5. Georgina
— ? —
Georgina
The riding clothes go back in the closet before anyone can see them.
Breeches folded and pushed behind the everyday dresses, boots tucked into the corner where they’ll gather dust again, helmet returned to its shelf. I stand in front of the mirror in a cotton dress and try to see someone other than the woman who couldn’t lift her foot into a stirrup.
She looks tired. She looks like someone who has been lying to herself about how much progress she’s made.
By lunchtime, I’ve washed my face and pinned my hair back so tightly it pulls at my temples. I find Max in the kitchen, making sandwiches with the focused attention he gives to things that don’t actually require it.
“There you are.” He looks up when I come in, and his smile is genuine enough to make my chest ache. “I was about to send a search party.”
“I was changing.” I slide onto the stool across from him and watch him layer cheese onto bread. “You’re making lunch?”
“I’m making us lunch.” He pushes a plate toward me, already assembled. “You said if I was lucky. I decided to improve my odds.”
The sandwich is exactly how I like it.
He’s remembered which cheese, which bread, how much of the spicy mustard I pretend not to love. I take a bite and let myself enjoy the small pleasure of being known.
“How was the rest of your morning?” He settles onto the stool beside me, close enough that our knees touch.
“Quiet.” Not a lie, exactly. The part after I came back from the arena was very quiet indeed. “How was Giselle’s lesson?”
“Good… She’s still improving.” He takes a bite of his own sandwich, and I watch him chew, looking for any sign that this morning meant something different to him than it did to me.
There’s nothing. Just my husband, eating lunch, happy to be sitting beside me.
“She might actually be ready to try a canter soon.”
A canter. I know what that will feel like when she gets it right, how pleased she’ll be with herself. I think about my foot hovering above the stirrup, my whole body shaking, and I take another bite of sandwich so I don’t have to respond.
We eat together in the kitchen, talking about nothing important. He tells me about a young horse that’s been giving the grooms trouble. I tell him about a letter I received from a cousin I haven’t seen in years.
It’s comfortable in a way that makes me want to hold onto it, this ordinary moment of being married to someone who knows how I take my sandwiches.
I nearly tell him about Sovrano when he asks whether I want the other half of his sandwich. Such a small, ordinary question, and I have to look down at my plate before I can answer it.
What would he say if he knew where I’d been? I can’t bear to hear him call touching the stirrup progress, not when I’m still hearing what he said to Giselle.
Besides, I don’t want to make it into a problem. Once I say it out loud, it becomes a real thing. I don’t want us to fight over my insecurity.
And I trust him. I trust my husband.
***
My mother arrives at six, sweeping through the front door in a cloud of expensive perfume and unsolicited opinions.
She’s driven over for dinner, as she has at least once a week since Giselle settled in.
Checking on her investment, I assume. Making sure her youngest daughter is properly looked after in this enormous house.
“Georgina.” She offers her cheek for the air kiss I’ve learned to deliver without flinching. “You look tired. Are you sleeping?”
“I slept.” I step aside to let her in, accepting that this will probably be marked as an inadequate answer. “We’re ready to eat.”
Giselle comes down the stairs as our mother takes off her coat. She kisses her cheek and starts telling her something about the horses before they’ve even reached the dining room. I follow with the coat over my arm until the housekeeper gently takes it from me.
Max finds me in the doorway. He’s showered since training, and he stops beside me long enough to touch the back of my neck, where I’ve been rubbing at my hairpins.
“You’ve put them in too tightly.” His fingers pause below the twist of my hair, waiting for me to let him help. “The little ones on the left?”
“You remember that?” I turn slightly, giving him room. He learned how to rescue me from elaborate hairstyles after a charity dinner that lasted longer than either of us wanted to stay.
“I remember being blamed for pulling your hair when the pins were doing all the work.” He eases one free and puts it in my palm. The relief is immediate. “Better?”
“Much.” I curl my fingers around the pin and lean briefly against him. I want to stay here. I want to tell him I know he can be careful with me without making me feel broken, because he’s doing it right now.
My mother calls from the table, asking whether we’re waiting for someone else. Max gives me a rueful look, and we go in together.
The dining room is set for four, candles lit and wine poured. Max holds my chair for me before taking his own seat at the head of the table, and the first course arrives with the quiet efficiency of staff who know their business.
“Giselle was just telling me about her lessons.” My mother unfolds her napkin and fixes Max with an expectant look. “She says you’ve been very patient with her.”
“She’s a natural.” Max breaks a piece of bread over his plate. “She listens. She’s starting to find her balance instead of fighting the movement.”
“Georgie must have learned so much faster.” Giselle looks across at me, her smile almost shy. “I remember watching her and thinking it looked effortless. Was she always like that?”
“No.” I put down my fork before Max can answer for me. “It only looked effortless because you weren’t there for the practice.”
“You did make it look easy.” Max turns toward me, and for a moment his attention stays where I want it. “You still know more about getting a reluctant horse to work than most people I train with.”
“Then tell your groom to stop rushing the young gray when he leads him out.” I haven’t meant to say it, but I heard the same argument outside the terrace yesterday. “He plants his feet, the boy pulls harder, and they both get cross. Give him a moment to look at what he’s being asked to walk past.”
Max’s mouth quirks, and I remember the pleasure of disagreeing with him about something I knew I could do. “I’ll tell him you said so. He’ll take it better from you.”
“I’d never compare myself to that.” Giselle smooths her napkin on her lap, drawing our attention back to her. “I just want to understand what Georgie loved about it. Maybe keep that part of her life going while she’s recovering.”
There it is again. The honoring speech, polished smooth from repetition. I take a sip of wine and don’t say any of the things pressing against my teeth.
“How thoughtful.” My mother smiles at Giselle, leaving me to watch her give it. “I always knew you had the grace for it, darling. It must be such a comfort to you, Georgina, having your sister here to help.”
“You called it unladylike when I wanted to ride.” I set down my wine glass, looking straight at my mother. “I don’t remember grace coming into it.”
“That’s because you have other responsibilities you should’ve been focusing on then and yet you wanted to do nothing else.” She moves the bread basket toward Giselle, as though this explains the matter. “Your sister has other interests. She understands moderation.”
I look at Giselle, who has spent most of dinner talking about the morning she spent with my husband. Apparently moderation is another talent I lack.
“Georgina.” My mother waits until I turn back to her. “Your sister has put her own plans aside to be here with you. The least you could do is show some appreciation.”
“I appreciate Giselle.” I look at my sister, who has gone very still beside our mother. “I appreciate that she wants to help. I’m just not sure I understand what helping looks like when it means spending every morning with my husband while I sit in the house alone.”
“You could come watch the lessons.” Giselle leans toward me, leaving her food untouched. “I’ve asked you before. You’re always welcome.”
She has asked. More than once, in that gentle way she has, like she’s offering me a gift she’s not sure I’ll accept.
I’ve declined because I don’t want a seat on a bench while they ride.
I want to be out there with him. Now I’ve stood at the rail and heard what he says when he doesn’t know I’m listening, and I can’t imagine going back to watch it happen again.
“I’m not looking for things to watch.” I fold my napkin, pressing the crease flat with my thumb before laying it beside my plate. “I’m looking for my life back.”
“Then perhaps you should try harder to get it.” My mother sets down her fork with a precise click. “Instead of sulking about what you’ve lost, you could be grateful your sister is willing to keep your husband company while you recover.”
Keep your husband company. The words land as a slap, and I see Max flinch beside me.
“I’m teaching her, Isadora.” Max puts his bread down, looking directly at my mother. “Elle doesn’t need anyone standing in for her.”
“Of course not.” My mother picks up her wine glass, apparently satisfied. “I only meant that it must be nice for you, having someone to share your passion with. Since Georgina can’t ride with you anymore.”
She says it like a simple fact, as if stating the weather, and maybe to her it is. She’s never understood what riding meant to me. She’s never understood that it wasn’t just a hobby or a skill, that it was the place where I learned who I was when no one was watching.
“I’m not a vacancy for someone to fill.” I say it directly to my mother, holding her gaze. “And Giselle isn’t my replacement.”
“No one said she was.” My mother’s eyebrows rise, the picture of wounded innocence. “I don’t know why you’re being so sensitive about this, Georgina. We’re simply having a conversation about your sister’s lessons.”
I could list every word she has said since sitting down, but she’d call that keeping score.
If I went upstairs, it would be a tantrum. I know how this works. Somehow she can say anything she likes, and the only part we discuss is my reaction.
“Speaking of riding.” Max sets his knife beside his plate and looks from my mother to me before continuing, as if trying to change the topic. “I heard from the championship committee today. They’ve released the official program for this year.”
The championship. I look at Max, my napkin still folded beside a dinner I no longer want.
“How exciting.” My mother turns toward Max so readily that I wonder whether she notices what she’s leaving me to swallow. “When is it?”
“Six weeks from now.” Max reaches for his wine, and I watch his throat move as he swallows. “Full traditional format this year. All the usual events, plus the legacy pairs ride.”
I press my hands flat against my lap.
The legacy ride. I know the practice it takes, the arguments over timing, the moment a pattern finally comes together and neither of us wants to stop.
Max and I have ridden it before. I loved being beside him where everyone could see us, without having to pretend I was there for anything other than the pleasure of riding well.
“The pairs ride.” My mother pauses with her glass halfway to her mouth and looks between us. “That’s the one you and Georgina used to do together.”
Past tense. I look at my plate and try to remember how to breathe.
“We did.” Max glances at me, something careful in his expression. “It’s always been one of my favorite events. The synchronization, the partnership. There’s nothing else quite like it.”
“I remember that one.” Giselle lowers her fork, watching me now. “I remember watching you both at the last one. The way you moved together… it was like you could read each other’s minds.”
We could, almost.
I knew when Max was about to ask for more before he moved. He could tell from the set of my shoulders when I was going to argue with him afterward, and sometimes he’d grin at me in the middle of a pattern just to make it worse. I used to threaten to ride with someone less pleased with himself.
Neither of us ever took the threat seriously.
My mother asks about the rest of the program. Max starts answering, and I keep looking at him, waiting for him to turn back to me. There was a time he’d have asked what I wanted to work on first. We’d have been planning already, arguing over which mornings we could steal for practice.
But this morning I couldn’t even put my foot in a stirrup.
I curl my fingers around the hairpin I tucked into my pocket before dinner.
He noticed that I was uncomfortable in the doorway.
He knew exactly how to help, and I wanted to lean against him for the rest of the evening.
I still do. How can I feel so far from someone who knows even that small thing about me?
Weeks sounds like time when he says it. Enough to arrange the horses, make the journey, decide what to wear. I can’t make it sound like enough time to stop being afraid. I tried today. Nobody at this table knows how hard I tried.
I want to ask whether he pictured me beside him when he read the program. Instead, I sit with the question while my sister asks him something about the competition grounds. I don’t want to hear an answer he has to make gentle for me.
At home, I can leave a room when the riding talk becomes too much. At the championship, people will remember us. They’ll remember where I used to be, and I’ll have to stand somewhere else while they look at me.
I’m not ready for us to just be something people remember.