Page 41 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

“Then why don’t the men do it?” Kitty chimes in.

Lady Catherine ignores her as well. Instead, she gestures to a female staff member, who demonstrates mounting a brown, spotted horse with the help of the stable master and a block, all while in a skirt. The process looks seamless, though I catch Macey twitching nervously as she watches with Elizabeth standing next to her, offering her comforting words.

“Everyone, choose a horse,” Lady Catherine calls. “Immerse yourself in the experience. Become your character.”

“Become my character. Become my character,” Macey repeats, under her breath.

I lean down and whisper in her ear, “I know I said I wouldn’t say anything, but come on, Macey. You don’t have to do this.”

She turns to me with stern eyes. “Stop telling me what I don’t need to do. I can ride a freaking horse.”

"Miss Bennet, Mr. Bingley," Lady Catherine says, and we both look over at her. I’m expecting a lecture, but instead, she says, "As Jane, your horse has already been selected—one thatbefits your role. Mr. Bingley, there’s one for you as well, if you so choose.”

She waves toward two footmen standing a few yards away near the fence line, partially shaded by the trees overhead. One holds the reins of a jet-black stallion with a jagged, white blaze shaped like a lightning bolt on his forehead, while the other has a brown horse that looks a lot more docile in comparison.

We both walk toward them, Macey’s rigid posture making her look like she’s walking toward her imminent death.

“This here is Thunderbolt,” the stable master says, joining us by the horses and the footmen. “And this one here”—he continues patting the mane of the brown horse—“is Dandelion.”

“Hello, Dandelion,” Macey says, taking a tentative step toward the horse.

“Oh no, Miss Bennet, Thunderbolt here is your horse,” the stable master says.

Her eyes go wider than I think I’ve ever seen them. “Thu—Thunderbolt?”

“Yes, miss. He’s got a good temperament, that one. Strong and steady.”

“Oh,” she says. “It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden a horse,” she tells him.

“Thunderbolt will be good for ya, then,” he says, but then furrows his brow as he takes in the lack of coloring in her face. “Or I can find ya another one? It’ll take some time to see what we’ve still got in the stables.”

“No, no. It’s fine,” she says, shaking her head. “Thunderbolt is perfect, thank you.” She gives him a very toothy grin.

“Macey,” I say, unable to stop myself from trying again.

“I’m fine,” she says, turning her toothy grin on me. It’s kind of frightening.

“What about Dandelion?” I ask the man, thinking he might be a better option for her to ride.

“Well, he’s good too, just gets a little spooked sometimes, that’s all. But he’ll be just fine for ya, Mr. Bingley.”

“Right,” I say, feeling sudden nerves of my own. It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden a horse, and I certainly wouldn’t know how to handle a spooked one.

After asking about our experience, and a very pale-faced Macey informing him she has none, the stable master gives her some basic instruction, focusing on how to sit so she can keep her balance.

“You ready, miss?” he asks. Macey gives a small nod, looking like she’s about to throw up the breakfast she didn’t eat.

Taking her by her gloved hand, he helps her onto the mounting block and up onto the saddle, then helps her adjust her skirts and stirrups while the footman holds on to Thunderbolt’s reins. To the stable master’s credit, the large horse does seem pretty steady.

With the help of a footman, I mount my horse, and then they instruct us on how to guide them, information that starts coming back to me from my previous riding experience. Apparently it’s like riding a bicycle; my brain hasn’t forgotten.

I look over to Macey, still pale as she practices guiding Thunderbolt with gentle tugs and shifts of her weight, like the stable master is instructing her to do. It looks hard to do it, balancing one leg hooked over the pommel and the other resting along the horse’s side. This really was a stupid practice. And, of course, Macey wouldn’t be allowed to ride astride during the reenactment because that wouldn’t becanon.

After a bit of work, she looks like she’s getting it, and with a nod from the stable master, he lets us walk the horses a short distance from him.

“You okay?” I ask, riding next to her, the soft breeze moving through my hair and teasing the feather on Macey’s hat.

“I ... think so,” she says, looking like she’s really concentrating.

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