And now Rosemary comes racing down the slope to discover her and to waken her by tickling her nose with a swan’s feather.
“Come!” she exclaims, before Jeanne is half conscious of her surroundings. “We are off for a canter over the bridle path!” Seizing Jeanne’s hand, she drags her to her feet. Then together they go racing away toward the stables.
The remainder of that day was one joyous interlude in Petite Jeanne’s not uneventful life. Save for the thought that Rosemary believed her a boy, played with her and entertained her as a boy and was, perhaps, just a little interested in her as a boy, no flaw could be found in this glorious occasion.
A great lover of horses since her days in horse-drawn gypsy vans, she gloried in the spirited brown steed she rode. The day was perfect. Blue skies with fleecy clouds drifting like sheep in a field, autumn leaves fluttering down, cobwebs floating lazily across the fields; this was autumn at its best.
They rode, those two, across green meadows, down shady lanes, through forests where shadows were deep. Now and again Rosemary turned an admiring glance upon her companion sitting in her saddle with ease and riding with such grace.
“If she knew!” Jeanne thought with a bitter-sweet smile. “If she only knew!”
“Where did you learn to ride so well?” Rosemary asked, as they alighted and went in to tea.
“In France, to be sure.”
“And who taught you?”
“Who but the gypsies?”