“Go!” Linley screamed. “Go! Go!”
Craganour was second, but still fighting the lead horse. Anmer, King George’s own racehorse, ran further back. As the leaders entered the straightaway, Anmer came into the corner third to last. The horses moved so quickly she could barely keep them in sight. She watched as Anmer rounded Tattenham Corner, preparing to go into the straightaway. But through her glasses, she saw something else.
A woman on the other side of the track scrambled under the railing. It happened so fast that no one had time to scream a warning. The woman ran right out in front of the King’s horse, which hit her full on.
Horse, jockey, and woman slammed onto the racetrack, tumbling end over end.
Anmer struggled to his feet. The jockey and the woman remained motionless on the turf. Panic broke out. Spectators rushed onto the track, and Anmer bolted. Before anyone could catch him, he headed straight for the finish line. Riderless.
Linley wanted to shut her eyes against the horrible scene but was in danger of being trampled herself. Somehow in the midst of it all, she became separated from Schoville.
“Schoville!” She screamed his name but could barely hear her own voice over all the shouting and yelling. “Schoville!”
A woman slammed into her shoulder as she ran past, and Linley grabbed the railing with both hands to keep from falling. There was so much screaming. So much crying. No one knew what happened. Had it been an accident? Was it deliberate? Politically motivated?
People feared for their own safety. They knocked each other down in their hurry. Linley watched as a young man was carried past her, blood spilling from a gash in his forehead.
An ambulance rolled onto the field, taking the unconscious jockey away. As it passed the point where Linley stood, the crowd surged again, running over each other to follow it down the track.
She screamed and pushed against the other racegoers as they pulled her with them. The force of their bodies pushed Linley against the railing, threatening to crush her if she did not give in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Patrick leapt over the ledge of his box. He hit the ground hard, the fall sending pain jarring up both his legs. He caught himself with his hands on the ground to keep from toppling over.
Pushing off, he ran toward Linley.
He shoved his way through the crowd. “Move!” he cried, plowing through the wall of bodies. “Out of the way!”
If he did not reach Linley soon, she could be seriously injured.
Or worse.
Patrick lost sight of her in the panic. He thrust blindly through the crush, pushing people out of his way as best he could. His heart pounded and his ears rang from all the screaming. The crowd was out of control. Bobbies did their best to establish some semblance of order, but with very little effect.
“Linley!” Patrick called out, hoping to God she could hear him over the din.
He felt like he was swimming against a current. His arms were sore, feet and legs ached, and he lost his hat in all the commotion. Patrick thrust his head above the heads of others in the crowd as if surfacing for a breath of air.
It was no use. He could not see her.
Ducking back down, he pushed deeper into the throng. Someone knocked an elderly lady onto the ground nearby, and Patrick swooped in to help before she ended up hurt.
“I’ve got you, madam,” he said, taking the old woman by the arms and leading her to safety. At this rate, he would never find Linley, but he could not leave the lady to be trampled. When they reached the edge of the swarm, he sat her down. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, thanking him.
Resuming his search, Patrick dove into the mass of people. Fights began to break out, and from somewhere he heard someone scream, “Votes for women!”
Christ, it would be the suffragettes!
If things continued much longer, the authorities would have a riot on their hands. Patrick had to get to Linley before the situation got any worse. He elbowed his way through the crowd, and they elbowed back. It was not at all British the way they behaved, but the suffrage movement had a way of doing that to people. Burning houses, breaking into parliament, and hunger striking was no way to get the vote. Neither was throwing one’s self in front of the King’s horse, if that was what this was all about. Those women would not listen to reason. They wanted their votes, and they would stop at nothing to get them.
“Linley!” Again Patrick called her name, hoping she might hear him.
“Over here!”
He didn’t know where it came from. He looked all around but could not see her. “Where? Keep calling!”
“Here!” she cried. “Here!”
Patrick followed the sound of her voice. At last he found her wrapped around one of the railings. She clung to it for dear life, her knuckles white and her eyes wide with fear.