She did not know why she replied in the affirmative when she did not need to run into him again. He had been a curiosity, but the conversation had not been interesting. He was a man, and most men were only interested in one thing, even if they were from the upper class.
The man spurred his horse into action, and both rider and animal took off at a speed that Bridget’s horse could never match. She watched them become smaller and smaller in the distance. She was not fascinated by him, she decided, but by the overall picture. He was a lone rider on a magnificent beast that galloped like the wind.
She watched them until they became a pinpoint on the horizon.
It was at that moment that Bridget realized she would be late. She had become distracted for no good reason. She spurred her horse into action, pushing the animal as fast as it could go, unable to match the amazing speed of the mysterious rider.
Her hair fluttered more furiously behind her, strands of gold reaching out for the past. Her body was a maelstrom of sharp angles and tight curves as she steered her horse home. She would have angered her mother already, but the quicker she returned, the less severe that anger would be.
She blamed the lone rider on the moors. Perhaps he was an imp from the forest, sent to play tricks on her. Bridget did not believe any of that, but she would rather have someone else to blame than herself. She had lost track of time, and that was that.
She rode through the large arch at the rear of the estate and headed straight for the stables. She pulled on the reins to halt her horse, and a stablehand emerged from the stone building to take the reins from her as she dismounted.
She nodded her head to him in a quick thanks and strode as quickly as she could into Ramsburry Manor.
She shouldn’t have gone out riding that morning—she knew that now, but she needed to clear her head. With her father’s circumstances and her sister being all too happy about getting married soon, she needed an escape from real life. Her mother always hated her riding off to the moors alone, but Bridget had never been one to conform.
Her parents had given up on her, turning their attention to her younger sister, Margaret. They had given up on their dreams of their oldest daughter marrying first, and at twenty-six, it was unlikely she ever would.
That suited Bridget just fine. She might have wed at some point if she had found a man who respected her as she deserved and loved her as she desired, but modern life in England did not always work that way. She was quite happy to be a spinster, educating and bettering herself.
“There you are,” her mother, Penelope Ramsburry, said witheringly. She was a tall and stern woman with sharp bird-like features.
Penelope walked at speed toward her daughter, much like the man on the moors had ridden with haste.
“I’m here now, Mother,” Bridget replied, preparing for an argument.
“You are late!” Penelope snapped, coming to a stop right in front of her. “Your sister is getting married, and you are late.”
“She is not getting married today, Mother,” Bridget pointed out.
Penelope tilted her head and tightened her lips. She glared at her daughter.
“No, she is not getting married today,” she returned slowly. “Thank you for reminding me of what I have been planning for months, Bridget. No, today is the day we set off to our family estate on the coast to better get to know Lord Michael Harrington and his family before the wedding. The fine, young gentleman has been waiting patiently in the sitting room with your sister for the past hour.”
“I am not an hour late!” Bridget exclaimed.
“I didn’t say you were an hour late,” Penelope retorted. “I am only informing you of how early Lord Michael came here. You could take a page out of his book.”
“Should I also marry my sister?” Bridget asked.
“Don’t be facetious, Bridget. It is not becoming of you. I don’t know why you have to go out on the moors so often, when there is so much to do around here, and I have enough problems to deal with.”
Bridget knew that was true, but it was not only her mother who was dealing with the problems. Bridget and Margaret had to deal with them too, even if the latter did not know the full truth. Bridget had not set out to cause trouble that morning, but she had brought it home with her from the moors.
“This would never have happened if you had found a good man and settled down,” Penelope continued.
“Oh, here we go again,” Bridget moaned. “You think that is the answer to all of my problems. I am a nuisance, but that would have been solved if I had married. Having a man by your side is not always the answer, Mother, and you know it. I don’t have a man, nor do I need one. I am happy as I am, and you must be happy too.”
“I get no grandchildren, and you die alone. That is what is best for you?”
“Mother, stop! What does it matter who is by my side when I die? All that matters is living a happy life, and I can assure you I do that. I find much more pleasure in educating myself and promoting the importance of women than I will ever find in a man. And you need not worry about grandchildren. Margaret will give you some. Do you have a target you must hit? If you do not have six grandchildren, will you be shunned by Society?”
“Oh, I don’t care about myself or Society!” Penelope shouted. “I only care about you and your happiness.”
“And I am telling you I am happy,” Bridget insisted.
“Will the two of you please stop shouting,” Margaret hissed, appearing in the hallway. “Today is the day you all meet Lord Michael’s family for the first time, and we can hear you from the sitting room. Bridget, you are already late, and, Mother, why do you insist on arguing?”
