Page 62 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“A dashed poor jest,” Squire Smalljoy muttered as he resumed eating. “The finest quality in a female, mothering and bearing children. My late wife was a saint. Gave her life to my sons and daughters. Lost her life in the end, bearing my youngest. A noble sacrifice, I say.”

“The noblest,” Daniel said. “Very well put.”

The views expressed weren’t any different from those Stella had heard articulated hundreds of times, both by her brother and by the antiquated scholars in his old-fashioned set. She was weary of listening to them.

“Yes, well”—she raised her glass to her lips—“I’m not eager to sacrifice my life just yet. Not for children or anyone. There are things I still wish to do for myself.”

The squire’s brows snapped together. “Things? What things?”

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But I do know that motherhood isn’t conducive to riding, and I won’t submit to anything—or anyone—that prevents me from galloping my mare.”

Amanda’s eyes found Stella’s in the guttering light of the beeswax candles. Anger glimmered in her face. “My advice was kindly meant.”

“She prefers riding to motherhood?” Squire Smalljoy questioned Stella’s brother. “What manner of girl—”

“Another jest,” Daniel said with a weak laugh. “My sister is aware you’re fond of horses. She’s teasing you on the subject.”

Mrs. Trent tittered. “What a sense of humor our Miss Hobhouse has. Her husband and children will never want for merriment, I vow.”

The squire relaxed a fraction, only partially reassured. “Jolly company is nothing to disparage. A good jest, in its place, is always welcome.”

“I never jest about riding,” Stella said gravely.

“You’ve one of Stockwell’s get, do you not?” Squire Smalljoy asked. “That gray mare with the dappled legs? I’ve seen you riding her about on occasion.”

“Locket,” Stella said. “That’s her name.”

“No idea who the dam is?”

“A half-blood Arabian, I’ve been told.”

He harrumphed. “Could do better in terms of lineage. Still…with Stockwell as her sire, there might be possibilities. A cross with my Irish stallion could produce something worthwhile.”

“I’ve no plans to turn Locket into a broodmare,” Stella said.

The squire helped himself to the last serving of mutton. “Of course, she’ll be a broodmare. What else is she for?”

“What indeed?” Stella murmured. It appeared the squire took the same view of mares that he took of women.

“I’ll have a look at her after dinner,” he said. “If she’s fit for it, you can send her to Castaway Green when the weather clears. She can put up for the spring in my stables until she’s caught.”

Stella’s fingers tightened on her fork. “I’ve already said no, sir. I won’t change my mind.”

The squire turned to Daniel. “Hobhouse. You’re damnably silent. Have you no authority in these matters?”

“It will naturally be as you wish,” Daniel said. “My sister and I would count it an honor for the mare to be sent to you.”

This time, Stella set down her fork entirely. She couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t use the utensil as a weapon. “Locket belongs to me. The authority over her is, therefore, mine and mine alone.”

Daniel briefly closed his eyes, as if praying for divine patience. “Forgive my sister, sir. She forgets herself. She’s been too long in London.”

“Town ways,” the squire said disparagingly. “Too many years there leaves a taint. Impossible to rub off. A girl forgets her place.”

“Unmarried women do have rights, Squire Smalljoy,” Stella said. “Even if most of the laws are set against us, we are still something, I believe, above mere chattel. We can own property, including horses. We can even string two thoughts together in conversation if we’ve a mind to.”

“Enough, Stella,” Daniel said. “You go too far.”

Squire Smalljoy resumed eating. “Your sister has a sharp tongue, sir.”