Lydia by Natasha Farrant

It was the fact that we did things together – built shelters with logs and branches, climbed trees, caught fish. We would never have become friends just by sitting about chatting to eachother in drawing rooms. I did not think Wickham would want to build shelters in the woods, but there were other things he could do . . . And so the following day, as we all prepared to walk back to Longbourn together after a visit to Savill’s to buy a last few presents for Christmas, I pulled him aside and said, “Wickham, will you do something for me?”
    â€œAnything you ask,” he said, his eyes still on Lizzy walking ahead.
    â€œWill you teach me to ride a horse?”
    â€œTo ride a horse?” That got his attention. “I must admit, Lydia, that is the last thing I expected. But do you not know how to ride already?”
    â€œI know how to sit on a horse as it walks very slowly from one place to another,” I said. “I want to learn to ride properly – to go fast, and gallop, and jump over things. Ladies do, you know,” I added, in case he should think I was being very improper.
    â€œI find most ladies are more concerned with balls and bonnets and practising their accomplishments.”
    â€œThen you have a very narrow view of young ladies,” I snapped. “I am very fond of balls and bonnets, but I should like to learn to ride as well. I don’t think that is so very contradictory. I should also quite like to learn to shoot,” I added, remembering my thoughts the day Aunt Philips came to bring news of the regiment when they first arrived, when I sat fidgeting upon the sofa thinking of all the things I would do if I were a man.
    Wickham burst out laughing. Lizzy looked back curiously, but he offered me his arm, and together we planned when my lessons should take place.
    And so I have ridden every afternoon for the past three days. Wickham is a surprisingly thorough teacher. I am learning in our paddock, on the mare he was loaned for his stay in Meryton. Her name is Bessie, and she is alarmingly tall, but also, he says, immensely docile and well trained, and perfect for teaching a lady.
    â€œSo, Lydia,” he said, as he arrived for our very first lesson. “How serious are you about this?”
    â€œEntirely serious,” I replied.
    â€œAnd you don’t mind getting dirty? Doing tasks most ladies would consider unbecoming, or beneath them?”
    â€œNot in the least!”
    â€œExcellent reply!” And with that he led the mare to the stables, tied her to a ring, removed her bridle and saddle, gave me the bridle to hold, disappeared into the stables, and came out carrying our side-saddle, with a brush and hoof pick on top.
    â€œLesson one,” he said. “How to prepare and saddle your horse. Not the most elegant aspect of the sport, but something every true horseman or horsewoman ought to know how to do.”
    I did nothing else that day but brush Bessie from her mane to her fetlocks (I did not even know that horses had fetlocks), pick out her hooves, and put on her bridle and saddle, the task made all the harder by the cold, which numbed my fingers.
    â€œI don’t know a single lady who does this,” I complained.
    â€œNow you know how grooms and stablehands feel,” Wickham said pitilessly.
    On the second day, I prepared Bessie again, and then Wickham led me round the paddock, correcting the position ofmy hands, my legs, my back and even my head as he taught me to stop, move on, turn left, right, change rein, and execute figures of eight, first at a walk, then at a gentle trot, as our breath made puffs of vapour in the air.
    And then today, he put Bessie on something called a lunging rein and told me we were going to canter.
    â€œBut don’t worry,” he said. “You will be on the rein, and just going in a wide circle, so she cannot run away with you.”
    â€œI’m not worried,” I said quickly.
    He