On the day after her release from the madhouse, C.J. returned from her morning constitutional to discover draped across her bedspread the most exquisite garment she had ever seen. She held it before her as she surveyed her reflection in the cheval mirror. The deep green velvet was of the finest quality. C.J. opened a large, round hatbox to discover a handsome black veiled riding hat. And at the foot of the bed there was another box that contained a pair of black boots with a sturdy heel.
Trying on the new riding habit, C.J. frowned, lifting the skirt’s heavy, lopsided train over her right arm. This could not be right, she thought, as she studied her reflection. She donned the black hat, which sat solidly upon her head at just the proper angle, hoping that it would ameliorate the picture before her. How could a celebrated modiste like Madame Delacroix have made such a mistake?
Oh, God! Her stomach lurched as she suddenly made sense of the strange configuration of her hem. Of course! She was expected to ride sidesaddle.
Thus it was with no small degree of trepidation that she met the earl, who came to fetch her in his coach to take her to his stables in Bathampton. C.J. resolved to put a bold face on it and not let the earl sense her inexperience. After all, she was an actress—or had been. She would have to feign a familiarity with the sidesaddle, or risk giving herself away yet again. Her fears returned as to whether she was tempting the fates too much and putting her unborn babe at a ridiculous and unnecessary risk, but Mary had made a salient point: in this era, women in her condition often rode. Perhaps she was being overly cautious.
One of the earl’s grooms led out a chestnut mare and adjusted the saddle girth.
Darlington grinned. “She reminds me a bit of you, Miss Welles. Her name is Gypsy Lady.”
“For her wild spirit or for her nomadic tendencies?” C.J. quipped.
The dapper groom helped C.J. into the sidesaddle, offering his open palm to boost her up. She had seen enough movies to know that she needed to secure herself by hooking her leg over the pommel. It was an awkward position—to face forward while both of her legs draped over the left side of the mare. She hoped that neither the groom nor the earl saw her trembling. And that Gypsy Lady didn’t sense her trepidation.
“You look quite elegant, Miss Welles,” Darlington called to her as he saddled a huge white mount. He patted the horse’s immense yet graceful neck.
“What is his name?” C.J. called gaily.
“Esperance.”
“A good name for a Percy, your lordship!” C.J. trotted Gypsy Lady over to Darlington, whose groom was adjusting the length of his stirrups.
He leaned toward her. “One of the most remarkable things about our friendship, Miss Welles, is that I can make a reference to Shakespeare, or mythology, or history without the need to explain, define, or clarify my meaning.”
C.J. discovered that she had no trouble maneuvering the reins and her riding crop, although she had not had occasion to use the stick and always deplored doing so. As long as she was going slowly, she maintained her balance in the sidesaddle with ease and enjoyed moving her body in tandem with the mare’s loping rhythm.
“I thought you might like to see the view from Charlcombe,” Darlington proposed as they rode side by side. The steady clip-clop of the hooves along the dirt road had an almost soporific effect. The air smelled clean and fresh from newly cut grass and hay. “It’s a delightful old village; in fact, Miss Austen quite prefers to walk in this area.”
C.J. was entranced by the verdant surroundings, the gentle rolling hills, and the wooded valleys dotted with wildflowers.
“We can dismount any time you like, Miss Welles, should you wish to explore any point of interest on foot.”
C.J. nodded. In fact, she would very likely find many places of interest but was tentative about alighting from Gypsy Lady, now that she was beginning to gain a degree of ease in the sidesaddle position.
Darlington was looking ahead, pointing to a small village church built of stone in the Norman style. “Cassandra, have you ever read Tom Jones?”
“Yes, indeed. Why do you ask?”
“Despite my inquiring, I should not be surprised at your answer. So many young ladies of fashion are actively encouraged not to read novels, as it is commonly believed that the morals they contain may destroy the mind.” Darlington stopped in front of the old Norman church. “The church of St. Mary the Virgin. Henry Fielding was married here,” the earl remarked, referring to the author of the ostensibly salacious novel in question. “St. Mary’s is traditionally considered the mother church of Bath. As a matter of fact, the Abbey used to pay its dues to St. Mary’s to the tune of a pound of peppercorns annually.”
“That’s nothing to sneeze at!”
“Touché, Miss Welles. Shall we ride down into the valley?”
“Why not?” answered C.J., unaware of his intentions.
“Race you!” he called as he spurred his horse into a canter.
“No, I can’t, Percy! The baby!” C.J., who had been quite comfortable on Gypsy Lady as the horse walked beside Darlington’s mount and had rather liked trotting, now found herself in a situation that she had difficulty managing with any degree of grace or agility. Gypsy Lady was true to her appellation. As soon as Esperance went into his brisk canter, the mare wildly followed, temporarily throwing C.J. off balance.
Her mind was a jumble of thoughts, cautions, warnings. She was neither a strong nor an experienced enough horsewoman to control Gypsy Lady. Darlington was way ahead of her, cantering apace down the hill, and had not the slightest notion that she was in trouble.
An ordinarily harmless woodland creature darted across the road with another in hot pursuit, spooking the mare. She reared up, throwing her novice rider, whose leg, swathed
