The Accidental Bride

by Jane Feather

  “Oh!” Phoebe cried. “I take leave to tell you that that is the most devious, shameless trick, sir. Just because you know that I’ve discovered high fashion, it’s most dishonorable to use it to try to manipulate me.”

  Cato couldn’t help chuckling. “Come, a riding habit for a riding lesson. How’s that for a bargain?”

  “A truly fashionable riding habit?”

  “The most fashionable that can be found in the whole Thames valley,” he declared extravagantly.

  “Well, I suppose I could try,” she muttered but still doubtfully.

  Cato turned to open the door. “Come. I will show you that you have nothing to fear.”

  Phoebe reluctantly gathered up her quill and paper. “If I don’t like it, you will not insist I go on?”

  “I will undertake to ensure that you do like it,” he said with conviction, ushering her into the corridor. “Go and change that gown to something a little less suited to a palace drawing room . . . oh, and don’t forget britches. You cannot ride astride without them. Borrow Olivia’s if you have none of your own”

  “Olivia’s a different shape,” Phoebe pointed out. “Her legs are longer and she has no hips.”

  Cato dismissed this irrelevance with a wave, and Phoebe went off in search of Olivia with something less than enthusiasm.

  Cato was waiting for her in the hall, tapping his riding whip against his boots, when she trailed downstairs again twenty minutes later, her expression martyred. Olivia’s britches were a disaster; she’d had to roll them up at the waist and leave all the buttons undone. The muddle wasn’t visible beneath her old gown, but she felt like a particularly ill wrapped parcel nevertheless.

  “What took you so long?” Cato turned to the front door impatiently.

  Phoebe ignored the question. She tugged uncomfortably at her bunched-up waist. “Why must I do this? I’ve managed perfectly well until now.” She hesitated on the bottom step. “I ride pillion if I must ride.”

  “Trust me.” Cato turned back and took her hand. He led her firmly to the stable.

  Phoebe was relieved to see that the mare was quite small and had a reassuringly broad back. The horse stood docilely at the mounting block, her bridle held by a groom. She turned her head in an incurious stare as Phoebe, still firmly led by her husband, approached across the straw-strewn cobbles.

  “Touch her nose,” Cato instructed.

  Obediently Phoebe darted a finger, brushed the velvety tip of the mare’s nose, and then retracted her hand with the air of one who has done a job well.

  “Stroke her neck . . . here.” In demonstration, Cato drew his hand down the hollow of the mare’s neck. The animal raised her head and whickered.

  Phoebe jumped back.

  “Don’t be silly, Phoebe!” Cato took her hand and placed it on the hollow. “Now, she’s called Sorrel. Just speak to her. Call her by name so she gets to know your voice.”

  “I don’t see any point talking to horses. It isn’t as if they can talk back,” Phoebe said, trying to pull her hand free. Cato’s fingers closed more tightly over her wrist and kept her hand where it was. Phoebe eyed the little ripples running along the mare’s withers. The smell of horseflesh filled her nostrils and Phoebe’s nose wrinkled. She was very conscious of the heat of the mare’s skin beneath her hand. She tried again to pull it free and this time Cato released his hold.

  But the reprieve was only momentary.

  “Mount up now,” Cato instructed. “Use the block.”

  There seemed nothing for it. Phoebe lifted her leg onto the block and stepped onto the hem of her full skirt. There was a rending sound as the hem tore.

  “Now look what’s happened!” She glared at Cato. “It’s ruined. I can’t do this in an ordinary gown. Why don’t I wait until I have a proper habit?”

  The hopeful suggestion fell on stony ground. “You go around looking like a scarecrow most of the time as it is,” he said without a flicker of sympathy. “Just get on with it, we don’t have all day.” He put both hands beneath her rear and shoved her unceremoniously upward onto the mounting block.

  “Put your foot in the stirrup, hold the pommel, and pull yourself up and over . . . surely you’ve mounted a horse before.”

  “Why won’t she run away with me?” Phoebe demanded. “Every other horse I’ve ever mounted has done so. Why’s this one going to be any different?”

  “Because I’m going to be holding her,” Cato said, taking the bridle from the groom. “She’s not going anywhere. Just hitch up your skirts; the britches will ensure decency.”

  “That’s what you think,” Phoebe muttered. She hitched up her skirts, thrust her foot into the stirrup, grabbed the pommel, and heaved herself up, swinging her leg over the saddle and thumping down. The horse shifted on the cobbles as it felt her weight. Phoebe gave a cry of alarm and clung to the pommel.

  “Relax,” Cato said, which struck Phoebe as a senseless command. Cato attached a long leading rein to the mare’s bridle and led her across the stable yard towards the home paddock, Phoebe muttering to herself and hanging on for dear life.

  In the paddock, Cato stepped away from the mare, paying out the leading rein. Phoebe gazed at him in alarm. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m still holding her. Let go the pommel and take up the reins.”

  “This is such a bad idea,” Phoebe complained, doing as she was told. “I can’t tell you what a bad idea this is.”

  “On the contrary, it’s an excellent idea.”

  Cato instructed the mare to walk on, and she started forward placidly around the paddock at the end of the long rein while Cato remained standing in the center of the field.

  There seemed nothing for it but to grit her teeth and endure. Phoebe clung grimly to the reins, closed her eyes, and prayed for it soon to be over.

  “You’re sitting like a sack of potatoes,” Cato chided. “Sit up straight . . . put your shoulders back. There’s no need to grip the reins so tightly . . .. For God’s sake, Phoebe, open your eyes!”

  Phoebe opened them. There didn’t seem anything of the least interest to see. She closed them again and jounced in the saddle, her jaw aching with the effort to keep her teeth from clattering under the unstable motion of the horse.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous.” Cato signaled to the horse to stop. He came across the paddock, reeling in the leading rein. “I have never seen anything so pathetic, Phoebe! I am losing patience.”

  “Well, what do you expect me to do?” Phoebe exclaimed.

  “I expect you to keep your eyes open, your hands off the pommel.” Cato spoke with exaggerated patience. “I expect you to sit up straight, grip the saddle with your knees, and for God’s sake, girl, relax!”

  “Well, where do I put my hands if I don’t hold the pommel?”

  “You hold the reins loosely, fingers like this.” He reached up and grabbed her hands, roughly adjusting her fingers. “The reins have to lie just so. D’you see?”

  Sorrel, taking advantage of the break in the proceedings, bent her head to crop the grass, and Phoebe grabbed the pommel again with another cry of alarm as the mare’s neck offered a glossy slide to the ground.

  “Pull her head up,” Cato said tautly.

  “It won’t come,” Phoebe said as she gave a little tug on the reins. “She’s not going to take any notice of me.”

  “No, of course she’s not if you sit there like a blancmange. You have no more backbone than a vanilla custard.” Cato put his hand against her spine. “Sit up straight!”

  Grimly Phoebe straightened her spine against his hand.

  “Now take a firm hold of the reins and pull her head up. She needs to know who’s master.”

  “Oh, I think she knows that already,” Phoebe muttered again, giving a tentative tug on the reins. To her relief, Sorrel had decided she’d had enough of the icy grass and lifted her head apparently to order.

  “That’s better. Now we’ll try a trot.” Cato stepped back again, paying out the leading
rein. “You have to rise up in the stirrups . . . no, for heaven’s sake. What’s the matter with you? Feel the rhythm of the horse. Can’t you feel it?”

  Phoebe could feel it in her teeth. She couldn’t imagine a more uncomfortable, unnatural motion for a human to be involved in.

  “This is just ridiculous,” Cato declared, drawing Sorrel to a halt again. He came back towards her. “I have never seen anyone so completely at odds with a horse. I have been trying to explain—”

  “No, you haven’t. You’ve been shouting at me!” Phoebe cried, now pushed beyond bearing. “I’m doing the best I can, but I take leave to tell you, my lord, that you’re a horrid teacher! You have no patience at all! No one could learn anything from you.”

  Cato was taken aback. He had always been the soul of patience, an impeccably understanding teacher. “That’s nonsense,” he said. “You’re just not concentrating.”

  “Oh, I am! And it’s not nonsense.” Phoebe’s eyes were filled with angry tears. “If I must do this, I want someone else to teach me.” Impulsively she kicked her feet free of the stirrups and tumbled from the mare’s back.

  Cato caught her as she half fell, half scrambled from the saddle. “For God’s sake, girl! What the devil d’you think you’re doing? That’s no way to dismount. If you slip, the horse might accidentally kick you or trample you.”

  “Oh!” It was too much. Phoebe planted her hands on his chest and pushed him away with all her strength. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!” she exclaimed. “Why must you scold and command all the time? You’re just a damned tyrant!” She glared at him, her eyes still sheened with furious tears.

  Cato was reduced to astonished silence. He could still feel the pressure of her hands on his chest as she’d thrust him from her.

  As he stood trying to make sense of her outburst, Phoebe turned and marched towards the paddock gate.

  “Phoebe!” He dropped the leading rein and went after her. “Just where do you think you’re going?” He caught her, spinning her round to face him. He cupped her chin on his palm and tilted her face up so she had to look at him. “You don’t swear at me and shove me away, and then stomp off without a word of explanation.”

  Phoebe’s temper was rarely aroused and always short-lived. “You made me so angry,” she said, swiping the back of her gloved hand over her damp nose. “I was doing the best I could, and you know how scared I am. And all you could do was criticize and command. You didn’t give me one word of encouragement. I don’t know how you can expect anyone to learn anything like that.”

  “That’s beside the point! How dare you swear at me?”

  “You were doing everything but swearing at me,” Phoebe pointed out, the fire still in her eyes.

  Cato hesitated, looking down into her upturned countenance. He hated leaving things half done, but Phoebe’s expression was thoroughly unyielding. Reluctantly he said, “Very well, we’ll stop for today. You’ve obviously had enough for the first lesson. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  “Must we?” Phoebe groaned. “Can’t you see it’s pointless?”

  “No, I can’t,” he said shortly, releasing her chin. “You will learn to ride, if it takes me a year.”

  “Then you owe me a riding habit,” Phoebe declared. “A riding habit for a riding lesson is what you said. And if I’ve got to go on with this torture, then you have to keep your promise.”

  Cato would never renege on a debt. “Very well. We will ride into Witney and you may have your habit.” He turned from her and went over to fetch the mare, once more placidly cropping the grass where it poked through the thin crust of snow, all that remained of the earlier storm.

  Phoebe watched him take up the reins, and had a sudden awful thought. “I’m not ready to ride all that way on my own.”

  “Oh, believe me,” Cato said with a short laugh, “I know that. You may ride pillion with me.”

  An hour later Cato lifted her down from his charger in the stable yard of the Hand and Shears. “You know your way to the dressmaker’s, I assume?” He reached into his pocket and drew out a leather pouch.

  “Yes, it’s on High Street,” Phoebe replied.

  Cato handed her his purse. “There’s close to thirty guineas in there. It should be sufficient.”

  “Thirty guineas!” Phoebe’s jaw dropped as she felt the weight of the purse. It would buy half a dozen muskets and goodness knows how many buff leather jerkins. “May I spend all that?”

  “Judiciously,” he said with a slight smile. “I doubt you’ll bankrupt me.”

  Phoebe considered. There was no reason why only she should benefit from this largesse. “The dressmaker has a gown that Olivia loved,” she said. “Orange and black. It would look splendid on her.”

  “Olivia wishes to wear an orange and black gown?” Cato tried to imagine his solemn and intense daughter in such a frivolous garment.

  “Yes, the color suits her beautifully. I was wondering . . . well, perhaps you could buy it for her. Ellen could make adjustments to the fit. It could be her birthday present.” Phoebe was warming to her theme. “It’s her birthday next month, you know.”

  “Uh . . . yes, I did know that,” Cato responded. “I’m not in the habit of forgetting important dates.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t saying you were,” Phoebe assured him hastily. “I just thought to give you an idea in case you didn’t have one.

  “How kind,” Cato murmured.

  “May I purchase it for her?”

  “You may. Just make sure that what you choose for yourself has some practical application. I’ll bespeak a private parlor in the inn here. Try not to keep me waiting too long.”

  “These things can take time,” Phoebe said, but she was speaking to his back as he went in search of ale.

  An hour later Phoebe returned to the Hand and Shears. “Where’s Lord Granville?” she demanded of the landlord.

  “Allow me to escort you, my lady.” The man bowed low with a deference that made Phoebe grin. For once she felt like the marchioness of Granville. She tossed her head in its fine plumed new hat and followed the landlord with regal dignity.

  He threw open a door on the first landing. “Lady Granville, my lord.”

  Cato, deep in thought, was in a chair before the fire, his feet propped on the andirons, his hands curled around a tankard of ale. He turned his head, then rose slowly to his feet.

  “Well, my lady, you’ve certainly not wasted your time.”

  Phoebe glowed. “Isn’t it handsome?” She stepped into the chamber, patting the folds of the dark green broadcloth skirt. She gave a little tug to the fitted jacket as it sat on her hips. “The silver lace was very expensive, but the dressmaker said it was the height of fashion.”

  “Fashion does tend to be expensive,” Cato agreed. This incarnation of his wife he could not fault. She cut an impeccably elegant figure.

  “And the britches are a perfect fit. Wasn’t that lucky?” Phoebe pivoted and was about to haul up the back panel of the skirt when she realized the landlord still stood in the door, rather wide-eyed. “Thank you, mine host,” she said loftily and waited until he’d bowed himself out.

  Then she scooped up the rear panel. “Do they look all right, my lord?”

  Cato considered that his wife’s voluptuous curves delineated by the britches constituted a sight to be kept for his eyes only. He said repressively. “It’s more a question of how do they feel? No one’s going to see them, I trust.”

  “I suppose not.” Phoebe peered over her shoulder. “Do you think my backside’s too big?”

  Cato briefly closed his eyes. “There’s a time and a place for all subjects, but this is neither the time nor the place for that one.”

  “Oh. I just wondered,” she said, allowing the skirt to fall back. “I’m not the same shape as Diana.”

  “No,” he agreed dryly. “Come and eat.” He went to the table set with cold meat, bread, and cheese. “Shall I carve you some ham?”

  “Thank you,�
� Phoebe said. Not a subject to be pursued, clearly, but he might have given her some kind of disclaimer. “I purchased the gown for Olivia,” she said. “But the dressmaker wished to add some more lace to the collar, so she’ll send it to the manor when it’s finished.”

  “Good,” Cato said.

  They were almost at the end of their meal when the landlord knocked at the door. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord, but there’s soldiers in the taproom who’ve jest outrun a raidin’ party of deserters from the king’s army. The deserters were in search of plunder . . . well armed, they say.” He adjusted his cravat with an air of importance. “Thought you might like to know, sir.”

  “You thought right,” Cato said. “My thanks.” He rose from the table. “Finish your meal, Phoebe. I need to talk to these men.” He left her as he spoke, and Phoebe looked down at her plate of ham with a moue of distaste.

  She seemed to have no appetite anymore. And it wasn’t the prospect of skirmishers on the road. That held no terrible fears, at least not in Cato’s company. But why did he always relegate her to some fuzzy nest where the hard realities of life weren’t to intrude? Had he learned nothing about her?

  In the taproom, Cato listened to the troopers account. Ordinarily a party of disaffected royalist soldiers, one of the many who’d taken to the country roads around the city in search of plunder, would have caused him little concern. His bay charger could outrun almost any horse in the country. But with a pillion passenger, one who was terrified of horses, things could be a little more difficult.

  He gestured to the landlord. “Have my horse saddled and ask Lady Granville to meet me in the stable yard.” He counted out coins and tossed them onto the counter. “Gentlemen, I’m in your debt.”

  “Watch for them on the Eynsham road, sir.”

  “Aye. And have a drink on me.” Cato raised a hand in farewell and left the taproom amid a chorus of goodwill.

  Phoebe, obeying the summons, emerged into the stable yard. Cato looked her over. “In that habit, you’ll be able to ride astride the pillion pad now. We’ll be able to make more speed.”