The Milliner's Secret by Natalie Meg Evans Read Free Book Online

usual trick. She still felt sick, and still hungry. ‘I need to dash – Donal, you put my money on for me.’ She handed him two pounds ten shillings. ‘On the nose, to win. Don’t go all soft and do an each-way.’
    ‘You’d be mad not to back him each-way. He could come third, just, but he won’t win. You’ll lose the lot.’
    ‘My money, my risk. You’re going with Peri— What’s his name?’
    ‘I might. Or the one with the Russian name.’
    ‘Le Ksar?’
    ‘That’s it. But probably Goya eye-eye.’
    ‘What?’ Cora checked her race card. ‘Goya the Second, nitwit. You want to give the bookies a laugh?’
    Donal gave a superior sniff. ‘You never give the bookies the horse’s name, Cora, only the number.’
    ‘Yeah, well, get in that queue. I’ve got to run.’

    Cora was violently sick in the ladies’ lavatory. After she’d pulled the chain, she leaned against the cubicle wall. Her tumble in Shand Street had finally caught up with her. After washing her hands and rinsing her mouth at the basin, she went out into sunshine that seemed to have doubled in strength. By the time she found Donal, it was eight minutes past three, but the race had been delayed.
    ‘Couldn’t get the horses in a line.’ Donal threw her an odd glance. ‘You all right?’
    ‘Did you put my money on?’
    ‘I still think you’re mad. To be honest—’ Someone bumped into him and, as wary as Cora of thieves, he clamped his arms to his sides. A roar like a flock of invisible birds rose from the blind side of The Hill. The Derby Stakes was under way.
    The first five and a half furlongs were run on the far side, so they couldn’t see a thing. Then everyone was looking to the left. Those with binoculars raised them. An instant later, the field was peeling round Tattenham Corner. Someone adept at reading jockeys’ colours cried out, ‘It’s Renardo, Fairford and Le Grand Duc.’
    Cora and Donal stared at each other in dismay.
    ‘Fairford’s leading,’ their informant shouted. Cora strained to catch the first sight of horses coming onto the straight, only Donal was jumping up and down because the cry had gone up that Goya II was challenging Fairford for the lead. ‘Go on, my son!’ he bellowed.
    ‘Where’s mine?’ Cora wailed. ‘Where’s Mid-day Sun?’
    ‘Fairford’s lost it,’ somebody shouted. ‘It’s going to be Goya the Second or Le Grand Duc.’
    ‘It’s Perifox!’ somebody else countered.
    ‘Goya!’ Donal beat the air to drive his horse home. ‘I backed him nine to one.’
    Cora felt sick again. Donal was right: she was a sentimental sop who had no place on a racecourse. But she’d been so sure.
    Horses swept past, two bays locked in a private challenge.
    ‘Who’s won? Donal, who’s won?’
    ‘It could have been Goya. Holy Mother, I’ll buy myself a bicycle if he’s done it.’
    ‘Who was coming up on the outside?’ But nobody could answer her, not even the know-all behind them. It was a painful wait, until a new roar went up and the winner’s name appeared on the board.
    Cora’s shriek hurt even her own ears. ‘He’s done it! Mid-day Sun! I could kiss him. I’m going to kiss you!’ Reaching for Donal, she was surprised to find herself grabbing a complete stranger. Donal was already heading away, through the crowd.

    Mid-day Sun first, Sandsprite second, Le Grand Duc third. When Cora finally collared Donal, his face resembled cold suet pudding.
    ‘Oh, God,’ he said.
    She gave him a hug. ‘I’ll share my winnings, then you can have another go. The way my luck’s going, we’ll win enough to get you two bicycles.’ She’d have danced a jig had Donal not been a deadweight. So she jigged on her own. ‘Miss McCullum can stick her promotion. I can give notice. I’ll leave home tomorrow. What’s that poor bookie going to say when I tell him he’s got to hand over thirty-five quid or more?’ She waited, waited longer than she liked. ‘Donal? Give me the betting slip.’
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