“Oh, that is lovely! It’s like a pale pink rose. When did you get that?” She stands to come over and inspect the intricate work of the seamstress. If Mary were allowed to have a vocation, she would undoubtedly be a high-fashion dressmaker. Watching her now, as her fingers brush along the precise stitching, lace, and draping fabric, it is easy to see her passion for the art. “This is quite lovely, indeed. It reminds me of a Madame Bertin.”
“Well, don’t you have a keen eye? Sylvie, the dressmaker, apprenticed under Rose Bertin for several years before leaving Paris for the safety of England. She has a newly opened shop in London and offered samples to Mother. This is one of three we decided to purchase.” The other two went to my mother, as they fit her more opulent style. I prefer simplicity, an understated elegance, and Mary couldn’t be more accurate in her comparison. It is reminiscent of the simple elegance of a perfect pink rose.
“How exciting! I must visit her as soon as possible,” she proclaims, green eyes wide with anticipation.
“Perhaps we can go together.”
“Oh yes! And it must be right away since my mother is back to making plans for us to stay in the country so we may have only a small window of opportunity.” I laugh as her tone drops to signify the gravity of the situation.
“We will take her soonest appointment, not to worry, dear.”
Once decisions of attire were settled, the rest of Mary’s visit was spent speculating what gossip will be circulatingaftertomorrow’s party—yes, in advance. Mary’s observation skills are as keen as that of a British spy. She picks up on the slightest nuances that no one else sees and guesses at the latest affairs, potential marriages, fortunes gambled away by wayward eldest sons, and so on. Mary’s instincts will hone in on that godforsakenconnectionLord Stewart keeps going on about, the same one that has made concentrating difficult since my last encounter with him. She will be like a foxhound on the hunt, and my secrets will have nowhere to hide.
Once I’m alone again, barely an hour passes before I am in the stables, saddling up Willow so that she and I can enjoy some fresh air and physical exertion. Willow is my five-year-old mare as well as a very dear friend. She was a gift from my father, who purchased her by chance one day when he visited a breeder to inspect horses for himself. He walked into the stable and knew the moment he saw her, he would pay whatever price to bring her home because she reminded him of me. “Beautiful light hair shimmering in the sunlight, standing out in the crowd, proud and regal,” he said. “She reminded me of the fairy tales you’ve loved since you were a girl. Isn’t she magnificent?”
She and I bonded immediately, touching foreheads together as if we had known each other for a lifetime. I still laugh, thinking about the nickers and neighing as she excitedly stomped her front hoof, creating a cloud of dust around us. She wanted me to ride her and wouldn’t calm down until we found a saddle that fit, and I was comfortably seated, easily guiding her to one of the riding trails through the forest. Once I knew she trusted me, I let her instincts guide us, and she took us to my favorite place. That is where she got her name, for the giant willow tree that stands majestically next to the widest part of the stream that runs along the far side of our land. The grass is the greenest green, the water flows in hypnotic swirls that shift and flow in slow motion, and weeping branches drape to the ground and the water beyond, creating an enclosed space of peaceful tranquility from the world outside.
She walked us through the curtain of delicate, bright green leaves and spindly branches into the alcove that could easily fit three more horses and a small group of men. She snorted and whinnied, raising her head up and down, directing me to dismount. We stayed there for a long time. I told her all about myself, my family, my life, what I like about it and what I don’t. She knows all about Beatrice and Mary and that my parents are deeply in love. She knows I long for that someday, as well. She understood, it was easy to see, and she didn’t judge.
Willow knows all my secrets, even those I don’t want to admit to myself. So today, as we meander down a well-traveled path, my eyes adjusting to the constant shifting of sunlight and shade that stripe the path ahead, the patterns reminding me of the strange horse I’ve seen in books called a zebra, I tell her about Alasdair.
“He is as sweet to the eyes as he is insufferable, Willow. I’ve never known a man to be so appealing and so offensive all at once. The more I think about it—and unfortunately, I do that often—the more I think he knows how physically striking he is and that it excuses his barbaric behavior. Although I can’t say he is completely barbaric—his speech is quite refined, albeit accented, he is clearly a learned man, and he has been impeccably dressed every time I’ve seen him, well, except the first time…and…well. Oh, Willow! It was awful! Awful in an awful way, and awful in a way that makes me think terrible thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking!” Willow’s pace picks up as my temper rises. “My goodness, I woke up in the middle of the night, panting and sweating, with a desire that made me wish that man was lying next to me, touching me, the way I know he wants to.” With that dreadful admission, I lean forward and push Willow into a full gallop as we exit the forest and fly across the grassy hills and wide-open space.
Willow and I love this; the wind on our face, exertion that forces our lungs to expand, and the sensation of our hearts beating in hard tempos. Up ahead are the obstacles we practice whenever we are alone since Father and the other groomsman would disapprove.
“Here we go, girl!” The fallen tree is coming up fast, so I lift my bum from the saddle.Swoosh.We are airborne, soaring like a falcon on the lookout for prey. Everything slows amid the silence, even time, and in that moment, nothing matters but the freedom to spread our wings and fly.
As soon as Willow’s hooves land with an echoing thud, time speeds up to its usual pace, and we are galloping at full speed to our next challenge, an odd-shaped boulder that I’ve always thought looked like a seating bench for a giant. I used to imagine such a creature sitting there enjoying a bright sunlit day. My giant was a friendly sort, and I admit to pretending he was real and engaging in some rather lengthy conversations on the life of a young girl compared to that of an ancient creature from a land long forgotten.
Silence again. Our wings hold us high in the air as we clear the boulder with ease. My legs burn from exertion, but I ignore it as I quickly guide Willow through an S-turn of towering stones that seem intentionally placed in a perfect row. Willow’s agility while making sharp turns always amazes me, and I can feel her excitement at being challenged to perform. After a few smaller jumps, we are ready to trot along the shady side of the knoll.
“Well done, Willow!” My compliment is winded as I try to catch my breath. Her hair and skin are wet as I rub along the length of her neck. “You are as fantastic an athlete as you are a rare beauty, aren’t you, my girl?” I boast with a few pats of affection.
“The same could be said about you, aye?” That deep, accented voice startles me as it echoes from the forest canopy.
“Lord Stewart! For heaven’s sake! Why are you here? You frightened me!” My voice is undeniably shrill, realizing he is here and saw what I was doing, not to mention the dreadful sight I must be with a flyaway mess of hair and perspiration dripping down from my forehead.
“Where did ye learn to ride like that?” Bypassing my question altogether, he cuts directly to the more pressing issue at hand. His authoritative tone piques my defenses as I sit straighter on the saddle.
“Why does it matter?” I raise my chin, hoping to add to the hauteur in my own tone.
“It does’na matter at all. I was just curious if ye had an instructor of some sort. Skills like that do’na tend to come easily to a man, let alone a young woman.” He stops to laugh, his face lighting up with that glorious smile that plays tricks on my stomach. “I wish ye could see yer face! Ye’ve got a ferocity about ye that’s bloody intimidating. I’m left helpless, waiting for ye to flay me open wi’ another cut from yer wordsmith’s sword. What has yer hackles up, lass? Did ye hear what I said? ’Twas a compliment, aye?” His perfect lips hold their position, stretched across his face in unfair perfection.
“For one, Lord Stewart, my hackles are up because you startled me. Two, you are an uninvited, therefore an unexpected, guest. Three, I am entirely unpresentable after such exertion, and it simply isn’t proper for me to be here before you in such dishabille. Four, I do not allow, nor do I appreciate spectators when I run obstacles. Five, my faithful horse did not warn me of your presence, which is highly unusual. And six, I am preparing myself for the inevitable lecture on how inappropriate my riding is and that I should be ashamed of myself for such conduct.”NowWillow snorts, perks her ears, and shuffles backward with warning. No one will ever convince me that my horse doesn’t understand everything I am saying.
“Ah, I knew ye would’na disappoint. Let me see if I can somehow get back into yer good graces.” I tip my head and raise one eyebrow, stopping him from going further. He acknowledges my unspoken disagreement. “Yes, well, perhaps that was more a figure of speech. May I continue?” I give him a reluctant nod to go on. “First, I apologize for startling you. It was’na my intention to do so. Second, yes, I am unexpected. I came to bring ye a bouquet of flowers from my garden. I think ye’ll be pleased to know I arranged them myself. Yer mother said ye had gone for a ride, so I took the opportunity to come say hello.” The tender look in his eyes has me turning away in shyness. “Third, at this very moment, ye are more beautiful than I have ever seen ye before. And that is not just flattery, ’tis the truth.” Damn this man for his blinding charm. “Fourth, I feel privileged to have witnessed yer riding skills. I’m beyond impressed. Fifth, yer horse is a magnificent creature.” Willow, on cue, nods her head, whinnies, and stomps her front hoof. Alasdair throws his head back in amusement, which forces my laughter to escape as well. “And she’s fluent in English, I see. The two of you could’na be matched more perfectly. And six, why would anyone tell ye to be ashamed of such mastery? Surely that has’na happened?” I shake my head no in answer. “Good. That would be a shame.”
“Is that so, Lord Stewart? You don’t think it is improper for me to be riding my horse as a man does and not side-saddle? And what about risking my life making the jumps that Willow enjoys? Women are not supposed to do that, as I’m sure you know.” Without waiting for his response, I jump down from the saddle, my tangled skirts swinging out with a loudswoosh. I noticed that he eyed the breeches that Beatrice made for me to wear when I go riding. I wonder if he will comment on those as well.
He stays seated upon his horse, a magnificent creature in his own right, black and shiny and a bit intimidating. He is the exact opposite of Willow, and their contrast accentuates each other’s distinct beauty. Finally, he dismounts, and my traitorous eyes are drawn to his muscular legs flexing underneath the tight buckskin. My goodness, the way this man is put together …
“If ye keep looking at me like that, I might start to think ye don’t hate me anymore.”
Embarrassed at being caught, I quickly shift my eyes to his and find his ego on full display through the mischievous grin with which I am becoming quite familiar. It infuriates me so I don’t bother to answer; instead, I simply turn and start walking Willow toward the forest path that will lead us home.
“To answer yer question, yes, that is so. And no, I do’na think the way ye ride yer horse is improper. Neither on the obstacles nor the saddle. Anddefinitelynot doing it wearing breeches.” I hear the delight in his voice as he pokes fun at my unconventional riding attire, but at the same time, he is sincere in his opinions otherwise. Try as I might, I cannot deny how much that pleases me.
“Thank you, Lord Stewart. If you would, please, keep your newfound knowledge of me to yourself. At this stage of my life, I do not like be lectured or reprimanded.”