His Lordship's Filly

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  Peter shrugged. “I don’t see how you could expect to keep it a secret. Either your marriage or Bridget’s parentage.” He grinned. “I mean, Bridget’s no ordinary wife. She won’t be a sit-at-home.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Andrew agreed with a half groan. “But how can I take her out in company? Why, yesterday she was outraged to find that we use different spoons for the soup, said it was a waste.”

  He found himself growing red and lowered his voice. “And do you know what else she told me?”

  Peter looked agreeably curious. “No, what?”

  Andrew leaned closer. “That she couldn’t understand why wealthy people are so foolish.”

  Peter grinned. “We are, I suppose, at least to her, but did she mention specifics?”

  Andrew nodded. “Oh, yes, she said it was a waste for married people to sleep apart—a waste of space, of beds, and of—” He paused, unaccountably embarrassed. “And of warm bodies.”

  Peter’s guffaw echoed through the dining room, causing several grizzled heads to turn questioningly in their direction. He smiled at them. “That’s Bridget,” he said, lowering his voice. “You’ve got quite a filly there, Andrew, my boy. Are you going to be able to tame her?”

  Remembering last night, Andrew smiled. “There’s never been a filly I couldn’t tame. I don’t expect Bridget to be any different.” He hesitated. “But don’t you dare tell her I said so!”

  * * * *

  Bridget enjoyed the ride out to the stables. Fortunately Andrew had assumed she’d ride the stallion and he the filly, so there was no problem there. The day was sunny, Andrew was a pleasant companion, and riding Waterloo was, as always, exhilarating.

  But the new riding habit was a nuisance, always tangling about her legs in the most infuriating fashion. It must have been men who put women in skirts, she thought with some annoyance. No one else could have come up with such a cumbersome way of dressing.

  The sidesaddle, too, though a good one and as comfortable as such a saddle could be, was aggravatingly constricting. Surely no man had ever attempted to ride in such a ridiculous seat.

  But she had not suggested to Andrew that she wear her breeches and ride astride. She had a strong feeling that he would not find such attire appropriate, and since she didn’t wish to directly go against his wishes, it would be better if she didn’t know what those wishes were.

  She would save her breeches for when she was alone. She and Ned had had quite a satisfactory talk. He had agreed—quite happily—to serve as the stallion’s personal groom and to show her about the city.

  As they neared the stables, she felt an unaccountable shyness. What should she say to Papa today? Should she tell him that she knew about his debts and that Andrew had paid them for him? She frowned. Papa was such a proud man. It must embarrass him terribly to be beholden to his daughter’s husband. Maybe she should just be quiet about it and preserve his pride.

  As they rode into the yard, Papa came out of the tack room. “Papa!” she called, pulling up the stallion so sharply that he tossed his head and snorted, throwing her an injured look over his shoulder.

  “Sorry, boy,” she said, stroking his smooth neck. “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

  She managed to slide down from the horse before Andrew could get to her. In spite of last night, she didn’t appreciate needing a mans’s help, help she wouldn’t need at all if she hadn’t been forced to wear these stupid female clothes.

  She straightened the skirt, took a step toward Papa, caught a toe in her hem, and catapulted right into Andrew’s arms. He caught her easily and set her back on her feet.

  “Careful, love,” he said softly, smiling down at her. For a moment she remembered the night before and her knees went all wobbly, so wobbly she had to cling to his arms for support.

  But the moment passed and she turned. “Papa, how are you?”

  A frown crossed his face and was instantly gone. “And how should I be?” he asked, his voice hearty. “I’m as well as ever I’ve been. And things here are fine,” he went on. “We’ve a new foal in the south paddock. Born yester eve, it was. A pretty little thing.”

  So he wasn’t going to say anything about his debts.

  He looked her over carefully. “Ye’re looking quite the lady, Bridget. 'Tis pleased I am to be seeing ye looking so well.”

  She felt that shyness again and murmured, “Thank you, Papa.”

  He grinned at her. “Well, girl, aren’t ye going to have a look at the new foal? I swear, that mare kept looking round the whole of the time. Like as if she wondered why ye weren’t there.”

  “Of course, Papa. I’ll go right now.” She lifted the heavy skirt and set off across the grass. Men were so comical. If Papa wanted to talk to Andrew alone, maybe to thank him for paying his IOUs, why didn’t he just say he wanted to talk to him? Why go through all this silliness and pretending? But she would like to see the foal. Baby horses were always beautiful.

  * * * *

  Andrew watched as Bridget, clutching the unaccustomed weight of her habit skirt, made her way toward the paddock. For a moment he wished her back in her breeches again. He was going to miss those pants.

  “Well now, milord,” Durabian said, clearing his throat and pulling his pipe from one pocket and his tobacco pouch from the other. “Yer factor come here yesterday and he told me what ye done. It weren’t necessary, milord. That is, I was ready to go to prison.” He swallowed, tamping tobacco into the bowl of the pipe. “Bridget and her horse was safe with ye. That were me only concern.” He reddened. “I never meant that ye should—”

  Andrew nodded. “I think I understand. But after I discovered your problem, I wished to correct it.”

  Durabian cleared his throat again, lit the pipe, puffing heavily. “And I thank ye fer it, but—”

  “No buts,” Andrew replied. “I couldn’t let Wichersham have your stables, now could I?”

  Durabian managed a grim smile. “No, milord. He’s a mean ‘un, Wichersham is. Mean as ever they come.” He hesitated. “Bridget, does she be knowing ‘bout all this?”

  Andrew swallowed. Should he tell? But he owed the man the truth. “She knows about the gambling debts,” he said.

  Durabian’s face fell. “I was hoping that—”

  “But she doesn’t know the name of the man who held your notes.” Andrew shook his head. “Wichersham? Really, man. How could you even wager with the likes of him?”

  “I didn’t, milord.” Durabian looked pained. “Me wagers was with others. Wichersham, he bought up me vowels. I was that surprised, I was.”

  Andrew considered Durabian’s averted eyes. There was more to this than that. The man was hiding something. Should he push to find out what it was?

  But he had to think about Bridget—and her feelings. She obviously adored her father. If he pushed to find out the rest of this thing, and Bridget asked him about it— what would he do then? It was bound to be something unfortunate, and it was obviously something her father wanted to keep from her.

  Andrew swallowed a sigh. He could well understand that. He wanted to protect her himself. Bridget did that to a man. He’d never know a woman like her. So innocent and yet abandoned. Naive and trusting. Trusting him.

  He turned to her father. “Durabian, I’ll ask you this once—and once only.”

  Durabian turned from watching Bridget pick her way across the grass. “Aye, milord, what—”

  “Please, you’re my wife’s father. Call me Andrew.”

  A strange look crossed the man’s face. “I’ll do that—Andrew. If yer sure ‘tis what ye want.”

  That was one of the few things he was sure of. “I’m sure.”

  “Then Andrew it is.” Durabian almost smiled. “But I doubt ye’ll be calling me Da now. ‘Tis a little much, that.”

  Andrew smiled, too. How could he help not smiling at such a possibility? “Yes, I suppose it is. But now for my question.”

  For a minute he thought the man would look away again,
but Durabian’s gaze held steady. “Ask it then.”

  Andrew hesitated, wondering how best to put the query. “I am Bridget’s husband now. And I mean to take good care of her. We paid the notes Wichersham held. So you’re safe enough there. But is there anything else I need to know, anything that might be harmful to Bridget?”

  Durabian heaved a great sigh, blowing out a cloud of fragrant smoke. “No, Andrew. As yer wife, Bridget is safe. That’s all I need—fer her to be safe.”

  Andrew thought about this. There was still something else, something Durabian didn’t want him to know. But if the man said Bridget was safe, then she was safe. And, Andrew decided, he would leave it at that. “Very well,” he said. “I just wanted to know.”

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning the sun woke Bridget. She turned carefully, but Andrew had left her bed. Perhaps he’d gone back to his own chamber in the night. Or perhaps he had already gone off about estate business. He was, after all, a man of great responsibilities.

  She glanced at the clock. No, it was too early for most lords to be up and about. If she’d learned one thing in her few days as a lady, it was that quality slept late, very late.

  With a grin she slid out from under the covers and hurried to her closet. She meant to use that lateness to her advantage.

  Minutes later she was in her breeches and out in the stables. Ned, good boy, was ready. So was Waterloo. More than ready, he pulled eagerly at the bridle, neighing happily when he heard her approaching.

  Ned’s eyes widened when he saw what she was wearing. He even opened his mouth but closed it again without saying anything. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when she quickly unbuckled Waterloo’s sidesaddle and replaced it with one of Andrew’s own.

  She saw he had saddled another animal for himself. “Good,” she said briskly, cramming her hair up under her cap. “We’ll be off then.”

  Despite the early hour, the streets were not deserted. Lords and ladies might be still abed, but the little people, those who had to earn their daily bread, were already hard at work. Shopgirls wielded their brooms industriously at doorsteps, delivery boys hurried by with packages, a chimney sweep herded his blackened helpers down the street ahead of him. And in a sheltered doorway, two little girls piled wildflowers in shabby baskets.

  Bridget heaved a sigh. The city was a bad place to be poor. In the country the poor at least had a chance to raise some food. Here they had to scrabble for every bite. Here they had no green grass, no space, and very little sun.

  For a while her sadness weighed down on her like a heavy blanket, but eventually the beauty of the park raised her spirits. Such a vast expanse of green—none of it needed for crops or pasture—was something she’d never seen before. From a grove of trees several deer stared at her, not at all frightened.

  “They’re so tame,” she murmured to the boy.

  “Pertected,” Ned said. “Them’s the King’s deer.”

  Bridget nodded, but she didn’t want to think of deer or kings or anything except the restive stallion between her knees. He wanted to run—and so did she.

  “You needn’t try to keep up with us,” she told Ned. “You won’t be able to, anyhow.”

  The boy grinned. “I knows that, milady. That ‘un, ‘e goes like the wind, ‘e do.”

  Bridget nodded. “Just wait for us.” When she chirruped, Waterloo took off in a great eager leap, almost immediately hitting a full gallop. She leaned into the wind, savoring its rush over her face, exulting in the raw power of the great beast beneath her. In some strange way they were one—one creature of power and grace. One creature faster than the wind itself.

  This was what she’d always lived for--at least as far back as she could remember. To ride. It had always seemed to her the most glorious experience in the world—to ride with utter abandon at the fastest gallop, horse and rider as one. But that was before she and Andrew had—

  Feeling her face heat up, she swallowed hastily. Marriage was all right. Well, it was more than all right, much more. But she would always love to ride, to gallop into the wind, to feel the world rushing by.

  She gave the stallion his head, letting him run off some of his high spirits. And eventually, when he slowed, she turned him back the way they’d come. Ned was just a dot in the far distance, waiting patiently. She headed Waterloo toward him.

  The warm sun felt good on her upturned face. She pulled off her cap, letting her hair fall free. That was what she’d done that first day she’d met Andrew, pulled off her cap to let him know that it wasn’t a stableboy he was clapping so familiarly on the shoulder. Then she’d tried to freeze him with her frostiest look. But after he’d apologized, she couldn’t stay angry with him.

  She smiled. And now she was Andrew’s wife. How strange life could be.

  Ned looked around a trifle anxiously. “Milady, it be getting on into morning. Quality, it’ll be stirring soon. And ‘is Lordship—”

  The boy ground to a halt, then stammered on. “I know ‘e ain’t said not to—leastways not as I know of. But mayhap we should be getting back.”

  Bridget nodded. “You’re right, Ned. He hasn’t said not to ride in the morning like this.” She gave the boy a warm smile. “But I don’t think we need to tell him about it. At least not yet. We’ll keep it our secret. All right?”

  The boy’s face shone with loyalty, but his eyes betrayed misgiving. “Aye, milady. ‘E did tell me ye was to be obeyed.”

  “Yes, he did.” She really shouldn’t be asking the boy to keep secrets for her. If Andrew found out and was angered, Ned could lose his place.

  She leaned forward to stroke Waterloo’s great neck. As always, touching him was a comfort. It wasn’t likely that Andrew would be so cruel as to send the boy packing, but if Ned did lose his place, she could send him to Papa. Papa could always use another boy who was handy with horses.

  The thought of Papa made her frown. Andrew had been very good to Papa, getting him out of that awful gambling mess. Maybe she should ask Andrew about early morning rides. But really, what harm did they do? Waterloo got his run. She got hers. And no one saw them. Surely there was no harm in that.

  She stuffed her hair back up under her cap and gave the horse a pat. “Come on, Ned. Time to go home.”

  * * * *

  Bridget made it through the kitchen and up the back stairs to her room without seeing any servants. The understaff wouldn’t report her comings and goings to her husband, but she rather felt that the stiff butler Purvey might feel duty bound to tell if he saw his mistress sneaking up the back stairs in shabby leather breeches. Mrs. Purvey might just keep silent.

  She closed her door, rang for Peggy, and stripped off her riding clothes. It was too bad ladies led such restricted lives. She threw her breeches and other things into the back corner of the closet and turned to the basin to wash. Maybe later, after she and Andrew had been married a little longer, she could explain it to him, get him to see how foolish ladies clothing really was.

  The door opened. “There you are, milady. His Lordship was asking after you.”

  “I went for a ride,” Bridget said, turning away so Peggy couldn’t see the flush rising to her cheeks. “I took a groom along, of course.”

  Peggy nodded, crossing to the closet for a gown. “The rest of your new things ought to be coming soon. I’m betting they’ll be that lovely.” She frowned. “Why, you’ve hung up your habit yourself. And just like I left it.” She shook her head. “You shouldn’t be doing my work, milady. It ain’t decent, it ain’t.”

  “I won’t do it again,” Bridget said quickly. Next time she’d remember to drop the habit on the floor. There was no need to involve Peggy in this business.

  * * * *

  Her ride kept Bridget in good spirits till midafternoon, but by then she had been over the whole house—huge place that it was—and had every hall and passageway firmly fixed in her mind.

  She’d also had long talks about the running of the household with Cook and Mr
s. Purvey, talks that had been somewhat confusing to everyone, since they seemed to be expecting orders from her. And when she said, “Everything looks fine, go on as usual,” they’d both looked surprised.

  Changing things around must be something ladies liked to do. She herself could see no purpose in changing something just for the sake of showing she could. If things were running smoothly, they should be left alone to go on the same way. That made sense.

  Now she was seated in the sitting room, glaring at the piece of unfortunate needlepoint she held in her hands. Why hadn’t she just read a book?

  Needlepoint was a complete mystery to her. Another useless thing that ladies did. They seemed a fairly useless lot all round, these ladies. But perhaps it wasn’t entirely their fault.

  Look at the idiotic clothes they had to wear. Even walking was something she had to pay attention to. She couldn’t just go striding along like she had in her breeches.

  With a sigh she dropped the needlework into its basket. Mrs. Purvey had been the soul of patience, sending a maid out for the sampler and yarn and showing over and over how each stitch should be done.

  And Bridget had tried. But the yarn was always tangling and knotting. Her stitches were lumpy and uneven. And the design—insipid flowers arranged in an equally insipid vase—was dull, dull, dull. Now if there had been horses in it, the design might have been worth a pricked finger or two. She might even have stuck with it to the end.

  She got up and began to pace the hearth rug. She missed the horses and the stables. Papa, too, of course. But most of all the horses. They made far better friends than people.

  She turned toward the door. Maybe she’d just grab her shawl and step out for a visit with Waterloo. She should get acquainted with Andrew’s horses, too. There hadn’t been time for that yet.

  But she had only taken one step when Purvey appeared in the doorway. “Lady Linden and Miss Martine Linden,” he intoned.

  Bridget stopped in her tracks. Not those two! Now what should she do? “Andr—Lord Haverly isn’t at home.”