Linley held up her gloved hand to shield her own eyes as she scanned the faces of the eager racegoers. There were more people than Linley ever saw in one place in her entire life. They stood on top of motorcars and four-in-hands to get a better view of the track. Gypsies weaved between it all holding flowers for sale, calling out above the music coming from a brass band on a nearby pavilion. She saw grandstands and spectator boxes, and beyond that, dozens of flags flying atop tents in the infield. Schoville said anyone who was anyone in society attended the Derby, and from the crowd she saw, Linley believed him.
Lucky for her that she and Schoville could only afford a spot by the railings, and not in any of the special boxes or stands reserved for ‘society’. Linley hoped to avoid seeing any familiar faces, and being crammed in among the common folk meant little chance of that happening.
“Do you want to go to the paddock?” Schoville asked. “I’d like to have a look at Craganour. They say he’s the horse to beat.”
At the railing around the pen, Schoville pointed out which horse was which, whom it belonged to, and what its odds were. “That is the King’s horse, Anmer,” he explained as a groom led a lean bay thoroughbred around the grass.
“I never knew you were so fond of racing,” Linley said.
He started to answer, but another horse caught his eye. “Look! There’s Craganour. He’s the favorite at six to four.”
Linley watched as the horse paraded past. They all looked the same to her, and she couldn’t tell just by looking which one was more likely to win the Derby.
“He’s owned by Charles Bower Ismay,” Schoville whispered in her ear. “Brother of the owner of the Titanic.”
Like everyone else, Linley followed the Titanic disaster in the papers over the past year. It almost did not seem fair that Mr. Ismay’s brother could even think to race horses so soon after the tragedy. Not while all those deaths were still so fresh in everyone’s minds.
“We should find a place by the track,” Schoville said, taking her arm. “If we don’t, we won’t stand a chance of seeing the race.”
As they walked back through the crowd, Linley watched the other spectators milling about the grounds. How excited they all seemed. The way everyone carried on, one would think it was a bank holiday. She stopped with the rest of the common racegoers to let a group of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen pass through.
Linley watched as the group made their way to their private box. Other members of society gathered around the rows of boxes, greeting each other and getting in a few last minutes of small talk before the race began.
“We should hurry,” Schoville said, pulling her through the crowd. He led her through a gate and into the general viewing area below the grandstands and the boxes.
It was too late to find a spot near the winning post, but they managed to secure a decent place to watch near the curve of the track known as Tattenham Corner.
***
Standing at the edge of his box, Patrick looked out at the sea of people a few feet below. They talked and laughed without a care in the world, and, for a moment, he felt the pinch of jealousy. He wondered what it would be like to live without worrying about estates, employees, tenants, and all the other responsibilities that concerned men of his standing. Of course, those people down there had their own troubles. Troubles Patrick knew little about—hunger, unemployment, health issues. He counted himself fortunate, but could not help wondering what life would be like on the other side of the fence.
Linley was right about that, though. Patrick could play at it until the game wasn’t fun anymore and then go back to his own life. Those people could never have a taste of the way he lived. Sure, the line was blurring lately—enough to make many of his friends nervous—but no matter how much money the middle class earned, or how great of a title that money could buy, they would always be considered ‘outside looking in’.
As Patrick contemplated all of this, he scanned the crowd. A few faces stared back at him, faces of young women and their mothers who hoped to catch the eye of the handsome gentleman in the box above. No doubt many of them knew him by sight, trained to spot his aristocratic bearing and Wolford family dimples from a hundred yards away. But Patrick was not interested in any of them. He focused on a young woman who stood with her back turned to him, scanning the track with a pair of men’s field glasses.
His gloved hands clenched the ledge of the box as he leaned forward. He did not have to see her face to know it was Linley. He could tell by her long, slender arms, and floral linen day dress. The frock was new—or, at least, one he’d never seen before—but it was typical Linley.
She stood on her tip-toes watching the action on the track. He did not even notice the race start. Beside him, he heard people calling for Craganour, but Patrick couldn’t care less which horse took the lead. He was too busy studying Linley as she followed the horses around the corner.
***
Linley could not help but get caught up in the excitement. She watched as Craganour and another horse fought for the lead. Schoville cheered as the horses rounded the bend of Tattenham Corner. Through the field glasses, she watched as they thundered through the turn, the jockeys whipping them for all they were worth. Pushing them. Faster. Harder.