Monica. She liked her name. She liked the way her dark auburn locks fell in waves about her face to spread about her shoulders. She liked her slim figure which did not need a corset to keep things where they should be. She had a good existence.
At 19 years old, she knew it was unusual for her not to be wed but her father was very indulgent and seemed to be willing to wait for her to decide who she wanted. She just had not yet found anyone that she felt that she could spend the rest of her life with.
It was possible that his attitude in the matter was in large part due to his unwillingness to have her leave the household. His last wife had died two years ago, and the house would be more cold and lonely than a Scottish estate in winter should be, without the fresh air that her presence provided.
Modern ideas were starting to take hold in 1789, but she was fully aware that the lot of a married woman was still controlled by the whims of a man. This was a life of restriction that she had not been raised to desire.
Her father doted on his only child to the point that he had constantly had to defend his actions to his late wife when she was alive. She was not the mother of the child, but she still had the sensibilities of her gender and era. It was her opinion that he was doing a great disservice to the girl by not teaching her the truth about the typical life of a Scottish woman and what would be expected of her when she matured and inevitably wed.
Monica was not thinking of all this, though, as she went out to the stable yard. Her mind was on the exhilarating feeling of freedom that riding through the moors, her loose hair streaming behind her, that she always experienced as she glided along, the muscles of her sturdy horse pulsing beneath her.
As she had commanded, Ewan, the stable boy, had saddled her favorite horse, Kenna, who was truly born of fire as her name suggested. The steed could run for the entire day through the moors without faltering.
Ewan was standing in the middle of the stable yard now, Kenna's reins tied to the post, a small step stool positioned strategically to make mounting the tall animal easier for her. As usual, the horse was meticulously groomed and fitted out.
The groom himself was not nearly so well presented. His sandy hair stuck out erratically from beneath his soiled Tam hat. She had never seen him without a smudge of something on his cheeks and tattered work clothes. At least the lad did not smell like he looked. Whatever the smears on his face and britches were, it was clearly not horse dung.
The groom said, "Watch your step, M'Lady," as he always did when he brought her a horse.
Monica stepped quickly up on the stool, slipped her left foot in the stirrup that Ewan had positioned for her, and hauled herself up with practiced ease, helped ever so slightly by Ewan's left hand on her ankle holding it in the stirrup while his other pushed up under her armpit. In any other circumstances, having a man touch her such would have been highly inappropriate, but servants were expected to perform such duties without falling prey to illicit thoughts.
As she settled herself into the saddle, Monica leaned forward and rested her hand lightly on Ewan's shoulder saying, "Thank you, kind Sir." She added a small smile as a signal of gratitude for the service.
Ewan beamed up at Monica as he stepped back to allow the horse and rider to depart, which Monica did without another word or glance.
The young groom's gaze followed the pair as they left the paddock with obvious longing. This emotion was not missed by another pair of eyes, eyes which belonged to the 16-year-old kitchen maid, Marcy. Her green eyes reflected a mixture of desire and jealousy as she leaned around the corner of the manor and watched Ewan who in turn watched the young mistress of the house ride away.
