Rake Most Likely To Thrill

Archer tried to refuse politely. ‘My path is unclear to me. I don’t know that I’d be much of a catch at the moment.’ He didn’t need his aunt and the troops of his newly introduced female cousins matchmaking for him. Marriage was the last thing he wanted. He’d just gained his freedom, he didn’t need a wife. And yet his reckless conduct in the alley last night suggested he needed something. Had last night been about sowing wild oats, or had it been about a desire to make a connection?

His uncle drummed his fingers on the table, a knowing gleam in his eye. ‘Young men all think they know what they need. I know, I was a young man once too. That’s why young men have female relatives. Women can see what a man needs better than he can himself.’ His eyes moved to Archer’s empty plate. ‘If you’re finished eating, let us be off.

‘Have I completely overwhelmed you?’ Giacomo asked as they stepped out into the street and the sun.

Archer laughed, shading his eyes and appreciating the easy camaraderie that flowed between him and his uncle. He’d missed his friends during this last leg of the journey, even Nolan’s goading and endless wagers. It was good to be back among people he could trust. ‘You mean despite the fact that you’ve tried to get me married off in less than a day? And you’ve appointed me to be a mangini? Overwhelmed hardly begins to describe it. I am overcome with your generosity.’

‘That doesn’t please you?’ Giacomo asked as they turned towards the contrada’s central piazza.

‘It does please me, it’s just that I had hoped to ride,’ Archer confessed. He would be honest with his uncle. The sooner his uncle learned he was determined and wouldn’t accept no for an answer, the better. ‘Although I understand to be a mangini is a great honour,’ he added, not wanting to appear insulting.

‘Ah, I know the feeling. I would have loved to have ridden but it isn’t how it’s done for the Palio,’ his uncle commiserated. ‘The fantini don’t come from the contradas themselves. It’s no matter.’ Giacomo shrugged. ‘If Torre wins, you will still be a hero.’ He gave a mischievous wink. ‘The women will go crazy for you since you were part of the negotiation team that helped us win.’

They came out of the street into the piazza with its fountain. It was busier here, people starting to go about their daily errands. Although, Giacomo informed him, that wouldn’t last too long once the afternoon heat peaked. Everyone would retreat behind shuttered windows into cool stucco rooms for siestas. ‘My favourite part of the day with your zia.’ He gave Archer a knowing look. ‘In the evening everyone will come out again for strolling, la passegiatta, do you know it?’

He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Everyone strolls within their neighbourhood or in their allied neighbourhood.’ He pointed to a banner hanging on the wall of one of the tall buildings surrounding the piazza. It depicted an elephant in the foreground, a tall tower in the back, done in crimson. ‘That’s our symbol. We are Torre, the Tower.’

‘Does neighbourhood matter so much?’ Archer asked, thinking of Elisabeta and the neighbourhood he’d wandered into last night before finding his uncle.

Giacomo threw back his head and laughed. ‘The contrada is everything if you are Sienese. You are born into the neighbourhood. If you ask anyone who they are, they’ll tell you their neighbourhood first, city second. If you know someone’s neighbourhood, you know everything about them; who their allies are, what they do; most of us in Torre are in the wool trade. You know where they live, you know who their enemies are.’

‘Enemies? Really?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Giacomo was in earnest. They strolled the perimeter of the fountain, stopping occasionally to greet people and exchange a little news. ‘Valdimonte’s enemy is the Nicchio Contrada, Aquila’s enemy is Pantera and so on. Our enemy is Oca, which is rumoured to be striking an alliance with Pantera. Pantera won the July Palio.’

Archer did his best to follow Giacomo’s conversation. It was a lot to take in, especially in a second language. English families and English neighbourhoods were far simpler entities by contrast. He wondered which neighbourhood he’d stumbled into last night? Would that make Elisabeta an ally or an enemy? ‘Do contradas ever intermarry?’

Giacomo gave him a keen look. ‘Of course, but during the Palio, husbands and wives often separate and go home to their own neighbourhoods.’ He grinned and wagged a finger at Archer. ‘You will learn. It’s the contrada above all else. My Bettina, though, your zia, was the old priore’s daughter so we are never separated.’ There was no mistaking the pride in Giacomo’s voice in having married a Torre woman. This was a new world indeed, his mother’s world, Archer reminded himself. She’d grown up in the contrada.

Giacomo clapped him on the back. ‘Do you have your eye on a pretty signorina already? Perhaps you refused my help because you have spied a pretty girl for yourself?’

Archer was tempted to tell him about Elisabeta, but thought better of it. If she had been from an enemy contrada it would only make trouble if he pursued her. Anyway, he wasn’t looking for a permanent relationship. But that didn’t stop him from thinking about her as they stepped into a few shops to meet some of the family’s especial friends. Was Elisabeta out in her neighbourhood doing errands? Talking with shopkeepers? Was she with friends? Another man?

Had he merely been an escape for her? Maybe he’d merely been part of a fantasy or the madness of the summer night? She’d not wanted to be followed. There were only so many reasons for that; none of them suggested she was unattached and free to make her own decisions. He should let it be and accept it for what it was: a few glorious moments. Yet, the thoughts persisted. Where was she? What was she doing? Archer chuckled to himself. He knew already he couldn’t just let it go. Against his better judgement, he was going to find her.

* * *

She was picking petals off a rose like a silly school girl. ‘He loves me, he loves me not.’ The foolishness made her laugh. Elisabeta snipped the roses and put them in her basket. To be honest, love had nothing to do with it. All right, then, she amended: he lusts me, he lusts me not. Even here in her uncle’s garden in the full light of day, thoughts of last night managed to bring a blush to her cheeks and a heat to her body that had nothing to do with the sun. Those thoughts made her want.

More.

Of him.

Pleasure once tasted was proving to be a potent elixir with a power, she suspected, to addict. Once was not enough. What a lovely addiction that would be. What an unexpected one. When she’d sought out her stranger, she’d not expected this wanting as a consequence. He was to remain a stranger, a man to whom she had no ties. But she’d come away with a name and a longing to have him again. Already, she was wondering if that name would be enough to find him. Over breakfast she’d reasoned an English name couldn’t be terribly hard to find among all of these Italian names. Nor was Siena so big that she wouldn’t be apt to run into him if she went to the city centre often enough. Surely, those odds would be in her favour if she chose to exercise them.

By the time she’d wandered out to the garden to pick flowers, the issue was no longer a question of finding him, but a question of did she truly want to? Her curiosity said yes. It was her curiosity that had driven her to distraction this morning with its questions filling her mind: Where was he now? What was he doing? Had he woken to thoughts of her? Had he dreamt of her? Did he too regret their veiled identities?

Then again, perhaps it was better to wonder than to know. The pleasure he’d offered might only have been the luck of the night, the work of the stars and summer magic. Surely such pleasure was not commonplace? It most certainly didn’t happen all the time. She’d lived her entire marriage without it and she would likely live through another without it, proof enough that Archer’s pleasures could not be conjured on a whim nor by just any man or woman. It would be a shame to have him again only to be disappointed by the ordinary nature of their lovemaking. Better to let him become memory.

‘Cousin! There you are. I’ve been calling for you.’ Giuliano came striding down the path, playful mischief sparking in his dark eyes. ‘Have we been daydreaming over our handsome stranger?’ he teased. ‘You were quick to disappear last night.’

She gave Giuliano a saucy grin in return, her good spirits making her reckless. ‘I told you I’d have him.’

Giuliano leaned in close, a grin on his face. ‘And did you? Have him?’

Elisabeta gave him a light punch on the arm. ‘You’re wicked. Besides, a lady never tells.’ She paused and gave him a considering look. ‘What of the lovely Widow Rossi? Did you have her?’

Giuliano groaned and had the good grace to look down at the ground. ‘Point taken.’ But a moment later any penitence he felt over probing into her personal affairs had vanished. ‘Will you see him again?’

Elisabeta shrugged and moved on to a new collection of flowers, trying to keep her actions nonchalant. She did not want to give too much away to Giuliano. He was reckless and there was no telling what he might do. ‘Of course not. We didn’t exchange enough information for that.’

Giuliano followed her, far too astute in the games of amore to take her response as a direct or even accurate answer. His voice was low now, his tone compelling. ‘But would you? If you could?’

Elisabeta fixed her cousin with a cool stare, trying to keep her pulse from racing. ‘What do you know?’

‘There’s an Englishman in town. There was word of it when I ran my errands this morning. He’s the nephew of Giacomo Ricci, the horse trainer who lives in Torre.’

The information was better than a name and it was worse. She could find him, she knew who his people were and where. But it didn’t help her cause. Her eyes held Giuliano’s and a silent message passed between them. Both of them were serious now. Love stopped being a game once the contradas were involved.

She could go to Archer. But did she dare? Beside her, Giuliano gave a short nod. ‘It’s probably best your answer is no.’ The Oca contrada’s sworn enemy was Torre and while that might not matter to her uncle, it would matter to her future husband’s contrada.

‘Then why did you tell me? I do not think of you as generally unkind,’ Elisabeta scolded quietly. Perhaps it was far crueller to know she could not have him. It was not like Giuliano to tease meanly.

He ducked his head. ‘Forgive me. Last night you said you were desirous of avoiding your engagement. I thought only to give you a choice, Cousin.’

‘Your father would never forgive me.’ Elisabeta played idly with the stems of the flowers in her basket.

‘My father need not know,’ Giuliano countered. ‘You have done your duty for the family in marrying Lorenzo. You may even do it again in another marriage very soon, but in the interim, perhaps you owe yourself some pleasure?’ The argument was so very compelling, maybe because it was the same argument she’d made with herself. To hear it validated by another made it all the more persuasive.

‘No one can know,’ Elisabeta said out loud, more to herself than to Giuliano, but it was Giuliano who replied.

‘He is English. He is not one of us. He will leave. He will be a thousand miles away. While you think it over, say you’ll come with me to see the horses for the August Palio. Father wants me to go out to the farm tomorrow.’

Elisabeta barely heard the invitation. She was too focused on the unspoken rationale. No one will ever know. Suddenly the risk seemed minimal against all that stood to be gained. Only two questions remained: Did she dare? What would she risk to see Archer again? And perhaps more importantly, what did it mean to her and why? What had started out as a spontaneous dare had taken on something much deeper and more significant if she cared to explore it.

Chapter Six

Archer didn’t dare press his uncle’s decision immediately. No man liked to be countermanded outright. Challenging his uncle would hardly be the way to ingratiate himself to his new family. But he could make an effort to change his uncle’s mind about the Palio. Archer kicked Amicus into a trot to pull up alongside Giacomo, determined to start on that good impression today at the horse farm.

If his uncle could see him handle the horses or see him ride, his uncle would change his mind. Seeing was believing after all. His uncle had nothing to go on in reference to him except his mother’s letters and mothers were inherently biased. Based on that, Archer understood his uncle’s reticence to make him a rider.

‘Tell me about this beast of yours, mio nipote,’ his uncle said as Archer pulled even with him. The traffic had lessened on the country road. They were able now to ride side by side and enjoy some conversation. ‘He’s a fine-looking animal, strong through the chest.’

‘He looks much better these days,’ Archer agreed. Even considering the rough travel from France, Amicus had blossomed from good care and affection. He told his uncle the story of Amicus’s rescue and his heroic jump on to the boat, keeping his attentions covertly alert to his uncle’s reaction.

‘No!’ Giacomo cried in happy disbelief. ‘That’s incredible.’

Archer patted Amicus’s neck. ‘It is incredible. But he’s an incredible horse. He had two months to rest in Paris and I worked him with a fine group of riders while I was there. Paris has a surprisingly strong group of enthusiastic riders. I had not expected it. They were a pleasure to train with and I was able to give Amicus some more refined skills. He’ll make a good hunter.’ Although he intended to stay in Italy, Archer still wanted to make the trip north to the Spanish riding school in Vienna. It would be a treat to see Amicus join their training regimen and it would be a good opportunity to look for new horses. He shared as much with his uncle. ‘Perhaps next year’s Palio horse will be among them.’ He winked.

‘Could be. We haven’t had a horse from that far away for quite a while, but it wouldn’t be unheard of.’ Giacomo nodded, the idea becoming more interesting as he thought about it. That had to be a good sign, a sign that he could trust his nephew as an assessor of horses. One step closer. Archer had no intentions of taking no for an answer on the Palio. Just because his uncle thought he wasn’t going to ride in the race didn’t mean he was going to accept that decision any more than he was going to accept the mysterious Elisabeta simply disappearing into the night, lost to him.

He’d come too far to let these challenges get in his way. He was going to ride in the race. He was going to find Elisabeta because he wanted to, and Archer Crawford was a man used to getting what he wanted.

‘We’re nearly there. The farm is just over the hill.’ His uncle gestured ahead of them. ‘Let’s be clear on what we’re looking for today. This man is a horse breeder. He’s bred more winners of the Palio than anyone else currently living. I train them, of course, but they spend their early years with him. I’ve had two horses in his care since they were yearlings. They are four years old now. I want to see if they’re ready to be recommended for the race, but I also want to see which other horses might be brought in either by Torre or by the other contradas. We are not the only ones who use him.’ This was to be a test, then, of his skill, Archer thought. His uncle would listen to his opinions and decide if he knew his business. But the visit was more than a test for him. It was also a subterfuge.

Checking on the two horses was merely the surface of his uncle’s agenda. Archer saw that immediately. This was a reconnaissance mission. They were here to ascertain the level of competition. ‘I understand,’ Archer nodded. He was enjoying this easy camaraderie with his uncle, finding it a novel contrast to the terse, succinct conversations he had with his father. His father rarely asked for opinions. The man just gave them. But his uncle seemed to genuinely care what his opinion might be. ‘This is not all that different than wandering through the Newmarket stables during race week to see the other horses.’

Giacomo gave a friendly laugh. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, mio nipote. At Newmarket, it is straightforward; a man races his own horse with his own rider. Anyone who wants to enter a horse can as long as they can pay the entry fee. Not so, here. We have to make it more dramatic. We can recommend horses for the Palio, but we do not control which horse we get. We do not enter a horse for Torre, our horse is drawn for us, assigned to us, out of the final pool of horses. All we can do is recommend the best horses possible for that pool.’

That was news to Archer. He was starting to see that his mother’s stories of the great race had left out certain details. It was easy enough to do. When one lived in a particular milieu, there were nuances that one took for granted and assumed everyone else did too. ‘I think I understand, but give me an example.’

Giacomo grinned and warmed to the subject. ‘Consider the horse that won the July Palio, Morello de Jacopi. He is owned by Lorenzo Jacopi, but the Pantera Contrada drew him for the race. It doesn’t matter what contrada Jacopi is aligned with, if any. For the race, the horse is Pantera’s. If the horse is selected again for the August Palio, another contrada might draw him.

‘Hopefully us.’ Giacomo leaned in although there was no one on the road to hear. ‘He’s the best-looking horse this year and I think we could put a better fantino on him than any of the other contradas.’

The remark wounded Archer although he knew it wasn’t his uncle’s intention. He could be that rider if his uncle would give him a chance. ‘If the horse has proven himself by winning, surely he’s an immediate choice for the August race,’ Archer put in.

‘You Englishmen are always so direct.’ Giacomo laughed. ‘You’re thinking just like your father, that speed matters. It does to some extent. But now, you must think like an Italian, like a Sienese. If we all know who the fastest horse is, the race is less exciting. Why race if the outcome is certain?’ He gave Archer a sharp look, daring him to debate the proposition.

For all that his mother had taught him about her city and her language, she’d not taught him that. Archer had no answer. ‘First you tell me a contrada doesn’t enter its own horse and now you tell me the race isn’t about speed? I’m afraid it all seems a bit counter-intuitive.’

‘It’s like this,’ his uncle explained, clearly revelling in the chance to delve into the intricacies of the great race. This Archer was prepared for. His mother had told him that for many in Siena, the mental exercise of the Palio was raced all year. ‘Every contrada should have an equal chance to win the Palio. To that end, the horses are selected to give everyone the best chance for an equal race. Obviously, horses who are hurt or not in good physical condition are not considered. They would obviously put the contrada who raced them at a disadvantage. But also, a horse who is too good might give a contrada who drew it an unfair advantage. When the capitani vote for the horses that should be in the drawing, we vote for the horses that will create the most equal race. The horses that are chosen for the honour are neither too fast or too slow, but just right. They fit well with each other.’

The fastest horse didn’t race? That sounded crazy to Archer but he did not dare to say it out loud. It would be imprudent to question a centuries-old tradition. Who was he to say it was wrong? It was merely different, vastly different than the straightforward tradition of speed he’d been raised to.

‘Of course, a good fantino isn’t going to let a horse go all out in the trials if he’s too fast,’ Giacomo put in cryptically. ‘There are ways to ensure your horse fits in.’ Good lord, Archer thought. This wasn’t a horse race, it was a chess game. Based on the statistics, Torre played the game well. His uncle’s contrada had won the Palio eleven per cent of the time over the past three hundred or so years. Many of the successes of the past twenty years had been his uncle’s doing as the contrada’s capitano.

The farm came into view, a lovely spread of flat green pasture fanning out before them with a brown-brick farmhouse rising in Tuscan style in the background. The age-old desire of man to claim land and to make it his own surged within Archer, so compelling was the scene spread before him. This was what he wanted—a home of his own where he was master, not of the land necessarily, that was rather egotistical, but master of himself and his destiny, where his children ran alongside the horses in the grass, where his sons and daughters would ride bareback through the fields, where he worked hard each day and retired each evening to a table full of fresh country food and a wife to warm his bed and his heart.

It was an entirely fanciful notion. He had some of that in Newmarket but there, he was always the earl’s second son and the stables had been part of the family long before he’d taken over. There was also the issue of wealth and social standing. There were appearances to keep up at Newmarket. He could not muck out the stalls or work too closely with the stable hands. He could hand out orders, design breeding programs and instruct the riders who exercised the Crawford string. But that was all. Heaven forbid his father heard his son had been out riding like a common jockey or cleaning stalls. And his father always heard. How many times had he been told by the earl that gentlemen rode to the hunt? That they bet on the races?

They swung off their horses as the man they’d come to meet strode out to greet them. Michele di Stefano was a man of middling stature and easy confidence, dressed in farm clothes. There was hand-shaking and cheek-kissing, something Archer didn’t think he’d ever get used to. He couldn’t imagine Haviland ever kissing his cheek, although he could very well imagine Nolan doing it just to goad him. Nolan would like Tuscany with all its touchy rituals. Nolan was a great believer in the idea that people were more inclined to trust you if you touched them.

They tromped out to the stables and the paddocks where his uncle’s two horses—both high-spirited chestnut beauties—were running the length of the fence. Giacomo and the man talked briefly before the man excused himself to see to other guests. For the first time, Archer noted how busy the stables were. They were not the only guests who’d come to see the horses. ‘I see you’re not the only one who thought to come out and view the horses,’ Archer said slyly.

Giacomo elbowed him teasingly. ‘Everyone is interested in making the race equal. There are three weeks until the horses are chosen. The capitani from the different contradas will spend the time travelling to the different stables looking for horses and fantini. Naturally, the capitani have been looking all year, but now that we’ve got one race behind us, we know what must be done for the next. We’re looking to fill in gaps.’ Giacomo lowered his voice. ‘What that really means is that we’re all looking for a horse to beat Jacopi’s Morello.’ This last was said with more seriousness than it had been on the road, a clear indicator that they were in earnest on this mission.

‘Tell me, mio nipote, what do you think of the horses?’ Here came the first test. Archer was ready.

‘I think they run quite nicely, but at a distance that is all I can tell. Let’s go in. I want to look at their legs.’ Archer was already heading into the paddock, slices of apple retrieved from a pocket and at the ready in his outstretched hand, his voice low and sure. It was an irresistible invitation. Both horses wasted no time making his acquaintance.