and Bean laughed. Defeated, Pell glanced over at him. From his immaculate green livery she guessed that he worked for one of the big houses. His face was round and open and he rode an elegant chestnut mare, leading a matched pair of bays with long necks and fine heads. The three animals claimed more than a full share of his attention, and it showed some horse manship that he managed to keep in step with Jack.
Pell had prepared a polite rebuff to any further attempts at engagement, but this proved unnecessary, for at that moment a young lady just ahead waved a large white handkerchief to catch the eye of her friend, causing the chestnut to spin sideways, eyes bulging. Another rider would have lost his seat, Pell thought, noticing how quietly her companion followed the mare’s temper, how he sat still and calm without leaning on her mouth to right himself. She was a spooky creature, scared of her own shadow and not interested in proving otherwise to anyone. Bean giggled.
“You’re sensible wanting rid of her,” Pell said, thinking, That mare’s had more than a few guineas wasted on her and will have again.
He glanced over, pleased at eliciting a response at last. “Aye, but just look at her. There’ll always be someone wanting such a fine-looking mount, and willing to take the rest with it.”
“She’s fickle as fortune,” murmured Pell.
At that he nodded, adding in a low voice, as if talking to the horse, “You’re right there. But it’s hard to blame her, poor thing, for she had a bad fall over a fence with a fool of a rider. How do you tell a horse to settle and trust you after that?”
“You just tell her.”
The thought seemed to amuse him. “Go on, then.”
Pell rode up, drawing even with the mare’s head, then leaned over and spoke softly in her ear. “That’s enough, now—”
“Desdemona.”
Pell looked startled.
“The much-wronged wife from a play by Mr. William Shakespeare,” the man said, with a raised eyebrow. “So I am told.”
Pell laughed. “All right, then. That’s enough, now, Desdemona, you won’t fall again.” The mare flicked one ear back to catch the girl’s voice. Pell turned to the man once more. “You see? It’s what she’s been waiting to hear.”
He laughed softly. “But who knows if what you’ve told her is true? Depends to whom she’s sold and how she’s ridden.”
“Well, then,” Pell said coolly, gazing straight into his eyes, “she’s perfectly right to be anxious, is she not?”
He laughed again, pleased to be bested, and she noticed that his face wasn’t a bad face, if you were the sort of girl who cared about such things.
Having established a connection, they rode together companionably, speaking of horses because it was a subject neither seemed likely to exhaust. When the man turned off to claim lodgings at The Queen’s Head, Bean looked up into Pell’s face as if searching for something. Not finding it, he lowered his gaze and sighed, dejected for reasons he kept to himself.
Six
I t would be impossible to tell Pell’s story without reference to the worn clay walls and dark low rooms of home. Her father built the place himself before he and Mam married, hacking bricks straight out of the ground and piling them up to make walls thick enough to keep out the wind and rain (and the light and warmth of the sun). A roof of heather, reed, and mud topped it off, so that in the end it huddled like a heap, nearly invisible at the edge of the hamlet of Nomansland, itself crouched on the very edge of the New Forest as if liable at any moment to tumble down the hill into Wiltshire.
Those lime-washed walls of rubble and straw had moments of charm in summer when honeysuckle and wild roses scrambled up the front and poppies, foxgloves, and honesty grew every which way from window frames and patches of dirt. But inside was damp and crumbling and held the smell of smoke forever so that winters passed in a long succession of near-fatal bronchial
Pell had prepared a polite rebuff to any further attempts at engagement, but this proved unnecessary, for at that moment a young lady just ahead waved a large white handkerchief to catch the eye of her friend, causing the chestnut to spin sideways, eyes bulging. Another rider would have lost his seat, Pell thought, noticing how quietly her companion followed the mare’s temper, how he sat still and calm without leaning on her mouth to right himself. She was a spooky creature, scared of her own shadow and not interested in proving otherwise to anyone. Bean giggled.
“You’re sensible wanting rid of her,” Pell said, thinking, That mare’s had more than a few guineas wasted on her and will have again.
He glanced over, pleased at eliciting a response at last. “Aye, but just look at her. There’ll always be someone wanting such a fine-looking mount, and willing to take the rest with it.”
“She’s fickle as fortune,” murmured Pell.
At that he nodded, adding in a low voice, as if talking to the horse, “You’re right there. But it’s hard to blame her, poor thing, for she had a bad fall over a fence with a fool of a rider. How do you tell a horse to settle and trust you after that?”
“You just tell her.”
The thought seemed to amuse him. “Go on, then.”
Pell rode up, drawing even with the mare’s head, then leaned over and spoke softly in her ear. “That’s enough, now—”
“Desdemona.”
Pell looked startled.
“The much-wronged wife from a play by Mr. William Shakespeare,” the man said, with a raised eyebrow. “So I am told.”
Pell laughed. “All right, then. That’s enough, now, Desdemona, you won’t fall again.” The mare flicked one ear back to catch the girl’s voice. Pell turned to the man once more. “You see? It’s what she’s been waiting to hear.”
He laughed softly. “But who knows if what you’ve told her is true? Depends to whom she’s sold and how she’s ridden.”
“Well, then,” Pell said coolly, gazing straight into his eyes, “she’s perfectly right to be anxious, is she not?”
He laughed again, pleased to be bested, and she noticed that his face wasn’t a bad face, if you were the sort of girl who cared about such things.
Having established a connection, they rode together companionably, speaking of horses because it was a subject neither seemed likely to exhaust. When the man turned off to claim lodgings at The Queen’s Head, Bean looked up into Pell’s face as if searching for something. Not finding it, he lowered his gaze and sighed, dejected for reasons he kept to himself.
Six
I t would be impossible to tell Pell’s story without reference to the worn clay walls and dark low rooms of home. Her father built the place himself before he and Mam married, hacking bricks straight out of the ground and piling them up to make walls thick enough to keep out the wind and rain (and the light and warmth of the sun). A roof of heather, reed, and mud topped it off, so that in the end it huddled like a heap, nearly invisible at the edge of the hamlet of Nomansland, itself crouched on the very edge of the New Forest as if liable at any moment to tumble down the hill into Wiltshire.
Those lime-washed walls of rubble and straw had moments of charm in summer when honeysuckle and wild roses scrambled up the front and poppies, foxgloves, and honesty grew every which way from window frames and patches of dirt. But inside was damp and crumbling and held the smell of smoke forever so that winters passed in a long succession of near-fatal bronchial
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