The Scorpio Races

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

The morning of the Malvern youngstock auction dawns exceptionally fair, too kind for October. I lost too much sleep after I left Puck behind last night, so I snatch an extra half hour to steel me for what’s to come, and then I dress and head down to the yard. There’ll be no riding Corr this morning, none of my usual stable work. The warm weather that would make the beach bearable is lost to the auction.

The yard is buzzing, full of mainland men holding champagne at nine in the morning and ignoring wives wearing absurd furs too warm for the weather. Every so often, the sound of a horse whinny peals out above their voices. These tourists are a tidier sort than those who arrived in time for the Scorpio Races, more kin to the gentlemen I’d seen staying at the hotel than to any local. Every man Malvern employs is out in force today; this auction funds the yard for the rest of the year.

I’ve only had my feet on solid ground for about a minute when George Holly catches my elbow. “Sean Kendrick. I thought you’d be out there among the beasts.”

“Not today.” The truth is that I’d rather be down there with the grooms, leading the horses into the ring for the buyers to look at. Instead I am to stay always within earshot of Benjamin Malvern so that if he catches my eye or tips a champagne glass in my direction, I’m available to sing the praises of whichever horse is about to go onto the auction block. “Today I’m to sell myself, not them. I’m the novelty.”

“Oh, hence the sharp apparel. I nearly didn’t recognize you in that suit coat.”

“I bought it to be buried in.”

George Holly claps my shoulders. “Planning on staying trim or dying young, then. Such a wise head on such young shoulders. If your Kate Connolly hasn’t seen you in that suit coat, she should.”

I doubt very much that Puck would be affected by the sight of me looking as if I am wanting only for a pocket watch. If she preferred this version of me, it would be unfortunate in any case. I lay a hand flat on the vest and smooth the buttons.

“It’s such a fine thing to see you uncomfortable, Mr. Kendrick,” Holly says. “She has got you bothered! Now tell me which horses to buy.”

Bothered isn’t the word for it. I can’t focus. I need to be on Corr instead of simmering in this coat. I say, “Mettle and Finndebar.”

“Finn-deh-bahr? I can’t even say it much less remember it. Did Malvern show her to me?”

I say, “Probably not; she’s a broodmare. Getting a little old, so he’s selling her.” I look up in time to see Malvern arrive with a posse of potential buyers following him. They look delighted by the island weather and these island racers and their droll owner. Malvern spots me and I see him filing away my location for future reference.

Holly exchanges a look with Malvern that is not entirely cordial. “Oh, I’m not in the market for baby-makers.”

“She drops nothing but winners. What is that look there?”

Holly frowns as a groom leads by a yearling. “It’s my look for broodmares.”

“No, you and Malvern. What did you quarrel about?”

He rubs the back of his neck and refuses the tray of champagne offered him. “While I was wandering in my altogether, I discovered one of his old flames. I didn’t know that beforehand. I think he fancies me a playboy now.” He looks hurt.

I don’t tell Holly that I’d shared that impression. “I would’ve thought all was well now that you’re here at the auction.”

“All will be wonderful once I buy something,” Holly notes, glancing over his shoulder. “Mettle and the baby-dropper. I don’t mean to buy a broodmare, you know. We have fields of them. Can’t you merely cross her to your red stallion and sell me the product of that happy union next year?”

“Getting a capall uisce into the line is not as easy as all that,” I reply. “Sometimes mares are mares to them and sometimes mares are meals.” If there is a rhyme or reason to why an uisce stallion would take to a horse mare or why an uisce mare would take to a horse stallion, I haven’t discovered it yet. There are Malvern horses with capall uisce blood in them, but it is dilute and old, showing up in odd ways. Horses who love to swim, like Fundamental; fillies with shrieking whinnies; colts with long, slender ears.

“That,” says Holly bitterly, “is precisely the way it works with humans.”

I consider whether this means that his blind lover has jilted him or the other way around, but I’m distracted by a glimpse of Mutt Malvern among the buyers. He’s talking and gesturing to a filly standing in the ring as if he knows anything about her, and the feathered and leathered mainlanders listen and nod their heads because he is the son of the owner, so of course he knows something. Holly follows my gaze and for a moment we stand there, shoulder to shoulder.

“Why, good morning!” Holly says broadly, and when I see who he addresses, it makes me glad that I hadn’t spoken against Mutt. Benjamin Malvern stands just behind us.

“Mr. Holly. Mr. Kendrick,” Malvern replies. “Mr. Holly, I trust that you’ve found something that interests you?”

He eyes me.

Holly’s smile is wide and abusively American, rows and rows of white glowing teeth. “Benjamin, so many things about Thisby interest me.”

“Anything of the four-legged variety?”

“I’m looking at Mettle and Finndebar,” Holly says. Despite his earlier protests, he pronounces Finndebar without a stumble.

Malvern says, “Finndebar drops nothing but winners.”

My mouth plays at the sound of my own words from someone else’s lips.

Holly nods his head toward me. “So I’ve heard. Why are you selling her, then?”

“Just getting a little long in the tooth.”

“Something to be said for age and cunning, though,” Holly remarks. “I mean, you should know, ha! Ah, this is a fine country full of fine people. Oh, I see we have all the Malverns here now. And there’s Matthew, looking like his father.”

This last is because Mutt Malvern has found his way within earshot and stands there, deep in conversation with a man about a filly. I think he’s trying to look useful in front of either me or his father. I can hear what he’s saying and it sounds ridiculous, but the man is nodding.

Malvern’s gaze is on Mutt, his expression difficult to discern but certainly nothing that could be called pride.

“So I’ll confess,” Holly says, “that I’m quite taken with Sean Kendrick here. You have quite a right hand in him.”

Malvern’s gaze shifts swiftly to me and then Holly, an eyebrow raised. “I hear that you were making a level effort to export him.”

“Ah, but his loyalty was too strong,” Holly says. The smile he turns on me is ferocious in its sincerity. “Which is just disappointing. You treat him too well, I suppose.”

Nearby, Mutt glances in my direction, his eyes narrowed, and I can see that he has caught wind of the subject at hand.

“Mr. Kendrick’s been with us for close to a decade,” Malvern says. “Since his father died and I took him in.”

In just that phrase, he paints a picture of an orphaned boy sitting at his kitchen table, raised side by side with Mutt, reveling in the pleasures of being a Malvern.

“So he’s practically a son,” Holly says. “That explains the bond. These horses all bear his handprint, don’t they? Seems to me he’s the logical heir to the Malvern Yard, if you were asking me.”

Benjamin Malvern had been looking at his son, who was staring back at him, but when Holly finishes, Malvern’s eyes sweep over me in my suit and he purses his lips. “In many ways, Mr. Holly, I think that is very true.” He looks back up to Mutt and adds, “In most ways.”

I can’t think that he means it. I can only think that he says it because he’s playing a game with Holly. Or because he means for Mutt to hear it, which Mutt clearly does.

Holly exchanges a glance with me, and I can see that he’s as startled as I am.

“Unfortunately,” Malvern says, turning away from Mutt, “the blood doesn’t always come through.” He eyes me and suddenly I realize that I have never once known what he’s truly thinking behind those clever, deep-set eyes. I know nothing of him aside from his horses and the little cold flat above the stable addition. I know that he owns much of Thisby but not which parts. I know that he rode once but doesn’t now, and I know that his son is a bastard but not if the mother still lives on the island. I know that I win the races for him and every year he takes over nine-tenths of the purse, as he would for any man in his employ.

Malvern says, “Mr. Kendrick was born on a horse and he’ll die on one, and maybe that’s not something you can breed for. He’s one of those rare men who can make a horse work for him but never asks for more than they have. If he’s told you to put your money on Mettle and Finndebar, then you’d be a fool not to. Good day, Mr. Holly.”

Malvern nods at Holly and then strides away. In his absence, Holly says something to me that I miss, because I am looking at Mutt. Written on his face is furious rejection and disbelief. In just that moment, it doesn’t matter that both he and I have done our part to earn Malvern’s words. It’s only that they were wounding that matters.

I watch his stare become fearsome as he holds my gaze. Something demanding and uncompromising claws inside Mutt Malvern. He pushes his way back toward the house.

“Sean Kendrick,” Holly says. “What is it you’re thinking?”

“That this doesn’t sit easy with me,” I reply. Holly looks at the space Mutt has left behind and advises, “I would bolt your door tonight.”