Oh, she knew from Mr Grampy Tom that it could also be harsh for field hands, labourers and their families, the work arduous and the hours long, but town factories were little better with their crowded conditions and accidents.
Come December, she wondered what the weather would be like, imagined a gale could rage like the horned devil with relentless rain and a bone-chilling cold. Would Lord Ernest spend winters here too?
“Take the right, madam, at the yew tree.”
She nodded at Daniel’s call and nudged her mare, listening to the overhead squeak of crossing branches and contented trill of birdsong.
At breakfast this morning, as she’d shovelled in toast and marmalade, Lord Ernest had arrived with polished boots, immaculate bronze tailcoat and gold-framed glasses, denoting a day absent from the stables.
Still his cascade cravat had been crooked, and her fingers had twitched to straighten it, but that would have brought them into close proximity, and Hebe knew she could no longer be trusted – to not respond to his kiss, to not breathe in his scent like some ninnyish Gothic heroine.
So she’d snaffled more toast and considered her feelings as he’d winked at her whilst sipping his coffee.
For she no longer disliked Lord Ernest.
No, a myriad of strange, exciting and terrifying emotions beset her. Worse than with Tobias, for back then she’d had gullibility and youth as an excuse.
With hindsight, Hebe realised she’d not truly known her betrothed – for they’d solely danced at balls and partaken of tea at Gunter’s, stilted conversation beneath the gaze of a chaperone and blushing acceptance of flowery gifts.
She’d never witnessed his treatment of servants.
Never observed his treatment of horses.
But she had observed Lord Ernest.
Noted his care of malodorous goats and prize stallions alike. His attention to Mr Grampy Tom.
When in Lord Ernest’s presence, she felt…restless desire, tender peace and carefree laughter.
Yet by his own admission, he was a rake.
The ladies of London, Aunt had told her, gossiped at balls of Lord Ernest’s prowess but bemoaned his fickle nature. And Hebe did not wish her heart to beat for another man ever again, was even unsure if it could, so damaged had it been, rent asunder and scattered to the four winds like an unwanted song sheet.
So she must be on her guard still.
Rein in this restless desire that he’d uncovered and st–
Ricocheting through the trees came a deafening crack, echoing and soaring like cannon fire, and Mrs Salter skittered and whinnied, whirling to and fro, ears flattened.
“Thas gunshot,” shouted Thos, “get thee head d–”
Another ripped the air and Thos’s filly reared, hooves thrashing and eyes wild, throwing the groom to the woodland floor.
“Thos!” Hebe screamed, but her horse likewise reared, and the mare that Redmond had promised would stay calm within a thunderstorm slammed her hooves to the forest bed and took off like a wild river, Hebe clinging to the pommel, low branches stealing her hat.
She knew the rules – never yank the reins, let the horse tire – but the woodland became a blur of green, chill shadowed air stinging, painful tears misting her vision as hanging leaves whipped her cheek.
“Please…” The side saddle allowed no control and she pitched her face forward to the crest, prayed and fought to stay aloft as she was jolted and pounded against the horse’s firm, muscled neck.
It felt never-ending, the mare’s flight leading her to hell and beyond.
“Please, no…” she cried against the mane, her body bounded back and forth, bruising and–
All at once, they were airborne; Hebe knew not over what, only that she was sliding, slipping from the saddle.
“No!” But too late as her foot lost its stirrup, the mare’s hooves thudded to the ground and Hebe tumbled to the brown leaf mould, rolling, ever rolling, skirts twisting, breath gasping and panting, until a thud…
And the brown blurred to naught.
