“Shall we?” Kitty asked after several minutes of making friends with her mount.
After giving her a leg up into her saddle, Oliver climbed onto his own and they set off at a walk down the street. “You clearly love horses.”
“I always have.” She gave the mare another pat on the shoulder before adjusting in her side-saddle. “I’ve been riding as long as I can remember. First in front of my father, then on ponies, before finally graduating to riding my own mount.”
“If you love horses so much, why do you not have one of your own?” Oliver asked before he could think better of it.
She stared forward for several seconds before answering. “I do.” After another pause, she explained, “Her name is Miranda, and she was a gift from my father for my fifteenth birthday.”
The Shakespearean name brought a smile to Oliver’s lips. “Where is Miranda now?”
“At my father’s estate.” She let out a deep sigh before correcting herself. “My cousin’s estate.” They rode on in silence for a time before she continued. “My father could do nothing about the entail, so he spent years carefully investing funds to take care of myself and my mother. But everything else went to his nephew.”
“And your cousin would not allow you to take your horse?” Oliver’s opinion of the man could not be much lower.
She shook her head. “My mother did not want to bother with extra horses in London. So my cousin is holding her for me until I have a place for her.”
Oliver thought his opinion of Mrs. Childs could go no lower, but he had been wrong. Kitty rode with a comfort and skill that could not be denied. It was as if she’d been born on horseback, and he felt a sudden and deep desire to reunite Kitty with her beloved mount. He was not sure how, but he would find a way.
“And you?”
It took a moment for Oliver to register her question. “And me?”
“Was there ever a time that you did not love horses?” she asked as they approached the Grosvenor Gate thatled into Hyde Park.
“Once,” Oliver admitted as they crossed through the open gate. “About three years ago.” He then signaled his horse to increase from a walk to a trot.
Kitty did the same before commenting, “I sense a story.”
“My father died in a riding accident while returning home during a storm.” Oliver forced the words out. He still hated thinking about, much less speaking of, that awful night.
They covered twenty yards before Kitty replied, her voice choked with emotion. “I’m so sorry. How did you ever get back in the saddle?”
“Tim and Nat convinced me that my father would not want me to give up something I love,” Oliver explained through a scratch in his own throat. “Though I still prefer not to ride at night or in bad weather.”
“Probably wise,” Kitty noted before asking, “Will you tell me about him?”
“He was a lot like me,” Oliver admitted. He went on to tell her about reading in the library at his father’s feet, of walking the paths of Blackthorne Park, and riding through the fields. The more he talked, the more he wanted to talk. He hadn’t spoken so much of his father in a very long time. Kitty asked questions from time to time, but she mostly just listened.
After riding nearly halfway around the perimeter of Hyde Park, Oliver asked, “Do you mind my asking about your father? When did you lose him?”
“He passed just after I turned eighteen.” Her voice sounded firm, but he could hear the sadness in it. “A weak heart. We knew it was coming, but it still felt unbelievable.”
“I’m not sure which is worse: for it to be expected, or to be shocked,” Oliver admitted. He’d often wondered if losing his father would have been easier if he’d seen it coming. Somehow, he doubted it.
Kitty put her face to the sky, as if enjoying the warmth of the sun on her cheeks. “Both are worse.”
“What is your favorite memory of your father?” Oliver asked, before amending, “besides horses.”
Kitty turned and offered him a broad smile. “Cricket.”
Oliver let out an unexpected laugh. “Cricket?”
She raised a single brow. “Do you disapprove of girls playing cricket?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. I’ve played many times with Arabella. I even dragged my younger sister out a time or two.” There were few boys of his age in the neighborhood, and so he and Tim would play with anyone willing to play. “Do you still play?”
She tipped her head and gave him an incredulous look, as if to say, “Have you met my mother?” She then encouraged her horse into a gallop before calling out, “Race you to the fence.”
