I patted Bess on the nose, conciliatory, and took a step forward to the next stall, where a horse was snorting and switching its tail, a roiling energy trapped beneath his chestnut coat.
“Not that one,” Henry said. “That’s Lawrence.”
“Lawrence?” I repeated.
“I know a Sir Lawrence,” Sigrid exclaimed. “What a funny name for a horse.”
“Lawrence is a devil,” Henry warned.
“It sounds like this one is suited only for more accomplished riders,” I said, and Henry nodded at me appreciatively, extending a hand and squeezing my shoulder. His grasp was light but not insignificant. Unable to help myself, I turned back to Sigrid, eyes ablaze. “Certainly, Sigrid, you might feel better suited for Old Bess?”
She lifted her chin, eyes lingering where Henry’s hand had been a moment before. “I have been well tutored in the equestrian arts since I was practically a babe.”
“One of the mares would be a fine choice,” Henry said, gesturing forward. “Lawrence is new and skittish.”
“Henry.” I turned to him. “Do not question Sigrid’s absolute mastery over our equine friends.”
“Indeed.” She drew herself upward. “I have spent many a pleasant afternoon on the backs of all sorts of horses, and I am sure Lawrence will be no different.”
Henry looked concerned. “You do not know the terrain.”
“The terrain here is dirt and rocks, just as it is elsewhere,” I reasoned. My shoulder still felt warm.
“Come,” Sigrid said to him. “You must let us have our fun where we can!”
She and I regarded one another. We each had our schemes and, for the briefest of moments, they had intersected. It almost felt like friendship. We both had to look away.
Contrary to my desires, Sigrid did prove to be a satisfactory rider. The three of us trotted out and into the woods, supplied with a small picnic prepared by the Tremaine kitchens. Henry rode ahead.Sigrid and I, slowed by our side-sitting saddles, rode alongside one another.
My lesson with Agatha had been suspended for the day. Spending time with suitable men in suitable company was the one permissible excuse for missed instruction. (This was logical, for the entire point of the instruction was to support me in interactions with suitable men in suitable company.) It was freeing and wonderful to be outdoors in the exact middle of the day, when the sun was highest in the sky and the frost had melted from the grass. Caught up in the moment, I was startled when Sigrid started talking. If I had paid attention, her smile might have warned me.
“It is precious, your little infatuation,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“With Henry! It makes one feel a kind of…” She searched for the right word. “Delight.”
I watched her, ever so aware of Henry, just paces ahead.
“And I want you to know,” she continued, “that there is no ill will between us. Regardless of how I do choose to proceed. You see, I haven’t made up my mind. But it has been very instructive to observe the desires of others. How could I be certain Henry is truly covetable if I did not see him coveted by another? That is, after all, how we determine value, isn’t it? A jewel is only worth as much as people are willing to pay.”
Her speech had provided me an opportunity to recover. “One might argue a jewel has intrinsic value and beauty in its own right.”
“No matter the difference, it is the highest bidder that secures the jewel in the end.” A large smile. One of her best.
I watched Henry’s back, up ahead and out of earshot. “Yes, and it must be paid for with the most appropriate currency.”
“In my experience, the type of currency matters a great deal less than the quantity. And if we understand each other clearly, I do not believe a tally would yield you any favors.” Sigrid, sideways on her horse, was already facing me, and she leaned over, as if to suggest our closeness.“I mean this as a kindness, naturally. A message from a friend. It does not do one good to get too far ahead of oneself. It results only in disappointment.”
I could look at her no longer and turned my attention ahead. I did not want Sigrid to have what she desired. No matter myself in the equation: I wanted her life to put a check on her expectations.
We stopped for our meal midafternoon. Henry unfolded a quilted coverlet and we perched upon it: Henry with his legs stretched in front of him, and Sigrid and I on either side, our dresses spread.
“Why, you look just like a mushroom,” Sigrid exclaimed, gesturing to the way my dress had billowed around me.
Watching her snicker and flirt with Henry, my own food turned tasteless. Sigrid had every advantage. She was accomplished and educated. She had the right family and the right manners and the right looks. She bathed her hair in beer and kept her skin as pale as the day she was born. Even then, she sat in gloves and her ridiculous hat—a wide-brimmed, silk-lined topper made from grass woven together in a pattern as intricate and delicate as lace.
She had thwarted all my attempts to cast her unfavorably. I could not rid myself of her buzzing laughter. She was like an insect that returned to one’s meal again and again. But, watching her pinch tiny bites of sweet pudding into her mouth, the action reminded me: Sigrid had been raised to keep her hunger bridled. Women, in her world, were not meant to express desire or thirst or appetite. Women were not meant toexpress. But I had always sat at a table of men who ate with their fingers, ripped flesh from bone, laughing as the fat glinted on their lips and chins. And it was only recently I had understood I was supposed to be different.
