by Karen Odden
I stopped tugging at my sleeves, put my hands at my sides, and tried to muster some semblance of composure. “It was never my intention to lie to you,” I said earnestly. “That first night, I only wanted to help. I didn’t want my title to get in the way.”
“But the next day?”
“I didn’t want you to see me as a—as an earl’s daughter. I wanted you to see me as a person. As a—friend.”
His expression became incredulous. “My god, Elizabeth! You had just spent the whole night helping me—when you were injured yourself!” He shook his head. “Your title isn’t something that could make me forget that.”
No, I thought. But my lie had. I felt tears pricking at the corners of my eyes and looked away.
“What sort of man do you take me for?” he added more quietly.
The sort of man who would never chase me for my fortune.
The sort of man I could fall in love with.
The sort of man I might even marry, if you could think of me that way, and if I were allowed to choose.
But I could hardly say any of that.
My eyes fixed on the ugly swirls in the carpet.
After a moment, he sighed. “I need to go.” He picked up his bag and went past me. But he paused at the threshold. “I wish you all the best. Honestly, I do. Your mother as well.”
And then the front door closed behind him.
A quarter of an hour later, when Jane came down and offered to help me pack my things, I was still standing where he’d left me, feeling wretched and ashamed and terribly alone.
—
How did I ever find the rocking of a carriage pleasant?
Timothy, our driver, was a good handler of horses. But the entire ride home felt to me as though he were choosing the roughest parts of the road on purpose. My mother and Jane seemed quite content—my mother even dozed part of the way—but every nerve in my body felt as though it had been jangled and jarred and wrung to a thread by the time we reached Cobbley’s Knob, the hilltop at the southern margin of our estate. I felt Timothy put on the brake for the downhill, and I pushed aside the curtain at the window to look out.
By the fading afternoon light, I could see nearly all of Kellham Park: the grounds and gardens, greener than when we’d left; the stream—our own bit of the River Lyle—that cut in and out of the thick stand of trees to the west; and the splendid house at the bend of the curved drive. The original manor, built by the first Lord Kellham back in the late 1600s, was still there. But one of his descendants, who had been politic enough to complete the climb from baron to earl during the second half of the eighteenth century, had refashioned it, adding a wing to either side to make his home more imposing. He’d done it tastefully; all three sections were built of the same pale stone that took on a hue of pinkish gold as the sun fell behind a western hill. By the time we reached the famous Kellham Elms, the sky was darkening toward navy over the dozen brick chimneys at the roofline, and lights had begun to appear in the upper windows. We drove toward the portico, and I could see Martin, our groom, waiting to take the horses. Mr. Waller, our butler, stood beside him, ready to help us with our things. And as we stopped, the front door opened, and my aunt Catherine appeared, silhouetted against the rectangle of light.
I stepped out of the carriage, and the dusty smell of the boxwood hedge diminished the feeling that I’d been away at all. Aunt Catherine’s first concern was for Mama, of course; and after a perfunctory embrace for me, she told me that I must be hungry after my journey.
“No, Aunt,” I replied. “I’m not. I’m just tired, truly.”
“Nonsense,” said my aunt. “You’ll have some toast and soup at least. Sally will be up in a few minutes with a tray.”
Though she meant to be kind, her officiousness chafed at me. But there was no point in arguing. I stifled a sigh and started up to my room.
I was at my dressing table, sliding the pins out of my hair, when there was a knock on my door and Sally entered, bearing a tray in her plump hands. She had the same air of agreeable dependability as her brother Martin, our groom. I’d known them both since I was in short clothes, and I found their presence—especially Sally’s—comforting.
“Hello, Sally.”
She set down the tray on my desk. “M’lady, I can do that for you, if’n you like.”
I dropped my hands and let her help me, while I watched her reflection in the mirror: her round face, firm at the chin; her brown hair, growing silver at the temples and scraped into a neat bun; her pale blue eyes searching for the pins; and her hands drawing them out.
She removed the last one and smiled at me in the mirror. “It’s good to have you home, m’lady, that’s sartin. It’s been an anxious time, and you look a mite peaked.”
I turned to look up at her. “Thank you for the tray, but I’m not at all hungry.”
She gave a faint shrug. “I know. You aren’t the sort to eat when you’re troubled, like some folks do.”
Wordlessly, I stood up and turned so Sally could undo the buttons down my back. Her very touch, tender and familiar, brought tears to my eyes. “There you are,” she murmured, and the dress was up and over my head. I looked down, meaning to unfasten the petticoats from my waist, but my tears blurred everything, and I couldn’t see the ties.
Sally’s arms were around me in a minute. “Oh, child.”
I burst into sobs.
She pulled me to the cushioned settee, big enough for both of us, and held my head to her shoulder, stroking my hair, making soothing clucks. “It must have been dreadful,” she whispered. “But you’re home now, and it’s all over.”
“I wish it weren’t,” I gasped out between sobs.
She drew away from me, her expression dismayed. “You wish it weren’t? Whatever d’you mean?”
But I couldn’t explain. There was too much to say, so all I could do was cry. But instead of subsiding, my sobs grew until they took all my breath, and I began to shake.
“M’lady,” she said anxiously, patting my hair. “M’lady, this isn’t like you. You’re getting yourself all heffed up.” She pushed a handkerchief—one of hers, plain white, with no lace—into my hand. “Try to stop crying, and let’s get you into bed. Come on, now.”
Obediently, I stood up and let her get me out of my undergarments, into a nightdress, and under the sheets.
She began to turn down the lamp as usual.
“No, Sally, leave it on,” I said quickly, my voice still choked with tears.
Her lips parted in surprise, but after a moment, she adjusted the lamp to burn with its smallest flame and picked up my untouched tray. “Now, go to sleep,” she said gently. “Everything’ll be better in the morning. I’m sartin of it.”
But I saw her expression as she closed the door behind her. She didn’t look certain at all; she looked unsettled and anxious, as if, for the first time, she didn’t quite know what to make of me.
Chapter 12
I woke to the feeling of a heavy weight pressing the breath out of my chest.
The lamp at my bedside had burnt out and the room was dark as pitch. The bedsheets were hot and tangled around my legs. I clawed my way out of them and slid off the bed, relieved to feel the carpet under my bare feet. The room’s cold air chilled the sweat on the back of my neck as I groped my way toward the dressing table where I knew there was a matchbox and another lamp. Three times I scraped a match to light the wick before my trembling hands managed it. With the lamp at full brightness, I went to the washstand, dropped my hands into the water, and brought it to my face. The dry towel smelled of lavender, and I took deep breaths in, trying to dispel the pictures still in my head.
I’d dreamt I was caught in a house on fire, with half a dozen horses. I was trying to get one of them out the door and down the steps, but I couldn’t even fit through the opening myself. The door was getting smaller and smaller—my skirts kept catching and ripping on the edge—and the horse was screaming. Then it was Athena, fighting me. My hands slipped o
n the bridle, my arms were weak as bird wings; no matter what words I used and how hard I pulled, she wouldn’t come. And then I fell, and I was on the floor, and she was half on top of me, and I couldn’t breathe—
I shook my head to clear it and set aside the towel.
I knew from experience the only way I could stop a nightmare from coming back was to leave the light on and read for a while. I went to my shelf and chose Dickens’s Pickwick Papers; there was no horror in the adventures of the Misters Pickwick, Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman. But when I opened the book, the words were only black shapes on the page. I couldn’t take them in, and after attempting to read the same passage half a dozen times, I shut the book and jerked open the curtains. The black of night was giving way to the darkest blue at the horizon. I fixed my eyes on it, waiting until the sky grew light enough to cast shadows over our back hundred acres. When the clock in the hall chimed its soft six, I put on my riding habit, and went down the servants’ stair. I heard the morning kitchen noises—the thump of the oven door closing, the scrape of a metal spoon against a bowl—but I slipped past the doorway without greeting anyone and headed down the flagstone path toward the stables.
The sky was a pearly gray, but it didn’t look like it would rain until later. The air was cool and fresh, and the dew was still unbroken by footprints, so neither Martin nor Timothy had been here yet. I gave a soft whistle before I rolled the wooden door aside, so I wouldn’t startle the horses. The heads of Duchess and Barnaby, our matched bays, appeared over the tops of their stall doors; and the familiar, earthy smell of the animals came at me in a wave.
When he inherited the estate, my father razed the old enclosure and designed this one, with high ceilings, windows set at just the right angle for ventilation, and large boxes. He always kept more than a dozen horses, though he frequently changed them, always with an eye to improving his stable. My mother, on the other hand, had always hated horses, even before my father was killed riding; once he was gone, we sold all but the pair that we used for driving and a gray mare for me, and from that time on, I never mentioned my riding and always made sure I was changed out of my habit before she saw me.
Duchess and Barnaby gave soft whickers of welcome. I stroked their soft noses, and then went toward the large stall built for birthing. But Athena merely turned her shining black round backside toward me. I couldn’t help but laugh. “You silly filly,” I said affectionately. “Don’t be sulky. I missed you too, the whole time I was in London.”
Her ears flicked toward me, but she kept her head stubbornly turned away.
“It’s all right, Athena. You take your time. I’ve nowhere to be this morning. Nowhere but here.”
She snorted and rolled an eye at me. I stayed where I was, my arm resting along the top of the stall door, and thought about the day—nearly a year ago now—when Martin had fetched Athena home from the Houghs’ barn. We’d heard for months about her mistreatment by the elder son, and when Martin heard they were willing to sell her for a nominal amount, he suggested we purchase her. My gray mare had died the previous year, and he won Mama over to the idea of a new horse by promising to train Athena to draw the gig.
It had taken Martin and two other grooms to get her into the stall. Her dark coat was muddy and matted; her eyes showed their whites; and her mane was knotted with spears of hay. We would have left her out in a pasture to calm down except that there was a long bloody gash on her right fore and a nasty scrape on her neck from that stupid Daniel Hough jabbing her repeatedly with his crop. After we got her on the ground with laudanum, Martin and I stitched up her leg while Timothy, our stable hand, held her head. For a good month or so after that, she kicked at any of us when we came near. She’d have kicked the whole world if she could.
The wounds on her leg and neck cleared in a matter of weeks. As soon as we removed the bandages—another delicate undertaking—I began doing all the things I’d seen Martin and my father do when training a young or nervous horse—approaching quietly, a carrot in my hand, talking softly, repeating her name. I’d have run my hands over her if she’d let me, but she still skittered away whenever I came near. And though I knew training required patience, after weeks of this behavior, I’d felt discouraged.
Then, one morning Martin told me not to go into the paddock. We perched on the top rails of the fence and watched Athena together. She grazed, her fine black nose down among the dewy grass, her delicate ears scissoring back and forth, the skin of her neck twitching when a fly landed. If it were any other horse, I’d have said she was content. But I knew that every nerve in her body was taut as one of the upper strings on a harp, and wholly attuned to us.
Martin plucked an overgrown cat-o-nine-tails and rolled it gently between his fingers. “You know,” he said, his eyes on Athena, “for nine horses out of ten, you’d be doing everything right.”
“But not with her.”
He kept his eyes on Athena and didn’t answer.
My heart sank. “I don’t want to ruin her. If you think I’m doing something I shouldn’t—”
“Nae.” His gentle voice drew the monosyllable out long. “You’re all right. But she’s a queer one, queer and mighty clever. I seen how you been so far, tryin’ to prove you mean no harm.” He took a deep breath in and blew it out in a soft whistle. “Fact is, some horses can’t have things proved to ’em. She’s one of ’em that needs to be doin’ it on her terms, more ’r less.”
“You mean I should let her be in control?” I asked doubtfully.
“Nae. She has to listen to you. But sometimes you got to let her talk while you listen. That’s what’s goin’ to make ’er trust you.” He tossed the cat-o-nine-tails aside and turned toward me. “See, I had a horse once, seemed he was just plain ornery. He’d fight against everything. Some days ’twas all I could do to get his saddle on. But eventually, I figured that if I let him do things when he wanted to do ’em, more times than not he’d do ’em the way I wanted. Like a partnership, fair and equal.”
“But how do I let her know I’m listening?”
“Stand here by the fence for a few days. See if she comes to you, ’nd let her decide when. Like I said, she’s a clever one. She knows she’s got to stay in this paddock, but she needs to feel like she’s got a choice in summat.” He gave me a shrewd look. “You understand that, maybe better than anybody.”
His comparison caught my by surprise. But Martin had known me since I was born, and though he always spoke slowly, his words rounded and country-smooth, he was the sort who noticed things.
He climbed off the rails then, and I did as he said. I stood by the fence, my back to one of the posts, and waited.
The first day nothing happened. Nor the second. Nor the third. Nor the fourth.
On the fifth morning, Athena ignored me, as usual, staking out her territory twenty feet away. Eventually, I closed my eyes. The sun warmed my face, and the air was dense with the odors of wet hay and the nutty bark of the trees. The magpies were out, calling, ch-ch-ch. I remembered the old magpie song that Sally used to sing. How many magpies do you see? What does life hold in store for thee? One means sorrow, two means mirth, three for death, four for birth—
The church bells in the village chimed half past nine. Mama would be expecting me.
I sighed and opened my eyes.
And there she was.
Athena’s head was no more than a yard from mine. I almost flinched in surprise, but I held myself motionless, and she stayed with me. Her dark eyes moved nervously in their sockets; a muscle on her cheek twitched at a fly.
I held very still. Let her talk, I told myself, and waited.
She took one step and another and then I felt her warm breath on my left cheek and ear, as if she were whispering a secret, just for me.
—
That day was six months ago, and if I knew anything about my horse, it was that Athena needed to do things in her own time. So I waited, and finally she turned and shoved her nose against my hand. That was my cue to op
en the door and go inside. I ran my hand under her mane, brushing lightly over the scar that was hidden there, and buried my face in her neck. She smelled of oats and hay and sweat. “My sweet girl,” I murmured.
I fetched her saddle and bridle, all the while telling her about London and the accident, about Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Flynn and the railway, and how Mama had been ill and recovered, and how Jane would be staying with us for a while. It wasn’t the words that mattered, of course, just the sound of my voice, and when I paused, she shoved her nose at me to continue.
It was a relief to be in the saddle. For over two hours, we followed the forest trails, one of which took us past the path that led to Reynolds Hall. I knew from Anne’s last letter that she was due back Monday evening; that meant in three days I could not only ask her about the land business but also pour out my heart to someone who’d understand everything. I’d send a note tomorrow, so it would be waiting for her when she arrived.
Athena and I crested Cobbley’s Knob and kept on until we reached a flat area where the farmers pastured their cows. But instead of grazing, most of the beasts were lying down, which at this time of day usually meant rain. I glanced up at the sky and saw it was grayer than when we’d started out. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Athena jittered sideways. “Don’t worry. We’ll head back,” I said and turned her down the hill. She was better than I at picking her way among the clumps of silver creeping thistle, purple knapwood, and yellow gorse, so I gave her her head. As we reached the copse, the breeze rose, twisting the leaves to show their dusky undersides, and a cool rain began to fall. But I didn’t mind. Between our ride and the knowledge that Anne would be home soon, I felt a sense of something—if not quite happiness, or freedom, at least a tentative peace.
Chapter 13
My boots were muddy, so I entered through the back door and took the servants’ staircase up. As I reached the first landing, our housemaid Nora was coming down. I greeted her as usual, and she bobbed awkwardly and moved against the wall to keep her bucket of blacking and coarse brushes away from my damp skirts.
