by Bianca Bloom
As I walked farther into the woods, I wandered into some horse tracks. Although I tried to avoid them, hoping to keep my feet well clear of manure, I pondered taking up horseback-riding more seriously. It was an activity in which Masha excelled, of course, having been coached from the cradle. My brothers, too, were eager riders. But my parents had raised me in far straitened circumstances for ten years, then been too occupied with expanding the family once my father had begun to have a very little money.
I smiled thinking of it. Most likely, a great many ladies with a dowry of nearly twenty five thousand pounds would know very little about matters that were to remain behind the bedroom door. And yet I was a young child when my mother explained the basics to me, as she wished me to be unencumbered by children myself. “I do not regret you, my darling,” mama always told me, and I believed her. She would lecture me on the benefits of purity, then put her head into her hands and sigh (when we were poor) or head off to a different room to ponder its decoration (when we were rich).
And she would say, not too softly either, “I do not regret marrying your father. I simply regret being forced to marry him.”
Well, one could hardly blame her for that. She seemed to love him as she loved her sons – with true affection, but with genuine condescension, too.
Among all these admonitions, though, my mother had told me that there were ways for women to avoid the scourge that afflicted her. In fact, when I was far too young, she had even hidden a book in my little dowry trunk, which had been fitted into another when our family began to prosper, and when mama had been able to replace most of the linens with fine silk and lace. “I hope that you shall never have to make use of this until you are married, Lena,” she murmured, and I knew that she meant both the lace and the little book.
But I had read it, and I was aware that women could take steps to avoid shame. In fact, those usually factored quite prominently into my tortured dreams. Though I had little sense of what it would feel like to consummate a union with a man, I had a good sense of when to remind him that he should not continue, lest his seed spark the beginnings of a child within me.
Lost in thoughts of the state of marriage, or at least of carnal sin, I nearly forgot that I was not to be entirely alone in the woods.
The first person that I encountered was Joseph, one of the boys who kept the hunting dogs. He was walking about with several foxhounds, scarcely more than pups, yelling things at them. The training seemed rather ineffectual, but I stooped so the pups could see me.
Their ripping enthusiasm was only heightened by the sight of a new admirer, but Joseph’s was quite curtailed.
“Miss Morton,” he said, “My deepest apologies. I did not see you until now.”
Shaking my head as the puppies tumbled over each other to lick my face, I tried to reassure him. “It’s quite all right, Joseph.”
It was the first time that the two of us had ever been alone in one place, and Joseph was turning quite red as he attempted to corral the little hunting trainees. Likely some of that redness was caused by my forward manner and freed hair, I realized. But I still had no such qualms myself, and started to ask him the names. I’d never been as fond of hunting dogs as my father was, but I envied the freedom of the little pups. How lovely to simply do what one loved, and make a life that way! Unlike the horses, they had no cargo, no tedious duties. They were simply told to track, and born to track. Perfect, really.
“That big one is Blowsy, the little one is ’appy Girl, and the runt is called Big John. My pa didn’t want to keep ’im, like, but I begged him so well that he did, Miss Morton.”
I smiled, rubbing the runt’s ears. “Oh, well done, Joseph. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that he ends up being the fastest of the whole bunch.”
“Yes,” was all he managed. “Begging your pardon, miss, does your father know you’re in the woods?”
That was apparently all he was able to say, because even my quizzical glance didn’t get more of a response from him. “Well, not exactly. But my mother saw where I was walking, and I’ll be home in time for supper.”
His skepticism was written all across his brow. I must be a bit farther from the house than I had anticipated.
“Well, for a late supper, at any rate,” I said, amending my estimate.
This seemed to give him a little bit of relief. “Thank you, Miss Morton. I’ll be taking the pups back, then.”
And with some droll combination of snarls and whistles, he contrived to have them follow him back toward the house. I was relieved to see that he was heading west with them. Provided I did the same, there would be little doubt that I should make it back to the house eventually.
This was confirmed by the next person in my path, our esteemed groom Sergei.
“Sergei Gennadovitch!” I called, enjoying addressing him in my best formal Russian. “We haven’t seen you for weeks.”
My old friend, the only person on the entire estate who hadn’t given up on teaching me how to ride a horse properly, stopped short. “Lenotchka,” he scolded, “You should not be so far from your home.”
My scowl, the sneer of a woman who was sick to death of strangers and near relations alike telling her where to walk, was sharp. “It’s the Morton estate, isn’t it? I can be wherever I like.”
He was pensive. “Barely, Lena,” he said. I smiled to hear my Russian names – it was only Sergei, mama, and my siblings who called me Lenotchka, Lena, and Elena. The rest of the world seemed to call me only Miss Morton, a name that felt far too cold and formal. In spite of the informal naming, though, Sergei was clearly displeased with me. “You’re so far that you’re getting quite near the boundary with the Glover estate, and that’s a boundary you would not wish to cross.”
There were rumors about the Glovers, of course, but I took little stock in them. That the father was a tyrant and his daughters mad, or something like that. I feigned ignorance. “Why’s that, then? I am sure those Glovers are not half as bad as they are made out to be.”
Sergei shook his head. “You know that your father allows me to work for them, at times. I know the family, Elena, and clearly you do not.”
My laugh was lithe. “Yes, I know that they beg for your help with foaling! You shouldn’t be afraid to speak ill of them. The way papa says they carry on about needing your help, it seems clear they know nothing of horses.”
“Lena, have you never heard that English proverb about not biting the hand that feeds one?”
“I do so frequently.” In fact, I was surprised that I had gone the entire morning and afternoon without hearing it, even in my fits of petulance. It was a day in which I had managed to anger both my parents, as well as a suitor and governess, so I supposed that I was biting both the hands that fed me and the hands that attempted to feed me.
“Yes, I suppose you do. At any rate, I must beg you to return with me.” He looked over at the way he had come. “I was just walking about with Woos, our old dapple gray. She’s over by the stream. She’s not saddled, but there’s a great log by the stream that you could use to get up on her back. As you’re quite a ways off, perhaps you should go home on her.”
“Or on my own two feet, thank you.”
That would have been enough of an answer for most of our servants, but Sergei had known our family even when my parents were poor. Therefore, he felt that he did not have to answer my pert replies with deference.
“Lenotchka. From the near-constant complaints you make when you are at home, I would conclude that your feet are not up to the task.”
I looked down. It was a wonder that my stupid shoes were not yet soaked with blood. In truth, though my feet might not have been actually bloodied, they were quite sore.
“Fine.” I knew to admit defeat. “I’ll take her back to the stables.”
Sergei smiled over at the horse, his heart visably softer as he looked at her. “You may as well take her to the door. She’ll stay outside where you leave her. The old girl is past her cantering days, b
ut I was surprised today how well she still walks.”
It felt like a rebuke. Was I to expect that the horse was somehow more adept than I, due mainly to her expert walking?
“Go ahead and head to the stream, Lena. You’ll find a horse. You might also try making yourself presentable – if your parents are only angry, rather than on the warpath, that might be considered a great blessing.”
Grumbling, I followed the sound of the stream and sat down. Sure enough, the dapple grey was still there. Although I was angry, I was more than ready to leap onto a horse and ride off, giving my weary bones a bit of a rest.
Sometimes my moods made quite a peasant of me.
The great summer light was not yet truly fading, but the sun had gone behind the trees, and I stopped feeling troubled by the heat. Soon another autumn would come, and the estate would be even less amusing. My mother went with the Russian view of cold, which seemed mainly to consist in avoiding cold stones and tying pickled cucumbers to one’s toes when winter illness struck. Mama never encouraged me to walk about outside, though she was quick to point out that she had done so frequently as a child and seemed to suffer far fewer colds than I did.
Yanking off my shoes and stockings, I began soaking my feet in the stream. The wisdom of Sergei, it seemed, was not yet exhausted. The cold water made my feet feel infinitely more refreshed. With my dress drawn back to my knees, my hair down, and my face wet with healing water, I must have looked almost wild. The thought of my uncouth, not-too-ladylike appearance was a comfort to me.
Until I realized that I was not alone.
The man above me spoke softly, but still stopped my heart.
Like me, he had dark eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. His skin and hair were so fair they seemed very nearly blinding, and his gaze so transfixed me that I felt every bit as taken aback as I had in my dream.
My feet, wet in the stream, seemed hopelessly improper. And I knew that even the cold water could not keep both my legs and my face from going quite red.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” he said, his voice even. “Are you lost?”
“Not exactly,” I confessed, trying at once to take in the sight of this gorgeous stranger and to keep my eyes cast down. “That horse over there is to take me home. She likely knows the way rather better than I.”
For a long moment he said nothing, and I was forced to look up again.
This time our eyes met, and I did not look away. He was a slender man – seemingly not far from boyhood – and his hair had a little bit of wildness. From his clothing, it was clear that he was a man of means.
And that he was a man who did not mind dirtying his best waistcoat by wandering in the woods. I shuddered with pleasure thinking of ways that he could dirty his clothes in the deserted clearing, next to the stream, as I dirtied mine. His pants were already torn – would it be such a loss if the rest of his clothing were torn as well?
Perhaps by my eager fingers?
But my ruminations were interrupted by an uncommonly polite introduction, and I was shocked at the direction my thoughts had taken. “I apologize for taking the liberty of speaking to you without an introduction. My name is Elias Glover, and I own this estate.”
This worried me. “I’m on your estate! And I was certain that this was my own family’s land. Sergei said nothing of this,” I fretted, wondering if this Elias was apt to grab me and accuse me of poaching birds on his land or some other such nonsense.
And wondering why it had never occurred to me that the name Elias was an uncommonly attractive one. With a startling burst of foresight, I realized that I was never going to be able to respond to mention of that particular name again. I might read some dusty and dull tome about an Elias who held some sort of insipid and important position in the government, and I would only be able to think of this lithe being before me. And of the fall of his breeches. I could not keep myself from looking at it, and prayed that he would not be unduly surprised by my interest.
Fortunately, it appeared that he was simply embarrassed, and more by our lack of mutual knowledge than by my steady gaze. “Well, the stream is supposed to be the divider. So you are on the proper side, Miss, er . . .”
“Morton. Helena Morton. Daughter of the family who decided to buy so much land that I obviously still haven’t learnt the boundaries of it, not even after eight years.”
This made him burst out laughing, though he quickly regained his composure. “That is quite a way of putting it, Miss Morton. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Without giving it much thought, I nodded as him. With my legs in the water and my derriere planted on the sort of cold boulder that mama always said would negate any hope of my ever having children, I couldn’t very well curtsy.
Though the tension between us was still high, I let out a sigh on finding that I was, at the very least, not some sort of trespasser. “Well, good. I suppose that as I have not strayed onto your actual estate, I have given no offense to your family.”
He nodded. “Of course not. But it is quite late in the day – does your own family know your whereabouts? If they think you lost, they must be near frantic by now.”
I tossed my head, thinking of Sergei. He probably walked faster than the dapple grey could walk, and must have been halfway to the house by now. The word would have spread from the hunting boy, as well.
As with any ordinary day, all the estate and half the village probably knew precisely which banal activity was occupying my life.
Then again, the godly being on the opposite bank was now removing his own shoes. Perhaps my little life was not quite so banal as I had thought. After all, I had gone for a walk in anger and encountered a Glover who was so handsome I was shocked to have been kept in ignorance of his good looks during our many years as neighbors.
“I don’t take much care with my family,” I confessed, sneaking glances over at him as he lowered his own feet into the stream. My own were now drying on a stone. Though I had modestly thrown the gown back over my bare legs, I was quite aware that the wet muslin was clinging.
His face darkened. “I can’t imagine how that might be possible. I wish that I had less care of mine,” he said.
Now it was my turn for disbelief. “You, caring for your family?” I thought of my own little brothers, racing about the estate, trapping all sorts of animals and getting the lovely outfits my mother had made for them quite dirty. “My impression is that the unmarried son of a great family has little by way of family care.”
He shook his head. “Well, perhaps my family is an exception.”
It was just like a moneyed boy, and it was just the thing to stir up trouble with me. There were just enough memories in my mind of my own childhood, when I was expected to cook, and mend, and scrub floors on my knees, to make me quite sure that I knew much better than anyone else what went into caring for a family. Granted, it wasn’t as if I ever practiced these acts anymore, now that we had an entire staff to take care of them. Perhaps my days would be more interesting if I did.
No, now I was just a lazy young woman with a great fortune, and the man across the river seemed much the same. My lip nearly curled as I responded to his assertions. “I suppose you’re a nanny, wiping scraped knees and giving hair cuts?”
To my surprise, this made him smile. It was a beautiful sight, even if there was something quite wistful in his look. “Bea doesn’t wish anyone else to cut hers, not even nanny. Not even when we’ve had one nanny for more than a year, which hasn’t happened for a decade anyway. Bea’s terrified of scissors.”
It was strange that he assumed so much knowledge, but I realized that the makeup of the Glover household was probably common knowledge in the village. “Bea?”
Indeed, the young Glover looked surprised that I did not know the name. “Beatrice. My sister.”
This gave me pause for a moment. Surely there was some sort of village gossip about a sister, but I could not remember having seen one. Mama tended to keep us out of the villa
ge, as we were her heathen children, and it seemed to hurt her that we were socially snubbed by the very people who should have been our own set.
Including Elias’s family. Though the members of that family might themselves be quite charming, and perhaps mysterious. I wondered whether Elias himself disliked us, or whether he might be an exception to his family’s rule.
“Tell me about your sister,” I urged him, leaning on my knees. This rather safe topic of conversation was a perfect excuse for me to look across the stream at the man. I had reached a hand into the dividing waters between us, and wait to see whether he would choose the same.
He did, splashing his face with a bit of the water. It may have been my imagination, but I fancied that he was also victim of a deep blush.
And I fancied that the way I must have been leaning might have exposed my bosom to a standing man even more than the style was meant to do. But there was no time to leap up and look for a covering, so I had to be content with simply blushing myself. After all, as much as my body longed for the man to take me and ravish me there in the woods, the fact of his actually looking down my dress was enough to set my face aflame.
And it did make it rather difficult for me to concentrate on the words spilling out of the beautiful mouth just across the water.
“Well, I have five sisters,” he was saying. “Three elder and two younger. All but Beatrice have married, though.”
“I might have guessed,” I said tartly. Surely women with fortunes that large met their future husbands outside the steps of Court, the very moment after they had been presented. Those lucky girls, resplendent in their best dresses, curtsying in that age-old ritual which I both mocked and envied. Russian Jewish upstarts, with fathers of humble beginnings, were not generally introduced to royalty.
