She felt Sinclair’s eyes upon her a moment before he spoke. “Are you enjoying your day?”
She blushed at how transparent she probably was to him. “Yes,” she said, “I am,” and he looked quite pleased with himself. He was dressed in civilian clothes, a deep blue frock coat and crisp white shirt with a neatly tied, black silk cravat. His blond hair curled just over his collar. “May I suggest a rum punch? Or some cold lemonade?”
“No, no,” she quickly said, thinking of the additional expense. He had already paid for a private carriage to take them all the way to the racecourse, and for admission to the park—for three. Eleanor, for the sake of propriety, had not wanted to travel alone with the young lieutenant, and he had been very gracious about inviting the nurse with whom she shared a room at the boardinghouse—a Miss Moira Mulcahy—to join them for the afternoon. Moira, a chubby Irish girl with a wide smile and an outgoing, though occasionally coarse, nature, had been only too quick to accept.
And she accepted the offer of a drink with the same alacrity.
“Oh, sir, I would quite enjoy a lemonade,” Moira said, barely taking her eyes from the grandstands behind them, where a teeming multitude had gathered for the most celebrated race of the afternoon, the Ascot Gold Cup. “This sun is positively”—she paused, as if looking for the most aristocratic way of saying it—“parching.” She smiled broadly, happy at her choice, and Sinclair excused himself to go and fetch the drink. Once he was gone, Moira nudged Eleanor with her elbow, and said, “That chicken’s already in the pot.”
Eleanor professed incomprehension, but as with most of Moira’s aphorisms, the point was plain.
“Haven’t you seen the way he looks at you?” Moira scoffed. “Or, to be sure, the way he looks at naught else? And such a gentleman! Are you sure he’s not a lord?”
Eleanor was not sure of much. The lieutenant was still a man of mystery in many ways. After she had stitched his arm at the hospital, a box of raspberry marzipan had arrived for her the next day, with a note addressed to “Nurse Eleanor Ames, My Sweet Angel of Mercy.” Miss Nightingale had intercepted the package at the door, and when she passed it along, it was with a distinct expression of disapproval.
“This,” she had said, “is what comes of precipitous conduct,” as she swept back toward the garden, where she cultivated her own fresh fruits and vegetables. But Eleanor was hard-pressed to see the crime, and Moira didn’t even pause long enough to look for one. She had pulled the lavender ribbon off the box, tucking it into her pocket—“it’s too beautiful to waste, and you don’t mind, do you, Ellie?”—and then waited, bouncing on the balls of her feet, for Eleanor actually to open the box. When she did, Moira dug right in, while Eleanor simply marveled at the smooth beauty and the sweet fruity aroma of the candy. The lid of the box, which she held in her hands as if it were a fine painting, had a gold fleur de lis stamped upon it, and the words CONFECTIONS DOUCE DE MME. DAUPIN, BELGRAVIA. No one had ever sent her candy before.
A few days later, Lieutenant Sinclair had sent by messenger a note, asking when it might be convenient for him to call upon her, but she had had to reply that, apart from Saturday afternoon and evening, she received no time off; on Sunday morning, at 6:30, she again resumed her usual duties at the hospital. To which he had replied that he would request her company, then, on the Saturday next, at noon. He said he would brook no denial, and Moira, who’d read the note over her shoulder, said she should by no means offer any.
A bugle sounded, and Moira said, “Look, look, Ellie!” as the horses were rounded up and settled into place behind a long, thick rope that was stretched between two poles on either side of the oval track. “Is the last race about to begin?”
“It is,” Sinclair said, reappearing through the crowd, with two glasses in hand. He gave one to Moira, and one to Eleanor. “And may it please you, ladies, I have taken the liberty of entering a wager on your behalf.” He gave Eleanor a paper chit, with several numbers scrawled on one side, and the name “Nightingale’s Song,” on the other. Eleanor did not entirely understand.
“The name of the horse,” he said, as Moira leaned closer to see, “seemed especially lucky, don’t you think?”
“How much have we wagered?” Moira gleefully asked, though Eleanor wished she hadn’t, and Sinclair said, “Ten pounds…to win.”
They were both aghast at the very idea of wagering ten pounds on anything. Their salaries were fifteen shillings a week, and one meal a day courtesy of the hospital commissary. That you might lose ten pounds, in a matter of minutes, on nothing but a horse race, seemed well-nigh incomprehensible. Eleanor knew that to her family—a barely solvent dairyman with five children and a long-suffering wife—it would be worse than that; it would be sinful.