Page 9 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
Edward looked between her and his friend and shook his head, “You spoil her then.”
“Gladly,” Stephen smirked.
Though she was out of the room, her brother and Lord Hillbrook’s voices were still in earshot and she overheard them. It felt unnatural that it was her brother’s friend that had more mercy on her than her brother himself.
Shaking her head, she went to the upper drawing room that had a balcony over the driveway. She was going to watch them leave and then take her mare, Bessie, out for a run.
Many women shied away from riding but not she. She and Edward’s late father, Lord Herschel, bless his soul, had allowed her that one whimsy, of knowing how to ride when others chose needlepoint. She had begun lessons at the timid age of five but by age seven, riding came easy to her as breathing. It was one of the reasons she and Edward had disagreements. He thought her way of riding astride was unseemly and she thought his opinions were outdated.
From the window, she watched at Lord Hillbrook’s dark carriage trundled on, down the road and rounded the corner. She waited on tenterhooks to see if they would turn back and when five minutes passed and they did not, she grinned in joy.
Hurrying back, she changed into stolen breeches and a shirt and then ran to the stables, Penelope hastily greeted Mr. Cowell and had him saddle Bessie.
“Aye My Lady,” the stablemaster grinned. He and his stable boys had long ago learned to turn a blind eye to her riding, and even a blinder on to when Bessie’s stall was empty some nights. The house staff was the same, not one maid, scullery girl or footman slipped a word to her brother. It was a harmless conspiracy.
Mr. Cowell tightened the last girth, and then slapped the horse’s rump. “She’s ready for you, My Lady.”
Grinning, Penelope easily swung into her saddle, glorifying in how Bessie moved under her. With a delighted laugh and expectancy building in her blood, she turned her horse, nudged her flanks, and sped off. The animal was moving at a steady clip when she got to the fields.
The wide-open stretches of land nearby were an invitation for unrestraint. Bessie shifted and snorted under her as her hoof pawed and she paced. Leaning over, Penelope rubbed Bessie’s ears. Leaning back, she dug her heels into the horse’s flanks, and Bessie took off like a shot.
Bessie’s hooves did not even seem to touch the ground with the speed she was going. The wind whipped around Penelope so briskly that it tore at the fasteners of her hair and, unfastened, the tresses began to billow behind her.
This was freedom. This was exhilaration. This was life unabridged. Daring herself to, she stood in the stirrups and raced like never before. It was risky riding, but she did it anyway. Even if a few servants saw her, no one would tell on her. They all understood it was one of her few freedoms.
If only the rest of her life could be this way, with her at the reins guiding it to where she wanted it to go. Instead, it was at the mercy of men, primarily her brother who she suspected would soon force her into marriage. If this was the only free time she had, she had decided to live it to the fullest.
I hope that my husband, whoever he is to be, will allow me to ride this way.
Three times she turned Bessie to run full tilt and, with the wind whipping through her hair, it was going to a tangled mess and a pain for Martha to comb out when she got back to the house. Penelope, however, wanted to prologue her fun as long as she could, but knew her time was limited. Sadly, she turned and guided Bessie back to the stables. Just outside, she nimbly hopped off.
Scratching Bessie behind her ears, she led the panting animal into the stable only to stop short. The new footman, Mr. Moore was there mucking out a stable…shirtless.
His back was turned to her, and she could see the flex of his back muscles and the smooth motion of his corded arms. She did not move while watching his shoulders rise and fall and the glimmer of sweat on his golden skin.
“Ahem,” Mr. Cowell cleared his throat from behind her and Penelope turned fifty hues of red knowing she was gawking. Sadly, Mr. Cowell’s interruption also called Mr. Moore’s attention to her too.
“Er….” Penelope hedged as she knew she looked a fright. There was no way the sight of a woman wearing breeches and a shirt with hair as mad as Medusa was a usual occurrence.
“Good day, Mr. Moore,” she uttered to her feet as Mr. Cowell took up the item he had come for. He left with a jaunty wave over his shoulder.
“Excuse me, My Lady,” he said and then passed by her to grab a shirt hanging on a hook.
Shrugging it on, he came back to her and wiped his palms on his thighs. “How may I help you, My Lady?”
Daring to look up, she reddened when his eyes ran over her clothes. Thankfully, he did not utter a word, and she garnered the courage to ask, “Please help me unsaddle Bessie?”
“My pleasure,” he replied, and Penelope had to stop herself from shivering at his voice washing over her. She held onto the pommel as Mr. Moore unlatched the girths underneath; then she lifted the saddle off. She was about to rest it on the shelf when Mr. Moore took it from her.
“Please,” he said. “Let me.”
Nodding she turned with her still-pink face turned away and took up a brush to smooth out the disorderly hair on Bessie’s coat. The horse whinnied softly at the care she was being given, and Penelope smiled softly.
“I have to get back before my brother comes,” she murmured. “He and Lord Hillbrook went out to Tattersalls to get new horses. This was my only free time to ride how I wanted to.”
“Pardon me for being forward,” Mr. Moore asked as he attended to the saddle. “But how did you want to ride?”
“A gallop,” she replied. “When he is here, the most I can do is canter, but I love riding hard enough for the wind to whip against me.” She lowered the brush and ran her hand over Bessie’s nose. “Good girl.”
