Chapter 12 #2
Mr. Ellison coughed, a cough which sounded suspiciously like a concealed laugh. “Oh dear,” he said. “He favors the scenic route.”
Phoebe yanked the reins several times, trying to guide the horse in the opposite direction. No effect. “He is mocking me.”
“He is merely introducing himself.” Mr. Ellison’s lips twitched.
“I’ll not be taken off my guard by his impropriety,” she said with a sniff.
Shooting her riding companion a fiery look, which only seemed to delight him further, she tried another tug of the reins. The horse took another step, this time veering directly into the yew.
Whispering fiercely at the horse, she dug in her heels. “Oh heavens, no, no, stop, stop at once.” Then, to Mr. Ellison, “He is mocking me.”
“Undoubtedly. Though in his defense, he is in excellent company.” He dipped his head and offered stewardly patience. “Perhaps a gentler pressure of the reins. Not so tight. Think of guiding, not wrestling.” Effortlessly, he walked his horse alongside hers.
“I am not wrestling.”
Her horse began nibbling at the yew.
“Of course not.” His smile was too knowing to be legal.
After her light suggestion of the reins, her horse walked backwards. Mr. Ellison choked on a laugh.
Through gritted teeth, she asked, “Is my horse defective?”
“Only in the sense that he has already discerned your… spirited philosophy of leadership.”
“I have no such philosophy.”
“Precisely.”
Her glare deepened, as did his grin.
After far more time than she would admit to any living soul, she, at last, managed to coax the obstinate horse into a reliable walk.
So pleased at this small victory, she did not deny herself a triumphant smile, one that played on her lips as they followed the drive to the edge of the lawn, then cut across the estate, destination unknown.
The sedate walk was soon followed by a respectable trot, not at Phoebe’s urging, but to her delight.
Respectable, that was, until the animal surged into a brisk trot, jolting her about in the saddle, then, finding that pace too boring, quickened into a jostling canter.
With a yelp, Phoebe pitched backwards in her saddle, grasping the reins for dear life.
Beside her in an instant, Mr. Ellison matched pace. “Easy, easy,” he murmured, reaching across the narrow space to steady her reins with one practiced hand. “Don’t fight him. Steady now.”
She leaned instinctively towards him, the horses moving parallel as though choreographed. Every step brought her shoulder closer to his, every heartbeat louder in her ears.
“You’re safe,” he reassured, voice low enough to shiver down her spine. “Trust him. Trust yourself.”
His touch guided hers, gentling the tension. She loosened her grip. The horse’s gait settled beneath her.
“I…” She inhaled shakily. “I may have wanted too much too soon.”
His smile softened, the teasing warmth replaced by something quieter, deeper. “There’s no shame in wanting more. But you needn’t grab it all at once.”
Their eyes met, his steady and hers uncertain, and for a moment, it felt as though the sunlight caught between them, suspended.
Then the horse flicked an ear and snorted, impatient with the pause.
Phoebe tensed again.
Mr. Ellison’s hand remained over hers a beat longer than necessary before he released her reins. “Shall we try again?”
They fell into an easier rhythm; her horse was either obedient now or humoring her.
“That’s it exactly,” he congratulated after they rounded an ornamental pond. “He answers with confidence. As I suspect, do you?”
She braved a glance, despite knowing her cheeks were flushed and curls wind-stirred beneath her bonnet. “Are you always this competent a rider?” Her tone demanded, but her voice held far less fire than she commanded.
Straight-faced, he replied, “So I’ve been told… by horses.”
She laughed aloud, suddenly more amused by him than fearful of the horse.
They rode farther, the land opening into rolling green, the wind lifting the hem of her habit train and teasing stray curls across her cheeks.
The freedom of riding, from the height to the movement, sent a wild joy through her chest. It had nothing to do with his proximity, or so she tried to remind herself every few minutes.
“I see why people adore riding,” she admitted. “It feels like… permission.”
He turned to her, arching an eyebrow. “Permission to what?”
“To want things,” she said before she could stop herself. “To chase something simply because it’s beautiful.”
His expression shifted with something tender, something vulnerable, but she could not understand what it meant. He looked away towards the fields and said quietly, “Freedom looks different when you’re responsible for the land beneath your feet.”
She studied his profile. Did his responsibility as solicitor weigh so heavily? It must. He made decisions on behalf of the earl, yet did not have the guidance of the estate solicitor to know what decisions were best.
Before she could probe, he flashed her a rakish half-smile. “And in your case, Miss Whittington, freedom looks mostly like trying to throw yourself off that horse.”
She gasped. “I am not!”
“You have nearly succeeded so often, I am certain it is intentional.”
“Only once.”
“Thrice.”
She glared, but the smile tugging the corners of her mouth betrayed her. Dreadful man looked far too pleased with himself for ruffling her feathers. Try as she might to tuck away her smile, she could not, and gave into a hearty laugh, one he soon echoed.
Wind swept around them, carrying their laughter and possibility.
The morning was theirs.
“You never told me,” she said casually, as though her heart were not trying to beat right out of her chest, “how a London tradesman became an accomplished horseman.”
With a rueful smile, he said, “My father fancied himself a great man of business, which he was, and would woo clients and potential partners as often in their country stables as at the dining table. I spent half my boyhood in the paddocks, trying to stay out of trouble and out from underfoot, all while observing his strategies.”
“Is horsemanship a persuasive skill in business?” Her question teased, but he answered in earnest.
“One learns much about a man by the way he handles a horse. Patience. Restraint. Cruelty. Pride. Some men wield the whip at the slightest challenge, while others let the horse do as it pleases. But those worth trusting…” His eyes flicked to hers. “…know partnership.”
Stealing a glance at the limp ribbons in her hands, she muttered, “Heaven help me. What must my horsemanship say about me?”
He angled her a look of disarming warmth. “That you are braver than you know and more determined than is wise.”
“Is that a warning or a compliment?”
“Both,” he said.
She stuttered a laugh, her breath tangling somewhere in her throat. “Papa has a barouche. I… I never learned to ride.” The confession cost her an ounce of pride, although she suspected Mr. Ellison had already assumed as much.
“You’re a fast learner, Miss Whittington. And that is a compliment.”
They rode on, sunlight warming her shoulders.
The landscape unfurled around them: gentle hills, fields of soft green, a wooded path dappled in lacework shadows.
She relaxed enough to savor the ride and the company.
Shropshire was far more beautiful than she had anticipated, as was, more specifically, the Lobelia Hall grounds. How fortunate she was to be here.
When they were once more in sight of the manor, he turned towards her with open admiration. She felt something in her shift, quietly, irrevocably.
“You see?” he said. “You and the horse understand each other now.”
“He understands me entirely,” she agreed. “I’ve simply chosen not to admit my dependence.”
Chuckling, Mr. Ellison acknowledged, “An admirable strategy.”
They slowed as they approached the gravel drive.
Softly, she said, “It is beautiful.”
“Yes, very beautiful.”
Something in his tone had her turning to him only to realize he was not looking at the scenery at all.
A little too loudly, she said, “You were right. It would have been a sin to stay indoors today.”
“We should thank providence, it’s only Saturday. Tomorrow would trap us in chapel instead.”
She laughed but was all too aware of how life-altering had been last Sunday’s service. Her pulse did not return to normal even as the gentle rhythm of the hooves carried them to the hall’s entrance.