"Some Women (Oh the shame!) like ramping Rigs,
Ride flaunting in their powder'd Perriwigs;
Astride they sit (and not ashamed neither),
Drest up like men in Jacket, Cap, and Feather! "
A Looking Glass for the Times -- Thomas Ellwood, c1670
I heard the baying of the hounds, the excited shouts of the whippers-in, and the huntsman's horn. I stepped out of the open barn door just in time to see the horses thunder past, hooves pounding the hard-packed dirt of the road. One by one, they gracefully sailed over the wooden gate at the end of the lane. These were Thoroughbred field hunters, so much more elegant and fine than the plodding draft horses that were my charge. The scarlet jackets of the riders proved this to be a fox hunt; hare hunters wear coats of green. I shook my head at the pointless pursuit of a quarry that was inedible. I know they say fox are vermin, and it controls the population, but I've seen the faces of the riders, their excitement in the chase – 'tis a blood sport, and cruel, and I found myself rooting for Brother Reynard, hoping he had the wits to quickly go to ground and end their fun.
It was a cold November morning, the sky thick with rolling grey clouds; not a good day for a hunt, not at all. If the fox was fortunate, the storm would break, and the hunters would all turn back to his Lordship's manor. There they could stable those fine horses, warm themselves before the fire, and curse the weather and their luck. A chilling wind picked up, and sliced through my thin coat. It was going to be a bitter winter. I pulled the collar the best I could up around my ears, and was turning back to the shelter of the barn when I heard another horse approaching.
The rider was leaning forward in the saddle, whipping the straggling beast with a riding crop to urge it to catch up to the hunting party. Imagine my surprise as the horse neared, and I could see that the rider was a female – not sidesaddle as a proper lady rides, but riding astride, like a boy, or an American cowgirl. Now, I am no expert in such matters of etiquette and high society, but in the opinion of this humble stableman, it just seems more sensible to be balanced with one leg on either side of the animal. But I'm sure the lady's mother would have been scandalized.
The horse made it to the end of the lane, but would not jump the fence. It wheeled around abruptly, almost unseating the rider, who let loose with a string of curses I've never heard a lady utter. Thinking to appease her, I ran to open the gate.
"You there," she called, "that will do no good. Come here."
I doffed my hat, respectfully, as I changed direction and trotted toward her. "Beggin' your pardon, Miss, I just thought..."
"Well then, that's the trouble. I don't believe you are being paid to think," she snapped.
"Yes, Miss," I replied, humbly, my hat clutched to my chest.
"Something is wrong with my horse – tend to it," she said, swinging down from the saddle. I realized this must be Lady Jessica, his Lordship's niece, whom I had heard was visiting from London. Sweeping the cap from her head, she released a tumble of hair, bronze shot with gold. Her features were elegant and regal, as befitted a lady of her station, and her eyes were coolly grey. I couldn't help but admire her fine trim figure; she wore a ladies' riding jacket, dark blue with a red hunting collar, with brass buttons and a close, masculine cut; a pair of tan riding breeches that hugged her thighs like a second skin; boots of polished black leather...
*WHAP* I felt the sharp sting of her riding crop through the thin sleeve of my coat. "What are you gawking at, man! See to my animal!"
"Y-yes Ma'am!" I stammered. The horse paced nervously (poor beast, it too had recently felt her crop), and I could see that its gait was slightly off. I lifted its left foreleg and could see that there was a sizeable stone in its hoof. I relayed this information to her Ladyship.
"Get me another mount," she demanded.
"My apologies, Lady Jessica..." Why was my mouth so dry? Why were my knees shaking? "Lord Edward stables his riding horses close to the manor house. The draft animals kept here are farm animals, only suitable for cart or plow."
Her full pink lips drew into a tight line of anger and she closed her eyes for a moment; when she opened them again, they were a more threatening grey than the storm clouds overhead. With clenched fists and through clenched teeth, she hissed, "Then tend to my horse," and strode across the field toward the barn. I followed, leading the animal – and, I must admit, quaking in my boots.
And it began to rain.
By the time we reached shelter, the sky had opened, and it was pouring. The wind picked up, we were both drenched, and the dirt road had turned to mud caking on our boots. I shut the barn door behind us and lit a lamp; at least inside it was snug and dry. I hung my wet coat on a nail, secured the horse to a hitching post, and set to work with the hoof pick. Her Ladyship also peeled off her sodden jacket and hung it on a tack hook on the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I admired her neat waist and high proud breasts, the damp white fabric of her blouse clinging to her skin. I determined that the hoof was not so tender or bruised as to prevent the animal from carrying her back to the manor house, and wiped my hands with a rag. There was a loud crack of thunder and the rain pounded mercilessly against the roof. I checked the nervous animals in the stalls, speaking soothing gentle words, when I felt as if I was being watched.
Lady Jessica sat on a hay bale, long legs stretched out in front of her. "What is your name, stableman?" she asked.
"Alfred, my Lady."
She lazily removed her kid riding gloves, one finger at a time. "Well, Alfred, my boots are filthy. Come assist me."
I went over to her, knelt at her feet, and began to wipe her boots with the rag.
