***
The next morning, Pru was up before the sun and in her split riding skirt and boots she headed for the stables. A blue mist hovered, shrouding the stables in wafting strands of spidery clouds and obscuring the hills in the distance. The dampness touched her cheeks, fresh and cool, and she followed the gravel path leading her into the huge stable building. The crisp smell of fresh hay and manure, exacerbated in the frosty temperature, filled her nose and she inhaled deeply.
She was unsurprised to see many of the stablehands at work already, preparing to exercise the horses. Several smaller men, Pru assumed were the jockeys for Uncle Robert’s racehorses, were sitting about in their training outfits, drinking tea, the steam rising from their cups as they waited for their mounts to be ready.
‘Well, good morning, Miss Prudence.’
Turning on the spot, she came face to face with Brock and his broad grin.
‘Good morning, Mr Brock.’
‘Just Brock,’ he reminded her.
‘Just Prudence,’ she countered.
He laughed. ‘And what brings you out even before the birds have begun to sing?’
‘I was hoping to take Misha for a run before breakfast.’
Brock rubbed the back of his neck looking hesitant. ‘Did Mr Robert say you were able to ride alone?’
She could have told him to mind his business, but Prudence was not one to treat servants as lesser humans. She hadn’t known she needed her uncle’s permission to ride, but it didn’t surprise her. Gran would have taken care of that. She decided to play innocent and hope for the best.
‘I’ll not go far,’ she said, smiling coyly. ‘Please, Brock, I promise I will stay to the closer paddocks and I won’t take her any higher than a trot.’
Brock didn’t speak and by the look on his face she was sure he was about to say no.
‘Alright then,’ he gave in. ‘But be back in good time before breakfast or it’ll be my neck in the noose.’
She beamed. ‘Understood.’
He moved across to the tack room to collect a side-saddle. Following him, she reached out to lay a hand on his arm and pointed to another saddle. She hated the side-saddle. It was too restrictive.
‘I promise I can ride better in a real saddle.’
‘Ladies don’t ride one leg either side of the horse,’ Brock said, but she could see he didn’t believe it any more than she did.
‘Come now, Brock,’ she said in her best flirtatious manner. ‘I am sure the ladies of Australia have given over the silly rituals of the old country.’
Still he hesitated.
‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,’ she added, with a wink she hoped was playful and not completely inappropriate.
Whatever it was, he relented with a chuckle and she helped him saddle Misha with a sturdy man’s saddle.
Stepping up on the riding block, she mounted the horse easily and took a moment to find her seat. The sky was lightening in the east as Brock followed her out of the stables. He stood by as she got comfortable in the saddle and with Misha’s temperament. It had been some time since she’d ridden, and a new horse should always be treated with respect. Turning circles, Prudence marvelled at the elegance and strength of the animal. She urged the horse into an easy trot before waving goodbye to Brock.
‘Back before breakfast,’ he warned again.
‘Yes, sir.’ She saluted and giving Misha a strong kick in the flanks, she took off across the paddocks at a speed that shook out the last of the sleep from her body.
Half an hour later she returned to the stables where Brock was waiting, his face a hard scowl.
‘You promised you wouldn’t go faster than a trot.’
‘Oh, Brock, she’s wonderful,’ Prudence gushed, out of breath and trying to change the subject.
His frown didn’t abate.
‘I couldn’t help it,’ she said a little more contrite. ‘Misha is built to run and so am I. I have so little amusements. Please don’t tell Grandmother or Uncle.’
‘I won’t,’ he said helping her down from the horse. ‘But you really must stay inside the estate grounds. There are dangers out in the bush for young well-bred ladies. Natives, bushrangers. It’s not safe, Miss Prudence. This isn’t Hyde Park.’
‘We’ve already met the bushrangers,’ she tossed back lightly, exhilarated by her ride. ‘Thank you, Brock. I must get in to breakfast.’
She kissed his cheek and, still exhilarated from her ride, she ran all the way back to the house. Passing the kitchen, she could hear Camilla finishing preparations for breakfast. She rushed up the rear stairs and straight into Uncle Robert.
‘Oh!’
‘Prudence, what on earth …?’
‘Sorry, Uncle Robert.’
‘Why are you so out of breath?’ he asked, his eyes wandering over her attire. ‘Did you go riding? Without a chaperone?’
‘I just took Misha out for a quick trot. I didn’t go far. Just in the home paddock. She’s wonderful, Uncle Robert, I adore her. Please don’t tell Grandmother I was riding alone,’ she begged, kissing him on the cheek. She was handing out a lot of begging kisses today. But if he told her grandmother, she wouldn’t be able placate her with just a kiss on the cheek.
Moving quickly past Robert, she continued up to her rooms where she washed and dressed. When she returned to the breakfast room, it was obvious that he had not followed her wishes.
‘Robert tells me you went out riding alone this morning.’
Not even a ‘good morning’ before the inquisition, then.
Sagging a little, Prudence graced her uncle with a look but said nothing.
‘I’ll be speaking with the stable manager after breakfast to ensure it doesn’t happen again,’ Robert said, scattering salt on his boiled eggs.
‘It wasn’t Brock’s fault …’
‘Brock?’ Deidre’s face turned ashen. ‘Brock?’
‘You should not be so informal with the help, Prudence,’ Robert said, disapproval marring his brow.
‘You are to stay away from the stables unless Robert or Alicia ride with you.’
‘But Grandmother …’
‘Where is this sudden wilfulness coming from, Prudence? You used to be so obedient.’
‘What is the point of having a horse if I am not allowed to ride her?’ Prudence asked, sliding down in her seat.
‘You can ride with a chaperone,’ Deidre said. ‘And don’t slouch.’
Prudence sat up straight in her chair, taking a sip of her tea before spreading a slice of bread with jam. But she had lost her appetite. Riding was to have been her one path of escape from the boredom of sewing cushion covers and drinking tea. It wasn’t as though they would have any visitors either, being out here in the middle of nowhere.
‘Uncle Robert is away so much and Aunt Alicia doesn’t like to go outside.’ She wasn’t ready to give up yet. ‘What if I promise to stay only to the grounds? The estate is large enough that I have no real need to leave it. Please, Grandmother?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Deidre agreed. ‘But only if you prove you can behave like the mature lady I raised you to be.’
There was hope. She’d just have to be patient. ‘May I be excused?’
‘Where are you going?’ Deidre asked.
‘I thought I might read in the garden,’ she said, thinking of the only activity her grandmother might approve of that would allow her to leave the house.
‘You’ve not eaten anything,’ Deidre argued.
She shovelled the bread into her mouth, chewing quickly and swallowing it with a mouthful of tea.
‘Now may I be excused?’
Her grandmother graced her with a look of displeasure but finally gave in. ‘Stay in the shade.’
‘I left a hat for you in the hallway,’ Alicia spoke for the first time. ‘The sun is very strong on our English skin.’
‘Thank you, Aunt Alicia,’ Prudence said politely, and standing she left the room.
She spent a good twe
nty minutes in Robert and Alicia’s library perusing the collection of books. There were plenty of horse breeding and racing books. All the Jane Austen novels which she had already read a multitude of times.
‘Wuthering Heights!’
Prudence was astonished to see the novel her grandmother deemed unsuitable for a lady in its content and ideals. She’d been dying to read it and, naturally, Gran’s opinion had only made her more interested in the controversial book. Perhaps Aunt Alicia was not as buttoned up and repressed as she had first thought. With a devious smile, Prudence grabbed the book like a lifeline, and on her way out the door she took a larger book on the history of Australian horse breeding from the shelf, hiding the novel between its covers should she encounter anyone on her way out of the house.
Retrieving the wide-brimmed hat Aunt Alicia had mentioned, she stepped outside into the gardens and, walking as far from the house as she dared, she made herself comfortable on a wooden garden bench beneath a large tree covered in fragrant purple flowers. She opened the larger book on horse breeding and, inside it, she flipped to the first page of Wuthering Heights. To the passer-by it would look as though she were studying up on her uncle’s business.
By the time Prudence reached chapter nine of the novel, she felt both a kinship and a separation from the female character. Cathy was a girl who started out with all the freedom in the world to run wild across the moors with a man she loved. But then, having had a taste of the good life at Thrushcross Grange, it looked as though she would gladly give up her love for Heathcliff for luxury and fine possessions. That it would degrade her to marry him despite how much she loved him.
Disappointed at where the story was going, Prudence closed the book and stared out into the wild, dense bushland just past the fence line of Carrington Estate. She had been brought up with fine possessions and luxury. But what she wouldn’t give to have the freedom to roam the wilds of this country, of this world. She knew she was being ungrateful but … freedom. It was what she craved most. A man she loved? She’d never really thought about it. She’d never met a man she thought she could love. She would never have the freedom to love a man of her choosing anyway, should she meet one. A man like Heathcliff? A dirty orphan with no fortune and from a lesser social class? Her grandmother would pitch a fit. No, she was destined to marry a man like Edgar. And she was resigned to it. Wasn’t she?
Chapter 3
The weeks dragged by and Pru became lonelier with every passing day. Thankfully, after an interminable amount of time acting on her best behaviour, her grandmother had finally allowed her to ride Misha unchaperoned as long as she promised to stay within sight of the house.
When she wasn’t bound to the manor practising the pianoforte or doing needlepoint, she spent as much time as she could in the stables with the horses and Brock. And when her Uncle Robert was away in town and her grandmother was resting, she would defy her grandmother’s edict and take Misha to the far edges of the huge property. Upon her return, Brock would inevitably give her one of his looks of disappointment, but he never reprimanded her.
‘Why do you never give me up to Grandmother or Uncle Robert?’ she asked one morning, after another exhilarating ride along the boundary fence line. ‘You know I’m not supposed to ride away from the house.’
He looked up at her from where he’d been sorting feed into each of the horses’ stalls.
‘A girl needs to rebel now and then,’ he said, his deep American drawl unable to hide the mocking tone.
‘Did you know many rebellious women back in Kentucky?’ she asked, leaning on the edge of the stables as he moved along. America intrigued her. Especially now as it looked as though the country was to go to war once again. Not with the British this time, but against its own countrymen.
Brock smiled his crooked smile. ‘Miss Prudence, I knew women of the South that could make your hair curl, just with their language. But I also knew ladies, such as yourself, young, rich and bored—daughters of plantation owners—who were willing and able to get a man to do stupid things just to catch her attention. They would also rebel. But their rebellion, more often than not, led to their ruin.’
The warning didn’t go unnoticed, but Prudence chose to ignore it. She was no flighty plantation owner’s daughter. And she certainly had no desire to watch a man do stupid things in the hope of catching her eye.
‘I’m not a rebel,’ she said, although she did enjoy the idea of it. ‘Just a woman trying to make her way in a man’s world as best she can.’
‘Well, you’ll be a sorry woman if your grandmother finds out,’ he tossed back as they reached the last stall.
The midnight-black head of a tall stallion popped over the top of the stall, nipping Brock lightly in the ear.
‘Blasted animal!’ He gave the horse a swipe across the nose and Pru chuckled.
‘It’s not funny,’ Brock argued, rubbing his sore ear. ‘Ornery beast takes a bite out of me every chance he gets.’
‘Oh, come now,’ Pru said, rubbing her hand down the horse’s cheek. ‘He’s meek as a child.’
‘Meek is he?’ Brock grunted. ‘We’ll see if you still feel the same when he takes your finger off. Keep your hands back, Miss Prudence. He’s a biter, as you can see.’
‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’ she asked the horse.
‘His name is Samson,’ Brock grumbled. ‘He’s your uncle’s prize racehorse. I’ve been training him and, despite my consistent advice that he isn’t ready yet, your Uncle is entering him in the upcoming Spring Carnival in Melbourne.’
‘He’ll do just fine, won’t you, Samson.’
The stallion snorted wetly at Brock before turning back to nuzzle gently into Pru’s shoulder.
‘Can I ride him?’
Brock’s eyes widened. ‘Of course you can’t. And don’t go getting any ideas about sneaking out with him when I’m not here. You do that, and I will definitely tell your grandmother just how far out you ride on your little morning trots.’
She pulled a face at him, already devising ways to get a ride on the powerful stallion.
***
The smell of the grass and horses lifted Pru’s spirits. She’d been cooped up on the property at Carrington Estate for weeks since they’d arrived, with only the company of her grandmother, her Aunt Alicia and the servants. Thanks to the beginning of the spring season, she was thrilled to be able to accompany her family to her first Australian race meeting.
The trip to Melbourne had given her a chance to see more of the countryside and she looked forward to spending a few days exploring the city. Although, now that she was here, standing at Flemington Racecourse dressed in a heavy taffeta gown in the heat of the spring sun, she wondered why she’d been so keen to come.
Following her grandmother, her aunt and uncle into the spectator’s area, Prudence craned her neck to see the magnificent animals pacing in the staging area, waiting for their turn to race.
Uncle Robert called to Brock, who led Samson to them at the barrier fencing. The stallion was agitated and Prudence believed the jockey chosen to race him was lacking in his ability to control the horse. Sitting astride in his shiny Carrington colours of blue and green, the jockey looked nervous, and that nervousness would be translating directly into the stallion. She moved in to try to pat Samson in the hopes of calming him, but her grandmother called her back.
‘All prepared, Brock?’ Uncle Robert asked.
‘He could do with a few more months, sir,’ Brock answered and tipped his hat to Prudence who smiled back.
‘Well, we don’t have a few more months,’ Robert snapped. ‘I’ve got a lot of money riding on him.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brock responded begrudgingly and taking the reins, he walked the horse and jockey out to the track.
Prudence dropped her parasol as she scanned the crowd, fascinated by the melting pot of people who had come to watch the races. Only a rope separated their small upper-class section from the rest of society and as she watched the fun on the o
ther side of the rope, she wished she could join them.
‘Prudence, cover yourself,’ Deidre instructed. ‘You do not want to have skin like the natives, do you?’
She sighed. ‘No, Grandmother.’
She lifted the parasol back into place and surreptitiously scanned the crowds again. Groups of men stood by a bar, drinking and betting, while the women congregated in small groups talking. She would have like to have joined them at the bar. She wished she could try a beer. She’d never had beer. Gran had allowed her to drink sherry or wine once she’d turned twenty-one, but she was never to have more than one glass. Prudence wondered what it was like to feel drunk.
All attentions turned to the racetrack as the bugle called the horses to the starting line. Prudence moved to the fence to get a better look. She could see Samson shifting restlessly, the jockey struggling to keep the stallion at the line, and when the starters gun fired and the horses lunged forward, Samson was facing the other way.
‘Damn that blasted jockey!’ Robert cursed.
‘Robert, mind your language,’ Deidre reprimanded.
Prudence ignored them and watched as the stallion finally settled into the run.
‘Give him his head,’ she murmured. Uncle was right. The horse wasn’t the problem. It was the jockey who was incompetent. Even she could have run a better race than that pipsqueak of a man.
Despite the slow start, and the poor control the jockey had, Samson managed to cross the line in fourth place. The cheer went up around her from those with tickets on the winning horses.
‘Fourth place is not bad for his first race, Uncle,’ Prudence tried to console him. ‘He’ll do better next time.’
‘Thank you, Prudence,’ he said, but she could see the disappointment in his eyes. ‘And yes, he will do better, when I fire that jockey.’
The Bushranger's Wife Page 4