The Jane Austen Marriage Manual by Kim Izzo Page B

calm myself in anticipation. It was ridiculous. I was at a polo match—of course there were horses. And there was no need that I would ever have to get within touching distance.
    Let me explain. I have had exactly one firsthand experience with a horse and it didn’t go well. I was twelve years old and at a friend’s birthday party, a party that included trail riding. I envied the birthday girl’s pretty pinto pony. In fact, all the girls were given ponies except me. When it was my turn I was given a giant to ride, because even at twelve I was at least five foot eight and leggy. I’m not sure why, but Pebbles, that was his name, took an instant dislike to me. I hauled myself up onto the saddle and the first thing he did was whip his head around to take a bite out of my foot. The handler yanked the reins down and Pebbles threw his head up in the air and snorted. Not a good start.
    We meandered through meadows and forests with Pebbles and me bringing up the rear but I don’t think he liked being last in line for he kept crowding the pony in front. I yanked on the reins as I’d been instructed but that seemed to piss Pebbles off even more because when we rode onto an open field he yanked the reins from my hands and took off at a gallop. I heard the trail guide scream to pull back on the reins but I no longer had the reins. I clung on to his neck for dear life until he’d have no choice but to pull up. When we reached the edge of a thick forest I was proven right. Within inches of hitting the tree line Pebbles slammed the brakes so hard that I flew over his head and landed face-first in a thorny bush. I lay there for I don’t know how long, unsure if I should move. I don’t even remember the guide lifting me out, bruised and scratched, but otherwise okay. My fall had terrorized the rest of the girls who had all begun to cry and were begging to dismount their ponies. The birthday girl whined that I had ruined her party and I went home in a huff and without cake. I’ve been terrified of horses ever since.
    Orietta ordered a bottle of champagne, but after our glasses had been filled Anthony abandoned us and disappeared into the crowd. I wasbeginning to think Anthony didn’t like me and wondered if, as a rich man himself, he could sniff out my ulterior motive. Orietta didn’t seem to notice he was gone; she was busy scanning the room.
    “When does the polo start?” I asked.
    “At three o’clock,” she said, finishing off her second helping of eggs Benedict with a side of steamed mussels.
    “That long?” I wondered what we were to do since it was only one o’clock.
    “Don’t worry,” she said as though reading my mind. “I’ll make sure you meet people.”
    But I wasn’t sure how I was going to meet anyone with us sitting at the table like two wallflowers. The only people who popped by were septuagenarian couples and the waitstaff. I watched as the grandstand adjacent to the clubhouse filled with spectators and across the polo field private tailgate parties were in full swing. Everyone was having a grand time but me. I kept myself busy by eating too much from the buffet. My excuse was I needed to soak up all the champagne; the truth was I hadn’t eaten much since I’d been here. The hotel didn’t comp my food and I didn’t want to spend more than I had to unless I was out with people I needed to impress, so I’d made do with granola bars and apples. If I filled up now I wouldn’t need dinner.
    When eventually the polo began, it proved to be more exciting than I expected. Watching as men on galloping horses swung mallets and smashed into each other to score a goal was thrilling and I found myself cheering on the local team. Orietta explained that a polo game consisted of six chukkas of seven minutes and thirty seconds. But like in football, the referee would call timeouts so the first three chukkas took more than an hour to finish. When the clock ran out signaling halftime, Orietta stood up at