When Miss Wraxton’s invitation was conveyed to Sophy she professed herself happy to accept it and at once desired Miss Jane Storridge to press out her riding dress. This garment, when she appeared in it on the following afternoon, filled Cecilia with envy but slightly staggered her brother, who could not feel that a habit made of pale blue cloth, with epaulettes and frogs, a la Hussar, and sleeves braided halfway up the arm, would win approval from Miss Wraxton. Blue kid gloves and half-boots, a high-standing collar trimmed with lace, a muslin cravat, narrow lace ruffles at the wrists, and a tall-crowned hat, like a shako, with a peak over the eyes, and a plume of curled ostrich feathers completed this dashing toilette. The tightly fitting habit set off Sophy’s magnificent figure to admiration; and from under the brim of her hat her brown locks curled quite charmingly; but Mr. Rivenhall, appealed to by his sister to subscribe to her conviction that Sophy looked beautiful, merely bowed, and said that he was no judge of such matters.
However that might be, he was no mean judge of a horse, and when he set eyes on Salamanca, being walked up and down the road by John Potton, he did not withhold his praise, but said that he no longer wondered at Hubert’s ecstasies. John Potton threw his mistress up into the saddle, and after allowing Salamanca to indulge his playfulness for a few moments, Sophy brought him mincing up alongside Mr. Rivenhall’s bay hack, and they set off at a sedate pace in the direction of Hyde Park. Salamanca was inclined to resent the existence of sedan chairs, dogs, crossing sweepers, and took instant exception to a postman’s horn, but Mr. Rivenhall, accustomed to be on the alert to prevent misadventure when riding with Cecilia through London streets, knew better than to offer advice or assistance to his cousin. She was very well able to control her mount for herself, which, reflected Mr. Rivenhall, was just as well, since Salamanca could scarcely have been described as an ideal horse for a lady.
This comment was made by Miss Wraxton, whom they found awaiting them, with her brother, within the gates of the Park. Miss Wraxton, after one glance at Sophy’s habit, transferred her gaze to Salamanca, and said, “Oh, what a beautiful creature! But surely he is a little too strong for you, Miss Stanton-Lacy? You should commission Charles to find a well-mannered lady’s horse for you to ride.”
“I daresay he would be only too delighted, but I have discovered that his notions and mine on that subject are widely separated,” replied Sophy. “Moreover, though he is a trifle spirited, there is not an ounce of vice in Salamanca, and he has what the Duke calls excellent bottom — has carried me for league upon dreary league without sign of flagging!” she leaned forward to pat Salamanca’s gleaming black neck. “To be sure, he has not yet lashed out at the end of a long day, which the Duke vows and declares Copenhagen did, when he dismounted from his back after Waterloo, but I hold that to be a virtue in him!”
“Indeed, yes!” said Miss Wraxton, ignoring the unbecoming pretension shown by this careless reference to England’s hero. “You will let me introduce my brother to you; Miss Stanton-Lacy, Alfred!”
Mr. Wraxton, a pallid young gentleman with a receding chin, a loose, wet mouth, and a knowing look in his eyes, bowed, and said he was happy to make Miss Stanton-Lacy’s acquaintance. He then asked her if she had been in Brussels at the time of the great battle and added that he had had some idea of joining as a Volunteer at the height of the scare. “But from one cause and another nothing came of it,” he said. “Do you know the Duke well? Quite the great man, ain’t he? But perfectly affable, they tell me. I daresay you are on famous terms with him, for you knew him in Spain, didn’t you?”
“My dear Alfred,” interposed his sister, “Miss Stanton-Lacy will think you have less than common sense if you talk such nonsense. She will tell you that the Duke has more important things to think of than all of us poor females who hold him in such admiration.”
Sophy looked rather amused. “Well, no, I don’t think I should say that,” she replied. “But I was never one of his flirts, if that is what you mean, Mr. Wraxton. I am not at all in his style, I assure you.”
“Shall we ride on?” suggested Miss Wraxton. “You must tell me about your horse. Is he Spanish? Very handsome, but a little too nervous for my taste. But I am spoilt. My own dear Dorcas here is so very well mannered.”
“Salamanca is not really nervous; he is merely funning,” said Sophy. “As for manners, I hold him to be unequaled. Would you like to see me put him through his paces? Watch! He was Mameluke trained, you know!”