He’s happy enough now, I suppose. Now that I’ve finally agreed to marry Teddy. I fought it as long as I could, but my father eventually won the day, as he always knew he would. I, however, am not happy—as you have somehow guessed.
I have no wish to become a shadow, which is what women in families like mine become: obedient, hollowed-out things who fade into the background the moment their usefulness as a bargaining chip is at an end. We see to the menus, raise the children, keep up with the latest fashions, grace our husband’s table when he entertains, and look the other way when a pretty young face turns his head. But I’ve always wanted more for myself. I imagined a life that actually counted for something, left something worthy in its wake. I have no idea what form that life might have taken. Something to do with the arts, perhaps, or maybe a teacher, but now, as Teddy’s wife, I’ll never know.
For an instant, I’m astonished to find my thoughts wandering almost wistfully to your Goldie with her newspaper empire and her unapologetic life. What might that be like? To captain your own ship and command your own fortune, to live unfettered by the opinions of others.
I’ll never know that either.
The realization lands me back to earth with a bump as I stare at the diamond on my left hand—an uncomfortable reminder. I’ll be married soon, which is all I’m expected to want. I’ll have a grand New York estate, a respected last name, and bear a brace of sons to carry it all on. My daughters will marry well, dutifully, as Cee-Cee did several years ago. As I will as well, as soon as I can bring myself to set an actual date.
Fin, as Maman used to say—the end.
But there’s no time to dwell on the finality of such thoughts. I’ve just caught the sound of your tires and my stomach does a little somersault. I look out over the lawn to see a car coming up the drive, and I realize that while part of me was hoping you wouldn’t show, another part hoped very much that you would.
I watch as you climb out of the car, a sleek and splashy silver thing with lots of chrome, and I know without asking that you’ve borrowed it from her. It isn’t your style, which feels like an odd thing to know about you, since I don’t know you at all.
You look relaxed in your Harris tweed jacket and loose wool slacks, a worn pair of brogues on your feet, and a hat perched at a jaunty angle on your head. These are your real clothes, I say to myself as you approach. This is who you really are. Not a member of the smart cocktail set but a country type, unfazed by the rain, at home in both your clothes and your skin.
I’m in traditional riding clothes, a jacket of gray flannel, bone-colored jodhpurs, and chestnut riding boots whose fresh-from-the-box sheen marks me out as a newcomer to the equestrian life. A gift from Teddy, who is very particular about things like riding attire. I don’t know why I bothered, really. The weather made it clear that there would be no riding today, but I felt obliged to put on a proper show. Members of our circle have a uniform for every occasion, preferably with the right label sewn in. We wear them not because they’re comfortable or even appropriate for the activity of the moment but because it’s what’s expected, and we must never veer from what’s expected.
You pull off your hat as you duck under the eaves, giving it a shake to dislodge the raindrops clinging to the brim. “Filthy day for a ride,” you say, grinning. “What shall we do instead?”
You look younger out of doors, more rugged shed of your expensive evening clothes, though I can’t deny that you manage to pull it off rather well. You’re something of a chameleon, I suspect, the kind of man capable of melting into his surroundings when he needs to. I find myself wondering why someone might need such a skill, then recall your eyes last night, moving methodically about the room, as if snapping photographs without a camera.
Of what or whom?
It occurs to me suddenly that this is the first time we’ve been alone. The boys who look after the stables have gone to lunch and the trainer called out due to the weather. There are no eyes on us now, no niceties to observe. Why that should rattle me, I don’t know, but it does. It’s not that I’m afraid of you. I’m not. Mostly. But I don’t feel quite myself when you’re near.
You’re staring at me, I realize, waiting for a response. “I suppose I could give you a tour of the stables,” I say. “And introduce you to the horses.”
“Your birthday presents, you mean?”
You’re mocking me again, with that upturned mouth and those cool blue eyes, but instead of being annoyed, I find myself smiling. “Yes. My birthday presents.”
Your jacket and tie are flecked with rain, your shirt dappled with translucent spots. You smell of starch and warm, wet wool, with a hint of shaving soap underneath. I step back from the assault of it, masculine and vaguely unnerving. “I’ll see if I can scare you up a towel so you can dry yourself off.”
“I’m fine. But I’d love the tour.” Your eyes slide down my body, lingering briefly on my boots before sliding back up again. “Nice togs, by the way. Very . . . horsey. Shame to waste them. But perhaps we’ll ride another day and you can get some proper use out of them.”
I turn away, less charmed now by your teasing. You follow me down the breezeway to the double sliding doors that lead into the stable. The patter of rain recedes as we enter, replaced by a thick, insular quiet.
It’s cool and dim inside, drowsy feeling with the mingled smells of damp hay and horse dung hanging in the air, and I’m reminded of the day I was caught napping in the horse bedding, back when my parents kept a pony for my sister and me. It was raining that day, too, and I hated that Mr. Oliver wasn’t allowed to come into the house where it was warm, so I curled up in his stall to keep him company. My parents turned the house inside out looking for me, my mother frantic that, like poor Ernest, I’d met some terrible fate. When the stable boy finally found me and brought me up to the house, my father shook me so hard I chipped one of my baby teeth.
A soft whistle pulls me back to the present. You’re standing beside me with your neck craned, taking it all in. The high-timbered ceiling and newly added windows, the freshly bricked center aisle, the gleaming doors and ornate stall partitions.
“This is some place,” you say finally. “Quite posh for a barn. Not new, though, I’m guessing from the look of the stone.”
“No. The house was built in 1807. The stable came a little later, though back then, I suspect it housed pigs or sheep. It was fine for a pony when I was little, but we had to raise the roof before we could bring the new horses.”
“I’ll wager that set old Pater back a few quid.”
I shrug, realizing I have no idea what any of it cost. “He considered it a business expense.”
You look surprised. “He thinks you’ve got a shot at making money with this new hobby of yours?”
“Not that kind of business.”
“Dare I ask?”