His Lordship's Filly

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  Bridget continued. “His Lordship here, my husband, he doesn’t think that you can ride the horse.”

  “That ‘orse?” Elsie’s smile melted, becoming a small frown. “That big ‘orse?”

  “Yes,” Bridget said. “You see, I’ve told his Lordship that the horse doesn’t like boys.”

  Elsie nodded. “Nasty things sometimes, boys is. Pulling me ‘air and knocking with their fists.”

  “That’s it,” Bridget agreed. “But his Lordship doesn’t believe me about the horse. He couldn’t ride him. I want to prove to him that I’m right. So I want you to get on the stallion. And ride him.”

  “What ‘appened to ‘is Lordship when ‘e got on?” Elsie demanded apprehensively.

  Bridget hesitated. Andrew wasn’t going to like this. “He—ah—”

  “I hit the ground,” Andrew said, looking down at the child with a fierce frown. “I hit the ground hard.”

  The child looked so frightened that for a moment Bridget thought she would refuse altogether. Then Elsie put the nosegay carefully back into her battered basket and extended a dirty hand to Bridget. “I’ll do it, lady. I’ll ride the ‘orse—fer ye.”

  “Thank you,” Bridget said, squeezing the grimy little fingers. “Now, don’t be afraid. You just do like I tell you.”

  Elsie nodded. “I will, lady. I will.”

  “First,” Bridget said, “come here. Come up to Waterloo’s nose.”

  Elsie stepped up, her little face almost even with the stallion’s long muzzle as Waterloo had bowed his head down. “ ‘E’s awful big, ain’t ‘e?”

  “Yes,” Bridget said. “But he won’t hurt you. Now, lean forward a little. Blow into his nostrils like this.” She blew softly.

  Elsie looked skeptical, but she leaned forward, pulled in a breath, and blew. Then she wrinkled her little nose and jumped. “Lordy, lady, ‘e blew back at me!”

  Bridget chuckled. “He’s saying that now he knows you. Now he’ll let you ride him.”

  Elsie still didn’t look convinced, but she kept her hand in Bridget’s. “ ‘Ow I gonna get on ‘im?” she asked, a little quaver in her voice.

  “I’ll put you up,” Bridget said. “Just like this.” And she lifted the child to the horse’s back and put the reins in her hands. “Hold them this way. And don’t be afraid. I promise that he won’t hurt you.”

  Elsie nodded, looking like she was indeed afraid, but too afraid to open her mouth to say so.

  “Back off a way,” Andrew said to Bridget. “Of course, he won’t do anything when you’re standing right there.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” Bridget repeated to the child. “He won’t hurt you.”

  When Elsie nodded again, Bridget walked away, around Sable, and out of the stallion’s sight.

  “Now,” she called. “Cluck to him and he’ll start to walk. Guide him with the reins. Guide him in a circle.”

  She peered over the filly’s back, almost holding her breath. If only this went well, if Elsie could do it, she would win, and she could ask Andrew . . .

  Waterloo walked off, his head high, his gaze steady. He behaved as sedately as if she herself were on his back. Round and round he walked, carrying the child in a circle near them.

  Bridget turned and looked at Andrew. “Well? Do I win the wager?”

  He frowned, his expression incredulous. “I’ll be da— That is, how did you manage this?”

  She sighed. It was so simple. “I told you. Waterloo doesn’t like boys.”

  “I suppose he told you so,” Andrew said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “No, he didn’t. I know because one day I found some boys chasing him round the far paddock. They took turns till he was tired, they said, and then they rode him into the ground.”

  “So he doesn’t like males.” His voice was still skeptical, but not nearly as sarcastic as it had been.

  Bridget nodded. “But he will learn to like you if you just let him get acquainted.”

  Andrew finally grinned. “All right, I stand corrected. I should have known that where horses are concerned there’s no way to best you. You know too much.”

  Bridget grinned, too. “Thank you. It’s good to be appreciated.” She turned to the child, still guiding the horse in circles. “Stop now.”

  “ ‘Ow?” Elsie said. “ ‘Ow do I stop ‘im?”

  “Waterloo, whoa,” Bridget called. The stallion halted, sending an inquiring look her way and pricking his ears.

  She came out from behind the mare and lifted Elsie from his back. “You did very well,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Elsie bent quickly to her basket, bringing up two nosegays. “Buy me flowers?” she asked. “Pretty flowers?”

  “Yes,” Bridget said. “We’ll take two.”

  While Andrew fished in his pocket for some coins, Bridget leaned closer to whisper. “Ned will come later with your food.”

  She gave the child the coins Andrew passed her and swung up on the stallion again. “Shall we go home?” she asked her husband.

  “Yes,” Andrew said. “And you can be contemplating the nature of the wish you want me to fulfill.”

  “Very well,” Bridget said. “I’ll think about it.” Actually she wouldn’t have to think at all. She knew exactly what she wanted. But this wasn’t the time to tell him. She had to lay the groundwork, lay it carefully. And then everything would be just as she wanted it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  That night Bridget went to the dinner table in a new gown of deep green satin. Pulling out her chair for her, Andrew dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. “You’re looking especially lovely tonight, my dear.”

  That made her smile. “Thank you, Andrew. It’s my new gown that makes me look so good. I like them. Much more than I thought I would. It was kind of you to buy them for me.”

  “It was nothing,” he said, taking his own chair. “I’ll buy you many more.” He gazed at her speculatively. “So, you’ve had the afternoon to think. What will you have then? A diamond necklace? A ruby ring? A carriage of your own?” He laughed. “Or maybe a new horse—or two?”

  She drew in a quick breath. She hadn’t thought of any of those things. “No, Andrew. Though if I had to choose among those, I would take the horses.”

  He laughed again. “I know, my dear. I know you.” He helped himself to some soup.

  She moistened her lips. “Andrew?”

  “Yes?”

  “I—I have something to tell you.”

  He shrugged, his shoulders broad under his black evening coat. “Then tell me.”

  She took another breath. “You remember the child on the street? The one who rode Waterloo for me?”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “Yes? What about her?”

  “I—” She must do this just right. She had to tell him the truth—she couldn’t live with this thing untold between them. But she didn’t want to spoil things. “I knew her already.”

  He paused, a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. “Knew her?” he repeated in surprise.

  “Yes.” Now that she’d begun she had to go on. “I—I buy flowers from her every morning after my ride. And— And I take her bread and meat.”

  Andrew put the soup in his mouth and swallowed slowly. Bridget waited anxiously. How could she convince him that she hadn’t planned the whole thing? After the trick Papa had played on him about the race, would he believe anything she told him? But if she hadn’t told him, and he found out later, that would have been even worse.

  He looked her over, his eyes serious. Her breath caught in her throat, hung there while she waited.

  And then he laughed. He put his soup spoon down on the tablecloth and laughed and laughed. “You set me up. And I fell right into it!”

  “No, Andrew. Oh, no!” He couldn’t believe that. “It wasn’t like that at all. You chose the child.”

  He stopped laughing. “That’s right.” He scrutinized her face. “You mean that child had never been on the horse?”

  �
�Never,” Bridget said firmly. “I just bought her flowers and gave her food.”

  Andrew nodded. “I believe you, Bridget.” He picked up his spoon again. “So I’ll concede that you won the wager fair and square.”

  “Thank you.” Relief swept through her. But there was still the payment of the bet. Would he still give her what she wanted?

  “Well,” he said, sending her a quizzical look. “What will you have?”

  “I—I—” A big lump came up in her throat. “Please Andrew, let me tell you the whole thing before you speak.”

  He nodded over the rim of his glass, his gaze intent on her. “Go ahead. I’ll listen.”

  She swallowed again, her throat dry. “I—the child— Elsie—has no parents. They’re gone, dead. I—I want to take care of her, to bring her here. She could learn— And I—” She was rattling on. She closed her mouth with a snap.

  “That’s what you want?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “You want to bring a child—a child off the streets of London—here?”

  “Yes,” she said. “The people she lives with—the man drinks up all the money she earns. I worry about her out there in the streets. So little, so alone.”

  Andrew shook his head and her heart fell into her stomach. He was going to say no, to forbid her to ride in the park, to—

  “Your heart is too tender,” he pointed out. “You can’t help every orphaned child in London.”

  “I know that,” she replied, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. “But I can help one, this one.”

  Andrew considered that, contemplating her thoughtfully. “You’re right,” he said finally.

  She let out her breath. “You mean I can have her? I can bring her here?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You can. I promised you whatever you wanted. And I always keep my word.”

  She leaned toward him. “Oh, Andrew, thank you! I’ll help Mrs. Purvey with her, I promise. And Elsie will be so good.”

  He laughed. “Bridget, children are always trouble. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  She smiled then. “All right, but I’ll do my best, at least.”

  He nodded. “There is one thing—one little thing.”

  She hesitated. “Yes?”

  “About your morning rides.”

  Her heart fell. He couldn’t ask her to give up her rides. She wasn’t sure she could live without them. “Yes?”

  “I can see why you like to ride so early.” He paused, considering the tray the footman was presenting him. “And why you like to ride in breeches. But—”

  She could hardly breathe. Why didn’t he get on with it? Why didn’t he tell her that her rides were over for good?

  “But I ask that you continue to ride early. To be off the street before members of the ton are about.”

  She could hardly believe it. That was all he wanted? “Oh yes, I will!” she cried. “I’ll be very careful, too. And I’ll take Ned along. Always.”

  “Very good,” Andrew said. “Then we’ll consider it a bargain. Tomorrow morning you can bring the child home with you. That should make you happy.”

  She swallowed over sudden tears. “Yes, Andrew, it does. Very happy. And thank you, thank you so much!”

  The next morning Bridget was awake long before dawn. At the first streaks of daylight, she was off to the stable, and since she’d sent word the night before, Ned was ready.

  “Do you think she’ll want to come?” Bridget asked nervously as they moved along the still-quiet streets. “What if she’s afraid?”

  “She ain’t gonna be afeerd,” Ned said firmly. “Ye been real good to ‘er.”

  “But—”

  “Please, yer Ladyship. Don’t be aworrying.” Ned looked up at her from solemn eyes. “Anyone be glad to live at ‘is Lordship’s ‘ouse. I knows.”

  Elsie wasn’t on her corner yet, so they went on to the park. Bridget gave the stallion his usual run, but her heart wasn’t in it. All she could think of was Elsie. Would she be there on her corner? Would she want to come?

  The ride over, they headed back the way they’d come. As they neared the corner, Bridget’s heart rose up in her throat. Elsie was there, the usual battered basket resting at her feet, full to the brim with fresh wildflowers.

  Seeing Bridget, she smiled. “Morning, lady. I like that ‘orse. ‘E’s nice.”

  Bridget smiled. “Yes, he is.” She swung down, squatting so she could face the child on eye level. “Elsie, I have something important to say to you. Listen carefully.”

  “I listening, lady.” The child’s bright blue eyes were intent, unwavering.

  “Yesterday, when you rode the horse, you did very well. His Lordship likes you. And—And we want you to come live with us.”

  “Live?” Elsie frowned. “Live?”

  “Yes,” Bridget said. “We want you to come to our house to stay. And you can have bread and meat every day.”

  “Every day?” Elsie’s eyes grew bigger. “But, lady, what about me sister? Me Molly?”

  Bridget swallowed. Why hadn’t she thought about Molly?

  “Well, she’ll have more to eat if you’re not there. And— And I’ll send her bread and meat. Every day, I promise.”

  Elsie looked down at the basket by her bare feet. “Me flowers? What’ll I do with me flowers?”

  “Leave them,” Bridget said.

  “Oh no!” Elsie’s little face wrinkled in horror. “Can’t do that. Molly, Molly’ll get beat. ‘E’ll beat ‘er, ‘e will.”

  Oblivious to the dirt, Bridget gathered the child to her. “Don’t cry, Elsie. Please. We’ll—We’ll take your flowers to Molly’s corner. And we’ll tell her you’re coming to live with us. So she won’t worry about you.”

  Elsie wiped at her tear-stained face with grimy hands, leaving streaks in the dirt already there. “All right, lady.”

  They found Molly on her corner, a smaller edition of Elsie—complete with dirty face, bare feet, and grimy hands. She stared at Bridget from awe-struck eyes. “Yer Elsie’s lady? The one what brings us the meat?”

  Bridget nodded. “Now listen carefully. Elsie’s coming to live with me.”

  Molly’s face screwed up into tears. “She won’t be coming ‘ome with me?”

  “No,” Bridget said. “But there’ll be more bread and meat for you.” She swallowed hard. “And— And I’ll see what I can do. Maybe you can come to the house, too.”

  “Me?” Molly was clearly amazed. “Me live with a lady?”

  “Yes. You be a good girl now and I’ll be back.” How on earth was she going to talk Andrew into this?

  She swung up on the horse and gave Elsie a hand up behind her. “Hold tight now.”

  As Elsie’s little arms closed around her, Bridget heard a sob and looked back over her shoulder. Molly was standing, bravely holding out her flowers, but the tears were flowing down her cheeks. Bridget’s own eyes filled with tears and she clucked to the horse.

  * * * *

  By the time they’d reached the house, Elsie had stopped crying. Bridget went first to the kitchen to dispatch Ned with more bread and meat for Molly. Then she took Elsie to Mrs. Purvey. “This is the child I spoke to you about. Her name is Elsie.”

  Mrs. Purvey’s round face broke into a delighted smile. “My, you’re a pretty little thing,” she said. “Come, we’ll have you a bath first. And then I’ll show you where to sleep.”

  Elsie stiffened. “I—I sleeps in the corner. With Molly. I ain’t never slept by meself.”

  Mrs. Purvey extended a hand. “It’ll be all right, child. I’ll have a cot put in with one of the maid’s. You’ll like it here.”

  Elsie’s fingers clutched Bridget’s so tightly she could hardly pry them loose. “You go with Mrs. Purvey, Elsie. And when you’re all clean and in your new dress, she’ll bring you to me.”

  “Dress?” Elsie asked, sniffling, but looking interested. Mrs. Purvey nodded. “And shoes and stockings.” Elsie released her grasp on Bridget and put her little
hand in Mrs. Purvey’s. But she turned a worried face to Bridget. “Molly?” she said. “You won’t forget me sister Molly?”

  “I won’t forget,” Bridget said, conscious that Mrs. Purvey’s smile had turned to a frown. She was worried, too, but she didn’t want Elsie to see.

  “You be good,” she repeated. “And I’ll see you later.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Two afternoons later Andrew entered White’s and joined Peter at a table. “So,” Peter said, “how is Aunt Sophie working out?”

  Andrew sighed. “She and Bridget get along famously. Too famously, perhaps. But that’s not the newest.”

  Peter took a sip of wine. “Tell me.”

  “Bridget made me another wager.”

  Peter grinned. “Don’t tell me you lost it.”

  “I did,” Andrew said. “She claimed that horse of hers doesn’t like males.”

  Peter shook his head. “And you didn’t believe her—so you lost the bet.”

  “Right.”

  Peter’s eyes gleamed with devilment. “And that means?”

  “She brought a waif off the street—a girl who sold flowers—to live at the house.”

  Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “To live?”

  Andrew nodded. “That’s right. A wide-eyed little waif.” He sighed, trying to be fair. “She’s a good enough child. Quiet. Well-behaved.”

  Peter took another sip of wine. “So?”

  “So I just heard that there’s a rumor going around.”

  Peter put his glass down. “I heard it, too.”

  Andrew frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I would have in a few minutes.” Peter smiled. “Of course it may be a different rumor.”

  “God forbid!” Andrew cried. He dropped his head into his hands. “Tell me what you heard. And from whom.”

  “I heard it from Conigsby who had it from Drayton who had it from Linden who had it from Wichersham.”

  Andrew raised his head. “Wichersham!”

  “Yes,” Peter replied. “He said he had positive proof that this child is actually Bridget’s bastard.”

  Andrew groaned. “Isn’t that ridiculous! Bridget’s only nineteen. The child’s at least eight.”