ONE
Monday, 17 April 1815
Buckfields, seat of the fifth Earl of Holbrook
Newmarket, Suffolk
“May I remind you, my lady, that daughters of earls are not normally dressed by their lady’s maids amongst the saddles and bridles of a harness room.”
Lady Petra Forsyth, seated on a large wooden trunk painted with the Earl of Holbrook’s coat of arms, held out her booted foot and wiggled it for Annie to grasp. “Yes, but at least this time I did not walk through muck in the stable yard first.”
Annie took the heel of the knee-length boot with both hands, pulling with an indulgent roll of her eyes. “A small consolation, my lady. You do smell mightily of horses.”
“This is to be expected after one has been on a horse all day, is it not?” Petra replied while holding out her other boot, the pair of which once belonged to her older brother, Alexander. As had the buckskin breeches still hugging her legs, the black frock coat with gold buttons she had shrugged out of moments earlier, and the frilled white shirt and cravat, both now loosened at the neck.
“And I would still be on my horse if it were not for my uncle,” she added. “To believe he arrived four hours earlier than scheduled! Disagreeable man.” Then, as Annie pulled her second boot, Petra’s eyes widened. “But, oh, my poor papa! His injured ankle continues to pain him, and now he will have Uncle Tobias strutting about to add to his vexation.”
“This is why we must hurry and get you into your riding habit, my lady,” Annie said, panting slightly as Petra’s leg was finally freed. “For both his lordship and Lord Allington will be awaiting you.”
Indeed, upon the next trunk was a lady’s riding ensemble. The soft blue of the long skirt and matching fitted jacket were embellished with embroidery in a deep cobalt, all of which would set Petra’s eyes, coloring, and figure to their best advantage. The garments were also constricting and impractical, which was why Petra preferred to ride in her brother’s old togs. When safely on her father’s lands, of course.
“At least my parfum de cheval will serve to distract my uncle from noticing my riding habit will not have the smallest amount of dirt on it,” Petra said, frowning over at the costume.
“I should hope it is pristine, my lady.” Annie’s reply was quick, and affronted.
Petra dipped her chin, lips pursed, but her tone was kind. “Dearest Annie, I know you take my meaning. You always ensure I am most beautifully turned out, but in this case it is less desirable that I should appear so clean.”
A mollified Annie helped Petra stand and step out of her breeches. Petra’s cravat was then pulled away, and over her head came the white shirt in a rush. Reddish-blond curls, having escaped her plait during her brisk ride, flew forward, sticking to her cheeks. Petra pushed them away irritably.
“Damn and blast! Why did my uncle have to arrive early?”
“My lady, your language does deteriorate with each visit home to Buckfields,” Annie said, though this time her reproach was tinged with amusement as she helped Petra slip on a chemise. Then she held out the riding stays.
Though quite an adult at four and twenty, Petra allowed herself the childish act of pulling a face at the garment. Despite its lovely primrose-pink sateen and a higher cut at the hips, allowing for more comfort while riding sidesaddle, the boning still made her chemise bunch uncomfortably, leaving red marks on her skin.
“If only stays, and all like it, would deteriorate at the same rate as my language, we women would rejoice.”
Yet Petra slid her arms through, then allowed Annie to lace it tight. A high-collared shirt of cambric was added, then a petticoat, before Petra was finally donning the riding skirt and jacket, both constructed from a merino wool that was suitable for the still-cool spring weather. As with all her daytime dresses, discreet pockets were sewn into the skirt rather than relying on those separate pockets attached to strings and tied about her waist under her dress. Though her modiste continued to be remonstrative of these requests, Lady Petra would not be swayed. Pockets were simply a necessity.
“The post boy arrived nearly the same time as Lord Allington,” Annie was saying as she worked the laces of Petra’s half boots, each with blue tassels at the ankles. “You received three more invitations.” She lifted clear hazel eyes briefly to Petra’s, adding, “I brought them directly to your bedchamber.”
“Away from the prying eyes of my uncle, and his like-minded valet,” Petra said approvingly. “Well done. And were there no letters?”
Annie shook her head. “Were you expecting one from Lady Caroline?”
“No, not at all. Lady Caroline was only due back in London today from seeing her Captain Smythe off at Portsmouth. And as much as my dearest friend excels at accumulating new gossip and passing it on to me, I must allow her a modicum of time to apply it to paper.”
Petra picked up her hat, which was small with a flat top and short brim, and matched her riding habit perfectly, down to a cobalt tassel at the crown’s center. “I may guess that one of the invitations is from Lady Milford for a picnic at Strand Hill. When we had tea after Easter, she was a bit poorly, suffering with her nerves again, and said she wished to invite me for a meal out in the spring air when she felt better. As the days have been so grand and much warmer lately, with the daffodils coming up all over, I cannot help but think her spirits may be lifting.”
Copyright © 2023 by Stephanie C. Perkins
