Page 39 of Lady Like

The riders are shoulder to shoulder, their horses’ flanks gleaming in the gray sunlight.

Emily’s breath catches as she watches Matthew launch himself over the hedge.

He is truly built for jumping—the stretch in his legs, the height he achieves, the clean distance over the hurdle while other horses catch the leaves with their back hooves.

The jump is perfect. Emily takes a deep breath and wills herself to relax.

After the third privet, Harry and Matthew hold a shared lead with a speckled horse and his rider. As the next jump approaches, Harry pulls ahead, driving her heels into Matthew so he jumps earlier than is necessary. She knows his length. His stride. She knows he’ll clear it, and they’ll land ahead.

But at the apex of the jump, Harry lurches sideways in the saddle, like the gravity of the Earth has changed for her alone. A strap of the saddle whips up from beneath Matthew’s belly and suddenly the whole saddle tips, flying loose from the horse’s back.

And Harry falls with it, one foot still tangled in the stirrups, and hits the soft ground of the racetrack so hard Emily swears she hears the impact, even over the sound of the crowd.

She watches, helpless, cold horror dripping through her, as Harry rolls, tumbling directly in the path of the other horses just clearing the jump.

Emily screams.

All she sees is Harry, on the ground. Harry, trying to curl her body away from the thundering hooves as the other riders clear the hedge, unable to see her and correct their mounts to avoid stepping on her.

Harry, lying in the dust of the privet as the pack of horses gallop on without her. Harry, on the ground unmoving.

Emily screams Harry’s name, though she can hardly hear herself over the blood pounding in her ears.

Someone grabs her arm and she thinks maybe she’s swooned.

The sudden rush to her head is certainly enough to send her staggering.

She has to get to Harry. She has to make certain she’s all right.

She has to make certain Harry knows—Emily is in love with her too.

Emily breaks free of whoever is holding her and runs down the stands, pushing people out of the way, nearly tripping on the benches, knocking off hats and bonnets and overturning glasses of lemonade.

She only stops when she hits the fence designating the stands from the track, the hard blow knocking the wind out of her.

She staggers backward, and someone catches her before she sits down hard on the lowest bench of the stands. Whispers ripple through the crowd.

Emily hears a crash behind her, and someone shouts “Let me through!” She turns in time to see Collin Lockhart shove through the stands before hopping the fence and sprinting across the track.

He kicks up tufts of grass as he runs to his sister.

Harry still hasn’t moved. Was she trampled?

Stepped on? Thrown so hard it cracked her skull or broke her neck?

“Emily! Emily!” Suddenly Violet is beside her, taking Emily by the arm and pulling her from the rail.

Emily wants to cling to it—she has to watch, she has to know, if she does not see it with her own eyes, she will never be able to make it feel real.

But Violet winds an arm around her shoulders, pulling her back with a whispered admonition of, “Come away.”

Martin appears behind Violet. “What’s come over her?”

“She’s upset—”

“Clearly, she’s making a scene. Get her out of here.” Martin reaches for Emily’s other arm, but Violet slaps his hand out of the way.

“Martin, leave her alone.”

“I’m concerned—”

“Then get out of our way.”

Martin glares at Violet, but retreats, and Violet, one hand still clamped on Emily’s arm, leads her away. And Emily, weak from fear, lets herself be led.

Violet stops them in the shadow of a nearby tent, away from the view of the crowd and without a line of sight to the track. She folds Emily’s hands in hers.

Emily’s eyes are dry, but her chest heaves like she’s sobbing. “I have to see her.”

Violet’s hands pulse around hers. “Her brother’s with her.”

“She’s hurt!”

“Try to breathe.”

“She’s my friend.”

“I know.”

“I care for her.”

“I know.”

“I think I’m in love with her.”

Violet gives her a gentle smile. “I know that too.”

And now the tears flood Emily’s eyes, late arrivals to this miserable party. “You do? How?”

“Emily.” Violet pats her hand, the gesture somehow both knowing and scolding. “Please. You speak of her constantly. You’ve spent all your time with her. She’s always playing the coquette with you and you glow every time. Her attention lights you up. I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Violet presses a hand to her mouth with a small laugh. “I thought you knew.”

Emily starts to laugh too, but the sound breaks into a sob. Violet wraps her arms around her, and Emily clutches handfuls of the back of her cousin’s dress. “I need to tell her,” Emily says, her face pressed to Violet’s shoulder.

“You can.”

“What if—”

“None of that.” Violet pulls back and wipes Emily’s wet face with her thumbs. “No reason to waste time on ifs. Let’s find out.”

And she leads Emily out of the shade, just as the sun breaks properly through the clouds for the first time all day.