Elizabeth tried diligently to temper her plea. “Could we not save for one? If Mama?—”
“Elizabeth.” The firmness in his tone stopped her. “The answer is no. I am sorry, my dear. You must content yourselves with other amusements. Stay out of the stable and off the horses. I insist.”
Jane curtsied. “Yes, Papa.”
Their father’s expression softened. “You are good girls. Now run along and keep out of Mr. Barton’s vicinity for the rest of the day.”
Elizabeth could not stay awayfrom the stables—or rather, from the horses. The very next morning, she crept out to the paddock where Jackson grazed, an apple hidden in her apron pocket. The old plough horse lifted his head at her approach, his dark eyes interested.Elizabeth’s heart swelled. This—this she could do. Mr. Barton and her father had forbidden the stables and riding, nothing else.
Over the weeks and months that followed, Elizabeth visited the horses whenever they stood in the fields. She brought treats smuggled from the kitchen. She stroked their necks and learned which spots each horse favored for scratching. She studied their movements, their ears, the noises they made.
She stood at the stable door countless times. When Mr. Barton caught her, he told her papa, and she was forbidden again. She loved watching Jacob curry the horses. Her fingers itched to help, to run the combs over their shiny coats.
Every gentleman who arrived at Longbourn endured her questions about his horse—its breed, its age, its temperament. Every man received her plea to teach her to ride. The answer was always the same: “No, miss. Horses are too big, and you are too small.”
Elizabeth believed the horses would never hurt her. She loved them, and surely that mattered.
Year after year, the answer remained the same when Elizabeth asked for a riding horse. Her father explained that he had a gentleman’s horse until Jane was born. When it died, they needed to economize now that the nursery was filling so there was no funds to replace it. Their mother needed new ribbons, new furnishings, and new gowns for assemblies. Their father needed the latest volume of poetry, the newest translation of Cicero, or a subscription to yet another literary journal.
At ten, Jacob finally told her the truth her parents could not speak.
“There was a little girl, miss. Your aunt Philips’s daughter. Margaret, though most called her Magpie for all her chattering.” The groom’s weathered face grew pained. “Sweet little thing, not yet three. She was chasing a ball one morning and ran behind your father’s gelding. Startled the beast. The hoof came down before anyone could react.”
Elizabeth’s throat closed. She had no memory of a cousin named Margaret.
“Mrs. Philips—” Jacob shook his head. “She and your mother were as close as sisters could be before that day. After...well. There were no more children. Maggie was their only chance.”
That same day, Mr. Bennet sold every riding horse, Jacob explained. What remained were patient draft animals, kept for work and nothing more. His daughters would never be taught to ride. The risk was unthinkable. The cost already too high.
Elizabeth never asked again. How could she, knowing what her request would cost her father? What it had already cost the Philips family?
The yearning never left her. When a gentleman cantered past on the road, or when she stood at that threshold and breathed in the scent of hay, horse, and leather, the longing twisted inside her like a living thing.
Elizabeth Bennet refused to surrender entirely. She vowed that someday—somehow—she would ride again. If only she could find a way.
1
For three days, Elizabeth, now twenty, had nursed Jane through fever and sore throat at the neighboring estate of Netherfield. Miss Caroline Bingley, their hostess, offered barbed remarks about uninvited interlopers whenever Elizabeth ventured downstairs. Her brother, Mr. Charles Bingley, hovered with anxious kindness. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the wealthy, arrogant master of Pemberley in Derbyshire, maintained studied indifference.
Needing to be away from rooms that smelled of illness and corridors that echoed with Miss Bingley’s false solicitude, Elizabeth slipped outside while the rest of the household likely still slumbered. Her half boots crunched softly on the gravel path that led toward the stables. The morning air at Netherfield Park was fresh and crisp.
The stable yard lay quiet in the early morning, too early for much activity. Most of the horses remained inside, though one occupied the paddock—a chestnutmare with a coat that gleamed like polished copper in the early light. Elizabeth stopped at the fence, her hands curling around the top rail as the animal’s muscles rippled.
A beautiful mare. Clean lines, elegant proportions. She moved with the confidence of a creature who knew her own worth, head high, tail swishing with each deliberate step. When a groom approached with a halter, the mare turned her head just enough to fix him with one dark eye, then tossed her mane and trotted to the far side of the enclosure.
Elizabeth smiled. The mare reminded her of someone, though she could not quite say who.
“She does not care to be approached until she is ready.”
Elizabeth started, turning to find Mr. Darcy standing a few paces behind her. Dressed for riding, he wore a perfectly tailored dark coat, his boots polished to a mirror shine. His features remained unreadable as ever, though he watched the mare rather than Elizabeth.
She ought to curtsy, and retreat to the house. Instead, she said, “She has spirit.”
“That is one word for it.” Mr. Darcy moved to stand beside her at the fence, his hands clasped behind him. “Stubborn would be another. Willful. Determined to have her own way in all things.”
“She knows her own mind.” Elizabeth chuckled, realizing he very well might be describing her. “Sixteen hands, I would estimate? Perhaps sixteen-one?”
Mr. Darcy’s head turned sharply toward her. “Sixteen-two, actually. You have a good eye. You know horses.”
