Chapter Eleven

H arriet stood in front of her wardrobe in her petticoat, while Bertha rummaged through its meager contents, her stomach roiling with the effort of preventing her hands from shaking. The morning chill in the air had brought goosepimples up along her bare arms and she shivered. But the cold wasn’t the only cause of the shiver, nor the hand shaking. Why on earth had she said she’d go riding with him? With any man? Still less one so obviously masculine and threatening. The lure of being on a horse again had tempted her into a momentary indiscretion, into allowing her heart to rule her head. Into what she could only perceive as a potentially dangerous situation. One she’d vowed never to put herself in again.

“There it is,” Bertha declared, emerging with a long, brown-paper-wrapped package over her arm. “Let’s get it out and see how time’s treated it. The paper should’ve kept the moths at bay.”

She laid the package on the bed and carefully cut away the paper to reveal the blue, woolen riding habit Harriet had last worn on the hunting field as a girl of seventeen. The faint aroma clung to it of the lavender it had been stored with. Bertha inhaled it like a fine perfume. “I don’t doubt as it’s a bit out of fashion now, seeing as you haven’t had call to wear it for nigh on sixteen years.” She eyed Harriet’s trim figure. “Might have to tighten up your stays a bit to get you into it. Two babies do have a habit of expanding the waist, in my experience.”

As Bertha had never been married, nor produced any babies of her own, yet had a waist several times that of her mistress, Harriet considered this an unkind criticism, but ignored it. After all her years of service, Bertha had earned the right to speak forthrightly to her mistress. Harriet managed a shaky smile. “Shall I try it on first before you tighten them?”

But of course, Bertha was right. Harriet was no longer a slender seventeen-year-old, but a mother of three-and-thirty. Much tightening of her stays was required. “Good heavens,” she puffed. “Was I really this thin? I shan’t be able to breathe properly if you tighten them much more.” But at least all this heaving served to distract her from the disquieting prospect of riding out in the company of a man. And such a man.

Bertha stopped pulling and set her large hands around Harriet’s waist to measure it. “That should do now. Let’s get this on you.”

And she was right again. This time the habit fastened everywhere that was required. A little snug in places, but not dangerously so, and, as it was fashioned of good quality wool, untouched by the depredations of the moth community for the past sixteen years, it was unlikely to provide any unexpected embarrassing disclosures.

Harriet set her matching hat, carefully brushed by Bertha, on her neatly coiffed hair and secured it with a few pins. “Will I pass muster?”

Bertha stepped back to admire her mistress. “Indeed you will. Very nice you look too. Could be a girl fresh out of the schoolroom. Sister to young Lydia rather than mother.”

Harriet sighed. “I wish I had a mirror, but I daresay that’s only being vain. It’s just so long since I wore this habit that I’d like to see how I look.” She compressed her lips. “And I must admit I feel a trifle guilty that I’m not wearing the black that’s expected of a widow.”

Bertha, who, despite to Harriet’s knowledge never having known the truth about Ben, had also never approved of him, shook her head. “It’s been more than three months and this blue’s as near to black as you can get and still be dressed to ride a horse. And I refuse to spoil it by trying to dye it black for you. Seeing as it’s the only one you’ve got.” She set her hands on her hips. “And you won’t be getting another, seeing as he left you practically destitute.”

Very true. But the wearing of widow’s weeds felt as though she donned armor against the world, particularly men, and today instinct told her she might need that armor. If only she could have thought of a way to avoid this outing. But deep down inside, she was looking forward to being on a horse again, even if it meant having to keep company with a man. There was always the possibility that if she felt threatened she could just gallop away from him and head for home. In extremis.

Harriet picked up her gloves from the bed. “We won’t talk about that, thank you, Bertha. And we’re not quite destitute. I still have what’s left of Ben’s army pension to rely on, after his creditors have taken their share. And we have Mrs. Bolitho to thank for this lovely cottage to live in. We should practice being grateful, I think, rather than complaining.”

Bertha’s huff told Harriet she wasn’t in agreement.

Harriet ignored it, and, picking up the long trailing element of her habit, marched onto the tiny landing and promptly bumped into Lydia at the top of the stairs.

“Mama, you look beautiful.” Lydia clapped a hand to her mouth. “So, you are going to go riding with Theo’s Cap’n, after all?”

Who had suggested to Lydia that she might not? “I said I was, didn’t I?” Harriet almost snapped, still annoyed with Bertha. “He invited me, so I could hardly refuse.” Perhaps she was behaving a tad grumpily. It wasn’t Lydia’s fault Bertha had annoyed her. She let her voice soften. “And I used to love riding.”

However, Lydia’s face had already fallen. “I didn’t mean to be rude, Mama.” Her gaze skimmed over the cut of the gown and the smallness of her mother’s waist. “Indeed, your habit looks as though it might well fit me.”

Theo must have been lurking in his bedroom. “ If you could ride,” he said, poking his head around the half-open door. “Which you can’t.”

Lydia glared at him. “But I would like to. It looks so very easy.”

This produced a guffaw of mockery from her brother. “That’s what you think. My friend Yves is going to teach me how to ride on his old pony, so I’ll be learning before you. He let me sit on the pony yesterday, in the stable but with no saddle. Her name’s Blossom. He has a new, bigger, pony, so he and I’ll be riding together.”

This was the first Harriet had heard of this, and the dangers immediately leapt into her head, not least the fact that he would be being taught by a boy younger than himself. “We’ll have to see about that. You should ask me first before you make any such arrangements.”

Lydia pulled a far-too smug smile at her brother and flounced down the stairs in front of Harriet. Bertha, tutting to herself, followed behind, her footsteps heavy on the creaking treads.

In the kitchen, Lydia stepped back to admire her mother the better, her head tilted to one side. “A riding habit is so… so becoming. Much nicer than an ordinary dress. Quite military. Did Papa ever see you in it?” She tapped her fingers on the tabletop and her eyes narrowed. “Might you let me try it on to see what I look like in it? Even though we don’t have a horse and I can’t ride?”

Bertha’s snort of disapproval echoed around the kitchen. “Young ladies in your situation can’t give themselves hoity-toity airs.”

Lydia’s brow lowered and her lower lip stuck out in mutiny.

Harriet would have interfered had not right at that moment a sharp rapping on the kitchen door drawn all their attention. Bertha waddled past them and opened the door.

Captain Trevelyan was standing on the doorstep, dressed in a smart blue coat that perfectly matched Harriet’s habit, tall topboots polished to a high luster, and with a beaver hat of moderate proportions on his dark curls. This he removed as he spotted Harriet behind Bertha, in order to sweep them both a low bow.

He straightened up with what could only be described as a roguish smile on his lips. “Bertha, delighted to see you again. I’m here to deprive you of your mistress’s company for an hour or two, if you don’t mind too much?”

Bertha, almost simpering, which was most unusual, stepped out of the way and Captain Trevelyan’s tall form filled the doorway. “Mrs. Penhallow, you look charming. Blue suits you well. I’m glad to see you haven’t changed your mind about our ride, as I’ve brought my mother’s mare, Peggy, down here especially for you.”

Despite her inner trepidation, Harriet allowed herself a little smile at the thought of being on a horse after so long. He would have no idea how much it meant to her to be about to ride again after all these years. She’d ridden since the age of three, beginning on the garden pony, until the fateful day when Ben had swept her off her feet in his dashing hussar uniform and carried her off to Bath as his wife. And in all the intervening years, every time she’d seen anyone on a horse, her heart had broken a little for want of a horse of her own again. But best not to let her escort know that. Best not to let him know anything at all. Just for a moment, she allowed herself to feel glad she’d accepted his offer and pushed her fears to the back of her mind.

“Good morning, Captain.” She peered past him in curiosity. The large black gelding from the other day was standing patiently in the autumn sunshine where his rider had hooked his reins around the low branch of a tree, and beside him stood a smaller, also black, mare, equipped with a side-saddle. A daintier, more finely boned mount than the gelding, a pretty, long white blaze reached to the tip of her nose and one white sock decorated her offside front pastern. Her well-muscled neck and quarters and the slope of her shoulder suggested a long-striding, comfortable ride. She possessed an air of sweet gentleness about her that the gelding didn’t, despite his apparent patience.

“She’s beautiful,” Harriet gasped. “Are you sure your mother won’t mind me riding her? I haven’t sat on a horse now for sixteen years, and I’m bound to be rusty.”

Lydia came to stand beside her. “Goodness, Mama. What a lovely horse. But it looks quite large…” Of course, Lydia and Theo had never seen her ride and were only used to the carriage horses they’d seen about the streets of Bath. Not many people rode within the city limits.

“If you’ll come this way, I’ll introduce you,” Captain Trevelyan said, gesturing with one gloved hand.

Suppressing the impulse to glance back at Bertha and Lydia for reassurance, Harriet followed him to where the mare was nibbling leaves off the branch she was tied to. “Mrs. Penhallow, meet Peggy. She’s a lady herself; quiet and willing without being too taxing a ride. A real lady’s mount. I selected her myself for my mother, and she was trained by my friend Kit’s mother, the Dowager Viscountess of Ormonde, a woman with the skills of a horse whisperer.”

Was he a little overeager? Did he suspect her of reluctance to accompany him? Did he think the cause of it might be nerves at riding again after so long? Well, he had that quite wrong.

Harriet ran her gloved hand down Peggy’s white blaze, the horse’s warm breath in her face. “I imagine I will have ridden horses less quiet and willing in my time.” Let him know she was no timid novice. She pulled off her glove so she could touch the horse’s silken coat, where just a fuzz of coming winter growth had taken away the shine of summer. “Hello, Peggy. You’ll have to be very gentle with me today as it’s such a long time since I’ve ridden.”

Captain Trevelyan unhooked Peggy’s reins from the branch and threw them back over her head. “She’ll be gentle. That was why I chose her. We have no groom, so I shall need to give you a leg up.”

Harriet froze. He was going to have to touch her. Why hadn’t she thought of that before agreeing to ride with him? Of course, in the past, before Ben, she’d been given leg ups from all sorts of people, so why should she hesitate now? Because she didn’t want him to touch her. Not even her booted foot. Because she never wanted any man to touch her again. And especially not this one with his rather wild good looks and air of latent masculinity.

With a huge effort, she wrestled herself under control. She mustn’t show him how disturbed the suggestion of a leg up was making her feel. She swallowed. “Thank you, Captain.”

He linked his hands to make a step, and with only a momentary hesitation, she set her foot on them, and he launched her into the saddle. Trying not to think of the strength he’d displayed in shooting her into the saddle, she hooked her right leg around the lower pommel and arranged the voluminous skirts of her habit, then slipped her left foot into the stirrup he was holding. Its length felt comfortable, so there was no need to adjust the leather. Thank goodness. She gathered up the reins and patted Peggy’s shoulder, but the little mare stood immovable and calm, just as he’d assured her she would. How wonderful it was to have a horse beneath her again. After so long, Peggy’s docility might be a good thing.

It became borne in upon her that Captain Trevelyan had not moved over to retrieve his own horse but was looking up at her. The urge to avert her gaze waxed strong. His smile reached eyes that also held open curiosity. “I can see already from the way you sit that you have not forgotten any of your riding skills.”

Heat swarmed up Harriet’s cheeks, but she managed to return his smile. “I suspect it is a skill one never forgets, although I fear that this evening, and perhaps tomorrow, I might notice aches in muscles I’m not accustomed to using.”

He unhooked the gelding’s reins and swung himself into the saddle, settling down as though he belonged there, his back straight but his body relaxed. “Shall we go?”

They set off, riding side-by-side, up the track that would take them back towards Rosudgeon, the long stride of the little mare matching the bigger horse easily. Although ostensibly looking ahead at the lane, curiosity got the better of Harriet and she was able to surreptitiously survey Captain Trevelyan as she rode. As this was the closest she’d got to him, and he seemed unaware of her sideways glances, she had the opportunity for a detailed reconnaissance.

He was as handsome as she remembered, his overly long dark hair curling on the nape of his neck and peeking out along his forehead from under his hat. A faint haze of dark stubble covered a strong jaw, and his lips had set in a firm line. He held his reins lightly in one hand, his other resting on his knee, and his body swayed in perfect synchronicity with the movement of his horse beneath him.

Perhaps she ought to speak to him, although from what she’d seen of him so far, he appeared not to be loquacious himself. “Your horse is very handsome. What is he called?”

He turned his head and she had to struggle not to shy away from him. “Shadow. I bred him myself.”

“Is that a hobby of yours, then? Did you breed Peggy as well?”

His golden eyes glittered in the sunlight. “It is, and no, I didn’t. I purchased Peggy for my mother from Lady Ormonde, as I said earlier, who’d bred her little Arab mare to the Thoroughbred stallion Waxy, a grandson of the great Eclipse. I like a lady’s horse with a bit of Arab in it. They’re an intelligent breed.”

“She’s a sweet ride.”

“My mother is well pleased with her, but I’m too big to ride her.”

Harriet returned her gaze to straight ahead, where the track bent to the right and a narrow path could be seen winding away to the west between the little, stone-walled fields.

“If we go this way,” he said, pointing, “we can ride towards Penzance and the beach at Marazion, then return across the moors inland. Do you feel up to riding that far?”

Oh, if only she could just keep on going forever on the comfortable Peggy and leave all her troubles behind. But this was reality, and she had two children who depended on her. Not to mention Bertha, who seemed quite enamored of her escort. “Yes,” she said. “That would be lovely. Might it be possible to ride into Penzance so I can call upon Aunt Bolitho to thank her for her kindness?” Best to seize the opportunity when it came along. She could hardly walk to Penzance.

He seemed unfazed by this request. “Of course. The beach there is magnificent for a gallop, if you should so wish. Do you have her address?”

“Her man of business told me she lives in a street called Causeway Head. I have the name of the house.”

He nodded. “Easy to find. We’ll make that our aim this morning.”

Harriet tapped Peggy with her heel as she followed the captain down the path. “How far is it?”

“A couple of hours altogether, depending on how fast we go. It’s a pleasant ride with plenty of places to canter. You’re certain you’re up to it?”

Two hours. But Peggy had a comfortable stride and saddle, both of which were important for an enjoyable ride. The day promised to be a fine one, with little wind blowing and, for once, Harriet felt as though she were a young girl again. “Why not?” she said, unable to suppress the unaccustomed delight in her tone, despite her misgivings at undertaking this in the company of a man. “I’d love to canter again.”