Florence turned to Thair. “Can she ride?”
“I can ride,” Julia repeated dully. Thair was holding the black, but she made no motion to mount. She only stood watching the black bulk of the carriage laboring away across the broken field.
Four riders waited uncertain, whispering, looking after the carriage, looking at Thair, looking at Julia.
Bessie Lewis was mopping her cheeks with the wet ball of her handkerchief. She gave a hysterical gasp. “Oh, Julia, your habit!” She dabbed nervously at the skirt.
Julia roused, shrinking away from the touch, turning to Thair. He almost lifted her to the saddle. But once up, she seemed to wake, to stiffen. She let him take the rein and lead the black through the ragged opening left by the torn-away rails. The carriage had turned down the road under the overarching trees.
Thair watched her anxiously. He kept her rein. He turned, touching his horse lightly with the spur.
“If you can ride as far as the club—” he began.
She pulled herself together, alert, staring at him, at the whispering four.
The rein jerked out of Thair’s hand. He half turned in his saddle, blank, dismayed, as she wheeled and rode furiously after the victoria.