By mid-August, half the titled folk and the gentry of England are in Scotland for the grouse hunting, and when that is finished they return for the start of partridge season, then pheasants. And lastly, in November, comes the fox hunting. It is a movable party in which I had sometimes participated, the whole group residing for a time at one manor. That year, I had already missed the grouse, but I was back at Thornfield for the partridges, and decided to join.
Lord and Lady Ingram of Ingram Park were hosting; their eldest daughter, Blanche, seemed a more interesting and complex young woman than many others in the neighborhood. She could shoot with the best of the party and she sat a horse as well as any man. She was beautiful too, and her gregarious nature perfectly masked my own disinterest in the gossip that is so common in those circles. In short, though I resisted seeing it at the time, she complemented the man I had become.
The hunts were grand indeed, and a welcome distraction from the vexations back at Thornfield. I was able to give a good accounting of myself, though Miss Ingram frequently teased me that my mount was lacking in the steel and daring of her own. The horse was not, she insisted, acceptable for a man like me, for he sometimes hesitated at the hedgerows and shied away when other riders veered too close. What kind of man, exactly, did she think I was? I asked, laughing. She replied, with a wink, that she expected me to have charge of my steed.
As we exchanged banter, I noticed that the other young ladies had fallen back in deference to her supposed claim on my affections. I had no intention of taking any of it too seriously, though I did find it amusing that she was a dark-haired Amazon, a veritable Greek statue of womanhood, just as Bertha and Giacinta had been. I told myself I must be destined to form attractions to such sensual women.
The truth was, I wanted neither Miss Ingram nor any other woman in a serious way. I had lost any conviction that I would ever find a true companion, and I was certainly in no position to be courting someone so close to Thornfield. Bertha’s existence made marriage in England impossible; in fact her mere presence at Thornfield made my own happiness equally elusive. Only distance had given me the freedom I needed to keep my own mind still.
Yet, I sometimes wondered, what was there for me anywhere—at Thornfield or abroad? I had long ago grown tired of the life I’d led in Europe, and my life in England had been constricted to such surface pleasures as hunts and parties and meaningless conversations.
But before the hunts had ended, a letter for me arrived, sent over from Thornfield-Hall. It was from Geoffrey Osmon, writing that he was back in England for a while and would like to meet with me in January, if that was agreeable. It was by then a few years since abolition in Jamaica, and from all reports Valley View had weathered it fairly well. Many of the former slaves had stayed on, receiving payment now for their labor, and I assumed Osmon’s presence in England meant he was ready to move on. At any rate, I was pleased at the thought of seeing him again and learning how he was faring. I responded to his address in London, asking if he could meet me at Newmarket, just after the first of the year, for I had a plan in mind.
Chapter 9
I arrived at Newmarket three days before my meeting with Osmon. Though I would not have confessed it to her, I had been thinking in recent days of purchasing a new horse, one that met Miss Ingram’s exacting standards: big and handsome and daring. I wanted to feel that way myself, as if I could take hold of my life and make it to be as I wished, instead of the purposeless procession of days I saw stretched out ahead of me.
It was impossible, of course, to walk through this town’s streets without thinking of my old friend Carrot. If he had still been alive, I knew, he would have reminded me, Jam, you can do anything you put your mind to. In my younger days I had not seen that as possible, and perhaps it still wasn’t, but I was at least ready to try. I could buy a stunning horse; I could live life on my own terms and not be constricted by the ugliness at Thornfield-Hall.
I wandered onto the downs, where close to two decades before Carrot had passed his last moments, and I confess my eyes misted as I strolled around, thinking of all he had taught me in our too-short time together. In the distance, I saw a rider on a black horse, larger than any horse I had ever seen, and I stopped to watch. The rider was putting the creature through its paces while two gentlemen stood near, watching. I ambled closer, trying to guess what was going on; was it possible they were discussing the purchase of that splendid animal? Something in my breast arose; how wondrous I would look on that horse, what a figure I would cut. Foolish, I told myself in the next moment. Do I really intend to buy a horse just to impress Miss Ingram?
“He is too big,” I heard one of the men say. “He will never win a race.”
“There’s no such thing as too big, and he has good breeding—out of Zanzibar.”
“He could never win the Derby. Never.”
“Are you selling him?” The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.
The two men turned and studied me. Then they noticed Pilot. “Get that animal out of here.”
Pilot placidly returned the gaze.
“Are you selling?” I asked again. “I might be interested in buying.”
One of the men stared at me. My traveling clothes, I realized, must have made me seem like a cottager. “I daresay you couldn’t afford him,” the man said.
“I daresay you are mistaken,” I said, rising to the challenge.
“You haven’t even ridden him,” the gentleman said.
“Indeed,” I said. “Bring him here and I shall.”
He raised his eyebrows at that, but signaled the jockey, who brought the horse over. When I had mounted, I turned to the man who seemed to be the horse’s owner. “What’s his name?”
“Mesrour,” the jockey offered, when the owner didn’t speak.
“Mesrour,” I repeated. “From The Thousand and One Nights. How appropriate.” And with that I touched my heel to his flank and we were off, racing across the grassy down, and I knew I had to have him.
“What do you think, fellow?” I asked Pilot when Mesrour and I returned. “Shall I buy him?”
Pilot ambled over and sniffed at the horse’s fetlocks, then nuzzled my leg.
“Yes, I agree,” I said, dismounting. “Five hundred guineas,” I said to the owner.
He glanced at his companion. “I could make that up in one season.”
“Not likely,” I said, “unless he wins the Derby.”
“Who are you?” the owner asked.
“Edward Fairfax Rochester. Of Thornfield-Hall in Yorkshire,” I replied.
“Yorkshire!”
“Why not?” I asked, knowing full well what the rest of England thought of the North Country.
“Would you race him?” he asked.
“Not for money. I would ride him across the moors.”