Here's the start of chapter 3. There's more of it written, but I have a gap that still needs to be filled.
Adapting to Country Life.
The daylight
streaming into her room woke Cynthia. More accurately re-woke her
after the dawn chorus of bird calls had so rudely woken her earlier
in the morning. She sat up in bed and tried to remember what she
should do. The chamber pot beckoned first, then she pulled a bell
rope for her maid.
Hannah timidly
knocked on her door.
“Come in.”
Hannah carefully
opened the door, unsure of what she'd find. Her imagination was
filled with distressing visions of terrible creatures or obscure dark
satanic rituals. To be fair, she had been borrowing Alice's copies of
Mrs. Radcliffe's works and enjoyed intense Gothic romance novels
every bit as much as her mistress. What she found was an impatient
young woman who said, “Hannah, despite what you may have heard or
seen, I'm neither a witch nor a dragon.”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
“What I am is a
hungry young woman, who needs her morning water and help with her
hair and dressing. Like any other gentlewoman.”
“Yes, Ma'am. It
was just last night when I was unpacking, I thought that day book of
yours spoke to me.”
“Of course it
didn't. I neglected to tell you that my bag has a device in it that
makes a sound like speech. A bladder and reeds. It's there to scare
thieves.” Cynthia didn't elaborate, and Hannah, grateful for a
rational explanation, didn't demand further information.
An hour later,
Cynthia appeared in the morning room, only to find that breakfast was
a mid-morning affair and she had risen far too early in the morning.
She asked Hannah if there was anything available to eat and ended up
settled in the library with a cup of chocolate. The library was a
large room with one imposing wall of bookshelves. Like most libraries
in country estates it was more for show than for actual reading. The
books were removed once or twice a year for dusting, then carefully
returned to their places. So she started carefully searching for
something she could stand to read. In the end she discarded
'Fordyce's Sermons for Young Women' in favor of a volume of
Coleridge’s poetry.
Alice found her
there, still immersed in it an hour later. A cup of cold chocolate
sat, untasted, next to her. “Cynthia, I didn't know you liked
poetry.”
“I didn't
either.”
“Anyway, if you
can break yourself away from Coleridge, we are assembling in the
morning room for breakfast. I thought it might be fun to ride after
we break our fast.”
“Ride?”
“Go explore the
local countryside, and get a little exercise.”
“Sounds like
fun. I was wondering what you got up to for enjoyment.”
Breakfast sped
by. Lord Wroxham quizzed Cynthia about riding.
“Do you ride
much, Miss Morris?”
“Some.”
“Surely you can
be more informative than that. Have you joined a hunt?”
“A hunt?” She
paused, “Hunting things is one of my specialities.”
“I was talking
about wearing the pink and riding to hounds.”
“No, my
guardian won't let me.”
“Lord Peter's
is an intrepid hunter.”
“That is as may
be, but Lord Petersborough isn't. It's his gout, you see.”
“I'm sorry to
hear that. Should I send condolences?”
“I wouldn't
bother. He doesn't like to be pitied.”
“So were do you
ride?”
“Petersborough
park. Nothing special, and just a dear old pony.”
Lord Wroxham
found himself thinking, “I wish you wouldn't prevaricate.
Petersborough wouldn't waste his pony1's
on a pony for you.”
There was a minor
complication after breakfast because Cynthia had neglected to pack
her riding habit. Alice offered to let her borrow an old one.
Together they walked out to the stables where the grooms had placed
sidesaddles on two mares.
Alice practically
skipped in to the stable. Her season in London was enjoyable enough,
but she missed her special horse. She patted her mare on the nose,
and nuzzled it, then easily mounted her.
Cynthia stood
there, in front of her horse with her jaw dropped in amazement. “You
ride these? They're so big.”
“Of course.
What else do you ride?”
“I don't know.”
Well, actually she did, but neither spaceships, racing hover bikes,
nor near-orbital scooters were available.
“Come on. Time
is passing and I want to get out before it gets too sultry.”
Cynthia stood
there with her hand on one earring. She stood there with her eyes
flickering from side to side. After a minute, Alice asked, “Cynthia
are you well?” Cynthia impatiently waved her hand in reply and
returned to what she was doing.
Eventually,
Cynthia moved. She gave Alice a tentative smile and said, “Sorry
about that. I needed to steel myself.”
“If you're
scared of them, we can read instead.”
“No.” Cynthia
pulled her head erect and her shoulders back. “One thing I've
learned in my travels, is that the fear of something is usually worse
than the experience.” She smiled, and added, “Doesn't make it any
easier.” Then she cautiously walked to the front of her horse, took
the bridle from the groom and stroked the horse's nose. It whinnied
and twitched. Cynthia jumped, but immediately returned to the horse's
side. Alice was showing signs of impatience to get going when Cynthia
finally said, “That's enough. I'm ready.” Then she confidently
stepped back to the saddle, put her foot in the stirrup and sprang
up. She asked Alice and the groom, “Is this right?”
“Yes. It looks
like you're mounted properly. Is it comfortable?”
“Not really.”
The groom
adjusted her saddle, and then they rode out of the stables and into
the fields beyond.
1Slang
for twenty-five pounds.
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