The cold bit at Mary’s nose, which filled with moisture. She dabbed her nose with her handkerchief, which she then folded and returned to her cloak. What a ridiculous design—to create a saddle that one could not mount by oneself.
She led the horse to a fallen log on the side of the road and attempted to use it as a mounting block, but it was a rather skinny log and did not have the necessary height.
Finally, she sat down on the log, making sure her cloak was positioned to protect the dress. She pressed her gloved fingers against her temples. She supposed she could wait for Mr. Stanley and ask for his help. Warmth bloomed within her chest: she had finally discovered something that required a gentleman’s assistance. Of course, she had intended to need his help for something a little more interesting or dire than mounting her horse. If this was one of Kitty’s novels, a pack of wolves would attack. But there were no wolves, and really, this would do just as well.
Mary waited for what seemed like a very long time, and as she waited her mood shifted from pleasure at finding an excuse to speak to Mr. Stanley to despair. She did not even know what Mr. Stanley looked like, whether he was tall or short, young or old, whether he came by carriage or by horse. But he certainly did not come, for the road was empty. She wished she had a pocket watch so she would know for how long she had waited in the frigid cold. Her cloak was quality and would have been enough for riding into Worthing, for she would have spent most her time in shops. But it was an unusually cold December, and her cloak was not enough for spending hours outside.
She did some calculations in her mind. Her conversation with Lady Trafford had ended at one thirty. With the time she had spent with Fanny, she probably had not left Castle Durrington until quarter past two. Then she would have spent at least twenty or thirty minutes riding the horse, and a solid thirty minutes first failing to find a reason for needing a gentleman’s help and then attempting to mount the horse. She supposed she had spent approximately forty-five minutes waiting, which put the time close to four o’clock. Stanley was meant to arrive at Castle Durrington at three o’clock.
Maybe he was late. She counted aloud to two thousand, growing progressively colder as the numbers grew higher.
Finally, she concluded that Mr. Stanley must have come by a different road, from a different direction, or she had missed him somehow, perhaps when backtracking through the wood. Or maybe when Withrow had said three o’clock, he had not meant today; he could have meant tomorrow.
Mary stood and led her horse back down the road towards Castle Durrington. She regretted riding so many miles, but there was nothing to do for it but walk. She gritted her teeth and tried to maintain a positive disposition. Though she had done more of it in the past few months than in her entire life, Mary did not like walking.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Bonaparte is affecting an air of perfect security and ease. He is hunting, attending the opera, and inspecting manufactures. All this, however, must be merely for stage effect, and we have no doubt that he finds it a painful piece of acting, since it is impossible he can be without apprehensions.”
–Perth Courier, Perth, Scotland, December 9, 1813
After quite some time, Mary came across a wooden fence on the side of the road. This reached much higher than the log she had used earlier, and she thought it possible she could use it to mount the horse.
She positioned the horse as close to the fence as possible while still allowing her the space to climb. She was halfway up the fence when she heard a friendly, unfamiliar voice.
“Excuse me, my lady, but may I be of assistance?”
She looked up. Astride a horse was a young man of noble bearing, with a handsome face and a kind smile. She did not know whether or not this was Mr. Stanley, and while her original plan had been to only accept help from him, at this point she would accept help from anyone.
“Why yes, thank you,” she said, trying to employ the ease of manners used by her sisters. “I did not bring a groom, as I planned to take only a short ride. Unfortunately, I needed to dismount, and I have found it quite impossible to get back on.”
“It would be my pleasure to serve you,” said the man. He dismounted his horse, bowed, and extended a hand to help Mary off the fence. She was not used to men giving her this sort of gentlemanly attention, and she wondered if he was this courteous to everyone, or if it were only her dress and her hair that induced this behaviour.
“May I ask your name?”
“I am Mr. Stanley, at your service.”
“Mr. William Stanley?” she said with the sort of silly interest Lydia might express. Inwardly she smiled. She had managed to intercept her prey before he arrived at Castle Durrington after all.
“Why yes. Should I know who you are?”
“Not yet, but you soon shall. I am staying with Lady Trafford at Castle Durrington, and we have been expecting you.”
“How charming.” He raised her gloved hand and kissed it. No gentleman had ever kissed her hand before. “Please,
