As the water closed over her head, the events of the last few minutes replayed themselves in Catherine’s mind, with the intense clarity that sometimes comes in dreams. But this was all too horribly real.
The water was such a cold shock after the warm sun of the bright May morning, and part of her believed that she would drown, even while she flailed against it.
*
She had been walking along the road from Lavenham to Harteston, returning from a visit to her mother’s friend, Mrs Brown, when she first heard the sound of a horse’s hooves.
Not those of just any horse she might have heard, picking its steady way along the hard-packed earth of the road, but a powerful, fast horse, obviously in some considerable hurry, hooves pounding out the urgency of its pace. It stopped her right in her tracks for a moment, so out of place was that rush on this quiet road.
The thudding rhythm, the pounding of its progress - she heard it coming up ahead of her, on the other side of the bridge, although she could not yet see it, for the trees and the high bank on the side of the road quite obscured what might lie around the corner.
She was, for no sensible reason, filled with a sudden dread - not a horrible sense of fear, or a real worry for her safety, but a dread nonetheless, at what was approaching, at the source of that clamour, coming towards her from around the corner.
Then, taking her first few steps onto the bridge over the Shimpling stream, she saw him.
He came clattering onto the wooden slats of the bridge, apparently unconcerned by the prospect of any passer-by.
The first thing that struck her, in that first instant that she saw him, was the rider, his thighs, to be precise, inappropriate as that may be. He sat the horse with the confidence of long years riding, and controlled the stallion without apparent effort. His powerful thighs, flexing as they held him effortlessly in place, spoke eloquently of power and authority.
She was embarrassed by her thoughts, and a flush of colour came to her cheeks, but she could not drag her eyes away.
His breeches, creamy white and tight as skin, clung to him, giving definition to every muscle and sinew. His boots were almost as magnificent, well-worn black leather, the same colour as the horse’s glistening hide. Everything about him spoke of wealth and power.
He sat atop his animal with an easy grace, casual almost in his manner, unencumbered by a glove or a hat. From the other end of the bridge, she could take in all of his magnificence, the broad strong chest, the shoulders that seemed to span the entire width of the road, the chin that jutted forward. His face was strong, robust and masculine, with chiselled cheek-bones below dark eyes.
And on top of it all, above the square manliness of his face, and the rather wild look of his eyes, was a rich mane of dark hair, shot through with red and gold tones, that glinted in the sun, tousled, swept aside by the onrushing wind and lent buoyancy by an irrepressible energy that could be felt the moment you saw him. She suspected that hair was not easily controlled. So focussed was she on the sight in front of her, that she had simply stopped walking, unaware that she had done so.
The horse did not stop as it came towards her. Its rider seemed not to see the small and simply dressed young woman on the the bridge, who also had cause to cross the green expanse of the Shimpling stream, late this Thursday afternoon in May.
He spurred his mount on, charging over the rickety structure, as if he were master of all he surveyed.
She realised, with a gasp, that he was not going to stop for her, and, with a cry, threw herself to the side. Almost brushing the stallion’s flank, she hurled herself against the side rail, but could not stop herself from toppling, tumbling over the rickety rail and into the stream.
With an almighty splash, and a roaring in her ears, she was in the water. She could feel the slimy grasp of the reeds, feel the weight of all the water on top of her as she flailed about. She panicked.
She had never learned to swim. The mill pond at the back of her village school had always seemed too terrifying to enter, and she had never learned. The thoughts rushed through her mind, replaying, over and over, the last few minutes, as she desperately fought the water, all to no effect.
She grasped around for the bank, for something to cling onto, but nothing presented itself to her flailing hands. She could barely see in all the darkness of the stream, and could feel her dress and petticoats soaking up the water, weighing her down, pulling her to the rocky bed of the stream. Every moment she became more certain that she was about to drown.
But then she felt something, a firm hand, a grasp from above, a man’s grip. She was dragged up until she broke the surface of the water, spluttering uncontrollably. Some heroic force hauled her onto the river bank, onto the dry grass just above the shore.
She was held in a standing position, only by the strength of her saviour’s grip – he legs as yet refused to support her.
She looked up, still panting for breath. It was him. Of course it was him. Her assailant had become her saviour. He held her close, waiting to see if she could stand, if she would pull away.
Looking past his shoulder, she could see that the stallion was tied to a tree in the background, pawing at the grass, obviously wishing to be away and running again. She looked up into those dark devilish eyes and could not help but smile, even though her teeth chattered from the chill of the water.
“Are you quite all right?” he asked, with an uncertainty to his voice that betrayed his concern.
“Yes, yes quite all right.” Her voice was shaky, and she was still short of breath, nerves still jangling from her watery encounter. She suspected, strongly, that she sounded unconvincing. Her eyes met his and she drank him in – he was just as good to look upon close up, as he had been from a distance.
“I must thank you kind sir, by your hand I appear to have been rescued from a watery grave.”
“It was only because of me that you found yourself in such a predicament to begin with” he said, without hesitation.
His tone was that of man used to making declarations, to ordering the world around him. She realised that he held her slight frame in his embrace still, and could not but feel a shiver at the sensation. She knew that she should pull away, should put distance between them, that this was highly inappropriate, yet she did not want to. It was pleasant, every once in a while to have a saviour this handsome.
She was not used to anyone else taking care of her, except her mother.
“I must apologise for my haste in crossing the bridge,” he continued.
“It appears to have compromised your passage somewhat. I was, unfortunately, rather distracted – after a trying morning, I just wanted to ride, and ignore the world.”
“Oh, not at all sir” she replied, (although it was patently obvious that he spoke the truth).
She was still shaky, and unable to find anything sensible to say - she had often struggled to maintain her composure around handsome gentlemen – in fact, she had very little experience with gentlemen at all. Regardless of the fact that he had caused her fall into the stream, her gratitude to him for saving her was immense, for surely, without him, she would have drowned.
“Please!” he cried, cutting her off. “Do not deny it, the fault was entirely mine.” He released her, apparently having finally noticed that they were in a rather inappropriate proximity to each other, and stepped back cautiously, watching to make sure that she could stand on her own. His immaculately tailored coat of bottle green superfine clung to his shoulders, quite as beautifully tailored as those breeches, and showing of his devastatingly well-made body. She was horrified to see that the fabric was marred by splashes of water, and that the pristine whiteness of his breeches had rather suffered from the muddiness of the stream. Yet she was shocked to realise that she felt a desire to be back in the embrace of those arms, it had made her feel safe, to be held so, and she could not but consider what might follow such an embrace.
Her breath hitched at the thought, and, as he looked at her, patiently waiting to see what she would do, his eyes still full of concern, she became conscious of her wetness, of how it must make her face red and shiny, of how her hair was clinging unflatteringly to the side of her head and of how her bodice was clinging rather revealingly to her body, the cloth made somewhat translucent by the water.
The light stays that she wore, and the somewhat old and thin state of the fabric of her gown, did little to conceal her figure, once totally soaked in the water of the stream. It brought a blush to her cheeks, but he did not look concerned.
“I must regretfully confess, I can often become rather distracted when I take my afternoon ride.” As he spoke was looking over at the horse, gesturing.
She looked down, blushing, and ashamed of her state, and realised that he was wet up to his knees, his beautiful Hessians undoubtedly ruined.
He had waded into the stream to save her, compromised his own dignity for her safety - how remarkably unlike most of the noble gentlemen that she had met before (admittedly, there were not many). This, she allowed herself to think, was quite an unusual man.
That, she thought, following the line of his hand to the horse, was quite some animal. It would take a remarkable man to tame it.
She could not ride – a humble village girl had no chance or reason to learn – her feet, or the innkeepers cart, had always been enough for her. Yet she knew a quality horse when she saw one.
“I recently acquired this splendid mount” he waved to the horse once more “at an auction at Tattersalls. I was informed by my dealer, Mr. Redgrave, that he was bred in the stables of the Maharajah of Nackulpande, renowned as the greatest horse breeder in all of His Majesty’s colonies”.
He fixed his gaze back on her. “His studs are renowned for their power and virility. Thaddeus here came at a not inconsiderable expense, but I believe such extravagance to have been worthwhile.”
She nodded, unfamiliar with such matters – she could tell that the horse was quality, but of what type, or to what extent, she had no idea.
She had never once ridden a horse herself.
“He is as powerful as he is headstrong. I see plenty of my own self in him – That is probably why we suit.”
He looked back, when she made no response. She could think of nothing to say, she was too caught up in watching him, in the obvious energy that he brought to everything he did. It was compelling, and exciting.
He mistook her silence for disinterest.
“I pray I have not bored you with all of this discussion of the stallion. As an unmarried man, I am not often called upon to converse with ladies outside the confines of the drawing room and the ballroom. But where are my manners – here I am rambling on about my horse, and you are standing there, dripping wet and cold. Come, let me help you up the bank to the road.”
He offered his hand. She clasped it, and felt a quaking in her breast, a quivering in the bottom of her stomach. He was unmarried! And so handsome and wealthy! How was it even possible? This chance encounter appeared to offer one of the great excitements of her life, and she could already feel her mind brimming with new passions, new hopes, new desires.
Village girls dreamed of things like this, of accidental meetings with handsome, wealthy noblemen, and, of course, those dreams always had a happy ending, with the couple falling in love. She shook herself, mentally – this was reality, no dream, and the chances of anything happening were remote, to say the least.
“I thank you sir” she said, a little shakily, as she reached the top of the bank, and stepped on to the edge of the road. “And I must say that it is not at all tiresome to hear so eloquent an insight, on a subject with which I was not previously familiar.”
“You flatter me” he said, with an ironic smile. “But I know enough of young ladies to have some awareness that the subject of stallions and auction houses does not generally greatly excite their interest.”
He smiled and she could not help herself but smile warmly back. He had revealed another side, the tiniest hint of softness, of charm.
“Tell me miss, what is your name?” he enquired, with a renewed gravity. His warmth was hidden again, tantalising her in the background.
She examined her feet humbly before she could look him once more in the eyes.
“My name is Catherine Thornberry.”
“A charming name. The sweetness in the wilderness. I have always had a fondness for it.” She blushed at this spontaneously poetic response.
“Allow me to introduce myself; I am Charles Rockingham, Earl of Stanningfield. I must confess that I am surprised to have stumbled upon you. I had presumed myself to be familiar with every pretty young lady in the county, but it appears that at least one had slipped my notice - and barely a mile from my own estate. Amusing is it not, how these things can pass us by?”
“Oh yes sir, indeed it is!” she said, in a rush, excited by his flattery.
The Earl of Stanningfield, here on Shimpling bridge, plucking her, Miss Catherine Thornberry, from the stream as if it were the most natural thing on earth! Catherine had a horrible suspicion that she was gushing, that she was making a fool of herself, but this man had an odd effect on her - she found that she struggled to think sensibly in his presence.
She was awestruck. Having never seen the Earl before, but having heard, from her friends and from her mother, much of his exploits, she had not anticipated that he should be so young, so handsome, so gallant in his readiness to help a young lady in distress.
The tales she had heard painted him as a rake, as a man with a great deal of life experience. She had expected an older man, heavy of body from overindulgence, and jaded in his attitude to life. Nothing could be further from the man who stood before her. She tried, as hard as she could, not to allow another red blush to flush her face, but it was all too much. It was all unreal, as if in a dream.
“Do not look so thunder-struck Miss Thornberry.” He spoke forcefully - “You may have formed some idea of my reputation on the basis of idle parish gossip, but I must assure you that the overwhelming bulk of it is hearsay.”
“I’m sure that it is sir, undoubtedly!” She was gushing again - it had always been a profound concern of hers that she came across as too enthusiastic in the presence of gentlemen. She checked herself.
“I have been at great pains to impress upon the county my courteous nature, but regrettably, I have an unfortunate past that seems to stalk me like a wolf.”
She nodded gravely. She had heard some such stories, and always suspected that there might be some truth to them. Nevertheless, being of a kind and trusting nature, she had always wanted to believe that they were false, or at least, misrepresented. She found that she did not want to believe this man capable of terrible things.
“We shall speak no more of such unpleasantness. Please, allow me to escort you homeward. It would be the least kindness I could offer after our unfortunate interaction on the bridge.”
“Oh sir, that will not be necessary. I am quite capable of completing my journey unaccompanied.”
“I insist” he said, not as a politeness, but a declaration. “You are shaking like a willow in a gale and as wet as a hunting dog, and all on my account. It would be most improper of me to abandon you here.” His expression was serious as he spoke, and, again, she felt that the concern in his eyes was genuine.
“I will not have it said of me that I abandoned a fair and defenceless lady, drenched, on the side of the road. And besides” he added, with a glimmer in the corner of his rich brown eyes “what on earth would your neighbours say if I did?” they shared a chuckle at his little joke.
“Thaddeus awaits!” laughing, he took her hand, tugging her towards the horse.
“But sir!” Catherine exclaimed “I regret to confess, I have never ridden before, and I do not know how!”
“Good heavens above!” he seemed genuinely shocked “Not ridden a horse? Why it is one of life’s greatest pleasures! I would not wish to deny the thrill of a good, vigorous ride to my worst enemy. Allow me…” before Catherine even had time to make an objection, he had scooped her up. She clasped his thick, muscular shoulders and found suddenly that her face was close to his, so close, in fact, that she could see every bristling hair, every tendon in his neck. Close inspection did him justice. His scent came to her, an earthy mixture of horse, leather, and an undertone of some more exotic scent, some cologne of citrus and spices. It was like nothing she had smelled before. She found it stimulating, and extremely pleasant.
“Time I think, for your first ride!” he chortled, before depositing her unceremoniously to sit sideways across Thaddeus’ saddle. She felt the animal shifting beneath her, full of vigorous life. She clung to the abundant mane that drifted back over her hands, holding on as if for dear life, anxious that the horse might suddenly take off without warning, or that it would deposit her once again into the stream.
It had a will of its own and a powerful body after all, but her saviour, the Earl, held firmly to its reins.
He gently stroked the horse’s nose to calm it, putting it under his spell, before firmly commanding it to stand. Then in a single, graceful movement, he swung up into the saddle, lifting her to sit, still sideways, across his knees, his arms either side of her shaking body, and took charge of his stallion.
“Hold on tight” he declared, and she obeyed willingly. There was a moment where she hesitated, aware that her soaking clothes were already shedding even more water onto his attire, before a movement of the horse convinced her that she was quite happy to sacrifice his clothing for her safety. She wrapped her white arms, still cold and wet, about his splendid torso, as tightly as she dared, her head resting against his shoulder.
The shape and definition of his firm abdominal muscles could be made out beneath his coat and shirt. The sensation quite took her breath away.
“Now where would you like me to take you, Miss Thornberry?” he asked, after a moment.
“To Hawthorn Cottage in Harteston” she replied. “Do you know it?”
“I know Harteston, but not the exact location of Hawthorn Cottage” he said. “A fine village indeed - do you live there alone?” As he spoke, without warning her, he had shifted Thaddeus into motion, and already they were crossing the bridge at a gentle canter. She was, again, impressed at his gallantry, as he was now heading the opposite way to his own original route.
With the unfamiliar rocking motion of the horse, and the stress of its forward motion pressing her ever more tightly against the body of her saviour, she could feel something thrilling stirring within her. A new sensation, pleasurable, dangerous, was creeping up her inner thighs and into her bosom. She bit the back of her lip. It was entirely inappropriate for her to be thinking such thoughts about this man.
He was far above her, he was courteous enough to have saved her from drowning, and here she was thinking like a wanton. Well, she thought that’s what it was – actually, she had no idea, no idea beyond the fact that her body was reacting to its proximity to his – and she was scandalously enjoying it.
“Or…” he continued with a roguish chuckle “have you a sweetheart in Harteston perhaps?” This time she was wise to him. This time she played the game.
“I am unmarried, my Lord. However…” she added, with a slight laugh of her own “I must confess that the innkeeper’s son and I have developed something of a rapport in recent times. He is a most handsome young man.”
“Oh undeniably” replied the Earl, rising to her challenge. “Indeed I have often thought to myself, on visiting that very fine inn, that he would make a most attractive catch for a young girl in the village. Nevertheless”, He paused in his speech a moment, as if considering the right words to use. Thaddeus was picking up speed. Her lower body was assailed with a new vigour, rocked against the Earl’s thighs, and the front of his body, in a rather intimate fashion.
The warmth of his body was penetrating the chill of her wet clothes – it made her want to press herself even closer against him.
Having obviously chosen his words carefully, he continued “Are his manners and breeding not a little coarse, for a young lady of distinction, such as yourself?”
Catherine did not allow herself to laugh, but she was overwhelmed.
This man was clever. He knew the workings of the female heart.
Moreover, by asking this question, which she now, perforce, had to answer, he had coaxed a difficult admission out of her, concerning their relative status.
“I am but a humble schoolmistress, sir” she said reluctantly. “I have education and, I flatter myself, a little breeding – but certainly not any significant status in the world.”
“Stuff! I could tell the moment that I saw you, that here is a lady who carries herself well, evident poverty notwithstanding.”
“You are indeed, courteous, my Lord. Nevertheless, I could never make any claims to be a noble lady. My mother, with whom I share Hawthorn Cottage, has long maintained that we are descended from the de Quincy family, who came over with William the Conqueror no less, but I fear, from what little she is willing to tell me of the detail, that lineage may be rather obscure now, to say the least.”
“The de Quincys?” he came back, not bothering to disguise how impressed he was. “Not bad at all. Tell me, how does a girl with such a fine pedigree find herself reciting the alphabet to ungrateful village brats?”
“I suppose some ancestor of ours must have fallen on hard times” she said, keeping her poise.
Thaddeus was going at quite a speed now, and it was necessary to raise her voice. She tried as hard as she dared to disguise the quaking in her body that the movement of the ride, and the sensation of his body against hers, was giving her.
“Mother has mentioned a gambler, in my great grandmother’s generation, who may have lost us our estates. That is long ago, and of no relevance to our lives now. I am unused to luxury, and the life of a humble schoolmistress is easy enough to bear.”
He had exposed a quiet sadness in her, a longing. For years she had ignored her mother’s pining after their heritage, her obsession with the importance of ancestors on their family tree, but now, in the presence of a real gentleman, she was, for the first time, embarrassed by her circumstances.
She had no land, no money, no prospects of a higher match. All she had ever hoped for was to make an honest living and to marry one of the boys in the village, but now, something else had stirred in her, passion, ambition, a reaching for something more. Thaddeus’ movement seemed to fill her with a greater lust for more in life, as well as most interesting sensations in her body, with every galloping stride.
“I suppose someone’s got to force some knowledge into ‘em” he laughed, urging the horse along.
The countryside sped by. She took in long, drooping willows, plump cows chomping in the fields, water mills churning, as they had for hundreds of years. It was not such bad country, Suffolk, especially as it had such charming people in it. The speed at which the road went by amazed her, so used was she to the time it took to walk this distance.
“Still, it is a terrible shame for a great and noble family to have fallen on hard times. Alright, I suppose, if you’re happy enough looking after other people’s infants, and cavorting with innkeepers’ sons, then I can think of worse fates.”
“Why yes sir. I suppose I am happy enough.” She knew, even as the words came out, that she was lying to him. Had someone asked her the question yesterday, then that answer would have been truthful, but today, she was alarmed to discover, something in her had changed. She was no longer satisfied with what she had.
“Well, jolly good then.” He appeared to focus his concentration on riding now, for the first time taking his attention away from her. She could not help but feel a small pang of disappointment.
Thaddeus thundered on, down a shallow hill, and then splashed across a ford. Before she knew it, having never ridden upon a horse or experienced just quite how fast these noble animals could move, she was in the village of Harteston, shaken by the journey, quivering and awake deep in her body, and intensely aware of his body where it pressed against her.
“Here we are” he declared confidently. “Harteston - where I suppose I shall leave you.”
“Yes. I must thank you my Lord, your kindness has saved me much effort, and possibly even preserved my life. For surely, had I not drowned, by now I would have taken a terrible chill on the road home.”
“No need to thank me Miss Catherine, I am sure that you would have done the same were our roles to be reversed.”
“I suppose I would have. Thank you again.”
She released her grip on his body, regretfully, and he lifted her gently, supporting her as she slid down the side of the horse to land on her feet.
She hesitated, unsure of what to do now, part of her not wishing this moment to end, but unable to see any reason for it to continue. Then, not wishing to betray the feelings that he had stirred in her, and holding her crumpled bonnet high upon her head, she dipped him a curtsey, and set off for home.
The Earl however, had never been the kind to let a pretty young lady get away from him, so coldly and suddenly. As she had silently, privately hoped, he swung out of his saddle and came straight after her, catching her in just a few steps.
Grasping her fragile waist, he turned her suddenly towards him. She gasped, her eyes wide open. He pulled her against him, and the heat of his body against hers felt like fire rushing through her veins.
“Not so fast” he whispered, close against her ear. “We haven’t even said a proper goodbye” and then, just like that, he kissed her, fully, without apology, on the lips. He gripped her for a moment that felt like it should last forever, a moment deserving of a painting or a symphony to capture it and preserve it. She felt his strong tongue, his hot mouth and his firm lips. Their bodies pressed together, seeming moulded just for that, and she could sense the longing they shared could feel the hardness of his desire, tangible through their damp clothing. Her body throbbed, with the sensation of the kiss, and the vitality imparted by the ride.
Just as suddenly as he had captured her, he pulled back, looking a little shocked himself, at what he had just done. He mumbled goodbye, and swung back into the saddle, heading for home.
Catherine stood a moment, dazed, watching him go. She had never felt such a thrill in all of her twenty-four years on God’s earth.