The Zephyr

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Meryton, Summer 1812

T he light was so bright, I had to squint to see the road ahead. A few strands of hair had escaped my braids, teasing my nose as the wind rose to match the blistering drumbeat of horse hooves. I tightened my grip on the reins.

“Let go of my arm, Kitty,” I said between clenched teeth, for I needed the freedom to drive.

My sister, who had seized my elbow, released my arm but grabbed hold of a large handful of my skirt instead. She squeezed her eyes shut as I feathered the horses—who were still running at a gallop—around a rutted corner. The wheels came up on Kitty’s side for just a second as we made the arc, and we landed with a terrific bump that nearly tipped us into a ditch before dashing down the straightest part of the lane towards the Lindbury Wood .

“Lizzy!” Kitty’s protest was more of a gasp than a cry of complaint.

I flashed her a rueful grin. “I know. I could have done that better,” I said, speaking over the rush of the air.

“You could have slowed down!” she cried as she released my skirt and sat upright from her contracted cringing. A quick glance, however, told me she still had a firm grip on the handrail on the far side of the curricle as she continued to scold me.

“Must you?”

“Must I what? Drive like a demented fool? A demon? A heedless?—”

My horses pulled my attention away from my sister, and I called out to encourage them. “June, must you always out-pace your sister? Come now, Jules, do not be so lazy. Look at how she has you bested by a quarter beat!”

“…drive so fast,” Kitty spluttered in continuation of her interrupted protest. “You will wind them before we are even halfway there.”

“Pay her no mind, ladies,” I called to my girls. “My sister has no faith in your lungs, much less your hearts.” With that I took up the whip, flicked it delicately in the air above July’s rump, and soon we were dashing through the shade of the woods.

This is freedom! This is joy! These thoughts arose in me almost as a song that spills out—not as a tune—but as a gurgle of delight filling my throat. I scanned the deserted lane ahead, the brilliant sky shining above the trees, and I even flicked a glance behind.

“What?” I murmured, turning back to mind the road and blinking in surprise. “Who is that?” I said more publicly to my sister, again swivelling to see a black dot back at the perilous curve upon which I had rattled us.

"Kitty, take a look at our company, and tell me if he is falling behind?”

“Well, he cannot possibly overtake us,” she grumbled. “No one would be stupid enough to drive after you.” Still, she glanced behind us off and on for the next two minutes, finally announcing in disbelief, “But he is catching up, Lizzy!”

I turned to verify her assessment, and indeed, I could now see a curricle and a pair pulling up only a hundred yards or so behind us. “No, sir,” I said grimly, cracking the whip loudly over the twitching ears of my horses, “you shall not outstrip me .” Thus, with June and July at a roaring gallop, we truly began to fly.

“Who could that be?” I called to Kitty over the cacophony of wind.

“It cannot be John Lucas.”

“No. He drives like a cowherd,” I said with a laugh.

“Maybe it is Mr Bingley.”

“Mr Bingley? He is too nice to drive like a devil. What a milksop he has turned out to be!”

“Mr Darcy?” she offered, before crying out, “Dear God!” and shrinking back into her seat as we rounded a curve and raced towards a narrow bridge over a gully of rocks.

We squeezed through the passage with perfect margins of mere inches on either side. “Brilliant, my lovelies!” I called to the team as I pondered the possibility that I was about to be overtaken by none other than Mr Darcy.

“You may be right,” I said over the clattering of wheels on the gravel, “but I do not fancy breathing his dust. You had best hold tight. ”

Her yelp was cut short as I pulled hard on the reins to slow us down just enough to make a sharp right turn into the woodlands proper.

“Lizzy!”

“I am going to beat him to the Lea bridge,” I said grimly, slowing the team to a reasonable canter in the shade where the lane had narrowed to a rutted track of dried mud. “And this will give the horses time to catch their breath before we make the last dash.”

“Surely not,” my sister said weakly. “Tell me you are joking.”

“When have you ever known me to joke about winning?”

She groaned and knotted her bonnet ribbons tightly under her chin. The dimness of the wood gave way to small windows of light filtering through the trees ahead, and in a few lengths of those elegant horse strides I had come to love, we made a hard left turn onto the road that would take us to the River Lea.

Flicking the reins in earnest, I said, “Stout now, my lady beasts. Our reputations are at stake. Ride swiftly, but save something for the last hill, will you?”

Again, we were off at top speed, running parallel to the road upon which Mr Darcy, or whoever we were racing, was now driving. As the density of the groves of the Lindbury Wood began to thin, the trees became short and sparse, giving way to the riparian fields so common to Hertfordshire. Ahead, I saw the fork where our two lanes met.

“Impossible!” I cried, seeing his curricle pull just ahead of us.

I was now flying through a cloud of dust, and I narrowed my eyes, not only to shield them from the dirt, but to glare daggers at the man’s back. He was tall, made taller by a tall hat. He wore a dark coat, and even blinking against the grit in my eyes, I could see that every movement of both crop and ribbons was crisp. His driving was precise and thoroughly confident.

Who else but Mr Darcy would hold the reins with such a sense of expectation from his horses? He would never execute a flourishing crack of his whip, nor would he tip his curricle over on a curve, or drive into a ditch. He was too proud to be inept, and his entire being would be offended by a mere lapse in concentration.

Unwilling to forfeit, I called to my horses to rally them. “Hey, Juney—hey Jules. Show him your wings now, but wait for your moment.”

Never had the Lea bridge loomed ahead so quickly. Our speed was precipitous! Suddenly we were on the false flat leading to its narrow mouth. This, if anywhere, was where I would beat Mr Darcy. His horses were forced to cut through the wind while mine sheltered in the wake of his curricle, and moreover, the rise upon which we laboured was deceptive.

I knew it well. More than once my team had bogged down here upon having run so far, only to face a gradual—and seemingly unending—incline. Had we just started out, the gentleman’s blood horses would not have felt it, but now— now we would slip around him and show our adversary what real racing could be.

“Ha!” I cried with a hard flick of the reins. We leapt forwards and swung past his team as they faltered in surprise at the effort required of so small a hill. Thus, we came hurtling up and over the River Lea, springing as if on air across the bridge. I caught sight of the diamond-bright reflections that bounced off the water in the strong light of an afternoon sun and let out a whoop of laughter. Then, on the decline on the other side, I at last slackened the reins and let my horses slow to a canter before pulling them gently to rest on the grass beside Mr Arbury’s fields of sugar beets.

“May I open my eyes now?” Kitty groaned beside me. “I think I may be sick.”

“At least wait until that horrible man has ridden past us,” I said quietly as his horses, fully winded, lathered, and wheezing, cantered down the incline, slowing as they passed us by.

Mr Darcy glared at me with such a dark look of resentment I was moved to smile sunnily at him. “Good day to you, sir!”

He gravely tipped his hat, stared at me for a beat longer than was polite, then rode away, and so I said, “Come, Kitty. Let us go home now, shall we?”