5. Peter
5
PETER
T he morning after Thanksgiving, Mireille appeared in the doorway of the stables, wearing a wool coat belted at the waist and a pair of riding breeches and boots, presumably borrowed from my sister.
She looked magnificent.
I’d already saddled Marigold for her but had decided not to ride Apollo today. Mireille would need my full attention. God forbid if she fell and hurt herself. Betsy and Mother would never forgive me.
“Good morning,” I said. “Are you ready for your first lesson?”
“I’m nervous, but yes.” She gave me a tremulous smile.
“You’re going to ride Marigold. As I said yesterday, she’s a perfect choice for a beginner.”
“Yes, all right.”
We went out of the barn and into the thin, wintry sunlight, the air sharp and still, smelling faintly of woodsmoke. Shadows stretched long and slender over the fields, and bare tree branches glistened with morning frost. The snow on the ground—only two inches, but enough to blanket the earth—crunched underfoot. Just outside the stables, I brought Marigold to a halt, her chestnut coat shining under the sun.
“She’s very large.” Mireille’s lips pressed into a nervous line. “Did she grow overnight?”
I chuckled. “I’m pretty sure she’s the same size she was yesterday.”
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
“Horses respond to your emotions. If you’re nervous, she’ll pick up on it. Try to stay calm and steady.”
She glanced at me hesitantly but stepped closer. “What do I do first?”
“Hold your hand out, palm flat,” I said. “Let her sniff you. That’s how horses say hello.”
Mireille followed my instructions. Marigold turned her head slightly, her dark, intelligent eyes sizing Mireille up, and appeared to find her as pleasing as I did. The gentle horse leaned forward, her velvety muzzle brushing Mireille’s fingers, and gave a soft snort of approval.
“Hi, Marigold.” Mireille ran her gloved hand down the horse’s strong neck. “You’ll be patient with me, won’t you?”
“She understands. Now, let’s get you in the saddle.”
I walked her through the process, showing her how to place her foot in the stirrup and grip the saddle horn. She hesitated, glancing at the ground as if measuring the height. “What if I fall?”
“You won’t. But if you do, I’ll catch you.”
Mireille looked up at me, squinting slightly as she did so. “I believe you will. Catch me, that is.”
“Always.”
Marigold stood perfectly still as Mireille swung her leg over the saddle, her movements slightly awkward. Leather creaked under her weight as she settled into position. Marigold flicked her tail but didn’t shift an inch.
“She’s like you,” Mireille said. “Steady and thoughtful.”
Her words pleased me; I could almost feel my chest puffing out with pride.
Once Mireille was settled, I adjusted the reins in her hands. “Sit tall, but don’t stiffen up. Hug her with your legs. Gently, though. No squeezing.”
“Will she mind the snow?” Mireille asked.
“She’s used to it. Horses are careful. They instinctively watch their footing. She knows where to step. Just trust her, and you’ll be fine.”
Marigold started to walk, and I stayed close, one hand lightly on the reins to guide her. “Feel her rhythm. Move with her, not against her.”
Mireille nodded, and her shoulders softened as she seemed to find a better balance. Marigold’s ears flicked back briefly before she continued her steady pace.
By the time we reached the edge of the pasture, Mireille was sitting straighter, her hands more confident on the reins.
“How about we try a trot?” I asked, grinning up at her.
Her wide eyes darted to mine. “I think walking is quite enough for now.”
I laughed, the sound carrying across the snow-covered field. “Fair enough. But next time, I’ll teach you how to post.”
She tilted her head, her brow furrowing. “Post?”
“It’s how you rise and fall with the rhythm of the horse when she trots. But we’ll save that for another day. For now, just enjoy the ride.”
As we made our way back to the stables, Mireille’s cheeks were flushed from the cold, and a slight smile played at the corners of her mouth. When it came time to dismount, I stepped forward to steady her. My hands rested lightly at her waist as she slid down to the ground.
“You did well.” I brushed a stray piece of hay from her sleeve. “You’ll be galloping in no time.”
“Let’s not get carried away.” Her smile lingered as Marigold nudged her shoulder. “Are we to be forever friends, Miss Marigold?”
The horse tossed her mane and snorted.
“That means yes,” I said. “Shall we plan another ride for tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, I’ll be ready. This was more fun than I thought it would be.”
I had to agree.
The next morning dawned just as cold, though the frost on the fields glimmered more brightly under a higher sun. The snow from the day before remained crisp and undisturbed except for the tracks of deer and the faint marks left by the horses’ hooves. I saddled Apollo as Mireille whispered sweet nothings in Marigold’s ear.
“Are you ready to take me out again?” Mireille stroked the mare’s neck. Marigold gave a soft snort in response.
Mireille led Marigold out of the barn as I did with Apollo.
“Apollo will want to run, but I’ll hold him back.” I swung myself into the saddle with practiced ease and waited as Mireille mounted Marigold. She managed it on the first try, her movements more confident than yesterday morning, though she still gripped the reins as Marigold shifted beneath her.
“You’re getting the hang of it.” I nodded approvingly. “Loosen your grip on the reins a little. Trust her—she knows what to do.”
Mireille glanced at me, her brow knitting slightly, but then she relaxed her hands. Marigold gave a contented flick of her ears and started forward as I guided Apollo to her side. The two horses walked in unison, their hoofbeats muffled by the snow as we made our way toward the open field.
The landscape stretched out before us, untouched and glistening in the morning light. Although cold, the air invigorated me. I loved morning rides more than almost anything in my life, no matter the time of year. Apollo tossed his head, eager to move faster, but I kept him at an easy pace beside Marigold, mindful of Mireille’s progress.
“Where are we going?” Mireille asked.
“Just through the pasture.” I gestured toward our left. “There’s a trail that loops back to the estate. It’s an easy ride and very scenic.”
As we rode, I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She sat taller in the saddle today, and her posture was more natural. Marigold seemed to sense her confidence, moving with smooth, steady steps.
Apollo snorted and tried to quicken his pace. “Easy, boy.” I tightened the reins a smidge. He obeyed, though his tail swished in mild protest.
“You look like you were born in that saddle,” Mireille said, her gaze flickering toward me.
I shrugged. “It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”
“What else do you enjoy?”
“Reading. Writing. Horses. Tennis in the warmer months. Swimming. There’s a creek that runs along the north side of our property with a great swimming spot. Not this time of year, obviously. I love to be outside.”
“Betsy’s the same. At school, she’s always the first one out the door for our physical education hour.”
“What about you? Before you came here, what did you like to do?”
“Dancing. Ballet. Not that I was any great talent or anything, but I love it. I’ve always enjoyed school and learning new things. And, of course, my family and our vineyard. I’m proud of what we do.” Her tone grew husky. “I hope to get back to it eventually. Papa always talked as if it were a foregone conclusion that I would run the vineyard one day, but now everything’s so uncertain. Who knows what will happen? I don’t know when or if I’ll be able to return home.”
The idea of it broke my heart. It was wrong. All of it. But it wasn’t the first time the world had been turned upside down by the lust for power.
“Have you been able to dance since you arrived here?” I asked, hoping to distract her.
“Yes, at school, we’re allowed to choose one activity, and I chose dance. We have a wonderful teacher.”
“Is it something you want to do professionally?”
“Oh, no. I’m not good enough. I might be able to teach one day, but to dance in the professional ballet, one needs more natural talent than I have. It doesn’t upset me, though. I know who I am and my strengths. It’s a passionate hobby, but that’s all.”
“Like my horses,” I said.
“Exactly.” We rode in silence for a few seconds before she asked, “What will you do after you graduate from Princeton?”
“My dream is to write for The New York Times .”
“You will. I know you will. George is right about your fine mind. Your speech at dinner was astounding. I was more than a little impressed. And touched, if you want to know the truth. To hear someone speak up for people they don’t even know shows me what a pure heart you have.”
“I woke in the middle of the night embarrassed by my high-handedness. I get carried away quite easily, as I’m sure you noticed.”
“No, not at all. You were saying the truth, whether people want to hear it or not.”
We reached the edge of the field where the trees formed a thin barrier, their dark branches stark against the snowy backdrop. The path curved gently through the woods, the snow packed down by deer trails. I slowed Apollo and looked over at Mireille.
“Feel like trying a trot?” I asked.
She shook her head no but said, “What do I do?”
“Good. Sit deep in the saddle and squeeze her sides with your legs. Not hard, but just enough to let her know. And move with her, not against her. Let Marigold set the pace and just focus on the rhythm.”
She did as I asked, and Marigold began to trot. The mare’s gait was even and measured, perfect for a beginner. I gave Apollo a nudge, and he moved into a smooth trot, his powerful strides sending small sprays of snow behind us. Mireille’s expression, a mixture of concentration and determination, amused me, but I kept my smile hidden. By the time we circled back to the field, a flush of pink brightened her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. “I did it. Did you see me?”
Her childlike enthusiasm touched my heart. “You did very well.” I slowed Apollo to a walk as we neared the stables. “You’re a natural. Plus, your dancer strength is perfect for riding.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t know about that, but I can see why you love to ride. I felt free. Alive.”
“Yes, that’s it.” She understood. “Trust between man and horse is one of the most joyous experiences one can have. In my humble opinion, of course.”
“Or woman and horse.”
I laughed. “Yes, right. Man, as in the human race. I mean no offense.”
“None taken.” She grinned, reaching down to pat Marigold’s neck. “This has been truly special. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“It was my pleasure. Any time you want to ride, I’ll take you out.”
“I’m sad to leave for school tomorrow. It’s been nice to be part of a family again.”
“If you come for Christmas, we can ride any day you like.”
“Your mother’s already invited me. I just love it here. Betsy’s been my guardian angel since I arrived. And now I have all of you looking after me, too. I shall not feel sorry for myself nearly as much as I thought I would.”
She was many things but full of self-pity. Not in the least.
We dismounted and led the horses back into the stables. I glanced over at Mireille and Marigold—the mare followed her calmly, her ears swiveling lazily, clearly content with her new rider.
Apollo snorted as I brought him into the cross-ties, tossing his head as though he wanted to remind me he wasn’t done for the day. “Good boy.” I patted his neck. “You behaved yourself—for once. I’ll reward you later.”
I loosened the girth strap, sliding the saddle off his back in one smooth motion without thinking much about what I was doing. Years of practice made it almost rote. I set the tack on the rack nearby before turning to Marigold. Mireille watched me closely. I’d noticed before how carefully she paid attention to details. A quality I respected.
“Let’s get this off you, girl,” I said to Marigold, stepping over to her. The mare stood perfectly still as I removed her saddle and pad, placing them next to Apollo’s. “See here?” I pointed at the pad. “It’s damp from the ride. You always want to let these air out so they don’t mildew.”
Mireille nodded, her brow furrowed slightly. She watched as I slipped off Marigold’s bridle and replaced it with a halter, scratching the mare lightly behind the ears. “What now?” Mireille asked.
“Now we brush them down.” I grabbed a stiff-bristled brush from the nearby shelf. “Sweat and dirt build up under the saddle, and if you don’t clean it off, it will irritate their skin.” I held out the brush to her. “Here—give it a try.”
She hesitated for a second before taking the brush from me. “How do I know if it hurts her or not?”
“You won’t hurt her. Just pretend you’re brushing your own hair.”
Mireille smoothed the brush over Marigold’s coat. The mare flicked her ears back briefly but settled quickly, leaning into the strokes.
“Long and firm.” I demonstrated on Apollo’s side. “You’re not just cleaning her; you’re checking for anything unusual—cuts, swelling, anything that might cause trouble.”
Mireille nodded and kept brushing, her movements slow but deliberate. I focused on Apollo, running the brush over his coat in long, even strokes. The barn was quiet except for the sound of the brushes and the occasional snort from the horses.
I could grow accustomed to this. Horses and Mireille Perrin. What a fine match we all were.
When I finished with Apollo, I grabbed the hoof pick and crouched by his front leg. “This part’s important,” I said over my shoulder. “Snow, stones, anything stuck in their hooves can make walking uncomfortable—or worse.” I ran my hand down Apollo’s leg, and he lifted his hoof obediently. I worked quickly, clearing out the packed snow and dirt, then glanced back at Mireille. “You’ll want to learn this eventually.”
She gave me a small nod as I moved to Apollo’s other hooves. When I was done, I stood and gave his neck a pat. “All right, your turn,” I said to Marigold, stepping over to the mare.
Marigold was just as cooperative, lifting her hooves easily as I worked. “She’s such a good girl. She makes this part easy.”
By the time I straightened, both horses looked relaxed, their coats gleaming with good health. I grabbed two blankets from the rack and threw one over Apollo’s back, smoothing it down before fastening the straps. “Keeps them warm while they cool off,” I explained as I turned to Marigold, doing the same for her. She nudged my arm gently when I finished, earning herself a scratch behind the ears.
As I tidied up, putting the tack away and brushing out the tools, I glanced over at Mireille. She was still by Marigold’s side, her hand resting lightly on the mare’s neck. “She’s easy to fall in love with, isn’t she?”
“She is.” Both Marigold and Mireille could be described thus. “And she trusts you—senses your innate kindness.”
“Do you think so? Really?” She seemed so pleased by the idea that I found myself grinning back at her, nodding my head.
“I do.”
Mireille’s fingers trailed down Marigold’s mane. “You won’t forget me, will you, girl?”
Marigold nudged Mireille’s shoulder with her nose.
I gave both the horses an apple and suggested we head inside for breakfast. “We’ll see if Betsy and George have managed to get themselves out of bed.”
“Betsy was fast asleep when I left. We all stayed up too late last night.”
We’d been up until nearly midnight, playing cards and talking. George entertaining us with stories of his adventures at school and otherwise. I’d been quiet, as usual, but had enjoyed myself immensely. “Once George starts with a story, it’s hard to get him to stop.”
She peered at me, her head tilted to the right. “Do you mind about George?”
“What do you mean?”
“That he talks so much? Takes all the attention?”
“No, it means I don’t have to.” I paused, adjusting my gloves. “Do you mind about Betsy? Her larger-than-life ways? Her bossiness?”
“Oh no, I love everything about her. Being with her is like holding the sun in your hands.”
I nodded, pleased that she understood how special my sister was. “She’s a force of nature. But you are too, you know. In a quieter way but just as powerful.”
“I would say the same to you.”
We walked out of the barn together, the sound of the horses settling into their stalls fading behind us. It was just as well we were going back to school tomorrow, I told myself. One more day with Mireille, and I’d be madly in love with her. Which, I felt fairly certain, neither of us welcomed. She had eyes for George and George only. I might be a fool, but I could face the truth when it stared me right in the face.