Page 50 of The Summer Country

To Emily’s protests that she could very well read a ledger from a desk chair, Mrs. Davenant turned a deaf ear; one had to know the land to tend it, and to know it, one had to ride it.

Adam’s comments about sedan chairs and bearers were not well received by either lady.

Emily had hoped her lack of a habit might provide a suitable delay, but no sooner had she mentioned it than one appeared, as if by magic, across the foot of her bed, rather disconcertingly tailored to her proportions.

“Well, yes,” Mr. Davenant had said awkwardly, when quizzed. “The maid will have taken one of your dresses to measure for size and the seamstresses will have done the rest.”

And would the cobblers hammer out boots for her too? Emily was afraid to ask lest it happen. She hadn’t quite fully appreciated just how self-sufficient a world Beckles was, every possible need provided within its grounds. When Aunt Millicent wanted a dress made, she had to beg her modiste for the privilege of spending large sums of money. At Beckles, new clothes were run up overnight by elves.

Not elves. Former slaves, Emily reminded herself. Although they were free now, that level of service was still rather disconcerting and she found it innately suspect.

Not to mention that it had ruined her best excuse for avoiding riding lessons.

Mrs. Davenant had caught her at breakfast, bundled her into her habit, and chivvied her out the door, allowing her grandson barely time for a cup of coffee and a hard roll before he too was ruthlessly propelled in the direction of the stables, pursued by directives.

Emily rather suspected that if she looked back at the house she would see the glint of light on a lens, Mrs. Davenant watching to make sure her instructions were being obeyed.

“All right,” said Emily resignedly, retrieving her hand and surreptitiously shaking off the slobber. “We’ve made friends. Now what?”

“Now you mount.”

Emily regarded the saddle, a million miles up on the horse’s back. It was a fearsome thing, studded with two large protrusions. “Have you a winch?”

“No, but we do have a mounting block,” said Mr. Davenant, holding out a hand. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about riding, er, sidesaddle, but I’ll do my best.”

“Is it your grandmother’s saddle?” Emily asked, stalling for time. Even from the mounting block, the horse’s back seemed very high and the saddle very uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure how one was meant to sit with those hillocks sticking out.

“Grandmama? Heavens, no. She’s very particular about her saddle. No. This was my mother’s. It hasn’t been used for some time. Not since I was a boy. Shall I help you up?”

“You may,” said Emily, resisting the urge to quiz him further. He rarely mentioned his mother. “But I’m not at all sure where I’m meant to go once I get up there.”

A flush rose in Mr. Davenant’s fair cheeks. “I believe you place your, er, nether limb between those two pommels.”

“My leg, do you mean?” Emily laughed at the expression on his face. “Don’t worry. I’m not missish. I have it on the best authority that most creatures are in possession of legs, myself included. So I place my right leg between those two bumps?”

“Pommels,” said Mr. Davenant, looking rather bemused. “May I?”

Emily would have liked to say no, particularly as she was conscious that there seemed to be rather a large number of people gathered around the stable yard, ostensibly performing tasks, but really waiting for her to make a fool of herself.

Better to get it over with quickly, she decided, and said, “Yes.”

Remembering what Mr. Davenant had said about the pommels, she vigorously flung her leg up into what she thought was the right spot. It wasn’t. She kicked out with her other leg to try to push herself up and found herself suddenly flung back, her right leg stuck at an odd angle between the pommels, her skirt trailing behind her, and her hands grasping for any purchase at all as the world raced away in a bizarre view of sky and tree branches and the very top of the windmill, all swirling together.

“Wait! Don’t—hold on!” There was a great deal of commotion in the stable yard involving many people shouting and running, most of which Emily missed because she was too busy trying to pull herself upright and thinking distinctly unkind thoughts about horses and people who made other people ride them.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Davenant demanded breathlessly, peering up at her from what seemed like an odd angle until Emily realized it was she who was at the odd angle.

“Yes, quite.” Never mind that her back felt as though she’d just been paid a personal visit by the Inquisition.

Emily clawed at her hat only to realize it had fallen off. Someone very helpfully handed it to her. Emily regarded it with disfavor—it was somewhat the worse for its adventure and looked as though it had been trodden on, most likely because it had been.

Emily jammed the hat back on her head, securing it with the one remaining pin. She didn’t like to think of the whereabouts of the others. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make it run like that.”

“Her,” said Mr. Davenant. “You didn’t mean to make her run like that. She’s a mare.”

“Oh.” Emily had been regarding her mount rather as an extension of a carriage, the bit that made it go. She hadn’t really thought of it—her—as a creature with a personality and, most likely, opinions. The thought was distinctly unsettling. She preferred not to sit on anything sentient.

“Shall we try again? Maybe try not to, er, kick this time.” Just to make sure, Mr. Davenant summoned two grooms, both of whom stood at the horse’s head as Emily maneuvered her nether limbs into the approved position, wincing at what she was quite sure would be a truly spectacular set of bruises in locations that would make Mr. Davenant blush.