Three days of intermittent rain had dampened his hope to try the completed mounting platform. Surely, it would not rain again today.
Today!
He shot upright, alert. Today, Mr. Swansbourne was bringing the indoor wheeled chair. The missive from the day before said he could deliver it at one. A whole morning to wait! Duncan had plotted all night that regardless of rain, snow, or shine, his first adventure in the indoor chair would be to have it wheeled outdoors to the mounting platform. He champed at the bit to get on his horse.
Gulping the now lukewarm coffee, he tossed aside the bedding, pulled his legs over the edge, and called for Peter. Today was the day! Oh, today was the day. He looked back to his bed with a modicum of longing to return to his dream, and then faced forward to reality.
He launched himself into his morning workout with vigor. So help him, he would get on his horse from the chair without the aid of the stablemaster. After a renewing scrub and a hearty meal, he was ready to take on the world. Not wanting the chair to be brought upstairs just to be brought back downstairs, he had two footmen take him to the drawing room. It was the first time he had been brought downstairs, and he could not say he liked the experience of being carried down; if he let it bother him, though, he would not go far and certainly not back on his horse. He could have, he supposed, worked his way down the stairs himself, but he dared not think of the condition of his clothes after such a feat.
His parents joined him, as anxious for the chair as he, though they avoided any mention of his mounting Caesar. They passed the time with a game of cards, eyes flitting to the door. No one concentrated on the game. Even when his mother laid down the wrong card, no one noticed.
A noise from the front stilled their hands. All eyes turned to the door. A squeak and a whisper. Footfalls and shuffles. A hushed commotion approached the drawing room. Exchanging glances, Georgina and Sean stood. Duncan tossed down his cards.
When the butler opened the door, nothing at first seemed amiss. He stepped inside to usher in Quinn and Miranda, both of whom were grinning. Rather than close the door behind him, the butler unlatched the connecting double door and opened it wide. A crowd stood waiting, eyes twinkling, hands raised in prayer. Half of the village filed into the drawing room, followed by Mr. Swansbourne and a mammoth wicker and iron chair rolled by two wheels at its side and a small wheel to the back.
Duncan was unsure what to look at first. His brother winked at him. His mother sobbed into her handkerchief. His father greeted everyone. The townspeople filled the room, all looking between him and the chair expectantly.
The chair was a glorious work of craftsmanship and looked as comfortable as a wheeled chair could look. Given its size, he questioned how much larger the outdoor Bath chair would be, for how could it be larger than this? This chair had a tall wicker back to allow for resting his head, handles in the back for pushing, wheels as tall as the arm rests, and even a leg rest to the front.
Mr. Swansbourne approached, as though to lift Duncan and carry him to the chair. Waving the man to lean closer, Duncan said for his ears only, “Bring it around to sit parallel with my chair. I’ll get into it myself, though I’ll need you to hold it steady.”
The butler and a footman moved the card table on Duncan’s command while Mr. Swansbourne wheeled over the chair.
Eyeing the eager crowd, Duncan said, “Thank you all for accompanying our Mr. Swansbourne. It means the world to have you here in support of this momentous occasion. With any luck, I can join you all at church soon.”
A round of applause erupted, encouraging Duncan further. Never would he have dreamt of having an audience. He had assumed today would be a quiet family affair, and his attempts to get into the chair his own private fumble, not for the eyes of the world. The surprise was not unwanted. In fact, he felt the hot sting of tears to see such an outpouring of love from his fellow villagers.
The wheeled chair was saddled next to his drawing room chair, the blacksmith at the helm, holding it steady.
The only thing worse than making a fool of oneself was doing it in front of a crowd. Duncan took three deep breaths to steady his nerves. Do not fall, he chanted to himself. Gripping the arms of the drawing room chair, he heaved himself up until he could shift his weight onto one arm, praying he did not topple the chair. As many times as he had practiced this in his bedchamber, he had never tried with a drawing room chair, much less a chair on wheels. Firmly seated on the coupled arm of each chair, he moved his legs from one chair to the next, then hoisted himself into the wicker chair, sinking into the bowed seat with relief.
This was met with another round of applause. When Duncan looked up, he caught sight of two young ladies giggling and batting eyelashes at him. He could fathom nothing less attractive than a grown man having to climb into a chair, but there they were, flirting from across the room.
It was not for another half hour before the villagers left. They all wanted to see the chair wheeled around the room and gossip about the autumn fête.
Another half hour later, he cajoled his father into arranging for Caesar to be brought around to the mounting platform. Today was the day. Nothing would stop him.
Mud caked the wheels, delaying Duncan’s plans every few feet as his father and a footman worked to clean the chair. It was designed for indoors, not out, and the wet earth did not help matters, but he refused to wait for the second chair to be constructed. He had waited long enough.
A darkness shrouded the stable yard, clouds threatening more rain. The weather should know better than to battle two Colonel Starretts, for Duncan and Sean both would wage war if so much as a single drop fell. Ignoring the sky as best he could, Duncan focused his stare on the mounting platform, a strange but glorious sight. Caesar waited, flanked by two grooms. The sight of the horse, the build of anticipation to ride, and the sense of normalcy this moment inspired had Duncan’s pulse racing.
Sean wheeled his son up the ramp, stopping only when they reached Caesar’s side. At the sight of the chair, or perhaps the sense of his master’s anxiousness, Caesar snorted, pawed, and pranced. The grooms’ attempts to hold him steady sent Caesar into a panic.
Within moments, anticipation turned to fear for those in the stable yard as the stallion reared onto his hind legs, fighting to free himself from the grooms. Georgina screeched and demanded her husband move Duncan off the platform. Thunder rippled through the air.
“Release him,” Duncan commanded, his voice low and calm but no less authoritative.
The two words, however softly spoken, were enough to silence the commotion. At once, the grooms stepped away from the warhorse.
Motioning his father to move him closer, Duncan spoke to his horse, keeping his voice low and calm. “Well, hello stranger. I hope you’ve not been rusticating all this time. It feels like a year since our last ride. What do you say we give it a go today?”
As he spoke, the horse calmed, shimmying closer to the mount. Reaching over the chair, Duncan stroked Caesar’s neck, continuing to talk to him.
Sean leaned down to his son. “This is enough for one day. You can try to mount tomorrow.”
“No,” Duncan said. “I’ll mount today or never. Hold the chair still, please.”
“This is too fast, son,” Sean insisted. “Tomorrow we can have you lifted onto the saddle.”
Ignoring his father’s protests, Duncan pushed himself out of the chair using the arm rests and grasped the handrails on the platform. His father grunted his disapproval as he grappled to hold the chair steady. Georgina let out another screech. At least Quinn and Miranda had left with the crowd, or his attempts would be accompanied by a duet of women rather than one.
Caesar began to prance but not before Duncan hauled himself onto the saddle, his legs dangling to one side. He chuckled, imagining this was what it must be like to ride side-saddle. With one hand braced on the handrail, he used the other to lift his le
ft leg over Caesar, straddling the horse as he had done for so many years.
For an endless age, he sat in the saddle, accustoming himself to the position. It was unnerving; he could not feel Caesar between his thighs. He felt wobbly and could not even secure his feet into the stirrups. How the devil was he to ride if he could not feel anything?
Nodding to a groom, he said, “Tie my feet into the stirrups.”
Without hesitation, the groom fetched two short ropes to secure the feet.
The tension of the stable yard was palpable. A quick glance at his mother reminded him not to look at her again until he dismounted. Her hands covered her mouth, her eyes wide.
Well, he was mounted. Now what? To hell with it, he thought, and squeezed his legs to launch into a gallop.
There was an awkward moment of him leaning forward instinctively, only to realize Caesar had not moved. Duncan cursed. Of course, Caesar did not move. Duncan’s legs had not responded to the command. Heaving a sigh, Duncan loosened the reins. The horse hesitated, unused to rein commands, but then stepped forward once, then again, and again until they were off at a walk.
As foolish as he might have felt to be walking a horse about the stable yard like a novice rider rather than a cavalry officer, he recognized no other emotion than exhilaration. He was walking. Yes, it was Caesar’s legs and not his own, but he was walking again. Horse and rider connecting as one flesh, Caesar was his legs. It was the single most freeing moment of his life.
With a further release of the reins, Duncan signaled the stallion into a trot, a movement that had Duncan bouncing in the saddle more than he was accustomed to since his seat was neither light nor lifted. Flashing his father a speaking glance, he moved into canter, leaving the stable yard behind him to the horrified gasps and exclamations of his mother.
There was no pain in his lower back as with the last time he rode although, granted, he did have feeling in his legs at the time. However unsettling the lack of sensation was, he was elated to have the ground moving beneath him on his own terms and the feel of his torso responding to the ride. The horse’s gait, the rhythm of the hoofbeats, and the motion, all thrummed through his torso, engaging his muscles. He could not recall feeling so alive.
Crisp air kissed his cheeks. The smell of rain filled his nostrils though drops did not yet fall. Hoofbeats sang a symphony. The taste of freedom was sweet to his tongue.
Not wanting to risk his luck, he circled back to the yard after barely fifteen minutes, slowing Caesar to a trot. As the house came into view again, he flinched at a tingling in his right thigh. It stopped as quickly as it started. His imagination, he rationalized. A reverberation from the ride, perhaps. But there it was again, a tingling, a stabbing of a thousand scarificators, a tickle that extended to the base of his foot. He kicked out, expecting his leg to move, but it ignored the command, limp as ever. And yet he was not mistaken. This was not his imagination. The feeling abated once again, his leg a dead weight by the time he reached the platform where his father waited with the chair.
“Twice a day,” he said in greeting to his father. “I want to ride twice a day.”
His mother rushed over to the platform as Duncan patted Caesar’s neck, moved his leg to the other side, and hoisted himself up and over into the chair. For the muddy return to the house, he listened to his mother rant and scold about reckless behavior. All the while, he wore a dazed smile, unable to concentrate on anything except the memory of renewed sensation.
Mary crumpled the letter and tossed it aside. She did not like the word no, and she especially did not like the word when accompanied by a lack of alternatives.
Weeks ago, she had written to the new proprietor of Tattersalls, Mr. Edmund Tattersall, to inquire about the purchase of a stud, along with several other questions she needed answered if she was to see her dream of a horse breeding farm to fruition. A point on which she had hoped for advice was if she should auction the horses bred or if she should make her farm a private breeding establishment.
While she recalled her brother speaking most highly of Mr. Richard Tattersall and that he had, in fact, procured most of his horses directly from the man, she thought the apple had fallen far from the tree. As Tattersall’s son made a point to tell her in the letter, he would not now nor ever do business with a woman, but should her husband wish to send inquiries… well.
The man needed to brush up on the peerage and their children and siblings if he did not know who she was, and he needed to learn more progressive business habits considering it was always Mowbrah women who ran the estates and conducted family business. Everyone knew that. This new man doubled his insults, first with a slight to her gender and then to her marital status. Only if married, and only if her husband did the correspondence, would he converse. Well, hmph.
She had been in the mopes for days now, and this letter did little to lift her mood. The manor seemed a prison, isolating, with so little interaction with the outside world. What could she do? When she went to town and was treated with the deference befitting her station—bowing, scraping, and carrying on—taking tea with the villagers felt like something akin to torture. No one was genuine. Except Mrs. Miranda Starrett. There seemed a genuine woman. It took a great deal of self-discipline not to call on the vicar’s wife. While Mary only wanted the company, her visit could be misconstrued as a way to gather information about Duncan.
Yes, Mary had her own brother, sister-in-law, and nephew—not to mention her mother, who hardly counted in such matters—but they had each other as a family, and she was nothing more than the unmarried sister.
A few days prior had been one of the happiest she had known in some time with guests in abundance, all visiting for the day since it was Lilith’s last week in Northumberland, her family eager to make haste to Devon before winter weather made the roads impassable. Lilith, her husband Baron Collingwood, her son Benjamin, her mother-in-law the Dowager Lady Collingwood, and even her dog Jasper, had come to spend the day, accompanied by Mary’s cousin, the Earl of Roddam, his wife, and their two children. Even Charlotte’s father Mr. Trethow was in attendance.
Of the guests, Mary saw Mr. Trethow most often since he lived not far from the manor, having recently moved from Cornwall to be near his grandchildren. She enjoyed Mr. Trethow’s visits to the manor. He danced attention on them all, and though she was of no relation, he made a point to carve out time to talk with her about horsemanship, running a business, and the like, all topics most men would shirk in the presence of a lady. In Mary’s perfect world, this was the kind of father she would have.
Duncan’s father was not unlike Mr. Trethow. What must it have been like to be raised by such a doting father—or by any father at all, for that matter?
When the family stayed at the manor, they distracted Mary from her melancholy. It was during such times that it was easiest to fantasize her perfect life, surrounded by a large family with a multitude of children. Once they had left, though, the echo of her footsteps in the halls was enough to drive her to Bedlam.
She laid her forehead on her escritoire. There seemed only one course of action for each of her problems. Regarding the horse farm, she would need to stomach her pride and speak with her brother. He would be able to set up something with the snap of his fingers. That was hardly the point; she had wanted this to be of her own making, or dared she think it, of her and Duncan’s. Regarding her solitude, she would need to call on the vicar’s wife regardless what the woman thought of Mary’s visit. She wanted a friend, and there was only one way to go about it.
A knock on the door interrupted her plotting.
Mr. Hunter stepped into the room, a letter in his hand. Not until the butler bowed out did she open it.
Only of you I thought when all was lost.
Your eyes of love brightened the darkest times.
Your hand held mine, ethereal bliss, through frost
And death, armor agai
nst enemies mine.
Our future I beheld on horseback high,
A union blessed with happiness. Until
I see you next, I dream of walnut eyes.
Your lips I kissed with promise to fulfill.
But then I was a horse’s arse, and said
Words I ought not, spoken in haste, untrue.
Though I may be a lesser man, I dread
A life without eternal love from you.
Unless you wish to read a sonnet still,
Our lake you’ll be on morrow ten at will.
Mary read his lines several times over, uncertain if she should laugh or cry. A poet he was not, but that he penned an apology sonnet meant the world to her. Complexing, however, was his request to meet at their lake in the morning. Her heart pounded at what that could mean. Had the miracle occurred at last? Could he walk again?
At precisely ten the next day, Lady Mary rested against the trunk of the willow tree, Athena grazing a few feet away. Fiddling with the buttons on her riding habit and adjusting her bonnet for the nth time, she eyed the horizon for some sign of Duncan. Time ticked.
She had taken special care with her curls knowing she would see him. A sizable azure ribbon tied her hair at the nape of her neck, ringlets spilling down her back. Her habit was one of her favorites with cobalt camblet embroidered in gold. Though she had not seen Duncan in his regimentals, she had fashioned this ensemble from his descriptions. Such a choice seemed silly now, but at the time she had thought it a way to connect them from afar. Today, she honored his struggle by wearing his colors.
Regardless how many times she had come to the lake without an escort, she brought a groom on this day. It was a last-minute decision but one that helped her feel more secure, namely in case something happened to Duncan. Not knowing Duncan’s condition was distressing. The groom kept a respectable distance only just within eyesight.
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