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THE LIVELINESS OF THE DARBY left a sour taste on her tongue, much like a thick, unpleasant syrup her mother used to give her when she was sick and feverish, only serving as a reminder to the memories she tried to lock away and forget.
It brought up memories of one other race, when she clung to his arm in a lacy red dress, wide-eyed and clueless, taking in the wonders of a grand event, its crystal chandeliers and secret business transactions.
She was another person then.
Grace Campbell pulled the satin coat closer to her body, trying to hide in plain sight, among the crowd arrived to witness the spectacle of the year. The wound of his rejection was still fresh, the dark set of his eyes when she asked him to sleep with her one more time and he promptly asked her to leave, slammed the door into her bewildered face and left her to stand on the steps of his London house.
There was nothing for her here save pain and bitter reminiscence, an unreal taste of what ifs and could have beens, and yet still, she was drawn to the Derby, not like a moth to a flame but a murderer to a scene of crime.
She left with the first morning train from Victoria Station to the rundown, far too small Epsom Station after scribbling a short message to Chester, and left it on the kitchen table. Though, she was fairly sure he would not be returning home, not until the holidays. Or at least, not until his work was done.
By that time she hoped she would be away already, thousands of miles away across the sea, far away from the maddening streets of England, where every nook and cranny held a memory, a every alley smelled of regrets. Or perhaps, if the stars aligned today, she would be tucked away in his embrace.
She checked her watch again — a nervous habit she developed over the years — and then noticed a woman in a fine red dress enter the room. She took no peculiar note of her, at least not until she crossed the room and stood right beside her.
Her words, spoken in deliberate, posh intonation snapped Grace out of her chain of smoking. "I guessed and then John confirmed it."
Grace finally turned to look at the brunette, an unnerved look in her eye. "Guessed what? Who are you?" She hardly had time, or the nerves for small talk with some snobby heiress.
"I'm May Carleton," the woman replied, extending her hand in greeting, though her face contradicted any sort of warm sentiment. "I train Tommy Shelby's horse. And you're the woman who sold him out to the police."
When Grace refused to say anything, May languidly continued. "I see he didn't tell you the whole truth about me," she waved a hand to the bartender, ordering a gin and tonic as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"He did tell me about you, I wonder if that's significant."
