He Loves Me Knot

Chapter One

Blaring horns and the whine of an electric guitar explode into the still-dark morning. Heart racing, I fling an arm out to shut off my alarm before throwing back the covers. It’s cold as hell and my head is throbbing from too much wine as I scramble for the dresser. But like everything unpleasant, waking is best done quickly. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid—just do it.

I grab the riding breeches, bra, and shirt I set out last night and head for the kitchen. Yanking open the oven, I turn it on broil, simultaneously flicking on the coffeemaker and aiming the remote at the TV. I’m a gunslinger in a bad western, attacking every appliance within range. As I hover in front of the oven’s weak warmth, the coffee sputters away like an old man with prostate problems. I hate getting up.

Chester County can expect a high of thirty-five with intermittent precipitation and strong, gusty winds out of the west. The weather lady delivers the December forecast as if announcing a cure for cancer. I flip her the bird and toss an empty wine bottle in the trash as I head back to my room for warmer socks.

And happy effing birthday to me. I’m forty today. No worries because they say forty is the new twenty. Exactly the same only with the added fairytale of wisdom. And it must be true because I read it on the internet. Fumbling in the drawer, I pull out a tampon and an ace bandage before latching onto the soft wool of my knee socks and— What the hell? I flip on the lamp to see what I’ve unearthed. It’s a knot of hair. I’d cut it off as a teenager—a big snarl saved in commemoration of my first kiss.

Nick.

Turning it over, I poke a calloused finger through the sun-bleached brown hair of the knot. I used to love that poem about the road not taken. Turns out, when I got there, it wasn’t just a choice of two roads. It was a clusterfuck of ignorance and insecurity and fate wound around each other until it was impossible to untangle. Just like this stupid wad of hair.

The weather lady comes on again, and I dart a glance at the clock. Shit! Pulling the socks apart, I hurry back to the kitchen. One thing I have learned—reflecting on the past solves nothing.

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As promised, a raw wind blowing from the west cuts right through my hunt jacket, spitting icy drops from the gray sky. I survey the group of horses and riders huddled around the stable yard as we wait for the foxhunt to begin. The gelding I’m riding is pawing restlessly and  so far, I’d say this horse is not a fan. As if to prove the point, he yanks his head down, nearly pulling my arms from the sockets.

Through the crowd, Ellen approaches me on a dainty gray mare. Her shrill voice cuts through the surrounding murmur of conversation. Diana, you’ve gotta see the pics from the party. You were so funny.

A flush heats my cheeks. I think I speak with authority when I say drinking was a lot more fun before the advent of the smartphone. What’s the point of drowning memories if everyone insists on preserving them to social media? It’s enough to make you want to drink alone.

Looks like you’ve got your hands full. I’ll show you after, she says, undaunted by my lack of enthusiasm.

I’ve known Ellen for years. Either she hasn’t noticed my aversion to rehashing my latest stupid party stunt, or she doesn’t care. Jump a horse bareback in my bridesmaid dress? Check. Barge onstage singing at the top of my lungs while dancing like it’s an Olympic sport? Check and check.

Unfortunately, as hilarious as sloshed Diana finds it, sober Diana prefers to pretend it never happened. Shit, I’m forty now, hurtling quickly into pathetic territory.

What on earth are you riding, anyway? Ellen says, drawing me from one embarrassment to another.

Morning to you too. I turn the gelding in a circle, a futile effort to distract his frazzled brain. This is a sale horse. Rusty wants to see if he can market him as a hunter.

"Rusty’s a shyster. You need to learn the word no."

She’s right, Diana. That horse looks like he’s gonna blow. Bob, Ellen’s husband, stops his mount a safe distance from mine. Unlike mine, his gelding stands quietly, reins resting loose across a sturdy shoulder. I’ll help you load him back on the van if you want. You can tell Rusty he didn’t work out.

Don’t be so dramatic, you wimps. I smile to soften my words. They mean well, but Bob and Ellen don’t get it. They ride for pleasure. I ride to eat. And funny thing, people don’t pay me to ride an easy horse. In fact, I have a reputation for fixing horses with issues. Shit, if I turned down every horse that looked like trouble, I’d be living downtown in a cardboard box. He’ll be fine, I add, scratching the gelding’s sweaty neck. He just needs to get that first gallop in.

I heard one of Rusty’s horses went over backwards with a girl, Ellen says, frowning. Broke her neck. His name was Zeus, I think.

Terrific. I think I’m gonna break Rusty’s neck. I know the horse dealer for what he is, but a heads up would’ve been nice.

This is Napoleon, I lie, just as the gelding lashes out with a nasty kick.

Jesus, Bob says, backing out of range. Hopefully you’re not about to meet your Waterloo.

Ellen snickers and starts singing the Abba song, Waterloo. And that’s my cue to move on. Hunching my shoulders against the wind, I maneuver Son of Satan, or whatever his real name is, away from the crowd. I scratch his shoulder again and he pins his ears, still not a happy camper. Join the club, buddy. Maybe my words will prove true and all he needs is a good gallop. I roll my eyes. And maybe my fairy godmother will appear and take me to the fucking ball.

Last night’s wine roils in my stomach with this morning’s coffee and a nagging sense of dread. To make matters worse, that damn Abba song is running on a reel through my head. Waterloo!

––––––––

Why am I so stupid? I ask myself that question ten times as we hurtle down a hill after the hounds. I could’ve taken Bob up on his offer. At this very moment I could be headed home in my nice dry truck.

Instead this horse is like the runaway bus in that movie, Speed, plowing through innocent commuter traffic. Every muscle in my body protests and despite rubber-coated gloves, my fingers are bleeding. Combine that with sweat and an incessant drizzle and the reins are almost impossible to grip.

On the first check, the hounds have trouble regaining the fox’s scent. The gelding jigs impatiently as we wait near the others at the edge of the woods. His habit of alternately tucking his head tight to his chest and plunging it down to his knees leaves me perpetually caught out with reins either too long or too short, and it’s wearing me out, something that wouldn’t have happened even five years ago. Could they be wrong? Maybe forty is just plain old fucking forty.

Through the trees, the yip of eager hounds blends discordantly with the sharp calls of the staff. Echoing back to us in an eerie cacophony, it sets the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. A hound’s white tail waves in the thicket. Another breaks covert only to turn back and restart his search. Satan, as I’m calling him now, gives another violent yank on the reins, and as bad as the gallops are, this is worse. It’s like sitting on a keg of dynamite.

When the doubling of the master’s horn finally signals they’ve found the line, the chorus of baying hounds escalates to a fevered pitch. The gelding’s head flags up in terror signaling that he’s going to bolt, and I ready myself. When instead he rears up, I’m taken off guard. Curling forward, I clutch his lathered neck. We teeter there precariously, and Ellen’s words about the girl with the broken neck come back to me with stark clarity.

The big horse finally comes down, the jarring thud nearly sending me over his shoulder. He immediately leaps forward, and I just manage to right myself as I fumble for the reins. An emergency dismount, the equestrian equivalent of abandoning ship, is probably my best option. But instead I hang on.

It’s not the first stupid decision I’ve made. I do wonder if it will be the last.

Gaining speed, the gelding’s muscles bunch and fire so rapidly I lose the cycle of strides. My vision blurs into a frenzied kaleidoscope of gray sky with the rusts and golds of autumn. We veer onto a path into the woods, branches tearing at my face and arms. Until I hit a tree. Dead on. It’s an abrupt, shocking impact accompanied by the absence of sound. Of life.

From a distance, I’m aware of all this. And of floating. I drift for hours and for less than a second. It’s not enough time to catch myself but more than enough to contemplate forty years of life.

Chapter Two

Dilaudid is a fantastic drug. I had my first taste of it in the ER when I was about twenty. I’d come off a young horse with a bad habit of bucking, and after a long wait and x-rays, my arm was pronounced broken. I think they had to put pins in it. Whatever. The part that stands out is the IV drip. The instant that powerful painkiller entered my system, I went from excruciating agony to floating. Floating on a fluffy cloud of euphoria.

Now, as I lie here and regain conscious thought, I feel it again. That rush, like heavenly narcotics flooding my veins.

Gradually I become aware of other things, earthly things. Sunlight is warm on my face. A meadow-scented breeze gently moves a strand of hair across my cheek. The earth is solid and comforting against my back.

Birds chirp in the distance, and closer, a horse munches grass, the metal bit jangling as he chews. I have no urge to open my eyes and confirm my impressions. Even when I detect the sound of approaching hoofbeats, I lie still, relishing my existence.

Unfortunately, the intruders don’t share this appreciation for serenity. My equine companion picks up on their tension and moves restlessly as if debating whether to stay or shy away.

She’s here, a man’s voice calls.

Christ, Mulgrave, is she— Another man.

She lives, the first man, Mulgrave, says, cutting off his companion.

Good to know.

Henley, take her horse back, and send for the physician. The efficiently delivered command seems to settle Henley, and he canters away with my horse as nearby someone dismounts.

Stanhope, can you manage here? I’ll tell the group to continue on.

The third rider, silent until now, has reached my side and grunts in agreement. Sufficient reassurance for the mounted man; he, too canters off. By my hazy calculations, only Stanhope remains.

Again, I consider sitting up. But I don’t. I’m focused on the accents. Henley and the other man both have posh British accents. Stanhope hasn’t spoken actual words yet so I can’t say about him. Regardless, I do know I’ve never met them. I would have remembered. I say chaps, lovely day here in La La Land. eh? A giggle that sounds more like a snort escapes my mouth.

Stanhope speaks and mystery solved—he’s got it too. I can’t make out the specific words, but the accent is there along with a soothing message of comfort. That’s the effect anyway. Luxurious and sultry, his voice flows over me like silken sheets. It’s a voluptuous impression of warmth and safe haven. Heaven.

Then he touches me, feeling for a pulse, I suppose. I must have one because he showers me with praise, and I couldn’t be prouder. As he gently sifts through my hair, a tickle of shivers chases down my spine. I should be a cat. Purring seems appropriate.

Thoughts of my ex-husband pop unwelcome into my head. We locked horns a lot before I learned the futility of it. Inevitably at some point in any argument, Cricket, my otherwise faithful companion, would trot over to him. Rolling onto her back, legs spread like some cheap whore, the dog didn’t have long to wait. Jimmy would crouch down and rub her belly, smirking up at me the whole time. The jerk. It was a creepy demonstration of power over me and everything I held dear.

But now, as Stanhope’s beautiful voice and hands soothe my body and mind, I forgive that little dog. This man could be as big an ass as Jimmy, but as long as he keeps his hands on me, the point is moot.

Anything broken? Stanhope moves down my body to slip off my boots, and I pray the examination will be thorough and long-lasting. His glorious hands expertly probe each foot before pushing my skirt aside to concentrate on an ankle.

Skirt? Since when do I wear a skirt? And with enough material to sail a small boat. As he gently moves on to my wrist, I cease to care. The tongue of my inner dog lolls blissfully out the side of my mouth.

Color’s bad, he says. I can tell without looking he’s frowning.

Crap. Let’s focus on the stuff I’m doing right. Remember my pulse?

Steady. Resettling himself near my shoulder, he unbuttons my jacket. Poor gel, it’s a wonder you can breathe. We’ll have to cut it.

Cut it? He grumbles about the damned this and the bloody that as he rustles around in his pockets. What the hell has his boxers in such a bunch? And why is this man, who doesn’t sound remotely close to AARP eligibility, referring to me as a girl?

The sound of rending material is followed immediately by a great gushing wave of air flooding my lungs. Like reverse drowning, oxygen gushes into my system. A low moan raises the hairs on the back of my neck until I recognize it’s coming from me. To make matters worse, Stanhope has stopped his reassuring soliloquy. I mourn the loss of it along with my delightful floating state, apparently nothing more than a simple case of oxygen deprivation.

Bloody hell!

The man is practically shouting. He soon quiets, but his tone is still agitated. He adjusts and readjusts my clothing, cursing and then chuckling as he does. His fingers, steady and firm until now, are clumsy with nerves. Am I bleeding to death? Why is he laughing? I try to ask but no words come out, just more of the disconcerting moaning.

Christ, he says, pulling at my jacket. Maybe just these two buttons. His horse nickers, and soon I hear another approaching.

How is she? The first man, Mulgrave, has returned from his errand.

Nasty bump on the head, Stanhope says, clearing his throat. Not yet conscious, but she’s endowed, erm, equipped with otherwise good health.

I hear the other man dismount. Color’s good, he says, closer now. Shouldn’t be long now.

Help me get her up on my horse.

Gently gathering me in his arms, Stanhope stands as if I weigh nothing. He passes me to Mulgrave, then takes me back once he’s mounted. They manage the whole thing gracefully while I dangle limply like some life-sized ragdoll, and soon I’m settled against Stanhope’s big warm body, rocking gently with the even cadence of his horse’s gait.

Worried? Mulgrave breaks the silence.

Worried? Stanhope repeats the question, his voice vibrating against my ear. Oh, of course. I’ll feel better when she comes ‘round. We’ve seen worse though. Remember McNeal? He was out for several days. Right as rain now.

True, but she’s such a tiny thing.

Not everywhere, Stanhope says under his breath. Were I not pressed against his chest, I wouldn’t have heard him.

Eh?

I said, not her hair.

"Her hair?"

Stanhope clears his throat again. Maybe he’s coming down with something. Let’s cut through Hobson’s property, he says, effectively halting my speculation. Easier terrain.

"Agreed, but— Are you blushing?"

No! Stanhope clears his throat again. No.

You are. What the devil is wrong with you?

Oh, bugger you anyway. Tension thrums through Stanhope’s body. It’s...a bit delicate.

What the hell are you talking about?

I may be flopping along like some worthless sack of grain, but I’m wondering the same thing.

I checked for injury, Stanhope answers, almost whispering.

And? A few more moments pass, during which I assume Mulgrave stares his friend into submission.

Bloody hell, man. If you must know, her pulse was steady, but she was pale and—

"And get to the point."

Her stays were too tight. Had to cut them open. I was perhaps a bit overzealous because, well, the entire corset split. Bloody thing ripped in two. Stanhope shifts, again clearing his throat. I wasn’t prepared for the extent of the, uh, bondage.

What the hell is he talking about? With my ear pressed against his chest, I’m the first to detect the low rumble of a chuckle. He tries unsuccessfully to disguise it behind yet another cough but soon surrenders to an all-out guffaw, his whole body shaking with it.

I meant only to loosen the thing, he says, finally. Not... Well, it was more than I bloody planned for.

"That’s it? Now Mulgrave is laughing. Shaken by a pair of tits?"

Suddenly grasping the gist of this discussion, I thank God for preserving my mostly unconscious state. It’s the next best thing to sinking permanently into the ground. I may no longer have the perkiest rack in the world, but no one’s ever laughed out loud at it—them. And what’s with girl? Gel, as they say it. Either their eyesight is shit, or these guys are masters of sarcasm. Har har, very funny.

Charles, hush. She’ll come ‘round any minute. We don’t want to embarrass her. Too late for that! "As I said, they—it just took me by surprise. And then under his breath he murmurs, Courtesans would kill for such an exemplary pair."

What’s that?

WTF. I heard that even if Mulgrave didn’t.

I said, who are her people? I don’t believe we’ve met.  I would have remembered, he adds, again under his breath.

Lady Byrne introduced you last night. Miss Burton is her goddaughter.

Lady who?

Hell and damnation. Stanhope shifts me in his arms. I can practically feel his probing gaze. All downcast eyes and pink frills?

That’s the one. Straight out of the schoolroom. Lady Byrne will stand chaperone for the season. Charles chuckles. Lucky no one came upon you earlier. We might even now be planning your nuptials.

God save me.

Even God can’t save you from a matchmaking mama. Or godmother, in this case.

Gad, Charles, stow it, will you? You are not amusing.

Charles laughs again but changes the subject. Eventually conversation dwindles, only occasionally interrupting the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves.

I’m not listening anymore. They could be discussing the discovery of the fountain of youth for all I know. My mind buzzes with questions. Who are these guys? Why do they sound like the goddamn royal family? And what’s up with my boobs? My thoughts ricochet from one possibility to another but none are particularly viable until I hit on the only thing that makes sense.

I’m dreaming.

Duh! Obviously knocked unconscious in the fall, I’m experiencing a vivid, probably narcotics-induced, dream. I let out a sigh of relief as the earth shifts back to its properly rotating and orbiting position. A dream. All too soon I’ll wake to IV tubes and the poking and prodding of medical staff. But for right now I’m living a dream. I resolve to lie back and enjoy the ride.

I no sooner come to this conclusion when the horses pick up their pace, and I figure we’re nearing our destination. Leave it to me to conjure realistic horses, perking up at the promise of clean stalls and fresh hay. The mood is contagious, and I have a sudden urge to open my eyes.

The ensuing flurry of agitated blinking triggers a nauseating strobe-light effect. I change tack and make an effort to sit up. Another bad idea. The image of me barfing all over my hero flashes through my head, and I slump back into my rag doll heap.

A voice calls out. One turns into two and then more until we’re surrounded by the pandemonium of heated discussion. Under me, the horse shifts nervously as Stanhope barks out orders. Only when he leans over do I recognize his intention to deliver me into the hands of the forming mob. The prospect of being lowered into shark-infested waters could not be more terrifying, and I claw desperately at his jacket. 

My puny efforts go unnoticed as, for the second time that day, I sink into blackness.

Chapter Three

Doctor, come look. A woman’s voice whispers near my ear, and I open my eyes.

Whoa! And there she is, so close I press back into my pillow to take her all in. She has wavy gray hair intricately coiled and pinned up on her head and pink lips presently pursed into a frown. Vivid blue eyes study mine with the intensity of a judge on The Great British Bake Off.Overhead, an expanse of apple green material forms a canopy. Velvet roping gathers matching curtains to drape elegantly at the corners of the huge tester bed I’m lying on.

So, definitely not a hospital. The dream is still on.

Ah, there you are, dear. The woman gently smooths my hair back from my face. We’ve been so worried.

An older bald man appears. Scowling at me through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, he holds up three fingers. What do you see? He has the same British accent as the lady and my man posse and while these two are no Stanhope, the tones are still pleasant. I relax into the soft down of the pillow. Can you speak, gel?

Oh! I’m supposed to answer. Odd for a dream, but I swallow and tentatively clear my throat. Three fingers. My voice is scratchy from disuse, but both he and the woman seem pleased.

Nowhere near as pleased as me. I’ve got the accent too—like I just stepped out of effing Downton Abbey. A few medicinal sips of brandy and my voice settles into a low, sultry timbre, like warm honey. I concentrate on the ensuing questions, hoping they require expansive responses. Unfortunately, I don’t know the lady’s name or where I am, but I make sure to use as many words as possible to convey my lack of knowledge. The lady seems genuinely upset by my poor performance, so I nix the idea of requesting a book for an interlude of oral recitation just to hear the sound of my mellifluous voice. But, man, I love this accent.

After much grunting and frowning, Dr. Jackson pronounces his verdict—rest in a darkened room, minimal stimulation. Ironically, this sets the woman, Lady Byrne, he calls her, into a flurry of activity. Curtains are drawn, pillows fluffed, and my lady’s maid Kate is summoned. Yes, my lady’s maid. Woo hoo! Maybe I died, and this is heaven.

I watch spellbound as a diminutive redhead, complete with mob cap and apron, scurries into the room. Like a scrappy little sheepdog, she takes charge of the situation and within minutes is herding the older pair from the room.

"I’m so happy to meet, erm, see you," I blurt when we’re alone.

She pats my hand. Poor wee thing. What are you needing?

Actually, I could use the bathroom. I’ve been trying to ignore it. Everyone knows peeing is a surefire way to kill a dream.

She eyes me quizzically. A bath?

Eventually, I suppose. Right now, I need the ladies’ room.

Lady Byrne’s?

Huh? The toilet.

Toilette? The little maid gestures helplessly toward a dressing table.

I have to pee.

Well, Saint Bride’s bloodshot eyeballs, why didn’t you say? Can you stand, or shall I bring it to you?

Bedpan? No thank you. I assure her I’m okay to walk, and she helps me shuffle around the bed to a large silk-covered screen. And good Lord, am I sore. Now that I’m upright, my head is pounding, and my ankle feels like it’s on fire. I’d think a dream supplying a personal maid and a British accent should leave out physical discomfort, but...the gift horse’s mouth and all.

I don’t know what I expected. The rest of the furnishings look like something straight out of a period piece on public television so I should have guessed. But when we round the screen, instead of finding the door to the bathroom, there is its historically accurate cousin. I stare dumbly at the commode. Complete with arms and an upholstered back, the chair has a round hole in the seat, a ceramic pot placed fittingly below.

Thankfully, Kate leaves me alone to do my business. And I don’t wake up. Did I just wet the bed back in the real world? I search in vain for some way of flushing before emerging slightly red-faced from behind the screen.

Oblivious to my discomfort and contrary to my prescribed period of rest, Kate starts up a lively chatter. Not that I mind. I could listen to her Irish lilt all day long. Almost as an aside she mentions my age, and I miss most of what she says after that because...eighteen years old. I look down at my hands. Actually look at them. Gone are the calloused and bony forty-year-old hands I’m used to. These babies are beautiful, soft and elegantly long-fingered with pearly tapered nails. I pull up one sleeve of my voluminous white nightgown to run a finger up the smooth, pale skin of my arm. Heading north, I trace the pliant flesh around my eyes, lips, and throat.

What is it, miss? Does your neck hurt?

I look up to find Kate staring at me, brows drawn together in concern. Oh. Uh, no. I just...have an itch. Sending a silent apology to my beautiful skin, I turn my besotted caress into a good hearty scratch.

She tilts her head, studying me through narrowed eyes. Finally, she turns away, disappearing into a side room.

I take a deep breath, letting the air out in a satisfied whoosh. Awesome. Not like, oh-goody-the-truck-starts awesome, this is the real thing. I’m a wise old crone housed in the body of a youthful siren. Seriously, the British accent is mere icing on the cake now. A beautiful, deliciously fresh cake.

I take stock of the cards I’ve been dealt in this weird dream game. Young body, check. Experienced mind, check. Historical scenery, check. Kate returns and with minimal prompting I learn I’m an only child and heiress to the estate of my parents who recently died in a carriage accident. Orphan, check. Money, check. I’m holding a fucking royal flush. On the downside, Kate says my new guardian is my uncle, and I conclude from her scowl she’s not a fan.

He was against your having a Season, she says, tidying things on the dressing table. "But your Aunt Mary stood firm. For all that she’s ailing, she’s canny, that one. Except for marrying Horace, that is. Women can be all sorts of daft when it comes to marriage. I’ve seen it a hundred times. Thanks to your aunt, though, your Season will be a success."

I raise my brows in question and Kate laughs.

Because I’m along to help, goose. I’ve a gift for it. I won’t let you choose poorly.

I have to laugh too. Not just because Kate’s is contagious, but also because I’m looking forward to what she calls the marriage mart. The London Season, I’ve learned, is something like stud season for thoroughbred mares. When rich girls are old enough, they’re trotted out for inspection by eligible males, then married off to the highest bidder. That’s the abridged version, but I think I’ve grasped the essentials. The whole concept is appalling, but Kate makes it sound like a hoot—like a mash-up of The Bachelorette and Survivor. I just hope I’m here long enough to enjoy it.

Your color’s better, she announces, eyeballing me thoughtfully. This wee rest has done wonders. Suppose you could eat?

In fact, I haven’t rested at all, but I do feel better. Definitely more knowledgeable.

Perhaps after a bath? Perhaps I love this accent.

Kate nods and marches out the door. Within minutes, a procession of liveried men file into the room toting buckets of steaming water and a copper tub. Bringing up the rear is Lady Byrne.

Fancy a bath, do you? she chirps, as she clears the doorway. Without waiting for an answer, or a breath, she tosses out a few directives to the footmen and comes to perch beside me on the bed. "Oh, your color is better." Leaning close, she clamps my chin between finger and thumb to move my head up,