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syl-thorn.livejournal.com2014-04-28 09:31 pm
Entry tags:
We've been rambling all the night and some time of this day.
[Late April, 1913]
"Shout, shout, up with your song!
Cry with the wind, for the dawn is breaking;
March, march, swing you along,
Wide blows our banner, and hope is waking!"
Nyx leans into my brush strokes and twitches her ear towards me as I sing. I'm in a grand mood. I've spent a productive morning working Nyx in the ring (Frost is my preferred hunter, but Nyx is flightier and more nervous; she is the one who needs the most work), it is a beautiful day, Caroline Spurgeon has been named a professor of literature despite the movement against her, May Day will be here soon, and that's always such a jolly time...even Harry has been keeping out of trouble lately.
Nyx noses my pocket and I smile, patting her shoulder. Normally George or one of the stableboys would take care of her after a ride, but I've always preferred doing it myself. During my childhood, the stable was my only real refuge, the only place neither of my parents would deign to come. So I found reasons to stay there as long as possible, learning to groom and tend to my own horses rather than leaving them to the servants. And even now I find enjoyment in the work, a certain intimacy with my mount and a new way of knowing them, their ticklish and sensitive spots, their favourite treats. So now I try to tend to my own animals unless I'm pressed for time.
Dropping the soft brush back into its bucket, I bend to check Nyx's hooves. The only thing that has been weighing on me these past few months has been Alex. Oh, we made our amends after New Year's...when Sophia told me how he had talked to her during the ball and given his permission for her to attend further protests (with Harry in tow, of course, which proved to be an ordeal, but I like to think that he learned something), I realized that I had been unfair to him. For all his stubborness and love of tradition, Alex is a good father, and a good husband, and didn't deserve the tongue-lashing I gave him. We made our amends, and indeed, we had a marvellous anniversary in London. Twenty-three years now, he and I have been together, and I wouldn't trade away a one of them.
The worry that I have is that he is troubled by memories of the war. Oh, he's said nothing to me (of course he bloody hasn't), but he's seemed more worn, more strained, and I don't think he's sleeping well. It's having Islip here, I think...a constant reminder of the hell he suffered, but of course he remains maddeningly close-mouthed.
Well, there's nothing to be done about it. I give Nyx a last pat and leave her stall. Her brushes will be left in the tack room, I'll give a quick hello to Frost and Lampus, and then back to the house. Perhaps later I'll ask if Hope wants to go for a ride. She can't ride on her own, but I can ride Lampus (he's too old for hunting, but not for a gentle amble about the woods) and lead her on a quiet animal. Perhaps she'd enjoy that.
"Shout, shout, up with your song!
Cry with the wind, for the dawn is breaking;
March, march, swing you along,
Wide blows our banner, and hope is waking!"
Nyx leans into my brush strokes and twitches her ear towards me as I sing. I'm in a grand mood. I've spent a productive morning working Nyx in the ring (Frost is my preferred hunter, but Nyx is flightier and more nervous; she is the one who needs the most work), it is a beautiful day, Caroline Spurgeon has been named a professor of literature despite the movement against her, May Day will be here soon, and that's always such a jolly time...even Harry has been keeping out of trouble lately.
Nyx noses my pocket and I smile, patting her shoulder. Normally George or one of the stableboys would take care of her after a ride, but I've always preferred doing it myself. During my childhood, the stable was my only real refuge, the only place neither of my parents would deign to come. So I found reasons to stay there as long as possible, learning to groom and tend to my own horses rather than leaving them to the servants. And even now I find enjoyment in the work, a certain intimacy with my mount and a new way of knowing them, their ticklish and sensitive spots, their favourite treats. So now I try to tend to my own animals unless I'm pressed for time.
Dropping the soft brush back into its bucket, I bend to check Nyx's hooves. The only thing that has been weighing on me these past few months has been Alex. Oh, we made our amends after New Year's...when Sophia told me how he had talked to her during the ball and given his permission for her to attend further protests (with Harry in tow, of course, which proved to be an ordeal, but I like to think that he learned something), I realized that I had been unfair to him. For all his stubborness and love of tradition, Alex is a good father, and a good husband, and didn't deserve the tongue-lashing I gave him. We made our amends, and indeed, we had a marvellous anniversary in London. Twenty-three years now, he and I have been together, and I wouldn't trade away a one of them.
The worry that I have is that he is troubled by memories of the war. Oh, he's said nothing to me (of course he bloody hasn't), but he's seemed more worn, more strained, and I don't think he's sleeping well. It's having Islip here, I think...a constant reminder of the hell he suffered, but of course he remains maddeningly close-mouthed.
Well, there's nothing to be done about it. I give Nyx a last pat and leave her stall. Her brushes will be left in the tack room, I'll give a quick hello to Frost and Lampus, and then back to the house. Perhaps later I'll ask if Hope wants to go for a ride. She can't ride on her own, but I can ride Lampus (he's too old for hunting, but not for a gentle amble about the woods) and lead her on a quiet animal. Perhaps she'd enjoy that.