As Yet Untitled - Part One, Chapter One.

 Part One. 
Chapter One. 
 Her pony’s short, grey neck in front of her, a curl of excitement, the reins biting at her gloved hands, numbed but not past pain, and the ground, oh at what speeds did it fly beneath her. The pony’s short, but elegantly feathered, legs bounding to keep up with her father who rode in front. To look down at the ground was to soon fall but one could not help but steal a glance, to send one’s tummy into knots and thrills. But what quarry did they chase in such haste, only the chorus of the hounds in full cry could tell her. On through the trees they went, her father turning with cold-crisped, red cheeks to check on her, soon he was up and out of the saddle as they broke through the trees and into a frost bitten field. He allowed his horse to open up and fly. She kept her eyes on the rising and falling chestnut rump that was her guide through the world and urged her pony to keep up with the thundering hunter and his master, their wonderful red coats gleaming. As they neared the fence line, where the hedge had been laid slightly lower for the season, a follower of the hunt rushed forward to open the gate to allow her to slip through while her father jumped. She barely had time to see the man’s shocked grin as she kept her line and followed the solid, reassuring rump as it rose into the air and over the hedge. Her stout mount did not hesitate and took an almighty leap clearing the obstacle with an inch to spare. Through the wind that rushed in her ears she heard the man whoop and clap as her father once more turned to grin at her. 
 It was not long after that they returned once more to the copse behind the house and the damp smelling ground of leaves. The fox went to ground in the copse, his last part in the performance of the day. The hysterical hounds made her flushed skin prickle, their noise screams of excitement in her young ears. It was over more quickly than she had expected, throughout she found her father looking at her in a way he often did, not calculating but something very near. It was he that helped her from her trusty pony and gently pushed her towards the master as she felt a twist of nerves in her gut. She looked up into his aurban whiskered face and the smile that appeared crookedly upon it as he reached down and placed a finger of hot, wet, red on her forehead. 
 She had been blooded. 
 Ida awoke at the soft knock of Helen at the door. 
 “Come in!”
 “Good morning my lady.”
 “Good morning Helen.”
Ida sat up and looked at the clock by her high, four poster bed and felt a little guilty when she read that the time was only five. She glanced over at Helen who was drapping her dress over the clotheshorse to warm in front of the slumbering fire. The embers of the night before were still hot. Ida knew that soon one of the maids would be in to clean the hearth and make up the fire.
 “I’ve prepared the new habit but if you would like to try it another day I’ll fetch your old one my lady?”
 “I am sure it will do very well, thank you. It is cubbing so most are so bleary-eyed that they will not notice if it does not suit!”
 “Very good my lady, I will be back in one moment once Lady Mary is ready.”
Ida watched Helen leave, her blond hair just visible as it peeped from under her crisp cap.
 Once dressed Ida made her way downstairs to meet her father, Henry and Mary. On the main staircase that swept one on their way there hung a huge, gold gilded mirror. It hung in such a way that one watched oneself walk down the penultimate set of stairs. Ida stopped when she caught sight of her reflection. The new habit made her look tall and slender with a most enviable waist, and yet this was not what she saw. Her self-critique, however, was cut short by her brother bounding down the stairs after her and grabbing her with the pretence of carrying her down the last few.
 “Come on old thing, they will not wait for us you know!”
They both secretly knew that they would wait however late they were as their estate bordered the grounds on which the meet was to take place that morning. 
 The four, smartly dressed, figures entered the yard where the horses hung their heads over their doors with large, alert eyes by the soft light of the lamps that had been lit in the real dark of the morning. Her father worked his way along the horses, giving them all a pat and an appraising look as he passed. It was unusual for an earl to come into the stables in this way, most would have waited for the horses to be brought around, but Chales Crawford liked to check on all the horses before he left. Ida waited as the groom led her horse to the mounting block, before she stepped up the stone steps she gave her horse’s muzzle a tickle and a kiss. Once she was settled she smoothed her skirts and watched her sister climb the steps to mount her gleaming bay gelding, a leg at each corner type that stood solidly and sweetly as Mary picked up her reins. Henry with his wide smile did not bother with mounting blocks and such like. Ida could not help but wince as she watched the horse rear as her brother landed with a bit of a thump on the seat of his saddle, digging his spurs into his horse’s side as he found his stirrups. With slight surprise she noticed that a stable lad who watched on wore the same expression on his freckled face as she did. Her father too refused any help but that of the ground, he was, however, more understanding in his technique. Under her Ida’s horse pawed the ground anxious to be off, a slight tremble in the dapple grey of her coat. Stroking her mare’s neck with gloved hands, Ida led the way out of the yard into the gloom of the early morning. With a clatter of metal on stone her brother drew alongside her, his horse’s mahogany neck was already lathered in sweat and her eyes showed their whites as she shook her head to loosen the grip of the reins. 
 They rode along the drive in the grey of the dawn, Ida thought back to the dream she had had that night. How similar it still was, her father was riding the same chestnut hunter who was now an experienced hunter and her siblings rode in the same way.  Her brother had always ridden hard and fast and her sister neatly and without conviction. “And I still ride a grey mare” thought Ida. She gave her horse another encouraging pat. This was Rosebrior’s first season and no one was quite sure how the horse would take to it, her father had warned her that the mare had too much thoroughbred in her and that she was too young but Ida had fallen in love with her when she saw how similar she was to her pony of old. The mare was the first horse that she had chosen herself, the others had been hand-me-downs from Mary, something in her gut had told her that the mare was special. 
 The morning was over far too soon for Ida’s liking, and as the day came upon them they rode home along winding lanes between hedges that were high and unruly waiting for their laying that would come with Winter and the departure of Summer’s heady days for good.The horses could sense that they were on their way home, even Mary’s gelding Granite broke into a reluctant jog.
 “Look even Granny knows that we have had a super morning!”
Exclaimed Henry laughing. 
 “Papa please tell him not to call my horse Granny, he is a far better horse than that mare who is completely neurotic, I mean honestly, look!”
Mary nodded at her older brother, Ida knew that she would have preferred to point but also knew that this was a step too far for Mary who liked to keep both hands on the reins, just in case. Henry was beside Ida but his horse was still trotting to the side, her head in the air, twisting her neck against her rider’s unyielding hands as she had done since they had left the yard in the dark. Almost as if he wished to prove how comfortable he felt in comparison to Mary, he theatrically swept off his top hat to reveal his thick dark curls which were ever so slightly damp from the morning’s exertions. Not damp enough to cause disgust but just enough to make one think of the physical capabilities contained in his impressive frame. He held the hat loosely by his side, swinging it lazily causing his mare Cashmere further angst. Lord Beechwood found the tittle tattle of sibling rivalry terribly dull, he was the type of man who believed that children only become truly interesting once one can conduct a lengthy conversation with them. Thus his response to his eldest daughter was to simply assure her that it was only Henry that called her horse ‘Granny’ and that she must ignore or endure his teasing. Ida knew this to be not entirely true as only last week even the Head Groom had accidently referred to poor docile Granite as Granny. 
 Ida was extremely pleased with her own horse, Rosebrior, who had settled as the morning had progressed although she was more strong than most lady’s hunters and still caught sight of fairies in the hedgerows. As they handed their horses back to the waiting grooms Ida noticed that the groom she watched before they left did not look pleased at the state in which Cashmere had returned. Ida did not like to see her brother looked at in this way but she could also see that the mare was soaked in sweat with a white lather under her saddle and along her neck where the reins had rubbed, she could also see the slight tremor in the mare’s hocks. Lord Beechwood gave instructions for his horse, Champion, to have a large bran mash as he had worked extremely hard on the field that morning. They were not yet far enough into Autumn for them to return caked in mud, but all the same Ida had no wish to see her mother before she had changed, she hated to see her compare her to fair Mary, she hated the disappointment in those cold blue eyes. 
 That evening found Ida dressing for a ball that was being held at the home of the Ainsworths. The children from the neighbouring families had grown up together. Mary Crawford and Amelia Ainsworth were incredibly similar, both nineteen and both taking after their mothers. Mary, like Lady Beechwood, was fair with bright blond hair and blue eyes the colour of a cloudless summer sky, on the other hand Amelia was like her mother in her mousey brown hair and tepid hazelnut eyes. Both girls loved to dance and were never short of partners nor suiters, both would have been married by now if only their mothers could find men worthy of their sweet daughters. Walter Ainsworth like Henry was the oldest child, he like his sister had mousey hair but while his sister was the kind of pretty face that one soon forgets, there was something of more substance to Walter. His eyes had a wistful quality and in certain lights looked grey in hue. Ida had always stuck with the boys as they tumbled through the grounds, fields and woods that surrounded their homes. 
 When Mary had been dressed and adorned in her jewellery Helen came to Ida. When she had finished on Ida’s thick dark hair Helen allowed herself to quietly admire her work. When she had first come to the house as a lady’s maid for the sisters she had been slightly alarmed by the prospect of Ida’s hair, it was her first position as a lady’s maid and she lacked experience. Ida’s hair was neither the thick curls of her brother nor straight like her sister’s, it had a weight to it that made it softly wave rather than spring into bouncing curls. When dampened by the rain ringlets appeared to frame her face in a halo fashion. It had a deep shine and hints of copper that caught light and eyes. Helen had the mastery of it now and that evening it flowed down Ida’s back freely, the red bloom she had placed in it drew it’s colour out. Ida’s dress too was crimson and this contrasted with the paleness of her skin and the dark of her hair whilst drawing attention to the flushed colour of her full lips. As she pulled on her gloves Ida could see none of this in her reflection, she saw only the comparisons her mother would make between her and her sister.