Joan Wolf Read Free

indignantly. “Northern Light is the best two-year-old in the country. He is sure to win all the major races next year. Why, there isn’t enough money in the world to buy Northern Light!”
    Jessica smiled at Geoffrey, then turned to Miss Burnley, who was saying, a pucker between her thin brows. “But Jessica, I didn’t know you were going to race horses. I thought you were just going to sell them.”
     “One must demonstrate the value of one’s horses, Burnie, before one can sell them,” Jessica replied, helping herself to some more beef pie. The physically active life she was leading always left her ravenously hungry by dinner time. “If Northern Light does as well as we hope,” she explained to the puzzled face of her governess, “he will command enormous fees when we retire him to stud. And the stud fees are what are going to pay our bills in the future.”
    Miss Burnley put down her fork.“ ‘A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!’“ she quoted thrillingly, and Geoffrey and Adrian exchanged long-suffering looks.It was a quotation they were overfamiliar with.
    “Now, Burnie, don’t get started on that fellow Kean again,” Geoffrey said hastily. “Ever since you and Jess saw him in Cheltenham last week you have been talking about nothing else.”
    “And your conversation, my dear Geoffrey,” said Miss Burnley with gentle dignity, “is somewhat limited as well.”
    Adrian grinned. “Burnie’s right, Geoff. All you ever talk about is horses.”
    “If you boys had accompanied us to the performance of Richard III you would have found yourselves as much in awe as Jessica and I. Such power. Such feeling.”
    Geoffrey opened his mouth to reply, then met his sister’s eyes. Resolutely he shut his lips and applied himself to his plate.    Serenely, Miss Burnley continued. “I understand from my cousin in London that Covent Garden stood half empty all last season. Mr. Kemble is, of course, a well-known actor, but if Covent Garden is to compete with Drury Lane the management will have to find an actor to rival Mr. Kean. And that,” she sighed nostalgically, “will be very difficult.”
    Jessica was staring at her, an arrested look in her gray eyes. “How much money do you think Mr. Kean makes, Burnie?” she asked.
    “I don’t know what his salary is, my dear, but I’msure he gets bonuses. He received several hundred pounds for that one performance in Cheltenham. I know that from Mr. Francis, the manager of the Cheltenham Theatre.”
    “Oh,” said Jessica, frowning thoughtfully.
    “Are you going to see that mare of Redgate’s tomorrow?” Geoffrey asked his sister after a suitable pause had assured him that the topic of Edmund Kean was concluded.
    “No,” she returned. “I am going into Cheltenham to see Mr. Grassington.”
    “May I come with you?” asked Adrian, who never missed an opportunity to visit Dr. Morrow, their physician. Adrian was fascinated by medicine.
    “Of course,” his sister assured him.     Adrian, she knew, would be closeted with his idol for the morning and she would be free to consult privately with Mr. Grassington.
    Geoffrey and Miss Burnley exchanged glances, but neither said anything further. They knew that look on Jessica’s face and knew that further questions would be pointless. If something were up they would havetowait until she chose to tell them.
    * * * *
    Mr. Grassington knew that look also. He asked her to sit down and gazed worriedly at the remote, austere face of the girl he held in such affection. “How can I help you, my dear?” he asked quietly.
    She came directly to the point. “What are the terms of the mortgage on Winchcombe? Does it run for a specified period of time or can it be called in at any time?”
    Mr. Grassington looked appalled. “You don’t mean Sir Henry has asked you for the money?”
    Her mouth, which was peculiarly expressive, looked very firm. “What are the terms of the mortgage?” she asked again.
    “Mr.