Page 31 of The Marriage Wager

“Though, of course, we shall doubtless look quite gauche compared to Miss Rutherford,” Miss Elinor Norton told her with a smile that showed how little she cared.

“She is an excellent horsewoman, I understand. Why, she brought her own mount,” added her sister, Lydia.

“She told us yesterday evening that she could not bear to ride any horse but her own.”

“I would expect nothing else,” Constance replied dryly.

“Do you ride, Miss Woodley?” their brother Philip asked, surprising Constance by showing that he had actually been listening to his sisters’ chatter.

She smiled. “I am no expert such as Miss Rutherford, but, yes, I have been known to ride. It has been many years, however, and, sadly, I did not think to bring a riding habit.”

Indeed, she had left her riding habit at home, not even bringing it to London, as she had not dreamed of needing it. So, she imagined, she would be consigned to the open air landau along with the “older ladies.” Ah well, at least she would not have to be part of the group with Muriel Rutherford, which was some comfort, she thought.

When the meal was over, she went up to Francesca’s room, as she found her friend’s absence worrisome. Unfortunately, she discovered that her uneasy premonition was correct, for when she knocked upon Francesca’s door, a voice croaked for her to come in, and she stepped inside to see Francesca, swathed in a shawl over her bedgown, sitting propped against her pillows, her face flushed, and her eyes red and watering.

“Oh, Constance,” she wailed—if so gravelly a sound could be termed a wail. “I am so sorry. It seems I’ve caught this wretched cold.”

“Heavens, no, don’t be sorry,” Constance assured her. “It’s scarcely as if you caught a cold on purpose.”

“I cannot go to the church,” Francesca lamented, then paused to sneeze several times.

“Of course not,” Constance agreed. “You must stay right here and get better. I shall stay and look after you, why don’t I?”

“Oh, no! You mustn’t do that!” Francesca cried. “Maisie can fetch my tea and put cooling rags on my forehead. Promise me you’ll go!”

Francesca looked so alarmed that Constance hastened to assure her that she would do just as she asked. “But I hate to leave you here, feeling so ill.”

Francesca coughed, but shook her head firmly. “No. I didn’t bring you here to nurse an invalid. You go and have fun.”

Constance felt rather selfish, abandoning her friend, but Maisie entered the room with a bowl of steaming water in which aromatic herbs were floating and placed it by her mistress’s bed, then assured Constance that Francesca would prefer that she go.

“Truth is, miss,” Maisie told her confidentially as she ushered Constance to the door, “she hates for anyone to see her looking like this. She’s used to me, and I know just what to do.”

Constance reflected that Francesca’s devoted maid had been caring for her for years and doubtless was far better than she would be at nursing Francesca back to health. So it was with a clear conscience that she went downstairs to join the others.

She could not deny that she suffered a pang of envy when she saw Muriel Rutherford mounted on an elegant bay mare, her narrow figure shown off to advantage in her mannishly-cut charcoal-gray riding habit, with a rakish little hat that resembled a military shako perched on her black hair. Miss Rutherford controlled her dancing mount with ease, her eyes almost warm. It was clearly the milieu that suited her best.

Leighton, too, was on horseback, as were most of the young people, and Constance could not help but notice what a striking figure he cut. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked born to the saddle. She remembered that Francesca had told her that he had been in the Hussars, and she could certainly imagine him on horseback, leading a charge.

Constance resigned herself to riding in the carriage with her aunt and her cousin Georgiana, who could not abide horses, as well as Miss Cuthbert, a solemn, quiet girl who was, if Constance remembered correctly, a grandniece of the Duchess. The ride was exactly what Constance had feared it would be, with Aunt Blanche dominating the conversation, chattering about the excellence of the food, the accommodations and, of course, the entertainment provided last night by Miss Rutherford. She could not, apparently, contain her admiration for that young woman’s skill on the pianoforte.

Constance, only half-listening to her aunt’s paean of praise to Lady Muriel, was astonished to see Lord Leighton detach himself from the riding party and fall back to ride beside the open carriage, sweeping off his hat and bowing toward them in gallant greeting. Georgiana and Aunt Blanche straightened, greeting him effusively, and Constance noticed that even Miss Cuthbert became somewhat more animated in his presence.

He looked at Constance. “I am sorry, Miss Woodley, to see that you are not riding today.”

“Indeed, sir, I wish that I was, but I did not think to bring a riding habit,” she responded candidly.

“That can be remedied, I am sure,” he told her. “There is bound to be one around the house that will suit you. We must ride out some afternoon. I should like to show you the estate.”

“I would enjoy that very much,” Constance replied, and from the corner of her eye she could see her aunt and cousin glowering at her.

“I understand you have a very lovely summer house,” Aunt Blanche put in. “I am sure it would be a treat for the young ones to see it. Wouldn’t you like to, Georgiana?”

“Oh, yes, Mama,” Georgiana replied eagerly.

“I shall mention that to my mother,” Leighton said smoothly. “Perhaps she will set up an outing to the summer house, if, indeed, she does not already have one planned. We have often picnicked there, as I recall.”

Constance smothered a smile at his adept avoidance of the implied request to take Georgiana to see the place. “A picnic sounds lovely,” she commented, tilting her parasol a little to look at him.