of milk, or both, if the donor would exert himself a bit.
Strong and big, legs pumping with muscle—sheer power and poetry in motion—said Lady Dauntry of Mr. Cork in admiration. She’d been the mistress of ceremonies for the past fourteen years, always calling the race, even in inclement weather. Lady Dauntry deplored corruption on the racetrack, and even now, in 1823, it was rumored that there were still occasional attempts to fix races, and so there was always stringent oversight by all racing mews.
Mary Rose, Tysen’s Scottish wife for eight years now, yelled in a very loud and lovely lilt, “Run, Cleo, my bonnie girl, run!” Then she ratcheted up her lungs and yelled, “You can keep up with her, Alec! Run, lad!”
Seven-year-old Alec Sherbrooke was actually trying to keep up with Leo, whom he worshipped. It was being said in the major racing mews that just perhaps Alec Sherbrooke was one of a very rare breed indeed—a cat whisperer. If he was, he would be extraordinarily special. It was said that Cleo would begin leaping whenever Alec was about and thus that was how she’d been trained so quickly to this new technique. Everyone marveled—a cat whisperer. If Alec Sherbrooke was so blessed, his was going to be a famous name in the racing world. Since Alec wasn’t yet big enough to keep up with her, Leo, his older half brother, was Cleo’s on-track trainer. Meggie privately wondered if Cleo ran because Leo ran beside her or because of what seven-year-old Alec whispered in her white ear before each race.
For those who preferred the more dainty racers, like Cleopatra, christened Clea Mia by a visiting Italian curate some months before, she was a natural leaper. Breath held, Mary Rose watched her run her very fast six steps, building up momentum, then like a dancer, she took off her hind paws, legs extended, leapt forward, stretching her long calico body in the air and landed directly ahead of Blinker II.
Everyone cheered. Lady Dauntry had announced that Cleopatra was grace in motion, and all agreed it was true.
In the beginning of the race, Cleo was content to run a good six lengths behind the leader, running alongside Leo, with seven-year-old Alec trying to keep up. Leo said her name over and over, just loud enough for her to hear, keeping pace with her, difficult when she leapt, but Leo was young and strong and he loved to see Cleopatra stretch and leap and land some three feet ahead of all the other racers. The Harker brothers, from the Mountvale mews, praised the technique as unique and ever so lovely to watch. Then they would speak of Alec and shake their heads and wonder how he would change the world of cat racing with his gift. A cat whisperer, just imagine.
Blinker II poked his head out, running all out, managed to pass Cleopatra again. He was running his paws off, staying right in the middle of the course, hearing his master’s shout of encouragement, a shout that meant to Blinker that he would get all the fresh warm milk he could lap up as it was squeezed out of Trudy, the Grimsby cow. He didn’t even veer away when another racing cat nearly ran over him. Mr. Grimsby hadn’t overtrained him for this meet, heeding the Harker brothers’ advice some six months before to keep laps at no more than ten per day. Blinker II was all gray, with bright green eyes. He always purred when he ran.
Meggie was getting hoarse, but it didn’t matter. She yelled at the top of her lungs, “Come on, Mr. Cork! Move! You can run faster than Blinker II! Look at that delicious trout Leo is waving for you. Just you smell that tangy flavor!”
Mr. Cork was serious now, running so fast his legs were a blur, his golden paws barely skimming the dry dirt course. His green eyes were fastened on that gently swinging trout in Max’s right hand, now in full sight, standing just over the finish line.
Cleopatra executed a major leap, landing her some three and a half feet ahead of Leo. He panted to catch up with her
because when she couldn’t see him out of her right eye, she would simply stop and wait for him. Or perhaps she waited for both Leo and Alec, no one could say for sure. It was the only mdrawback of this training method. Leo Sherbrooke, seventeen, trained as hard as any of the racing cats in the vicarage mews. In the early morning both Leo and Alec could be seen running across the fields toward the Channel.
Horatio Blummer’s stark white racer, Candace, shaped much like a cannon, mean as could be, was all snarls and fangs when she got near another racer. Those racers who didn’t move away from her quickly got bitten hard on the rump. Candace was running fairly well today, snarling with every step. Just plain mean, that was what Mr. Blummer said proudly of Candace. She didn’t need any bribes to make her run hard.
Mr. Cork paused just an instant to snarl back at her before, tail stiff in the air, he sprinted past her.
Mr. Goodgame’s Horace, ten years old now, but still game, a small joke, always repeated by Mr. Goodgame, was long and skinny and looked like a white-and-gray spotted arrow flying through the field of racers. Mr. Goodgame had attached a flag to Horace’s fat white tail, and it waved madly in the breeze. It showed two cats standing on their hind legs, holding crossing swords, the words beneath:
Leve et reluis
Translated: Arise and re-illumine, a beautiful sentiment, surely, but not entirely understood by the locals.
They were nearly to the three-quarters mark. Only three cats had been seduced from the track by hooligans who hooted like owls to scare the cats into skidding off the track, or hollered like fishmongers, waving overripe fish or raw chicken legs. Training assistants from surrounding mews wrestled the hooligans away from the track.
Meggie shouted, “Mr. Cork, I’ll give you three strips of bacon if you beat out old Lummley!”
Old Lummley was a champion. He knew his business, and needed only to see his mistress, Mrs. Foe, standing at the finish line, her arms crossed over her mighty bosom whistling the same tune over and over, to run straight and fast. He’d gotten a touch of arthritis over the last year and the experts predicted it would soon slow him down.
Four-year-old Rory Sherbrooke loved Cleopatra, although she twitched her tail and ran away from him whenever he was close enough to try to grab her. Rory waved frantically as he sat atop his father’s shoulders, yelled until his father believed he would surely go deaf.
Meggie patted Rory’s leg, then saw Mr. Cork suddenly pull away from Cleopatra, who’d just landed short on one of her leaps. There was a moan and a cheer from the crowd who lined the racetrack.
Cheering intensified. Five cats remained, running as hard as they could, all in splendid shape, all wanting to win. Four of them were grouped together—Cleopatra, Blinker II, Old Lummley, and Mr. Cork. They were moving fast, faster still. Candace, just behind them, her head down, was looking neither right nor left, just running hard out to catch the pack.
Suddenly, from the back came Tiny Tom, leaping over racers in front of him. His leap was a bit like Cleopatra’s but with an added corkscrew flair just before he landed. The crowd held its breath as the small cat leapt over Horace, barely skimming the proud flag flying off that fat tail. Then, in the next moment, Tiny Tom landed, by awful accident, on Blinker II’s back, causing the racer to twist about, bite Tiny Tom’s ear, sending them both howling and spitting off the track and into Mrs. Blanchard, eighty years old and deaf, and tangle in her long skirts as she hit at them with her parasol.
Pandemonium broke out when Mr. Cork, in a final surge of power, flew over the finish line, beating Cleopatra by three whiskers. Old Lummley and Candace tumbled over each other vying for third place. Blinker II trotted back to the track, realized he’d lost and walked over the finish line, tail stiff, nose in the air. Horace followed behind him, his tail flag dragging in the dirt. There would be no re-illuminating this day. As for Tiny Tom, he was exhausted. He lay on his side at the edge of the track, licking his paws.
When Lady Dauntry, in a voice that carried all the way to Eastbourne, announced that Mr. Cork had won, Max hefted him up and carried him, draped over his shoulder, in state, to the winner’s circle, Alec walking proudly beside him. Max was panting by the time he got there, as Mr. Cork wasn’t a lightweight. When Mr. Cork saw Meggie, he automatically opened his mouth and let out a mighty MEOW. She dutifully pulled a piece of bacon wrapped in a pristine napkin from her pocket and fed it to him, telling him he was a beautiful boy and a splendid racer.
Mr. Cork consumed his bacon, licked Meggie’s hand, and laid his head back on Max’s shoulder. He looked very pleased with himself.
Cleopatra knew she’d lost. She wasn’t happy about it. Unfortunately, good sportsmanship was something trainers couldn’t seem to teach the racers, and so when Leo carried her too close to Mr. Cork, she reached out a paw and swiped his head. He opened one eye, tossed one hiss her way, then fell back to sleep, undisturbed by her bad manners.
“Next time, Cleo,” Leo said, stroking his hand down her sleek back, “you’ll get the orange giant next time, you’ll see. You need some more takeoff training, more power in your hind legs, and Alec and I have come up with just the way to do it.”
Alec nuzzled her head even as his fingertips lightly touched her ears. Then he whispered something in her small ear, and everyone would swear that she was listening to him. He kissed the top of her head. She forgot her snit and purred madly.
Mr. Grimsby saw this, and nodded wisely. “A cat whisperer,” he said to his wife, who looked profoundly awed. “Yes, Alec is a budding cat whisperer.”
There was one more race that afternoon, this one just for the three-year-olds, no others, as this age was the most aggressive, the most untrainable. There always seemed to be cat free-for-alls, fur flying all over the track from yowling cat fights. Many times not a single racer crossed the finish line, and today was no exception.
“Kitters will be kitters,” Ozzie Harker said, shaking his head as he carried off Monroe, a wicked three-year-old tabby with a mangled ear.
Meggie patted both Mr. Cork and Cleo, kissing their faces until they both drew back from her, wondering where the food was.
“An excellent day,” Meggie said, and hugged her father. “Now that Alec is focusing on Cleo, I would wager she’ll begin beating Mr. Cork.”
“The boy is amazing, isn’t he, Meggie?”
His daughter heard the love in her father’s voice for his son, and hugged him. “Both he and Rory are wonderful. You and Mary Rose have done very well.” She grinned. “And just as I promised, I have taught them what’s what.”
Tysen laughed, just couldn’t help himself as he remembered that long-ago sermon that had ended in not ony a good deal of laughter but profound acceptance.
Meggie said, “I wish Susannah and Rohan Carrington could have been here. I’m just glad they let the Harker brothers attend to scout out the competition. It’s always more exciting when the Mountvale mews are represented.”
Tysen said, “They’ll be here in May. They’re in Paris, Rohan wrote me, looking at all the new crop of beautiful gardens. You know Rohan and his gardens—he will return with a dozen new designs.”
“It was a good day,” Max said, still carrying Mr. Cork, no longer panting so heavily now.
“Yes,” his father agreed, “it was.”
“Papa, can I carry Mr. Cork?”
Tysen looked up at his four-year-old Rory, mentally added Mr. Cork’s additional weight, and sighed. “Hand him up, Max.”
2
Sherbrooke town house
Putnam Place, London
One week later
THE SHERBROOKE TOWN house, on the corner of Putnam Place, was a three-story Georgian mansion built in the middle of the last century by an earl of Northcliffe with far more money than good taste, or bon gout, as he was wont to shout out when he took his pleasure at Madame Orly’s brothel. He was also the same earl who had filled the Northcliffe gardens with all the coupling Greek statuary. Sherbrooke children, adults, guests, servants, a
nd the occasional tradesman had, for the past sixty-five years, spent hours staring at the naked marble men and women, all in the throes of physical endeavors. Meggie wished she could have met that earl. Neither Leo nor Max had ever let fall to their vicar father that their cousins, Uncle Douglas’s boys, had quickly shown them the statues in the hidden part of the Northcliffe gardens, and how all four boys had gawked and made lewd remarks and studied the statues in great giggling detail for hours on end. None of them was stupid.
Meggie was just down the hall from her aunt Alex’s bedchamber that adjoined to Uncle Douglas’s in a lovely airy room that was all shades of peach and cream. She’d stayed in this same room since she’d been eight years old.
There came a light tap on the door.
“Enter,” Meggie called out.
It was her aunt Alex, looking tussled and windblown and as happy as the spring sunshine because she’d been out riding early with Uncle Douglas in Hyde Park. They’d doubtless galloped to their heart’s content because no one was about that early to see and remark upon such eccentric behavior. She was wearing a dark green riding habit that Uncle Douglas had presented her on her birthday. Her rich red hair had tumbled out of her stylish riding hat and was in curls and tangles down her back.
She looked flushed and happy and in high spirits. “I love to be back in London,” she said as she stripped off her York tan riding gloves, the leather incredibly soft. “It’s ever so when we first arrive. Everything is fresh and new again. Now, it’s your first Season, Meggie, and I am so pleased that Tysen gave you over into our care. What fun we shall have. I’ve come to tell you that Douglas will be taking you to Madame Jordan’s this morning.”
“Who is Madame Jordan?”
“Why, she’s my dressmaker, has been since Douglas and I married.” Alex broke off a moment, a wicked memory breaking into a big smile. “Hmmm, oh yes, between the two of them, you will look like a princess. Trust whatever your uncle says. He has excellent style.”