A Wedding at Uppercross
Chapter Four
The next morning at breakfast, Mrs. Musgrove insisted on discussing every aspect of the previous evening. "Wasn't it kind of Lady Elliot to come to Oaklands to offer her congratulations to Sir Frederick?" she asked. "But it was most unfortunate that she brought along her children. We must maintain relations with Sir William, of course, Papa would have wanted it, but I really wish he had made a more advantageous marriage. He wanted to marry your Aunt Anne, you know."
Charles was startled. "I did not know that, Mamma," he said. No wonder Sir Frederick dislikes him, he thought. He tried to imagine his aunt married to Sir William Elliot, but such a situation was inconceivable. He knew no two people who belonged together more than Sir Frederick and Lady Wentworth.
"And I believe your Aunt Elizabeth had designs on him at one time," she mused, munching on a piece of dry toast. "Being Lady Elliot would certainly have suited her." Charles was equally taken aback at that prospect; his haughty aunt established in the neighbourhood, a regular visitor at Uppercross--he preferred even the inconvenience of avoiding the Clays to such a circumstance.
Wearied by his mother's chatter, Charles finished his tea in a single draught and took his leave. The grooms had saddled his favourite horse, as instructed, and he mounted and set off for Oaklands.
Anne was waiting for him at the stables, dressed in a lovely deep red riding habit that perfectly set off her dark hair and eyes. Charles dismounted and motioned away the groom who was waiting to help Anne mount her horse. The groom stepped aside, grinning conspiratorially, and Charles boosted Anne into the saddle. She settled herself, carefully draping her skirt on the sidesaddle. Charles swung up onto his own mount and they set off at a canter.
Riding was Charles' favourite pastime. His father and brother had long tried to interest him in shooting, and he had developed skill with firearms but never took much pleasure in the sport. He felt most at ease in the saddle, enjoying the speed and power of a well-bred horse, patiently training them until they could be controlled with the slightest pressure of the knees or tug on the bridle. Anne was also a fine rider, and Sir Frederick generously provided his daughter with the very best horses. Her mount that day was a young and spirited mare, and she controlled the horse expertly, although the mare fought the bridle, tossing her head and snorting.
The morning was fine and warm, and they went off the road into a meadow. Anne looked at Charles mischievously and applied her crop to the mare's rump; the horse leaped forward and galloped across the field. Charles laughed and spurred his own horse, a large chestnut stallion that loved to run, and he caught up to Anne in short order. They raced across several fields, each taking turns in the lead, until they reached a small grove where a stream crossed the meadows. They slowed the horses to a walk, dismounting when they reached the stream. Charles had provided himself with a blanket in his saddlebag, which he spread on the bank. He tied the horses to a tree near the stream where they could graze and drink, and they sat on the blanket, grateful for the shade after their exercise.
"This is like old times," said Anne. "I remember when you first came down from Cambridge and taught me to ride." Anne had wanted to learn horsemanship, but her father and brother were at sea and her mother did not ride. There was talk of engaging a riding instructor, but when Charles heard of the situation, he immediately offered to teach his cousin. "You were so patient with me," she said. "I wanted so badly to do well. You were a little intimidating, you know."
Charles looked at her in surprise. "I?" he cried. "I cannot believe that I could intimidate anyone."
"We all looked up to you," she replied, serious now. "Edward and I, Elizabeth and Walter, your Hayter cousins as well. You were the oldest, and naturally we looked to you as our leader."
This was a new thought for Charles, and he considered it for a few moments. "I hope I didn't frighten you back then," he said finally. "You were a good student. Look how you tried to shame me just now in our race."
"Oh, Charles," cried Anne, "I was just funning! I would never try to shame you!"
Her agitation was obvious, and Charles reached over and took her hands in his, laughing. "I was funning, too, Anne," he said. "I am proud of my protegee. As far as I'm concerned, you can race every man in the parish, and I will cheer you on." She smiled at him, her face very close, and it took every bit of willpower Charles possessed not to kiss her. He dropped her hands and turned away.
Anne's face fell, and she turned away as well. They sat silently for a time. Finally Charles could stand no more. "If you've rested, perhaps we should go back," he said. Anne nodded her consent, and he untied the horses and helped her into the saddle.
They found their way out to the road, a few miles from Uppercross. The horses walked along, their riders silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Charles spoke at last. "Will you come back to the house?" he asked. "We can have some tea and refresh ourselves, and I know Elizabeth will be glad to see you." "Of course," she replied.
Charles was a little ashamed of his behaviour. He was beginning to understand his feelings, and knew that he was in love with Anne, but was at a loss as to how to proceed. He did not want to take advantage of her, and thought it best if they were not alone together; he did not trust himself to always be master of his emotions. He pulled gently on the stallion's reins, letting Anne's mare walk on ahead a little.
Suddenly, a fox ran from a grove of trees and out into the roadway, startling the mare. The horse reared and broke into a gallop, racing down the road, her ears pinned back and her eyes rolling. Anne held on gamely, pulling on the lines to no effect. Charles reacted immediately, spurring on the stallion with his crop, trying to catch up to her. This was not like their race; Anne had been in control of her horse at all times, but now all she could do was clutch onto her saddle and try not to be thrown.
The stallion, used to such all-out runs, began to catch up to the mare. Charles was only a few lengths behind when a third rider crashed out of the meadow onto the road just in front of the mare. The rider had the advantage of starting out ahead of the mare and was able to keep pace with the creature. He managed to grab Anne around the waist and pull her onto his horse. The mare continued to run down the road, relieved to be rid of her burden.
Charles pulled up alongside the rider, who was holding Anne in his arms. "Are you all right?" he cried, and then he noticed that her saviour was Henry Clay.
"Yes, I am all right, Charles," she responded shakily. "Just a little discomposed." Tears ran down her face, and she did not seem to realize that Mr. Clay was holding her rather tightly. "We are very close to Uppercross," said Charles. "I will take her there, Clay."
Anne remembered herself and tried to pull away from her rescuer. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Clay. I am much obliged to you." He smiled down at her. "I must insist on seeing you back myself, Miss Wentworth. I would not want you to meet with any more...accidents," he said, looking archly at Charles.
"I thank you, Mr. Clay, but I assure you it is not necessary," Anne said. She struggled to get out of his arms, but there was not enough room in the saddle for her to get away from him, and he showed no inclination to release her.
"It is no inconvenience to me," he said. "As you said, Musgrove, we are close to Uppercross. I believe that my mother and sister are already there, paying a call on your mother. I will safely convey Miss Wentworth there, and then I may see them home." Anne could only look at Charles helplessly as Mr. Clay clucked to his horse and trotted off. Charles followed, swearing silently at the fates and feeling more at a loss than ever.
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