FIFTEEN
We shall practice until you can.
Matthias’s words lingered in Cecily’s ears for the rest of the day.
She knew he had been speaking of more than mere horse riding.
However, her concerns remained. Riding a horse—in a luxurious habit with the deportment of a lady—would set the nosy nebbies to gossiping. The servants’ talk would raise her visibility in the surrounding countryside and increase the chances of discovery.
The wise course of action would be to send Matthias her regrets.
But after retiring to her rooms for the night, she pulled the wrinkled habit from her travel trunk, feeling like an antiquarian excavating a long-buried past. Smoothing a hand over the lush velvet, she remembered the world she had once inhabited.
Long rides on a crisp autumn morning. Clipping along Rotten Row in London, weaving between carriages and nodding at acquaintances.
How she had loved riding, the freedom of guiding her steps wherever she wished.
If she rode tomorrow with Lord Matthias, could she counter the gossips?
Avoch was hardly London, after all. A few gabby servants couldn’t spread news to the multitudes.
And . . . the more she treated the situation as normal and acceptable, the more others would follow her lead.
To that end, she laid the garment across her bed and ironed the heavy fabric smooth, hanging it ready for use.
The next morning, she rose to cheery sun pouring through the window panes and chasing away any doubts.
Oh, yes. She would be riding today!
She donned the habit and pinned the matching jaunty hat atop her head before snatching up her riding crop and gloves. Looping the long fabric of the train over her arm, she glanced at the reflection in her small mirror.
Cecily Moulton gazed back.
The dress had always been her pride and joy—deep blue velvet, gold braided trim, high collar with a white ruff she had stiffened with starch last night.
The riding habit had the feel of a military uniform.
It made sense, as the war with Napoleon had raged when she commissioned the garment’s creation.
Seeing herself now . . . it was as if time itself had unraveled and thrust her back ten years. Before George and Drempton. Before every harrowing decision.
Color touched her cheekbones, and she looked away before tears blurred her vision.
That girl was long gone. Trampled under a stampede of callous men’s cruelty and life’s injustices.
But . . . despite all she had endured, she had held onto the riding habit over the years—a last vestige of her former self that she could never relinquish. A sign, as Matthias had said.
He also mentioned that George and Drempton had hidden her desertion up to now. Would Drempton continue to keep the secret? Revealing her desertion would irreparably damage her reputation. But it would also heap scandal on George’s failures as a husband and tarnish Drempton by association.
Her tentative hope burned brighter. Taking inspiration from Matthias’s humble list, she mentally drafted a small one of her own.
Become a proficient horsewoman once more
Be brave enough to tolerate a gentleman in close proximity
Uncover a way to reclaim my status as a lady
Though few in number, the items felt momentous. A wee rebellion and brisk wind of change all at once.
Today, she would tackle the first item—begin recovering her riding skills. Would her body even remember how to ride? It was entirely possible that she would tumble straight into the mud and render herself a laughingstock.
After months of dreary rain, the weather had decided to embrace spring at last. Sun shone overhead, and the breeze off the ocean held a hint of warmth.
She arrived at the stables just as Matthias led Indira out of her stall, dust motes hanging in the cheery sunlight. The smell of horse, leather, and fresh hay encircled her senses like a long-lost friend.
Forbes stood before the stable stalls, fitting a saddle onto Zephyrus.
The older Scot noted her attire with a puckering of his brow.
The silk trim and fine cut of her habit were decidedly outside the financial purview of a housekeeper.
A lady’s skill in the saddle would be even more unexpected.
But as Forbes did nothing more than bob his head in greeting, Cecily assumed Matthias had informed him that she would be assisting with Indira today.
“My lord.” She curtsied to Matthias.
“Mrs. Armstrong.” He nodded in return.
So polite and formal, the two of them. But the spark in his eye said he saw her as Cecily. And if she were being honest, the butterflies swirling in her stomach weren’t set off solely by the prospect of riding.
“How is she this morning?” Cecily asked, rubbing Indira’s forehead.
“A handful.” Matthias chuckled. “Full of pluck and eager to show off.”
“The best sort of horse, you mean?”
Another laugh. “Precisely.”
Cecily scratched the mare’s forelock. “Have ye been causing trouble, sweet lass?”
In reply, Indira nudged Cecily’s chest, no doubt smelling the carrots Cecily had pilfered from Cook. Sliding one from her pocket, she offered it to the mare, who gobbled it in one eager chomp. Cecily could feel the leashed tension in the horse—itching to stretch her legs and run.
“You’re spoiling her,” Matthias said.
“Aye, that I am. But after what this bonnie girl has endured, I think she deserves some care.”
The words landed with a punch. Cecily hadn’t meant them for herself, but once the thought was out, the truth reverberated like a clanged bell.
“How is Indira going to treat me in the saddle?” she asked.
Matthias shrugged. “She should be skittish but polite. I wouldn’t put you atop her unless I felt confident she wouldn’t try to unseat you.” His gaze turned wry. “But as with all animals, proceed with caution. Consider yourself forewarned.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time a horse has thrown me.”
He gave her a sharp look. “Are you uneasy? I can saddle up another mount for you to practice your seat, if you’d like.”
“No. Quite the opposite. I welcome the challenge.”
Matthias and Forbes settled the sidesaddle on Indira. The mare danced a bit at the distinct weight.
“My instincts say she was trained to a sidesaddle,” Matthias said. “But we won’t know for certain until you attempt to ride her and see how she responds to standard cues. Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Excitement flared in Cecily’s chest.
Matthias led Indira out of the stables and into the nearby training paddock.
Cecily followed behind them, only to stop abruptly as she realized the entire household had gathered at the fence—the stable hands, Mackenzie, two footmen, three housemaids, and even Rawkin—all eager to watch the spectacle of Mrs. Armstrong in the saddle.
Gracious.
She might have miscalculated the level of interest in her behavior. Last night, she had told Rawkin, in passing, that she might assist his lordship today in riding. The butler must have mentioned this to Mackenzie who, as the biggest gossip at Avoch, had eagerly spread the news to everyone else.
Briefly, Cecily considered ordering them all away.
Clapping her hands with a brisk, “Shall we all return to the castle and give the flagstone stairs a good scrubbing?” They would grumble but obey.
She must look a sight—skirts over her arm, crop in hand, shoulders trembling.
And what would be worse? Equipping herself well in the saddle?
Or taking a tumble? Both would generate eager chatter.
If Indira tossed her, Rawkin and Mackenzie would relive Cecily’s humiliation for months.
The prickle of so many eyes caused her knees to wobble. But courage tightened her muscles and swelled her lungs. This happiness she would take for herself.
Matthias motioned Cecily forward as Forbes dragged a mounting block into place. His lordship guided Indira to stand beside it, whispering to the mare.
“I fear ye’ll break your wee neck, Mrs. Armstrong!” Mackenzie called.
“If ye stop your blethering, I won’t.”
The footmen and stable hands laughed. Only Matthias, standing at Indira’s head, kept his gaze steady and sure.
“Ye sure ye ken what you’re about?” Rawkin asked, gaze skimming her expensive habit. It might be years out of fashion, but it was still of the sort of quality only the finest London modiste could produce. Cecily would know. George had complained for months about the garment’s expense.
“I fear we’re about to find out, Rawkin,” Cecily called back.
She climbed the stairs of the mounting block, years sliding off her shoulders with each step. She felt like a young woman again, racing down to the stables at dawn, eager for a morning ride. Indira snorted and stamped a foot, tugging on the reins that Matthias held. He patted her neck.
“Ready?” He lifted his head, dark eyes warm. “She’s eager to let off some steam.”
Cecily nodded. Truly, she should probably feel more nervous, but the thrill of riding a hot-blooded horse like Indira sang like opium in her veins—intoxicating and all-consuming. If the mare threw her, Cecily would dust herself off and try again.
Matthias handed her the reins and stepped back.
Swallowing, Cecily took a centering breath—ignoring the host of staring eyes—and whispered to Indira.
“Are you ready, sweet girl?”
The horse tossed her head and stomped a foot in reply.
Cecily could do this. She would do this.
Riding crop in her right hand, Cecily placed her left boot into the short stirrup and swung her right leg over Indira’s back.
The mare danced sideways, hopping twice and kicking up her back legs, preventing Cecily from wrapping her right leg around the pommel in proper sidesaddle position.
Sitting astride, she leaned forward, patting Indira’s neck and speaking softly.
“Hush now, lass. We need to show these men how ladies handle matters.”
The mare whickered, but continued to prance around the paddock, even rearing slightly.
Despite the passage of years, Cecily’s muscles remembered what to do. Her body recalled how to shift weight and cling to a horse’s back. Relief flooded her bloodstream. Her former self might be forgotten and buried deep, but she had not breathed her last.
Indira continued to work out her jitters, but with each passing moment, Cecily felt her own confidence grow.
She could sense that the mare was rather peeved and frustrated and wished for everyone to know it.
But Cecily felt trust there, too. The horse wished to listen.
She simply had some energy to work out first.
After a few minutes, Cecily took back control and finally wrapped her right leg around the pommel, settling her skirts as a proper lady would. She urged Indira into a canter and let the mare prance around the perimeter of the paddock, occasionally tossing her head, but otherwise behaving.
Indira responded readily to Cecily’s subtle commands—the soft taps of her riding crop. The mare didn’t misunderstand a single one. Yes, she was a dream. Cecily’s cheeks flushed with pleasure.
“You look pleased as Punch, Mrs. Armstrong,” Matthias called.
Cecily turned Indira’s head and guided her to the crowd gathered at the fence. Poor Rawkin was positively gaping.
“Indira is aptly named, my lord.” Cecily’s grin spread wide. “She is a goddess among horses. Don’t let them tell ye anything different, lass,” she added, bending to pat Indira’s neck.
Matthias laughed.
“She is decidedly well-trained to a lady rider,” Cecily continued.
“I suspected as much. Thank you for confirming it.”
“I say, Mrs. Armstrong, ye appear a marvel in the saddle,” Rawkin said.
“Why thank ye, Rawkin.”
“How did ye learn to ride so well?”
“My father was a cavalryman,” she lied. “He taught me to ride.”
That was only a partial truth, but thoughts of her parents always made her melancholy, so she preferred not to dwell on them.
“I see,” Rawkin said, but given the way his eyes lingered on the heavy velvet of her habit, he clearly appeared to have doubts. Most likely wondering why, in all their years together, she had never mentioned her skill in horse-riding.
All of them had to suspect that Cecily had been born into a station other than the one she currently inhabited. After all, she never joined the upper staff in a wee dram and long blether. She had always held herself a bit apart, afraid that if she got too close, her secrets might slip out.
“What are your thoughts on Indira, Mrs. Armstrong? Where can her manners be improved?” Matthias called, swinging onto Zephyrus.
“She is utter perfection. I shan’t be dissuaded from that opinion. Though I fear she is spoiling for a good run.”
“Let us test her legs then.” Matthias turned for the road.
Forbes opened the gate, and Cecily urged Indira through it, the heads of the gathered crowd all swiveling to follow her.
For a moment, the weight of two dozen eyes caused her resolve to falter.
She had spent so many years with her head down, burying her truest self under subterfuge and lies.
Anything to remain banal and unnoticeable.
Such habituation was difficult to discard.
Her mind shrieked that the shadow beside the castle wall might be one of Drempton’s minions come to snatch her.
But her gaze settled on Matthias riding ahead—so sure and true. He was facing his fears. She could follow his lead and do the same.
He sat in the saddle like a man born to it—fluid and at one with his horse.
Truthfully, he must be half centaur. She permitted herself to ogle him from behind.
Just for a moment. Just this once. His strong thighs, trim waist, and easy seat in the saddle.
Unbidden, the memory rose of sitting behind him on Zephyrus, the firm wall of his muscled body.
Indira whinnied, tugging on the reins, clamoring to run after Zephyrus. Cecily could scarcely blame the girl. Both males were spectacular.
She held the mare back for half a minute. Anything to ensure Indira behaved and developed pretty manners.
Then, with a slight shift of her weight and a tap of her crop, she gave Indira her head.
Muscles bunching, the horse took off like a whippet after a rabbit. Laughter tore from Cecily’s throat. Heaven above, how she had missed this!
She and Indira sailed past Zephyrus and Matthias in a burst of speed. They flew down the road, the wind fluttering her habit, air cleansing her lungs as the dirt flew from the mare’s feet.
Cecily suspected that the gallop felt like freedom to them both.
Tears blurred her vision.
This.
This was the Cecily she had lost. The girl who loved a wild ride across fields, sailing over fences and reveling in the fervor of pounding hooves. The girl who laughed out loud and craved independence.
None of that girl’s wishes had come true.
But now, as Indira sprinted up a small rise and the expanse of the North Sea stretched to the horizon, Cecily could feel the soul of that girl being reborn.
And for the first time in six years, possibly even ten—countless days and hours and minutes—she dared to dream of a happier future.