Sally by M.C. Beaton

streamed off in pursuit, up the hill and down the other side. Sleet was beginning to fall and stung her face. There is nothing like novice horse riding for working up a good religious fervor, and Sally certainly prayed as she had never prayed before. At the bottom of the hill, the path swerved sharply to the left at the front of a five-barred gate.
    Sally left off praying and opened her mouth to call “Whoa,” but, alas, in her extreme fright, she called out “Hup!” instead and Dandelion, hearing that command from his old show jumping days and being full of oats, went straight for that five-barred gate.
    The marquess, hearing the frantic thud of hooves over the sound of his own horse, had reined in and turned just in time to see a splendid sight.
    Dandelion sailed over the gate with an inch to spare, with Sally clinging for dear life to his back. Some age-old instinct told her at the last minute to lift her bottom out of the saddle before Dandelion landed. He then galloped hell-for-leather twice around the field and then slowed and stopped finally, putting his head down and amiably beginning to crop the grass.
    Stunned and shaken, Sally moved her grip automatically from the pommel to the reins and sat as still as a stone.
    “By Jove!” called the marquess, dismounting and opening the gate. “What splendid horsemanship. I didn’t know old Dandelion still had it in him! Wonderful riding!”
    He stood smiling up at her, and Sally smiled back, a blinding smile, a wonderful smile. And the marquess was enchanted. He did not know that it was the smile of a girl who could not believe she was still alive.
    “Come along!” cried the marquess, all boyish enthusiasm. “I’ll race you back.”
    And in one split second love nearly changed to hate in Sally’s bosom.
    “I think poor old Dandelion has had enough, and one must always consider one’s horse,” she said sanctimoniously. “Let’s just amble and—and—talk.”
    “Right-ho!” he said gaily. He held open the gate for her, and, fortunately for Sally, Dandelion
was
tired and realized it was nearly feeding time, and so he ambled placidly out of the gate.
    The marquess mounted and this time rode beside Sally.
    “I think that was the most gallant jump I have ever seen,” he said, enthused, and Sally privately agreed with him.
    “You hunt, of course. There’s a meet after the ball.”
    I can’t
, thought Sally wildly.
I just can’t
. Aloud she said, “I have hunted, yes, but not the fox. I have been out of England a great deal. Pigsticking, you know.”
    The marquess surveyed her in amazement. “Pigsticking! In Africa?”
    Too late, Sally realized her mistake. “Well, it was not precisely Africa. We were in India—Bombay, for a time.”
    “I’ve never heard of a woman going pigsticking in
any
country,” said the marquess suspiciously. “Tell me about it.”
    And Sally did, for Sally could. Hadn’t she listened to boring after boring story about that brutal sport at dinner party after dinner party?
    So she discoursed at length about the typical pigsticking meets, which would start long before dawn because it was too hot to ride in the heat of the day; of the long line of riders moving across country, usually in heats of three, a few lengths ahead of the beat; of the pandemonium that would break out when a boar was sighted, every beater yelling “
Woh jata!
” or “There he goes!” and the nearest heat galloping off in arrow formation with the man in front shouting, “On! On! On!”; of the incredible speeds of the horses, usually Australian walers—from New South Wales—that seemed to be able to float across the country.
    Sally went on to explain how to deliver the spear correctly over the boar’s shoulder and into his shoulder blade. And the marquess listened, entranced. Although he had heard most of it before, he thought it marvelous and amazing that this elflike creature should be capable of such bravery and experience. He was so engrossed in