You’re staring at me, I realize, waiting for a response. “I suppose I could give you a tour of the stables,” I say. “And introduce you to the horses.”
“Your birthday presents, you mean?”
You’re mocking me again, with that upturned mouth and those cool blue eyes, but instead of being annoyed, I find myself smiling. “Yes. My birthday presents.”
Your jacket and tie are flecked with rain, your shirt dappled with translucent spots. You smell of starch and warm, wet wool, with a hint of shaving soap underneath. I step back from the assault of it, masculine and vaguely unnerving. “I’ll see if I can scare you up a towel so you can dry yourself off.”
“I’m fine. But I’d love the tour.” Your eyes slide down my body, lingering briefly on my boots before sliding back up again. “Nice togs, by the way. Very . . . horsey. Shame to waste them. But perhaps we’ll ride another day and you can get some proper use out of them.”
I turn away, less charmed now by your teasing. You follow me down the breezeway to the double sliding doors that lead into the stable. The patter of rain recedes as we enter, replaced by a thick, insular quiet.
It’s cool and dim inside, drowsy feeling with the mingled smells of damp hay and horse dung hanging in the air, and I’m reminded of the day I was caught napping in the horse bedding, back when my parents kept a pony for my sister and me. It was raining that day, too, and I hated that Mr. Oliver wasn’t allowed to come into the house where it was warm, so I curled up in his stall to keep him company. My parents turned the house inside out looking for me, my mother frantic that, like poor Ernest, I’d met some terrible fate. When the stable boy finally found me and brought me up to the house, my father shook me so hard I chipped one of my baby teeth.
A soft whistle pulls me back to the present. You’re standing beside me with your neck craned, taking it all in. The high-timbered ceiling and newly added windows, the freshly bricked center aisle, the gleaming doors and ornate stall partitions.
“This is some place,” you say finally. “Quite posh for a barn. Not new, though, I’m guessing from the look of the stone.”
“No. The house was built in 1807. The stable came a little later, though back then, I suspect it housed pigs or sheep. It was fine for a pony when I was little, but we had to raise the roof before we could bring the new horses.”
“I’ll wager that set old Pater back a few quid.”
I shrug, realizing I have no idea what any of it cost. “He considered it a business expense.”
You look surprised. “He thinks you’ve got a shot at making money with this new hobby of yours?”
“Not that kind of business.”
“Dare I ask?”
I nearly laugh. I hardly know you—don’t know you at all, really—but my early impression is that you’re a man who would dare almost anything. “It was to do with Teddy,” I say quietly. “With me agreeing to marry him.”
“I see. Your father thought if he gave in about the horses, you’d see the merits of the life you’d have as Teddy’s wife and be more likely to accept his proposal.”
“Something like that.”
“So . . . a bribe.”
“It’s the way he works. He buys what he wants.” And crushes what he doesn’t, I think but don’t say. I’ve already said more than I should. “Let’s meet the horses.”
I’m grateful when you fall in beside me, leaving whatever it is you’re thinking unsaid. With any luck, you’ll be too distracted by the horses to return to the subject. Talking about my father to you feels wrong. Not because anything I might say would be untrue but because I’ve been raised to keep family matters within the family. It’s a code my father has drilled into all of us, to my mother and my sister and me. Loyalty to the family and obedience to its head—to him. I’ve seen what happens when someone betrays the code.
“How many horses do you keep here?” you ask, forcing me back to the moment.
“There are six stalls but only four horses at the moment.” I point to the first two stalls on the left. “These two are companion horses. Strictly for riding.”
Two sets of curious eyes peer back at us, the first belonging to a smooth-riding roan named Bonnie Girl, the second to a stout black gelding my sister named Nipper because of his tendency to bite when he was young. He never bit me. But then, Cee-Cee has never been an animal person—or a people person, for that matter.
Bonnie Girl whickers as we approach, nostrils flared, ears flicked to attention. She smells freedom, can taste it, and I’m sad that I can’t oblige her. She whickers again and nuzzles my palm. I turn my face to hers, dropping a kiss on the velvety red muzzle, wishing I’d thought to at least bring them a treat.
“Sorry, girl.” She nudges my cheek as if to absolve me of my neglect. I pat her affectionately and bestow another kiss.
“She’s fond of you.”
“We’ve been together a long time. My parents bought them when I outgrew my pony. One for me and one for my sister.”
“Which was which?”
I open my mouth to say something I shouldn’t, then catch myself and shrug instead. “Cee-Cee wasn’t really a horse person, so I ended up with them both. They’re getting up in age now, but they still ride well.”
“Are these the horses we were supposed to ride today?”
I nod, reaching over to stroke Nipper’s forelock. “I hate that we can’t take them out. I don’t come as much as I used to. I think they would have enjoyed a day out.”
You smile and give Nipper’s neck a pat. “I think I would have enjoyed it too.”
Nipper whinnies and shakes off the touch but immediately leans in for another. Wary but hungry for connection, needing to be touched, to be seen. I look at him in his box, obedient, expectant, hoping I’ll reach for the stall latch and lead him out, and I suddenly feel a wave of sadness.
“Poor thing,” I say softly. “It’s no fun being penned in all the time, is it? Waiting for someone to turn you loose?”
You drop your hand and turn, saying nothing for a moment. I pretend not to notice you studying me, but the weight of your gaze makes the back of my neck tingle. What? I long to shout. What is it you see? But part of me is afraid to know. Most of me, really. I’ve always been so careful about how much I let the world see. But it doesn’t seem to matter. You see it all, especially the parts I don’t like. And you want me to know that you see them.
“Are we still talking about the horses?” you say when the silence grows awkward. “Waiting to be turned loose, I mean.”
Your voice is thick in the quiet and vaguely unsettling. I feign amusement, knowing full well I haven’t pulled it off. Still, I must keep up the pretense. “Of course I’m talking about the horses. What else would I be talking about?” I step away then, a little too abruptly, and wander toward the stalls on the opposite side of the aisle. “Come see my presents.”
You move to my side, your eyes still on my face. You want to press me for more, but you don’t, as if you’re afraid I might startle and skitter away. You’re right about that. I might.