by Clare Flynn
Merritt inserted himself into the conversation again. ‘Miss Wildman is certainly not to be accused of being stuck in the house. She is out and about in all weathers and I am sure already has become familiar with many of the most interesting sights in walking distance. She has been kind enough to accompany me on several of my regular walks.’
‘Yes, Reverend Nightingale has been a most informative guide. He has already taught me so much about the history of the area. Did you know that Nettlestock was once a Roman settlement?’ She turned to direct the question at Thomas, including Miss Pickering.
Thomas narrowed his eyes slightly, then laughed. ‘I think I have heard that, but I find that history is a bit of a bore. I’m more interested in the here and now.’ He smiled at Hephzibah and his face was illuminated by the smile.
Hephzibah looked at him, again feeling herself beginning to blush. His blue eyes locked upon hers and forced her to hold his gaze. She opened her mouth to speak but the words wouldn’t come out. Meanwhile, Miss Pickering’s quiet and slightly squeaky voice responded to the parson, engaging him in a discussion of the Roman occupation of the area and the various examples of evidence of it.
Thomas eased his chair back and to the side, moving it slightly closer to Hephzibah’s, leaning towards her and away from Miss Pickering, thus drawing Hephzibah into a more intimate pairing and separating them from the discussion of Roman Nettlestock.
‘I mean it, you know. I would love to teach you to ride.’
‘I have never been near a horse, sir, and I intend to keep it that way.’
He looked at her intently. ‘You can’t live in the countryside and not ride. We’ll soon have you jumping tree trunks and streams. And hunting next season. Ottilie will be very happy at that. Father won’t allow her to ride out with the hunt, but with you to accompany her I think he’d have to relent. And she’ll be eleven by then. I started hunting when I was seven.’
Hephzibah had never felt the slightest desire to ride a horse, much less ride out behind a bunch of baying hounds, chasing foxes across the countryside. But the thought of riding beside Thomas Egdon was not a distasteful prospect.
Merritt was still deep in discourse with Miss Pickering. Hephzibah heard him mention Roman pottery shards and mosaics. She glanced in his direction and immediately the parson switched his attention back to her and said, ‘I will take you to the ruins of the Roman bath house, Miss Wildman. It’s just five miles away from here. On a fine day, perhaps in the spring, we might walk over there together.’
Thomas spoke over him, ‘By the spring Miss Wildman will be a horsewoman. No need for her to tramp all the way there. I can ride over with her and show her the ruins.’
Merritt frowned. ‘But you have no interest in history, Mr Egdon. And Miss Wildman would, I am sure, like to understand about the Roman settlements in the area, wouldn’t you?’
Hephzibah looked from one to the other, then said to Thomas Egdon, ‘Perhaps we could all make an expedition of it, in the spring or summer, with Ottilie, Reverend Merritt and I hope you too, Miss Pickering?’
The schoolmistress clasped her hands together, her face a mixture of delight and anguish. ‘That would be so wonderful, but I’m afraid I don’t ride and I have a fear of horses. What a pity as I would have loved to join you.’
Thomas leaned past Hephzibah and said to Merritt, ‘You could accompany Miss Pickering on foot and meet us there. That way you two can tell each other all about the Romans.’ He smiled at Merritt, his head tilted on one side.
‘Then it’s settled!’ said Hephzibah. ‘Now we all have something to look forward to – assuming Mr Egdon can manage to teach me how to stay on the back of a horse.’ She realised Merritt was frowning. Had she put her foot in it? Was he uncomfortable at the idea of accompanying Miss Pickering? She looked across at the young woman, who was still beaming and clasping her hands together. It dawned on Hephzibah that the young woman was probably in love with the parson. A good match, she thought – both of them educated lovers of history and books. They were of a similar age – perhaps Miss Pickering was slightly older. Hephzibah made a mental note to find out more about the teacher and to sound out Merritt on whether he might like her. Yes, it would make a most suitable match.
Merritt was speaking again, this time addressing Thomas Egdon. ‘Tell me, Mr Egdon, is it true that you are spending most of your time in London these days? If so you will be hard pressed to find time to teach Miss Wildman to ride.’
Egdon smiled and said, ‘I plan to be here more frequently. I have a pair of colts stabled nearby and will be spending a lot of time watching their progress on the gallops.’ He turned his attention to Hephzibah. ‘Did I tell you, Miss Wildman that I own racehorses? It’s my passion. I will bring you to watch them in training – Ottilie too – if you can tear yourselves away from your lessons.’ He glanced at the Reverend Merritt, before adding, ‘Have you ever seen racehorses training, Miss Wildman?’
Hephzibah told him she hadn’t and that she would like nothing better.
The rest of the meal continued with Thomas Egdon doing his best to engage her exclusively in conversation. Hephzibah was too delighted to notice the growing coldness between him and the parson, who did his best to draw them both into a wider discussion but was compelled to settle with Miss Pickering or Mrs Desmond. At the other end of the table Sir Richard was holding forth about politics and the ludicrous idea that the two seats Keir Hardie’s Labour Representation Committee had won in the election were anything but a temporary blip.
When Hephzibah went to bed that night she felt she was walking on air. Thomas Egdon had offered to teach her to ride and to take her on some trips – he had added the suggestion of a trip with her and Ottilie to the horse fair in a nearby town. Surely, if he was suggesting spending so much time with her he must like her a little. Then she remembered the sight of him kissing Abigail Cake and told herself it was pointless to hope.
CHAPTER NINE
The Gypsy Woman
Lives on the moor,
She sleeps in a tent
With a curtained door.
(from Songs of Dreams, Ethel Clifford)
Thomas Egdon was leaning against the stable door, one booted leg bent back behind him. He pushed himself off when he saw Hephzibah approaching. ‘I thought you’d backed out, Miss Wildman. I was about to give up on you.’
Hephzibah didn’t want to confess that her lateness was caused by her trying on everything in her wardrobe to find a garment that would avoid restricting her, while still preserving her modesty. She’d finally settled on a white cotton blouse, a black skirt and a pair of laced leather boots.
He looked her up and down. ‘You need a proper habit and the right boots.’
Hephzibah stopped. ‘I’m sorry. I have no suitable clothes.’ She felt a wave of relief that this venture was likely not to proceed and she would postpone the embarrassment of Thomas Egdon discovering the clumsiness in the saddle she knew she was going to exhibit.
‘You’ll do for now while you’re on the lunge rein, but you’ll need a proper habit when you ride out.’
A saddle was resting on the stable door. Thomas opened the door, led out a small bay horse, which he had already bridled, and lifted the saddle on to the horse’s back.
‘This was my mother’s saddle,’ he said. ‘I gave it a good cleaning and polishing this morning. The little horse is very quiet. Ottilie learned on her. You’ll be safe and secure with her.’
Hephzibah looked up at Thomas and once again was hypnotised by the sight of him. He fastened the horse’s girth, loosely first, then tightened it. ‘Have you been on a horse before?’ he asked, his voice quiet.
She mumbled that she hadn’t and he took her hand and led her towards her mount. ‘Her name is Dandelion. But we call her Dandie.’ He led her up to the pony and encouraged her to lay her hands against the silky hair on its neck. ‘Let her get used to you.’
Hephzibah stroked the beast, feeling the softness of her coat and the roug
her texture of the mane.
‘Right. I’ll give you a leg up,’ Thomas said and before she knew what was happening he had placed his hands about her waist and lifted her up and into the saddle.
When he held her, she felt light and inconsequential, weightless, as though she might float away. His hands stayed around her waist a moment too long. She shivered.
‘Here’s how to sit,’ he said as he lifted her right leg over the higher pommel and tucked her left under the other pommel and placed her foot in the stirrup.
Hephzibah felt his hands on her legs through her skirt, moving her limbs into position as though she were a doll. The blood rushed to her face. As soon as she was in the saddle she realised why her skirt was unsuitable – there wasn’t enough fullness and she was conscious of the way it rode up, revealing her calves over the top of her ankle boots. Nothing to be done about it now. When she was arranged in position, Egdon ran a hand down her left leg to make sure that she was securely positioned and her foot correctly in the stirrup. He rearranged the skirt, easing it down to cover more of her leg. A rush of adrenaline went through her and she felt excited and also slightly afraid.
‘Sit up straight,’ he said. ‘Don’t hang onto the mane like that. And leave the reins alone. I want you to concentrate on balancing. Leave the rest to me.’
Thomas led her into a fenced-off paddock behind the stable block and paid out the lunge, standing in the middle as the horse, with Hephzibah on board, walked slowly around in a circle.
Hephzibah was terrified – insecure and vulnerable. She wanted to do well, to please Thomas Egdon, but she felt displaced, out of her natural element. She knew she had to trust the horse and trust Thomas but there was something inside her that resented this surrender of control. Perched in the side saddle, the ground felt very far away. She wanted to get down, but was terrified that she would disappoint him. Part of her wanted the lesson to end, to be over quickly, for her to be back on terra firma – and yet another part of her wanted it to go on and on. Thomas’s eyes were fixed on her and he called out reassurance and encouragement and continually told her to sit up tall in the saddle and stop hunching forward.
After a while, Egdon cracked the long whip he was holding in his left hand and Dandie broke into a trot. Hephzibah instinctively leaned forward and grasped at the horse’s mane, only for Thomas to call out to her to sit up and look ahead. Rising panic overtook her and then with another crack of the whip her horse was cantering and she felt a mixture of exhilaration and abject terror. Her legs tightened around the pommels and she leaned forward and held onto the front of the saddle, her balance out of control.
After a few more minutes of careening around the paddock in alternating directions, Thomas slowed the horse down to a trot and then a walk and, looping in the lunge, walked over towards her.
‘You have to sit up. Let the horse do the work. Stop trying to fight it.’
‘I’ve had enough now. I don’t think horses and I are meant to be together. I like to have my feet on the ground.’
She thought she saw a small frown of irritation, though he said, ‘We’ll try again another day.’
The following day, Hephzibah was sitting at the table in the small drawing room, going through some arithmetic with Ottilie when Thomas Egdon burst in unannounced. He moved across to them and placed his hands over the top of the text book they were working from, then snapped it shut with a flourish.
‘That’s enough schooling for today, ladies.’
He was greeted with a squeal of delight from Ottilie. Hephzibah was unsure whether it was for the promised reprieve or for his calling her a lady – probably both.
‘I’m taking you to the horse fair.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Egdon, but Ottilie and I have work to do.’
‘Nonsense,’ he said and bent down and picked Ottilie up by the waist and swung her around as the girl giggled wildly.
When he put her down, she turned to Hephzibah, her hands clasped together in supplication, ‘Please, Miss Wildman. I’ve never been to the horse fair. It will be so exciting. Please, please. I promise I’ll work extra hard tomorrow to make up for it.’
Egdon tousled the little girl’s curls and turned his attention to Hephzibah. ‘I’ll hear no excuses, Miss Wildman. The fair happens only once a year and it would be a crime to miss it.’
‘But the squire...’
‘Is in Reading at a meeting. He won’t be back until late tonight or even tomorrow.’ He tilted his head on one side and gave Hephzibah a look of mock pleading before directing his winning smile at her.
She was powerless to refuse.
The winter horse fair at Mudford was a lively event. The small country town was thronged with people and horses. The latter lined both sides of the street, staring each other down across the roadway as the people passed between them and behind them. The air was thick with the scent of roasting chestnuts, the sickly sweetness of spun sugar and the competing smell of horse manure. The farmers and horse traders moved up and down the lines, stopping to inspect a fetlock or squeeze a knee, arguing animatedly as they discussed the merits and demerits of each beast.
Hephzibah was fascinated but unsure why they were here. Thomas made it clear he was not in the market for any horses, turning his nose up at what he described as old nags.
‘You won’t find racehorses here. That’s what I’m interested in. I have to know the full pedigree. The fair here is for working horses, riding horses, hunters and ponies. We’re well supplied with all of these at Ingleton Hall.’ He paused and then ruffled Ottilie’s hair again. ‘But I’m going to keep my eyes open for a nice new ride for Ottilie here, now that she’s ceded Dandie to you. I think she’s ready for something with a bit more spirit, don’t you think, Ottilie?’
‘But does Sir Richard know?’ asked Hephzibah.
‘Not yet.’
‘But shouldn’t he decide whether Ottilie should have a new pony?’
Ottilie put her hands on her hips, shook her head and rolled her eyes at Hephzibah. ‘Papa’s a spoilsport. He’s sure to say I’ll have to wait for my birthday. But that’s not until June and the horse fair only happens once a year.’
‘She’s right.’ Thomas Egdon took his sister’s hand and placed a hand momentarily on Hephzibah’s shoulder. ‘We have to strike while the iron’s hot. Come on, ladies.’
He led them through the crowd of dealers, men standing, pipes in mouth and hands in pockets, until they came to a black mare with a white blaze on her forehead. The horse was bigger than Dandie and Hephzibah felt immediately uncomfortable. It was frisking about as though unhappy to be so tightly confined, tethered here on the street. It swished its tail constantly and hopped about from one foot to the other.
‘What about this one, Ottilie?’ Egdon said. ‘She looks as though she’ll be a lively ride. A bit more fun than old Dandelion, eh?’
Ottilie was already in love. She placed her head against the horse’s neck and began to talk to the animal, introducing herself. She fumbled in her pocket and produced an apple which she fed to the horse, which devoured it hungrily.
‘Please, please, Tom. I love her. Please may I have her?’
Egdon turned to the dealer and began to bargain with him. He inspected the horse with what appeared to Hephzibah to be great care and finally counted out some notes into the hands of the trader.
‘Done,’ he said. ‘Now all you have to do is find a name for her.’
‘I know already. She’s going to be called Bess, like Dick Turpin’s horse.’
Hephzibah said, ‘But is that wise, Ottilie? Poor Bess died of exhaustion. Do you really want to name your horse after such a sad story?’
‘She only died after galloping all the way from London to York. I won’t be doing that to my Bess. And if Dick Turpin hadn’t had to do that she would have lived for lots longer, wouldn’t she?’
‘I suppose so,’ Hephzibah conceded.
‘Bess it is then,’ said Thomas Egdon. ‘Now we have one more im
portant task and then it’s time to try our luck on the coconut shies.’
He steered them away along the main street until they came to a ladies’ dressmakers. ‘Here we are. Time to get you kitted out,’ he said to an astonished Hephzibah as he pushed open the door.
Hephzibah was embarrassed. Why had he brought her here? She was about to ask him but he was studying himself in a mirror.
It was a few moments after they entered the gloomy interior before a woman rushed from the back of the shop to serve them.
‘This lady needs a full riding habit. Hacking not hunting. I’ll leave you to sort her out,’ said Thomas.
He addressed Hephzibah. ‘I’ll take Ottilie to knock over a few coconuts and will be back to collect you in half an hour. Then we’ll get you a topper, boots and a crop.’ Before she could protest the door shut behind him, leaving her with the shopkeeper and the sound of the jangling bell.
The woman showed her a book of patterns and some fabric samples, advising her to stick to a dark wool serge and to choose a safety skirt. She explained how the buttoned seams allowed the skirt to detach in the unfortunate event of her being dragged by a runaway horse. Hephzibah felt sick at the thought. They selected a short tailored jacket and a cream shirt with a cravat.
As they completed the selection the door jangled again and a happy-faced Ottilie entered the store, still chewing her way through a stick of spun sugar, with Thomas behind her.
‘Send the account to Ingleton Hall,’ he told the dressmaker when she said it would be ready for delivery within a week.
He shepherded Hephzibah through the door and steered her across the road to a saddlery, ignoring her protests.
‘I can’t afford all this, Mr Egdon. My only means is the stipend your father pays me and that’s not sufficient to pay for a riding habit.’
‘Don’t be foolish. You’ll risk your neck if you ride with the wrong clothing and equipment. I’ll pay for it.’
‘Then I won’t ride at all.’