Chapter 12
“If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”
I no longer had the right outfit to contend with Sybella.
Mrs. Sweete had laid my soldier-red jacket to dry by the hearth after having procured an ancient riding dress from Mr. Hawke’s neighbor.
I looked less like a commander riding into battle and more like a scullery maid.
The dull color was a lifeless brown, the fabric a scratchy tweed.
Even with powder concealing the cut on my cheek, my outfit attacked my complexion so ferociously, I almost called the whole thing off.
That wasn’t the only reason I was feeling trepidatious to join the riding party.
My encounter with Mr. Hawke in the shed had blindsided me.
The more I thought about how I’d accidentally called him Edmond, the worse it seemed.
He must think me completely lacking in etiquette and restraint.
I hadn’t been able to so much as look at Mrs. Sweete when I’d returned to the estate.
Thankfully, she had not asked for details. Yet.
Despite my failure, I refused to flee the battlefield with my tail between my legs. Leaving Sybella alone with my three candidates was enough of a motivation to endure the hardest of trials—even tweed.
By the time Mrs. Sweete and I made our way down to the stable, the other guests had arrived and were admiring the horses.
Sybella was laughing with her ungloved hand on Mr. Marceaux’s arm, which made my jaw clench.
Lord Cranford was bending over to peer at a bug climbing up the stable wall, and Mr. Hawke, who had changed into dry clothes as well, was brushing one of the horses.
When he saw me, he paused mid-brush and—
Immediately turned his back to me.
My mouth fell open, but I shut it before anyone could notice. Things were clearly far worse than I had imagined. Clearly I had overstepped and made things uncomfortable between us, and now I had to suffer the consequences.
I forced a smile and joined the others by the stable.
I would abandon this nonsense with Christian names.
It was a foolish notion to begin with. For now, my mission would be regaining my keen sense of propriety.
I could not afford another compromising situation, especially with all of my suitors gathered in one place.
I fiddled with the diamond on my wrist. Not even a wrinkle.
“I’ll ask the stablemaster which horses are ours to ride,” Mrs. Sweete said. I just nodded, my gaze trained on Mr. Hawke, who had glanced briefly over his shoulder at me. For a moment I thought he might walk over to greet me, but he shook his head to himself and began saddling his horse instead.
It was worse than when he recoiled.
I quickly walked in the other direction, trying to appear fascinated by the willow tree next to the stable in an effort to cool the tears threatening to form behind my eyes. Mr. Hawke had every right to avoid me. I had brought this upon myself.
“Miss Weston,” the baron said, stepping up to me with a bow of his head. “Are you well? You have a bandage on your cheek.”
I swallowed down any betraying emotions and curtsied. “I am always well, Lord Cranford. And you?”
His gaze flickered toward Sybella and Mr. Marceaux, who were both laughing loud enough to spook a horse. “In need of a quiet ride.”
We both watched as Sybella whispered in Mr. Marceaux’s ear, then dropped her handkerchief at his feet for him to retrieve. Dear heavens. If she were any more obvious, she’d have to start charging for her performances.
“I—um—I found a meadow nearby that appears to be a breeding ground for rose chafer beetles,” the baron said in a painful attempt to spark conversation. I was grateful for the distraction.
“Beetles, you say?”
“I found a whole colony of them in a rotting log. The females lay their eggs in decaying matter and…”
I tried to stay engaged in Lord Cranford’s story—I truly did—but my attention was unwillingly drawn back to Mr. Hawke, who had walked past me to retrieve a set of reins hanging on the wall. He hadn’t so much as looked my way.
“—larvae pupate sometime between June and July and—” The baron paused. “Miss Weston?”
“What?” I returned my attention to the baron. “Oh, yes. Larvae. Fascinating.”
“You think so?” he said eagerly. “Then you’ll be interested to hear about the shedding of the larval skin…”
I most certainly did not want to hear about any skin shedding, which is why I was relieved when Sybella loudly complained, “Which one is mine, Mr. Hawke?”
He smiled at her, and my insides boiled. “Take your pick,” he said. “First choice is yours, Miss Pratt.”
“You flatter me, Mr. Hawke. I pick…” she made a show of examining the line of horses, “...this one!”
Unsurprisingly, she had selected the pretty spotted mare with the white mane.
“A lovely pairing,” Mr. Hawke said.
Something erupted within me.
“I’ll take that one,” I said, pointing.
Every pair of eyes followed my finger to the horse Mr. Hawke had been brushing. It was a magnificent beast with a midnight black coat that shimmered over impressive musculature. He was exactly the kind of creature one would ride into battle.
“The stallion?” the baron asked, clearly concerned.
“He looks like he’s got a temper, ma chère,” Mr. Marceaux warned.
I straightened my hat. “I’m more than capable at taking the reins. That is, unless you wanted that horse for yourself, Mr. Hawke?”
He didn’t quite meet my eye as he said, “Take whichever horse you wish, Miss Weston. I won’t stand in your way.”
I had hoped for his intervention on my behalf, some signal that he cared enough to protest for my safety. But he showed only apathy. The realization hurt more than I cared to admit.
“Hel has always seen herself as quite the equestrian,” Sybella said in a staged whisper to Mr. Marceaux. “I’ve tried to warn her that riding stallions is far too masculine, but she always insists.”
I took a deep breath. Not even a wrinkle.
“We used to race as children,” she continued, having captured the interest of everyone in the riding party. “Hel used to throw such a fit when she lost—”
“Funny,” I said before I could stop myself, “since I don’t recall ever losing.”
Sybella’s eyes flashed. “Then how about we jog your memory? Let’s have a race. Whoever reaches the crest of the hill behind the woods first will win himself—” she paused for dramatic effect, “—or herself a favor from one person in the group.”
“Any favor?” Mr. Marceaux asked.
She fluttered her eyelashes. “Any favor.”
Against my better judgment, I found myself intrigued. If I won, I’d be able to ask Mr. Hawke for any favor I wanted. Perhaps I could use it to beg forgiveness for my blunder. And if I could teach Sybella a lesson while I was at it? Well, how could I possibly turn down such an opportunity?
“I’ll do it,” I said.
Mr. Marceaux smirked. “I’m in too.”
Mr. Hawke hesitated, however. “I’m sorry—a race? On the horses?”
“Feel free to race on foot, Hawke,” Mr. Marceaux drawled. “But you’ll definitely lose.”
Mr. Hawke shifted his stance. “But what about the storm? Is it wise to gallop when the trail may still be wet?”
“I agree with Mr. Hawke,” Mrs. Sweete said. “It seems dangerous.”
“It’s a flat riding trail with packed soil, so it will be perfectly safe,” I said. “Besides, who doesn’t love the smell of nature after rain?” I turned to the baron. “And think about all the insects we’ll find along the way.”
Lord Cranford tapped his cane on the ground, as if testing the dirt’s stability. “I won’t be much competition, but I wouldn’t mind joining. I’m currently collecting earthworms, and they come out in droves after a good rain.”
“I have another proposal,” Mr. Hawke said, stepping away from his horse. “Let’s take a nice, easy trot around the stable, then retire inside for tea. Perhaps the ladies could entertain us with some music on my new pianoforte.”
“No!” I cried out. Everyone turned to me, and I quickly fixed my hat as well as my composure. “I just mean—the majority has already ruled for a race.”
For once, Sybella and I were on the same side of battle. “Come now, Mr. Hawke,” she said. “Don’t be a spoil-sport. Why don’t you assist Hel onto her saddle, and Mr. Marceaux can help me onto mine?”
“Mais bien s?r, mademoiselle!” Mr. Marceaux said with a flourish of his hand. Sybella giggled as he helped her mount her horse.
“Could you, Mr. Hawke?” I held out my arm expectantly. I didn’t need his help of course, but a man could hardly say no to a woman asking for help—especially in front of other men. Most importantly, I just needed him to look at me again.
Mr. Hawke sighed. “It would be my pleasure.”
But everything about him was tense and distant as he helped me up. Once I was seated and turned to thank him, he had already stridden off to his own horse. My heart plummeted into my stomach.
I looked over to see Lord Cranford assisting Mrs. Sweete onto her mare. Once again I was touched by the baron’s kindness. Not every gentleman would offer to assist a lady’s chaperone.
“Are you coming, Hawke?” Mr. Marceaux called out from atop his horse. “Or are you waiting for the horse to mount you?”
Sure enough, Mr. Hawke lingered beside his horse, looking pale. But he drew a sharp breath and pulled himself onto his saddle. He smiled at all of us and said, “Are we racing or not?”
I steered my horse next to Sybella. “Good luck,” I said. “Remember, there’s no shame in being second.”
Her eyes narrowed like two slits of fire, but before she could respond, I shouted, “Let the race begin!”
I gave my stallion a firm pat with my riding crop. He surged forward from his canter into an impressive gallop. I squeezed my legs together, holding firmly onto the pommel so as not to fall off. Galloping in sidesaddle wasn’t impossible, but it had taken me years of practice to perfect.
“You heard the lady!” Mr. Marceaux shouted, and before long, all six horses were galloping down the trail.
The damp wind felt glorious against my skin as my stallion barreled down the sun-dappled path.
I filled my lungs with the crisp air, already feeling better.
I was Helena Weston, diamond of the season, and I would emerge victorious in any contest. I had let myself be momentarily unbalanced, but as long as I was perfect from this moment on, the garden shed incident would surely become nothing more than a passing trifle.
At least that’s what I told myself.
We soon entered the dense woods surrounding Stonehill House. Twisted oaks shrouded in moss and a lush carpet of ferns enveloped us, their leaves curled and slick with rain.
The ethereal mood soured when Sybella rode up beside me.
“Slow down, Hel!” she called out. “You’re getting too far ahead of the rest of us.”
“That’s the point of racing,” I shouted back.
“You have to win everything, don’t you?”
“I don’t have to. I just do.”
Sybella fumed, urging her horse to run faster. “Not this time. I’m claiming that favor for myself. Your mother’s pianoforte will look splendid in the northern parlor, don’t you think?”
My head snapped in her direction. “Excuse me?”
“That will be my favor when I win. I’ll make you give me your pianoforte. You know how much I adore music. If you refuse, the men will finally learn that you don’t keep your word.”
“Why?” I demanded. “What did I ever do to you, Sybella?”
“The fact that you don’t remember speaks volumes, Hel.” She snapped her reins, and her horse surged forward.
I gritted my teeth and glanced over my shoulder. The rest of the group was still a ways away. The baron and Mrs. Sweete had fallen so far behind that they weren’t even visible on the trail anymore. Mr. Marceaux and Mr. Hawke, however, were neck-in-neck for third place.
I frowned. Mr. Hawke was leaning forward too much, and he was bouncing wildly on his seat. The man looked like he had never galloped on a horse in his life.
It was then that Mr. Marceaux rode through a low-hanging branch. He pushed it away just in time, but in doing so, caused it to snap back and smack Mr. Hawke squarely across the face.
Startled, Mr. Hawke yanked the reins too hard.
His horse skidded off the trail and stumbled into a rocky patch, her hooves catching on the uneven ground.
The poor creature let out a shrill whinny as she stumbled, and Mr. Hawke, clearly flustered, pulled the reins the other way—too sharply.
The horse whipped her head in protest, pulling Mr. Hawke forward in his seat.
That only confused the horse more, and she took off in a mad gallop.
Warning bells rang in my head, but I hesitated. More than just my pride was at stake. Turning around would mean risking my mother’s pianoforte.
But Mr. Hawke was in danger, and a true soldier never left someone helpless.
I yanked back my reins and turned my horse around.
“Giving up so soon, ma chère?” Mr. Marceaux teased as he galloped past.
“Do me a favor,” I called out over my shoulder, “and make sure Sybella doesn’t win.”