by Ella Edon
Merope took a deep breath, listening as Goose's big hooves clomped and crunched on the gravel of the driveway. She tried to concentrate only on the sight of the huge stone barn not far from the house, nodding and smiling to the other guests as she walked through the small crowd.
Then, when she was almost past the gathering of other riders, she heard a familiar voice call her name.
"Miss Robbins."
There was no avoiding it. She had thought in great detail about what she might say to him if he should he be here for the hunt. Of course, she had otherwise daydreamed about cutting him dead right in front of everyone and getting a bit of revenge on him that way – revenge for rejecting her after she had given him all she had to give to any man.
Merope realized now that she felt angry, humiliated, and greatly, greatly insulted when it came to James Brookford.
She stopped, and very slowly turned around. She said nothing, but merely stared down at him with the coldest silence she had ever turned on anyone.
James bowed to her. Merope curtsied to him as formally as if he was the Prince of Wales.
"I am very happy to see you, Miss Robbins," he said softly.
"I hope you are well, Mr. Brookford," she answered coolly. Though, even as she said it, her body recalled the way that he had made love to her. She waited, hoping to become mistress of her own emotions again.
He seemed to be searching for words. She stood as dead silent as a stone. They stood in the most awkward of silences for a brief moment, and then Merope spoke. "I am told that the stablemaster is waiting for me. I do hope you enjoy the hunt." She turned and walked away from him without a backward glance, as though he were no one at all.
Merope could not help but smile to herself. What she wanted most of all today was to prove to herself – and to anyone who may see her – that James Brookford mattered not at all to her. She especially wanted to prove it to him. He had to know that he was meaningless to her from this moment on, no matter what their history might be.
She had no wish to be cruel to anyone, but if he was not going to protect her then she would have to do it herself. Never again was she willing to feel the humiliation and rejection she had felt the morning after the ball . . . when he had behaved as though such evenings were casual routine to him and it had not even occurred to him to propose.
Never again.
As she approached the enormous barn, Merope was met by Levi, the stablemaster. "Why, good morning to you, Miss Robbins! I have your mount ready for you."
She laughed, already feeling more confident. "It's not Blackbird, is it?"
Levi laughed as well. "Would you prefer him? I'll have him saddled right up for you. He's small, but he would keep up with the cubbing, all right."
"No, no, please! I am sure I will do well with whatever horse you have chosen for me today."
"Indeed, Miss Robbins. I know you have not ridden out like this before, so I have found you a steady animal who will take good care of you."
"Oh, very good," she said, picturing a large horse like Gray Goose. "I have been practicing on a very big dray horse. I feel that if I can handle him, I can handle most anything."
Levi glanced back at her as he opened one of the stall doors. "Perhaps so, miss. But do remember: A very large dray horse will not be nearly so quick as a smaller animal."
Merope frowned a little. Mr. Hawkins had said the same thing. All she could do was nod in agreement as Levi walked into the stall and led out her mount for the hunt, already saddled and ready to go.
"Oh," she whispered. "He's – he's rather small, isn't he?"
"Well, now, Miss Robbins, this is Woodlark. He's the dowager countess's own favorite driving pony and he also goes well under saddle. I think you'll find him quite agreeable, once you get to know him a bit."
"Of course. I'm sure I will," Merope answered, and then made herself walk over to the pony.
Woodlark had a polished red-brown coat, with a long, black, thick mane and tail, and was definitely taller than little Blackbird. Merope ran her hands over the sidesaddle he wore and noted that it seemed to be the same one that she'd used with the small pony some months ago. Through sheer determination, especially since she had been in front of James, she had not fallen off during that ride and had managed to feel a little more secure on the quick little creature by the time she took him back to the barn.
Levi led the pony to the mounting block just outside the barn. Woodlark's back was about chest-high to Merope and she was able to climb up the block and sit down on the sidesaddle easily enough. She got her right foot hooked over the horn and slipped her shining boots into the stirrups.
"I'd say it's a perfect fit, miss. Now, take him for a walk around the yard to get to know him, and then all you have to do for today is follow along. You can stay after Lady Worthington— she'll be going around all the obstacles and you should do the same."
"Thank you, Levi. I will do my best." Most of the other riders were already mounted up and milling about the yard. Merope took the opportunity to try a few turns and circles with Woodlark and try to get comfortable on him. His steps did seem quite hasty compared to Goose's very long, slow strides, but at least, he was not so spitting-fast as Blackbird had been.
Before she knew it, a crowd of young hounds spilled out into the yard with their mounted handlers doing all they could to keep them together. The hounds passed through without stopping and all the riders took off at a jog to follow them.
"Miss Robbins!"
A quick glance back showed her that James had caught up to her. He rode Vireo, of course, his very tall and long-legged Thoroughbred hunter.
Merope recalled how she had ridden pillion behind James on that day months ago, holding tight to his waist and trying to look down at the ground so far away . . . and how she had stumbled and fallen in the street on trying to dismount and made a great fool of herself in front of half the town.
She looked away and did not acknowledge him at all, but in three strides Vireo was right alongside Woodlark. "I do not want to annoy you, Miss Robbins," he said. "I just want to be sure you know that you need not jump any of the obstacles. I know that your Woodlark here has been schooled to jump the smaller ones – "
"You need not worry about me, Mr. Brookford. I am not your concern. I will take care of myself, as I always have."
He sighed and briefly closed his eyes. "Did anyone tell you that you should not jump when riding on a sidesaddle? It is not strong enough to take the strain. Please, just take the pony around as Lady Worthington intends to do with her small horse. Please take consideration of your mount."
Merope gave him only the briefest of glances. "Thank you for your advice. I will take care of myself." She sent Woodlark jogging on after the rest of the hunt and left James to ride by himself.
Fortunately, Merope found that Woodlark was willing enough to stay towards the rear. That way, she could avoid the noise and shouting and horns and commotion at the front with the hounds. She was also very glad to see that everyone was right; there was always a way around each fallen log or deep ditch without actually jumping over it, and Merope quickly learned the trick of going around each obstacle and then hurrying to catch up with the rest of the riders.
She only had to grab for Woodlark's thick black mane a couple of times, as he trotted along.
The pony seemed tireless, as though he could go on forever. Merope tried to just concentrate on staying where she should, away from the pack, when it came to following the hunt. Most of all, though, she wanted to show James that she could indeed do this without any help from him. She knew very well that he was right behind her and watching every move she made.
Merope was almost beginning to relax and enjoy trotting the pony through the woods and around the logs. Suddenly, from up at the front of the hunt, there was a hysterical screeching and howling from the young hounds.
The houndsmen began yelling and blowing their horns, but the dogs kept up their tremendous racket and Merope could hear the
pack moving off to one side of the forest. Then of their own accord, the horses took off at a gallop, bolting after the noise of the hounds.
She barely had time to grab Woodlark's mane again before he tore after the horses in front of him. The houndsmen kept shouting, and at one point, Merope could hear Lord Worthington shouting back at them. "It's just a rabbit! Call them off! They're too fast! Call them off!"
This was supposed to be a training hunt for the young dogs, but it seemed to Merope that this pack was too inexperienced and excitable to heed the huntsmen's calls. There was no telling how long it would take to get them stopped.
No doubt, the other riders found this to be great sport and loved the chance to gallop along, but Merope was hanging on for her very life. The pony was moving as fast as he could possibly go and was no longer heeding her commands to do anything.
She could see that some of the other riders – Lady Worthington and a few others – were pulling away from the mad dash and taking their horses behind some trees to stop them from following the herd. She could hear James yelling behind her. "Merope! Pull him aside! Make him stop. Too fast, too fast!"
But little Woodlark was focused on the rest of the galloping herd in front of him, that seemed to be leaving him behind. He dug in hard and galloped with all his strength, no longer noticing any guidance that his rider tried to give him.
It was terrifying to feel so out of control, but Merope realized that the pony was just following the rest of the field. She may as well just hold on tight and let him go.
He couldn't run forever.
Her eyes widened when she saw that the ground in front of them was rising to a small hill. Across the top of the hill, was a low dry-stone wall. The big horses ahead were taking it in their stride, though their hooves were tearing up the grass and earth in front of the wall, leaving a very muddy rise up to the jump.
For a moment, panic set in. "Stop him! Stop him! Pull away and go around!" cried James, but there was no chance of doing that. Merope could feel that the sight of the obstacle and the other horses going over it, had made Woodlark determined to follow them.
Merope closed her eyes. She had jumped a few small ditches and a little one-foot wall on old Grey Goose and it hadn't been so bad. Woodlark had been trained for jumping, James had said. She locked her fingers in the black mane and prepared for him to leap.
The pony then suddenly threw his head up and tried to stop. Her eyes flew open. The hill was steeper than she had thought and the mud too slippery for the pony to make the jump. Woodlark had changed his mind at the last instant and bounced hard to a stop –
Violently jolting his rider hard once, twice, and right off his back, into the mud below.
Chapter Thirty-One
Merope found herself trying to push up to a sitting position, but her hands kept sliding in the mud. She was vaguely aware that Woodlark had dashed away to keep up with the other horses. She was now alone, wet, and filthy at the base of the small muddy hill.
"Merope! Are you hurt? Don't move! Stay right there!"
She managed to get up to a sitting position, feeling the cold mud soaking right through her expensive riding habit. Looking up, she saw James dashing over to her as Vireo pulled away from him and ran after the hunt just like Woodlark had done.
James slid to a stop beside her, not caring that his fine breeches and boots and the tails of his long coat were all being ruined by the mud. He put his arms around her shoulders and held her very firmly, pulling her against him for support.
"Stay very still," he ordered. "Are you hurt? Can you breathe? Where did you – "
He fell silent. Still dazed, and leaning back against the support he provided, she tried to look up at his face to see what he was looking at.
She caught sight of her riding habit. The top buttons had been torn off and the coat hung open . . . and dangling out of it, atop her now-muddy white shirt, was the gold-and-ruby pendant.
He paused, staring down at it. Merope knew that he had seen it on their night together in the millhouse, for he had remarked on it when . . . at one point . . . she had been wearing little else.
Quickly, she dropped the pendant inside her white shirt to hide it from view. She tried to push herself away from him and get up, but he kept hold of her shoulders and would not let her go. "You knew I would be here today," he said quietly. "Yet you still wore – that necklace. While behaving as though you despise me, when I have done nothing to you – "
Outrage flooded through her, making her forget all about the cold mud soaking through her clothes. Pushing away from him, Merope struggled, slipped, and slid as she tried to stand up - and finally managed to get to her feet. "Done nothing to me!" she hissed. "You cannot mean that!"
All the anger and humiliation of the past several weeks came rushing up to the surface. "You have done 'nothing' save use me like a waterfront doxy and then discard me the moment it was over!"
James, too, stood up in the mud and caught her by the wrists so that she would not fall again. "I did no such thing," he said, his voice low. "I love you, Merope. I have loved you for a very long time. I believed that you felt the same about me."
She wrenched away from him and walked a few steps to drier ground, leaning against an oak with one hand. "I did feel the same," she hissed, through clenched teeth. "But I believed you meant to ask me to marry you. I would not have stayed out there with you otherwise, much as – much as I wanted to."
He came over to her again, walking up behind her and holding her shoulders again. "I did mean to ask you to marry me. Strange as it may sound, Merope, I almost thought that it might insult you more to ask you that night – as though I would not have done so otherwise. I fully intended to do so before you left Albany House when the week of your visit – before your intended visit was over."
"But you did not ask!" she cried, doing her best to pull away from him again.
This time, James held her tight. He forced her to turn around and look at him, not letting her go. "I would have asked. It almost went without saying for me," he said, and his own voice was rising with anger as well. "It was difficult to find the right time to do so with your friend Sally present at every turn."
"You are the one who invited her!" cried Merope. "And I cannot believe she was your excuse. Once I got back home, I felt so humiliated that I never wanted to see you again. I wanted to forget I ever knew you!"
She tried to push him away, hitting his chest with her fist, but he only moved her arm aside and bent down to kiss her, while holding her as tightly as he could.
He kissed her again and again, and the passion between then flared even brighter than it had on their first night together. Finally, Merope turned her face away and let her head fall back from him. "I never wanted to see you again," she gasped. "I could not decide which was worse . . . seeing you, or not seeing you. I still cannot decide."
"I can decide," he growled. "You are the most wonderful girl I have ever known. I cannot imagine a better match for me, nor a finer woman to become the Viscountess of Albany. I cannot imagine being without you, though that is exactly what I have had to endure for all these past weeks. I don't like it. I want it to stop. Now."
"Do you still think me cold and unfeeling? Interested in nothing?"
He closed his eyes. "No. I do not. I know how warm and passionate you can be about – about many things."
She cocked her head at him, hearing the blood pound in her ears. "Is that the truth, James? Is our pact of honesty still in place?"
"I don't care if it is or not. It is the truth. You are warm and passionate, and I do not want to be without you again."
"That may be the truth but you don't seem to understand. I am ashamed of myself."
He eased his hold on her arms, just steadying her now. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, dear Merope. It was love for both of us, not a – not a mere pastime."
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I am ashamed of many of my actions," she told him while trying her best
to keep her head up even though her voice shook, and a tear ran down her face.
"I will not blame my father's absence for – for the way I am," she whispered. "He did not want to leave us. I always felt I had to work much harder than other girls, for I did not have a father, or any other male relative. All I had was a mother who had to work every day for her living, and for mine."
"I know that. We spoke of it before. I have nothing but respect for both you and your mother to handle such a thing as well as you have."
Merope folded her hands and moved a step away from him. James stood quietly and listened as she spoke.
"My mother and I are proud of it, too. Yet, growing up, I always felt the vague pity of the townsfolk for the fatherless girl, whose mother was always working – and working at such a vulgar trade as that of innkeeper. I learned to pretend that I did not care about that. That I did not care about anything. Ever."
