Katherine
Shirley had postponed her departure by a fortnight for the express purpose of learning to ride astride—an audacious whim if ever I saw one. Most galling of all, it was my husband, Lord Stratford, who had most eagerly volunteered to instruct her in this rather masculine endeavour.
Once, I might have feigned ignorance and joined them as a supposed novice—ladies of rank were not expected to possess such knowledge—but alas, both Shirley and my mother were already privy to the truth: my father had seen fit to teach me. He claimed it a necessary gift—independence, should fate ever demand it.
A noble intention, no doubt, but one which now stripped me of the excuse to insert myself naturally between them. For while he had taught me to ride, he had not warned me what it would feel like to watch my husband play tutor to another woman, or to hear from Lady Briona herself that the pair looked perfectly content together—that Shirley bore the look of a joyful bride, while I, the true one, brooded in shadows.
I wondered, no hoped, briefly, that she had ridden side-saddle on that fateful day.
The door beside the window where I stood with all the subtlety of a hawk swung open, and with it drifted a familiar scent: vetiver, rich and bold. A rather presumptuous fragrance for a man of his station, but then, when had Cillian ever done things meekly?
"Lord Stratford," I said, turning with practiced composure.
"Yes?" he replied, one brow arching with that maddening amusement of his.
I clasped my hands behind my skirts, fingers already worrying at the folds, a nervous habit I had never truly outgrown. "I should like to accompany you and Miss Shirley this afternoon. For the ride."
His expression turned incredulous, as though I had grown antlers over the past hour. "You never fail to astonish me, Lady Stratford. Only this morning, you treated the very notion as if it were something only…"
"Surely I am permitted to change my mind," I cut in smoothly. "Though older than I am, miss Shirley has ever felt more like a younger sister to me, someone I've cherished and protected. To see her set her sights on something so bold, it unnerves me, though it be an amazing thing. And well… I should like to be near."
A grin began to unfurl upon his lips slow and wicked. He was enjoying my discomfort far too much.
Seeking to temper the moment, I laid a hand lightly upon his sleeve. "You understand, do you not?" I asked, allowing a softness into my voice. "You of all people must see why I'd wish to come."
He looked down at where my hand rested, then up meeting my gaze with deliberate calm. He lifted his arm, tilted my chin, and without so much as a warning, brushed a firm kiss against my lips.
"You may come, Katherine."
The weight of that look, the intimacy of his touch despite everything, it sent colour to my cheeks. Wordlessly he slipped an arm about my waist and began to lead me toward the stairs.
"This is indecent," Shirley muttered, smoothing her gloves as though the fine stitching might preserve her modesty. "I look utterly ridiculous." She glanced down at her riding habit, one of my old ones well fitted for the activity planned out for the afternoon.
We had chosen the woodland path at the back of the estate, far from the eyes of housemaids and footmen. The air was warm, the breeze gentle, I had even let my hair down.
"You look entirely capable," Cillian replied, adjusting the stirrup with the cool precision of a man rethreading his cravat. "And it's only indecent if you're doing it through Mayfair in naught but your chemise."
Shirley's cheeks flushed scarlet.
"Which, thankfully, you are not," he added with a smirk.
Cillian extended a hand. "Foot here, swing your leg over. Just like mounting a chair backward."
"Chairs," Shirley said dryly, "do not move."
Still, she did as instructed, placed her boot in his cupped hands and was hoisted upward with a graceless flail of skirts and limbs. She landed in the saddle with all the elegance of a sack of potatoes—rigid, white-knuckled, uncertain.
"You're sitting like someone's tied a poker to your spine," I observed, steering my mare nearer. "Relax your knees. You need to feel the horse, not hover above it."
"I'm trying not to perish," Shirley hissed.
"You are not perishing," Cillian said, more amused than annoyed. "You're learning. Hold the reins gently not like you're throttling a goose. Like you're cradling a bird: firm enough to hold it, soft enough not to harm."
Her cheeks turned crimson as she fumbled to adjust.
"Think of it this way," I added. "You're not controlling the horse, you are conversing. The reins are a suggestion. The real conversation happens with your knees. Your balance. Your seat."
I remembered vividly the first time I rode astride. "Feel it, Kat," Father had said, guiding my arms from behind. "The horse knows what it's doing. Trust it. Trust yourself."
A breeze caught my hair, drawing me back to the present.
Cillian's gaze was fixed on me—steadfast, unreadable—but there was something gentler beneath the surface. Then he turned back to Shirley.
"Good. Now urge her forward."
"You mean… make her move?"
"I want you to try."
"She'll throw me," Shirley whispered.
"She might," I replied lightly. "I was thrown thrice my first day. Returned home looking like I'd wrestled a hedge."
"And you succeeded?"
"I did."
With great reluctance, Shirley tapped her heels. The mare moved forward briskly. Shirley yelped, bouncing like a marionette in a windstorm. Cillian caught the reins with calm efficiency.
"Lean with her, not against," he murmured. "She'll listen if you do."
Shirley tried again.
"She's galloping to my doom!"
"You'll want to keep your seat," I said, barely suppressing a laugh. "Unless you enjoy your spine rattling like a carriage on cobblestones."
She clung on, issuing sounds somewhere between a shriek and a prayer.
The horse, of course, merely trotted.
Gradually, Shirley settled still pale, but upright. Her breath came heavy, her hands trembled, but her posture had improved.
"I believe," she declared, "I have survived a harrowing ordeal."
"She went twenty feet," Cillian said blandly.
"Inhuman feet. Monstrous horse-sized feet."
"You did admirably," I said with a smile. "Next time—cantering. Possibly while balancing a hat."
"Absolutely not."
"She'll do it," Cillian murmured.
"I won't."
She would.
We all knew it.
I turned my horse toward the ridge, where the rooftops of the manor shimmered faintly between the trees. "Come," I said. "Let us ride back slowly. Complaining is harder when you're enjoying the view."
Cillian chuckled. Shirley scowled but followed.
As our horses moved in unison, laughter slipping behind us on the wind, I fell a little quieter.
The last time I rode like this… Father was still alive.
I exhaled slowly, then nudged my mare forward again to draw level with the others. Whatever awaited next, I would meet it with my shoulders back and chin high.
Just as he taught me.