Chapter 9
9
F or almost two weeks, Flora worked every day at Rainshadow alongside Sylvia without incident. She had been worried that Sylvia would know, or ask her, about dinner with Ethan, but the other woman seemed either unaware, oblivious, or uninterested.
On Friday, the last day of her workweek, she let the horses back into their stalls and watched the sun creep down across the Douglas fir trees. She realized that over the course of the week she had maybe spoken ten words to Sylvia. Now, she wondered when and how she would get paid. She didn’t have to wonder long. As she put Mars back in his stall, she looked out the window of the barn and saw Sylvia stalking up the path toward her in a long, black wool coat.
Flora realized that she did not like the other woman, but she wanted Sylvia to like her.
She didn’t like seeing herself through Sylvia’s cold, appraising eyes and imagined the other woman saw a grubby, poor, meek little girl.
She was meek, she was poor, and of course she came to work in her scuffed boots, used when she got them years before, and mud-darkened canvas men’s trousers, but those things didn’t define her. She really was good with horses, and believed, truly, that she had a special connection with them. She might be poor, but she was a very hard worker, and might eventually pull herself out of poverty. She imagined Sylvia noticing her one day, carrying bales of hay down from the loft, and realizing how very strong she was and how much she had under-appreciated her. She imagined someone, anyone, looking at her and seeing anything but someone who needed help.
She had fantasies of finally mounting Zeta, Mars, even Bane, and taking them through complicated dressage routines that she had not been able to coax Lisa’s less-trained mounts into. As she was moving elegantly through these routines, with classical music piping through the arena speakers, Ethan would emerge, and watch her, captivated. Sylvia’s horses, imported and finely bred, were as sensitive and elegant as a Steinway piano, so finely tuned that even a novice would look good sitting upon them, but a master could make them sing. Flora wasn’t a master, but she could be.
“Your pay,” Sylvia said. “We never discussed specifics, but I think you will find this to be adequate.”
Inside the envelope was five hundred dollars in neat one-hundred-dollar bills. Flora thumbed through quickly, then looked back up at Sylvia. She assumed she was making minimum wage, about three hundred a week, like she made at King’s, but this was substantially more.
“Thank you,” she managed, restraining her impulse to be effusive. Sylvia, she knew, would not like effusive thanks.
When Flora returned home that evening her mother, who seemed to have a preternatural sense for when she would have money, was waiting for her at the kitchen table.
“How was work today?” her mother asked, but Flora could feel the anticipation in her voice.
“Oh, uh, fine. I’m tired.”
“Oh, yeah, me too,” her mother said, putting a hand to her forehead. “Oh, but, uh, hey, did you get paid today?”
Flora felt a prickling anger, and fished the envelope out of her pocket.
“Four hundred dollars,” she lied, slipping the money out and tossing it to her mother.
The sight of the cash on the table seemed to visibly relax her. “I’ll get groceries,” she said. “And maybe we’ll go out to dinner to celebrate. My treat.”
Flora looked at her mother, not even bothering to point out how absurd it was to ‘treat’ someone to a dinner with their own money.
“No,” Flora said. “I already ate out this week. Ethan, my employer, took me to Deer Harbor.”
Maureen’s eyes sharpened at the mention of the expensive resort. “Your employer took you to Deer Harbor? Why?” Her mother was terrible at concealing even the smallest of jealousies.
“I guess he just wanted to,” Flora said. “I’m tired. I’m going to make dinner and go to bed.”
“I’d like to meet them,” Maureen said. “Your employers. It seems like a mother has a right to know who her child is with all day.”
“I’m not a child,” Flora said, going into the bathroom and locking the door behind her.
On Monday, something had shifted. Sylvia was not herself. She came out to the training arena late, her steps heavy and shuffling, wearing her heavy black wool coat and a thick cashmere scarf around her neck and over her head like a hood, even after the heaters in the arena had made it much more bearable. Her hair hung lank and lusterless around her face. All of the heavy clothes diminished Sylvia, made the statuesque woman look smaller.
“Come help me,” she demanded of Flora, who had been repainting a white fence around the paddock.
Flora was so confused that she looked down at her paint bucket, like she wasn’t sure for a moment which was more important.
“Close the paint, get up, and come help me,” Sylvia said, her voice slow and her pronunciation clipped, like she was talking to a child.
“Right, yeah,” Flora said, hurrying to get up and brushing off her pants. “What can I do?”
They went into the arena where Mars was already saddled, nickering softly, waiting, his rein looped over a post by the arena’s entrance gate.
“I can’t…” Sylvia seemed to struggle to speak.
Flora only looked at her, waiting.
“I can’t climb up. I can’t ride today. He needs to be worked, though. Can you mount up and follow my directions?”
“Yes,” Flora said, nervous, but trying to sound confident, “of course.” Mars was a terribly unpredictable horse.
Sylvia stepped back and picked up a dressage whip as Flora loosened Mars’s reins from the post and pulled herself into the saddle.
A dressage whip is only supposed to be used to encourage and signal to horses, but Flora still felt a chill, seeing it in Sylvia’s small, white hand.
“Alright,” Sylvia said, “take him out, ride in a circle. I want to improve his trot to canter transition.”
Flora had done simple riding exercises like this with Lisa many times, but it had been a very long time and those horses had been slower, less spirited. Mars felt like his muscles were moved by tight, coiled springs, a finely calibrated machine. He was an athlete, a horse bred for precision dressage, and Flora could instantly feel the difference.
“Legs back,” Sylvia said, her voice steady and firm, but not loud.
Flora shifted her legs and heels back. Mars, she knew, was just as sensitive to her as she was to him. He knew she was inexperienced.
“And straighten your back. You’re leaning forward. This isn’t a rodeo.”
Flora nodded and straightened her back.
“Ok, now, get him up to a trot. All he needs is a click,” Sylvia said. Her darting eyes were on the horse’s legs, watching their every move.
Flora clicked her tongue, and the horse started trotting, a light, easy gait. She posted, rose up and down with the horse’s steps, but Sylvia corrected her.
“Post with the outside leg,” she said, still no hint of impatience in her voice. There was something about the horses that made Sylvia more human, and Flora was grateful for it.
“Tighten your rein, don’t let him toss his head.” Sylvia followed Mars with the whip, tapping lightly on his haunch, so that the horse lifted his back feet. “Ok, now, transition into a canter…” Sylvia watched closely, her eyes flickering, as the horse began its canter, nodding along with its steady, drumming rhythm.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
Flora kept her head up, trying not to watch Sylvia.
“Now, back to trot…” Sylvia tapped the horse on his hindquarters and nodded. “Now back to canter…”
They worked like that until Flora, going in such tight circles around the arena, thought she would get dizzy.
“Ok, now trot then slow to piaffe,” Sylvia said.
Flora knew what that meant. She was expected to keep the horse in a trot without moving, lifting its legs in place. She pulled the horse to a full stop and Sylvia shook her head, clicked her tongue, and tapped the horse on its back haunch. The horse started trotting again.
“No,” said Sylvia, and Flora wasn’t sure who she was talking to, herself or the horse. Sylvia looked at her. “Can you slow him but keep him trotting? Have you done this before?”
“A little, not this move exactly,” Flora said, shaking her head. She was trying to somehow stop the horse and make it trot at the same time, but it only seemed to confuse Mars.
Sylvia sighed. “It’s a feeling,” she said. “You feel it. The horse feels it.”
Flora nodded, but felt herself begin to sweat. She tried again, and Mars leaped and did a little kick. “I’m sorry,” Flora said. She accidentally pressed her heels into the horse’s flank, and he rocketed like a Lamborghini into a canter. She yanked suddenly on the reins, and the bit dug into the horse’s mouth. Mars was suddenly lathering, frothing, and tossing his head.
“Stop!” Sylvia cried. “You’re hurting him!”
“I’m sorry!” Flora cried, and the horse skittered. She only tightened her legs, digging her heels in again. Mars tossed his beautiful head and stomped, kicked, then cantered wildly around the arena. Flora tugged on his reins, and the horse bucked, throwing her from the saddle as easily as flicking a bug off a shoulder. She landed with a painful thud into the hard dirt.
Flora rolled over and looked at Sylvia, who gazed at her, her eyes icy and unemotional. “This horse,” Sylvia said, turning to look at her beautiful stallion, “was born and began his training at the Spanish school in Vienna. He is worth more than…”
“I’m so sorry,” Flora pleaded. The message was clear, and Flora didn’t want to hear the rest of it, didn’t want to hear that she wasn’t worthy of beautiful, glamorous Sylvia’s beautiful, glamorous horses.
“Just get up,” Sylvia said. “And get back on.”
They worked for hours, and Flora was thrown two more times. She felt like she was getting worse as the afternoon wore on, not better, her anxiety and her pain making her shaky. She worried she had broken a rib. Sylvia never said a single encouraging word, but neither did she scold her. When she fell, Sylvia watched with her dark-circled eyes, waiting, until she was back in the saddle.
At first, Flora was embarrassed, then she was angry. Sylvia, for whatever reason, wasn’t even able to ride her own horses, but watched bitterly as Flora at least tried. Distracted by her thoughts, she was thrown again.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” she whined, sprawled on the ground while Mars trotted around at the far side of the arena tossing his head in triumph. Her whole body felt like one giant bruise.
“You quit?” Sylvia’s voice was not just inquiring. No. It was hopeful.
For the day? Or the job? Flora didn’t know what Sylvia meant at first.
She realized, then, what was happening.
“You—” Flora said, but she didn’t finish the thought.
Sylvia was trying to make her quit.
She was going to let her ride and fall until she broke her wrist, or her neck. Flora wouldn’t though, couldn’t. She couldn’t look for another job, couldn’t humiliate herself like that again.
She peeled herself off of the arena floor, every bone and muscle screaming, and got back onto the horse.
She rode again, Sylvia watching, scowling, flicking the whip to send the horse into an elegant lateral step, his head arched perfectly, his hooves moving in a delicate dance.
Flora tugged gently on the reins and pressed her heels fluidly, in the same motion, and the horse slowed, continued trotting in place. Flora still ached, but she also felt a surge of relief, even pride. She felt it now, the way the horse and rider needed to be in sync. She loosened up on the reins and tugged gently, sending Mars into another lovely lateral trot, his long legs crossing one another like a ballerina. Then, she pressed her heels into the horse’s flank again, sending him into a canter when she only meant him to switch direction. When she yanked on the reins, Mars bucked again, and sent Flora flying to the dirt for the fifth time.
She wasn’t hurt, but she felt broken. Emotion was surging inside of her. Sadness, self-pity, and bitterness. Sylvia, with her cold eyes, had broken her. Sylvia was, Flora realized, jealous. Jealous because Flora could ride her horses and Sylvia, for whatever reason, could not. Jealous because she was still young and Sylvia was old and aging, much older, it seemed, than her gorgeous husband, and the differences were probably getting more obvious by the day. It wasn’t fair, but Flora couldn’t take it anymore.
“I don’t think I can—” she said, whimpered, to herself. She didn’t even have the strength to finish the sentence. Then, she felt a strong hand press into her arm, checking on her.
“Are you alright?”
That voice.
She rolled over, and there was Ethan, kneeling beside her. There was a look of utter concern on his face. “Are you alright, Flora?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said, sitting up. “I think so. Yeah.”
Sylvia watched them wordlessly, her arms crossed.
“Let me help you up,” he said, slipping an arm around her and lifting her under the arms. He was so strong, and she felt so small and weak and helpless in his embrace. She let him right her, then stepped away a little too quickly as Sylvia strode over. All day, Sylvia had seemed tired, creaky, even old. But now she walked with purpose, as though not wanting to show even a hint of frailty.
“Stop treating her like a fragile doll. She’s perfectly fine,” Sylvia said.
“How many times were you thrown today?” Ethan asked her.
Flora looked into his eyes and felt like, for once, there was someone who wanted to protect her. “This was the fifth time.”
Ethan spun on Sylvia. “I know you can be cold,” he said, “but I didn’t think you to be cruel.”
She rolled her eyes, turned on the ball of her foot, and walked back toward the house. “Go home, Flora,” she called behind her.
“I should go,” Flora said, creaking as she bent to rub her aching ribs. “It’s going to be a long walk.”
“No, please,” Ethan said, “I can’t think of you walking home hurt. Join us for dinner, and then I’ll drive you.”
Flora looked down at her scuffed boots. “I don’t think Sylvia would like that very much.”
Ethan lifted her chin with a gentle finger, so gentle that Flora winced. “It’s wrong of her to treat you like that,” he said. “Join us for dinner. I’ll talk to her. Trust me, please?”