Regret Not a Moment (34 page)

“Darling,” Devon said soothingly. “If you don’t like it, I can take it back.”

But how could Morgan admit to not liking it? Her parents loved horses, and she wanted to be like them.

“You know, Morgan. You don t have to ride him. He could just be your pet. How would you like that?” John asked.

Well… the pony was cute and really quite tiny. Morgan screwed up all her courage. “Could I… pet him?”

“Of course!” her parents said in unison, leading her toward the little creature.

Morgan tentatively put one small hand under the pony’s nose. The diminutive animal was not much taller than she was. She giggled at the feel of his breath on her skin. “It tickles!”

Devon reached into her pocket for the omnipresent sugar cube—almost all her clothes at Willowbrook had sugar cubes hidden somewhere in them. “Here’s a treat you can give him. But keep your fingers together and your hand flat so he doesn’t accidentally nip you.”

The child carefully followed her mother’s instructions, and was delighted when the pony put his head near hers as if to ask for more.

After a few moments, her father asked, “Would you like to try to ride him?”

Morgan hesitated. No. Never! That was the answer she wanted to cry out.

“Maybe it’s hopeless,” John murmured to his wife over the child’s head. Devon nodded, her expression downcast. Devon had persuaded John to participate in this final attempt to overcome Morgan’s fear of riding. John had gone along with the idea on the condition that if the pony did not interest the child, Devon would never again try to persuade her daughter to ride. Riding, however, was such an integral part of life at Willowbrook—and in Virginia in general—that the Alexanders had agreed that they should at least try to expose their daughter to the sport. And Morgan had reached the stage where she was willing to ride double with Devon. But she refused to ride alone. Devon had reasoned that a small, nonthreatening animal might overcome Morgan’s fears. John had seen the logic of Devon’s argument, agreeing that the high-strung, rather frightening Thoroughbreds of Willowbrook were vastly different from a Shetland pony.

Now it seemed that the plan had worked only up to a point. Morgan was willing to play with the cute little animal. Riding it was another matter.

MORGAN looked up at her mother astride the sleek chestnut Thoroughbred then back at her pony, Frisky, whom Devon was holding by a long leading rein. The little Shetland was saddled and stood docilely behind the big horse, but Morgan couldn’t bring herself to mount it. “Mommy, can’t I ride double with you?”

Devon sighed. In the month since Morgan had received the pony, she had petted it, fed it countless apples, and brushed it. But she hadn’t ridden it. Several times before, as on this day, Morgan had declared that she would ride the pony. But her courage always failed her.

“Sweetheart, you’re getting too big to ride Skylark with me,” Devon replied gently. “It’s not very comfortable and you don’t like me to go faster than a walk.”

Morgan looked down at the ground, torn between fear and the desire to please her mother.

Sensing her dilemma, Devon said kindly, “You don’t have to ride at all if you don’t want to.”

Morgan studied Frisky. He was so cute and friendly that she felt, irrationally, sorry for her little pet, as though by not riding him she were rejecting him. And that made her feel guilty, not just toward Frisky, but toward her parents, who had given her the pony.

“I love Frisky, Mommy,” Morgan said, almost in tears. She drew near the pony and caressed its neck. Frisky nickered softly and nudged her with his nose.

“I know you do, darling,” Devon reassured her. “And so does Frisky.”

“I feel sorry for him. We always leave him here alone.” Morgan turned and looked at the pony. “Can we take Frisky with us?

Devon couldn’t suppress her surprised laughter, “Why? If you’re not going to ride him…”

“Just… because,” Morgan said, giving her mother a look of entreaty.

Devon thought tor a moment. “What if we try riding in the ring first, instead of on the trail? I’ll stand in the middle and hold Frisky by the leading rein. I won’t let him go any faster than a walk. All you have to do is sit in the saddle.”

Morgan hesitated.

“Come on,” Devon said decisively, slipping off Skylark and handing him to a groom, “let’s get you on Frisky. You’ll see—he’s so short that you won’t feel scared at all. It’ll be a lot less scary than being all the way up there with me.”

For the next few days, Devon helped Morgan grow accustomed to riding Frisky in the ring. After an initial period of trepidation, the child seemed to enjoy the exercise, delighting in Frisky’s obedience to her commands. However, she insisted that Devon maintain a hold of the pony with the leading rein. It was about twenty feet long, and enabled Devon to guide Frisky in a large circle around her.

After a week of this routine, Devon urged Morgan toward the next step. “Shall we try the bridle trail?” she asked her daughter as she helped her onto the pony.

“No!”

Devon gave her a puzzled look. “Aren’t you getting bored going around in circles in that ring?”

“Well…” Morgan
was
getting bored. But a ride in the woods!

“I’ll still have Frisky by the leading rein,” Devon reassured her daughter. “He’ll follow Skylark. Don’t worry.”

“I’m scared,” Morgan whispered, ashamed.

Devon patted her leg soothingly. “That’s all right. Everyone’s afraid of new things. Just try it. If you don’t like it, you can get on Skylark with me.”

“Okay,” Morgan said, her voice resigned.

Devon was simultaneously amused and moved by her daughter’s woeful expression. She’s just like Helena Magrath used to be, Devon thought to herself. Her childhood playmate had always been uncomfortable on horseback, yet had persisted in riding simply to please her father. Devon remembered her feelings of pity for Helena as they were growing up. Devon didn’t want Morgan to feel that her mother’s love depended on her being a good rider. “Darling, you don’t have to do this. You can go back to the house and ask Penny to play with you.”

“No! I want to be with you.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll only be gone for a couple of hours. We can be together after that.”

“Why can’t we ride double?”

“Morgan,” Devon said patiently, “you’ve been riding Frisky alone all week. The only difference is that we’ll be on the trail.”

Morgan was silent as she thought this over. “I’ll try,” she finally said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“That’s a brave girl!” Devon encouraged her. She handed Frisky’s leading rein to the groom and mounted Skylark. Then she took the rein and led the two horses onto the bridle trail.

Morgan was silent as they rode. She was completely absorbed in the dangers that threatened her. Fallen logs cropped up unexpectedly in her path. Scuttling sounds in the forest originated from unknown creatures. Bare black branches reached out to slap her as she passed.

Devon turned in her saddle to observe her daughter. She despaired as she saw the look of misery on Morgan’s face. This would have to be a short ride. Just long enough to give the child a sense of accomplishment, Devon decided. “Are you all right?” she asked Morgan.

The child’s response was a tense nod.

As they progressed, the path narrowed. The smaller space made Morgan feel safer, more enclosed. She began to relax a little.

The next time Devon turned to check on Morgan, she saw a tentative smile on the child’s face. Devon smiled back. “You know, when spring comes, we can bring a picnic with us.”

“Can we have chocolate cake?” Morgan cried, delighted.

“What’s a picnic without chocolate cake!” Devon laughed happily, pleased with her daughter’s change of mood. She turned back around just in time to guide Skylark around a huge mud puddle that blocked most of the path.

“Morgan,” she said, looking over her shoulder, “make Frisky go around that puddle if you can.” Devon was holding the long leading rein, but it would require Morgan’s guidance with the bridle to direct Frisky around the obstacle. Devon stopped her horse and turned it toward Morgan, prepared to verbally walk her through her task.

Morgan began to tug on the pony’s bridle as her mother instructed. She was so concentrated on her hand movements, however, she forgot to pay attention to where she was going. With horror, Devon saw she was headed straight for a thick branch at neck level.

“Morgan, look out!” Devon cried.

The child looked up in alarm, only to be slapped across the chest with the thick limb. Devon watched in horror as her daughter toppled backward and landed with a resounding splash in the mud puddle.

Devon leaped off Skylark and ran to Morgan’s side, kneeling in the bog.

Morgan lay still, shocked by the icy water and the impact. Then she opened her mouth and began to howl.

Devon scooped up the girl and held her to her breast. She felt Morgan’s arms grasp her and was relieved that the child was able to move freely. But Morgan was near hysteria. “Aaaahhh!” she screamed. “Mommy! It hurts!”

Devon cradled her, murmuring soothing words. As she did so, she ran her hands over the child’s limbs, searching for signs of damage. She noticed that Morgan’s protective riding hat lay in the mud a few feet from them—the chin strap had obviously snapped open from the angle of impact. Worried that the child’s head might be injured, Devon lifted the glossy dark locks and searched for cuts. But all she saw was mud.

“Morgan, sweetheart, I don’t really think you’ve hurt yourself too badly, have you?”

At this, Morgan’s howls increased in volume.

“Ssh, ssh, you’ll be fine,” Devon said, kissing the girl’s cheeks and hair. She rocked her in her arms until the sobs began to quieten.

“Morgan,” Devon said softly, “you’re all wet and it’s cold. We need to get you home. I’m going to put you down and I want you to stand up.” Devon eased the whimpering child from her lap and stood. Then she gently pulled her daughter upright, not letting go of the little hands until Morgan was standing on her own. “That’s good. Now we’ll get back on and go right home.” Devon led Morgan over to Frisky.

“No!” Morgan began to howl again. “I want to ride with you!”

Devon sighed, distressed by her daughter’s fear. “You know, sweetheart, you won’t feel so scared if you just get right back on Frisky and ride him home.”

“No! No! With you!” Morgan cried, holding out her arms to her mother.

Devon couldn’t bear to see her child so upset. Morgan was usually such a jolly little girl. But when it came to riding… Well, they would tackle that challenge another day. “Okay,” she capitulated, “you hold Frisky’s leading rein in your hands and we’ll ride Skylark together.”

Morgan’s tears subsided at these words. Devon lifted her into Skylark’s saddle and mounted behind her “Do I have to wear my riding hat?” Morgan asked, dreading the thought of putting the wet sticky object on her even wetter, stickier hair.

Devon smiled. “Just this once you don’t. Hold it in your other hand.”

Morgan sighed contentedly and leaned back against her mother. She felt safe again.

SYDNEY and Bart were getting a divorce. It didn’t seem possible to Devon; they had been a fixture in the Alexanders’ lives since Devon and John’s engagement.

“I thought what we had was love, but I couldn’t understand why he always made me feel so bad,” Sydney explained over lunch at the Plaza Hotel’s Palm Court. She gazed into space over the rim of her teacup.

Devon had never seen her look better. Her friend wore a beautifully cut suit of rich chocolate-colored velvet with a bright scarf of yellow, red, and brown tucked into the collar. A matching hat with a cotton-candy swirl of a veil gave her an air of mystery, revealing as it did her wavy shoulder-length hair but little of her features. Her nails were lacquered a vivid shade of red and her lips painted the same color. Everything about her was striking, alive, intoxicating.

“I’m sorry to hear about it nonetheless,” Devon said softly. It always frightened her when friends divorced. It made her realize how vulnerable her own marriage was.

“Don’t be sorry,” Sydney said pragmatically, “unless it’s that I wasted so many years with Bart.”

“But you never let on that anything was wrong,” Devon said, bewildered. The Plaza’s chocolate mousse—one of her favorite desserts—sat before her untouched.

“Didn’t we?” Sydney asked the question with real curiosity. It had seemed to her that Bart was always criticizing her in front of their friends. But had he been so subtle about it that the darts were only heard by her? “Didn’t you notice those awful remarks Bart was always making to me?”

“Yes…” Devon admitted, “only he always seemed adept at mixing a compliment with an…” Devon hesitated, trying to frame her words tactfully.

“Insult. Go ahead and say it. I recognize it now. For a while I thought I was being overly sensitive. That’s what he always told me.”

“Do you know why he was that way?”

“Well, you won’t believe this, but he always had trouble in the… well, you know what I mean.” Sydney blushed under her veil. “In any event,” she hurried on, “he used to blame it on me.”

“How awful!”

“More awful still—I believed him. Until I met Douglas.”

Devon’s eyes widened.

Sydney continued, “It was last summer at Saratoga. You may remember him.”

“Your brother’s old college roommate?” Devon vaguely remembered a plain-looking, rather quiet man.

“Yes. Not exactly the type one pictures for an illicit affair, is he?”

“Not really.” Devon remembered him as a tweedy sort, almost professorial. He had a kind face.

“As it turns out, he’s been carrying a torch for me since we were kids.”

“Did he ever marry?”

“Never. Flattering, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s absolutely lovely. Very romantic,” Devon said, happy that her friend had found someone who loved her so deeply.

“Anyway, we’ll be married as soon as I’m back from Reno. Bart and I just wanted to get the holidays out of the way before telling the rest of the family.”

“Douglas doesn’t live in New York, does he?” Devon asked, worried about losing touch with her friend. She wondered if John would be angry at Sydney on behalf of Bart.