Miss Ryder's Memoirs

MISS RYDER’S MEMOIRS

Laura Matthews

Chapter 1

Several strange things happened that summer.
He
says it would be a great mistake to write an account of that time, for some prying eye might chance upon it, but I must confess my fingers itch to write it down. In time we are bound to forget the details and it may seem as though nothing out of the ordinary happened. But I know better now. So, against
his
advice, which I am not always governed by, I shall spell out my adventures in glorious detail—and hide the manuscript somewhere truly safe. Perhaps a hundred years from now, when our bones molder in the village cemetery, someone will come upon my account and it will shock them. So much the better.

The first thing I have to say is that I was raised quite properly by conscientious and loving parents. They should not be held responsible for any unbecoming behavior of mine; after all, my sister, Amanda, has never once done anything out of the ordinary. What a dull life she has led! But that is neither here nor there. My brother, Robert, on the other hand, has been a little wild, but people seem to expect that. Boys are always granted more indulgence than girls, if you wish my opinion.
He
says my opinion on such subjects is not worth a tinker’s dam, but he’s biased, being a male himself.

It’s true that I was raised to be a lady of quality, and even
he
can’t deny that in most respects I fulfill the role remarkably well. Actually, what
he
would say is that I look the part because I’m small and have fine features, which give the illusion of a demureness that I do not in the least possess. Never mind. For the most part, people believe what they see: Catherine Ryder wears her auburn hair in a decorous style and keeps her lovely green eyes lowered in a most becoming modesty.

He laughs at my saying that, of course. If people wish to see me as modest, who am I to disillusion them? My eyes are a dead giveaway to my sentiments and it’s only reasonable that I should keep them prudently lowered on certain occasions. I was born with a sense of the absurd that very few people share. But to get on with my story.

It was a mild summer, with fairly regular bouts of rain. By the time July came, I was grateful for a few inordinately hot days. Amanda sits in the shrubbery and fans herself when it’s hot. I go to the pond. Ever since we were very young children, Robert and I had gone to the pond. It meant escaping from our nanny, but we were perfectly capable of that. Of course, a time came when Robert himself became “modest” and would no longer go to the pond with me, but by then I had quite learned what a youthful male body looked like.

The first, and only, time we tried to take Amanda with us, she very nearly put a permanent period to our escapades. I had to bribe her with a whole summer’s worth of sugarplums to keep her from confessing our destination and activity. For Papa had taught Robert to swim, and Robert taught me. We would have taught Amanda, but when she saw that Robert meant to take off his clothes, she ran screaming from the glade. Just like a silly child. Really, it’s a wonder I speak to her! She hasn’t changed much in the last dozen years.

That summer Robert was still in London when the great heat descended on Cambridgeshire, so I knew I should not be discovered if I took a dip in the pond. He would have been surprised to see how his skinny sister had filled out in some places, because he still tended to think of me as a child. That’s another thing men do: they grow up and become men, but they think females remain girls forever and ever.

Still, I have to admit that it was Robert who discovered our perfect swimming hole. No one else seems to have found it because there’s a decoy: a large, obvious pond, a charming part of the landscape, with its placid oval of green, clear water. No one would dare to swim in that open situation, where all the world, riding past on the road to Newmarket, might catch a glimpse of one. But along the northern edge of the water there’s a stand of trees beyond a jumble of boulders. The boulders are not inviting, with their sharp edges and crumbling surfaces. And even if someone were to explore them, they would hardly notice the one narrow passage through them where the water meanders past into a special pocket of the glade.

Rather shallow, the lagoon itself is protected by more boulders, with the stand of trees only coming close at one point. It’s so secluded that I’ve never felt the least fear of detection there. So off I set on the first Tuesday in July, when it was so hot that even Amanda’s even temper was somewhat frayed, refusing rather abruptly when I invited her to walk with me.

“Walk? In this heat? My dear Catherine, you must be teasing,” she said as she plied her fan faster. “Mama would not approve of a walk in this heat.”

“I’m persuaded she would allow me my eccentricity,” I retorted. Mama has a few eccentricities of her own.

I wore my old jonquil muslin because I knew it was one of the few garments that I could don again with reasonable ease. These high-waisted dresses do have their advantages, say what you will. I also wore a wide-brimmed bonnet to protect my face from the sun. Not that I’m missish about a slight coloring from the glare, but it has a tendency to bring out my freckles, and that Mama would disapprove of excessively. I have to admit that even I have some doubts about the attractiveness of freckles. On the face, at any rate.

Amanda frowned at me as I strolled by her, heading for the pond. “You really ought to carry your parasol, Catherine.”

Naturally I didn’t pay the least heed to her. Whether I listen or not, it gives her consequence to offer me advice, I think. Being so well informed on what is proper, and sharing the information, makes her feel more grown up. She’s only eighteen, and she resents the fact that I’m two years older and don’t pay the least attention to all her absurd standards of behavior. Goodness, I shouldn’t want to grow dull as Amanda.
He
says there’s no chance of such a thing happening.

The sun beat down on the narrow path I followed, making the dirt spring out in little puffs with each footfall. I could hardly wait to dispose of my gown and shift; they never feel so constricting as in the heat. In my walk I passed no one, though there were various animals that my dog sported after. Dutch, the dog, is fond of galloping after rabbits and squirrels, but he’s never caught one, thank heaven. Even Dutch seemed a bit dragged down by the weather. I very clearly saw one rabbit that he made no move to follow. His big basset ears drooped almost to the ground.

Before passing through the narrow opening to the hidden lagoon, I casually surveyed the area around me, looking for anyone in the summer-droning landscape. The pond was well out of sight of our manor house, and mostly surrounded by grazing land. In this kind of weather there were cows standing belly-deep in the cool water. The road beyond would have an occasional horse and rider, or a carriage, but there was nothing visible on the nearest stretch at the moment. I quickly slipped through the passage in the rocks.

This isn’t as easy as it sounds, because even when you’ve taken your shoes off, the stone under the water is both slippery and sharp. There are several places where one can get a good handhold, but where you can’t, it’s difficult to make your way without falling, especially when you have shoes and stockings in your hands. Dutch makes a great production of following, splashing about in the water as though it were required of him. It’s a wonder I wasn’t drenched by the time I reach the second, smaller pond.

Only one boulder here is flat enough to lie on to dry off, so it’s where I leave my clothes. The jonquil muslin looked like a splash of bright paint on the weathered rock. Beside it I placed my rolled shift, my shoes, my stockings, and my bonnet. There was almost no breeze, so I didn’t have to worry about my clothes blowing into the water.

Having had only a moderate amount of experience, and only a meager amount of instruction, my swimming is not perhaps as dexterous as it might be. The important thing is that I can keep myself afloat and paddle my way across the narrow stretch of water. There is something deliciously exciting about one’s naked body gliding through the water. If you haven’t tried it, you would never credit the pleasure of the water’s caress.

I’m not a stranger to my body, as Amanda is. I doubt if she’s ever looked at herself in a mirror when she had no clothes on. Why, she’s embarrassed if you find her in her nightgown without a dressing gown over it. She calls this behavior “modesty.” And wears her gowns so long no view of her ankle is possible to inflame some male who happened to glance down. In my experience that is almost never the direction a man’s gaze takes, but Amanda merely waves aside such considerations.

Because I ride and walk and swim and take part in any kind of sport that I am not absolutely forbidden, my body is rather firm and compact. Amanda’s is rounder, which some people seem to think is just how a woman’s body should be, but I’m not the least envious of her. To maintain so pale and soft an image one apparently has to sit in the shade all day and lounge on a sofa—not straining one’s eyes—all evening. That sort of life is not for me! I should die of boredom.

But to continue.

The tiny lagoon wasn’t as warm that day as it had been many others. I had to swim briskly to dissipate the chill, but after a few minutes my body adjusted. I was floating on my back, with my eyes closed, when I heard a very distinct male voice ask, “Is this some new activity in the country? Really, I should have left London long since if I’d known.”

Occasionally I am quick-witted. This was not one of those occasions. The only thing I could think to do was drop down under the water. This had the disadvantage of being a position in which I could not breathe. I was forced to surface again, knowing full well that the water was clear as glass. “Go away,” I shouted, afraid to even look toward the rocks from whence his voice issued. It was not a boy’s voice. This was a full-grown man, and one I’d never met, from the sound of that deep, amused voice. Believe me, I’d have recognized any of the locals and given them a piece of my mind.

“I can’t very well go away when I see a maiden in distress,” he insisted. “Why, I believe a young woman has fallen into the pond and may be in need of my assistance."

“I don’t need your help. I can swim perfectly well.”

“I wouldn’t precisely agree with you on that. You do more of a dog paddle than a stroke, but I suppose we mustn’t be splitting hairs. Shall I join you?”

“No!” The very suggestion forced my eyes to find him. He was perched above the spot where my jonquil muslin lay. Not far enough away for the view of my body to be denied him. “It’s quite ungentlemanlike of you to sit there gaping at me. A fellow with even a modicum of manners would have long since disappeared.”

“A fellow with no spirit of adventure perhaps. Why, it’s not every day a fellow happens on a beautiful mermaid splashing about in a pond under his nose. I really am tempted to join you,” he said, putting a hand up to loosen his starched neckcloth.

“Don’t you dare!” It was at that moment that I remembered Dutch and had my famous idea. “I shall set my dog on you if you make any such attempt.”

“You mean this wild beast?” He shifted to reveal that he was petting Dutch where the dog crouched slavishly near his feet.

“No, not that one,” I snapped. “There’s another one and he’ll rip your throat out.”

“Dear me.” Even from my distance I could tell the man was laughing at me. That silent laughter is the worst kind. He had a mass of thick brown hair, rather rumpled by the wind, and the kind of aristocratic nose Robert would have sold his soul for. I won’t discuss his eyes. No one should have such expressive eyes. “Do you think he’s likely to do it soon?” the man asked. “It might be best if I removed my cravat first.”

His mockery made me wish to remove his cravat myself and stuff it in his mouth. We seemed to be at an impasse. I had no way to hide my nakedness, and I was not going to climb out of the lagoon and walk straight up to where he sat to claim my clothes.

“Perhaps you think I’m some scullery maid or washer woman, whom you may spy upon without fear of retribution,” I said. “Well, I’m not. I’m a gently born female who has a family to protect her, I assure you, sir. Now be off with you.” I fluttered my fingers in a dismissive gesture, much as I believe a queen might use to rid herself of the unwanted presence of a servant.

My unwelcome visitor remained unmoved. He hid his twitching lips behind a large, long-fingered fist and studied me for some time. Finally he said, “I had already determined that you were gently born by your clothes and your speech. As to your family protecting you . . . Well, I don’t doubt their existence, but they aren’t here and the view is so delightful I can scarcely tear myself away.”

He raised a languid hand to stall my protestations. “Yes, I know. I am a most ungentlemanlike gentleman. It’s been pointed out to me on more than one occasion, and I haven’t the least urge to change, you know. Very stubborn of me, but there it is.”