Phoebe reluctantly gathered up her quill and paper. “If I don’t like it, you will not insist I go on?”

“I will undertake to ensure that you do like it,” he said with conviction, ushering her into the corridor. “Go and change that gown to something a little less suited to a palace drawing room… oh, and don’t forget britches. You cannot ride astride without them. Borrow Olivia’s if you have none of your own.”

“Olivia’s a different shape,” Phoebe pointed out. “Her legs are longer and she has no hips.”

Cato dismissed this irrelevance with a wave, and Phoebe went off in search of Olivia with something less than enthusiasm.

Cato was waiting for her in the hall, tapping his riding whip against his boots, when she trailed downstairs again twenty minutes later, her expression martyred. Olivia’s britches were a disaster; she’d had to roll them up at the waist and leave all the buttons undone. The muddle wasn’t visible beneath her old gown, but she felt like a particularly ill wrapped parcel nevertheless.

“What took you so long?” Cato turned to the front door impatiently.

Phoebe ignored the question. She tugged uncomfortably at her bunched-up waist. “Why must I do this? I’ve managed perfectly well until now.” She hesitated on the bottom step. “I ride pillion if I must ride.”

“Trust me.” Cato turned back and took her hand. He led her firmly to the stable.

Phoebe was relieved to see that the mare was quite small and had a reassuringly broad back. The horse stood docilely at the mounting block, her bridle held by a groom. She turned her head in an incurious stare as Phoebe, still firmly led by her husband, approached across the straw-strewn cobbles.

“Touch her nose,” Cato instructed.

Obediently Phoebe darted a finger, brushed the velvety tip of the mare’s nose, and then retracted her hand with the air of one who has done a job well.

“Stroke her neck… here.” In demonstration, Cato drew his hand down the hollow of the mare’s neck. The animal raised her head and whickered.

Phoebe jumped back.

“Don’t be silly, Phoebe!” Cato took her hand and placed it on the hollow. “Now, she’s called Sorrel. Just speak to her. Call her by name so she gets to know your voice.”

“I don’t see any point talking to horses. It isn’t as if they can talk back,” Phoebe said, trying to pull her hand free. Cato’s fingers closed more tightly over her wrist and kept her hand where it was. Phoebe eyed the little ripples running along the mare’s withers. The smell of horseflesh filled her nostrils and Phoebe’s nose wrinkled. She was very conscious of the heat of the mare’s skin beneath her hand. She tried again to pull it free and this time Cato released his hold.

But the reprieve was only momentary.

“Mount up now,” Cato instructed. “Use the block.”

There seemed nothing for it. Phoebe lifted her leg onto the block and stepped onto the hem of her full skirt. There was a rending sound as the hem tore.

“Now look what’s happened!” She glared at Cato. “It’s ruined. I can’t do this in an ordinary gown. Why don’t I wait until I have a proper habit?”

The hopeful suggestion fell on stony ground. “You go around looking like a scarecrow most of the time as it is,” he said without a flicker of sympathy. “Just get on with it, we don’t have all day.” He put both hands beneath her rear and shoved her unceremoniously upward onto the mounting block.

“Put your foot in the stirrup, hold the pommel, and pull yourself up and over… surely you’ve mounted a horse before.”

“Why won’t she run away with me?” Phoebe demanded. “Every other horse I’ve ever mounted has done so. Why’s this one going to be any different?”

“Because I’m going to be holding her,” Cato said, taking the bridle from the groom. “She’s not going anywhere. Just hitch up your skirts; the britches will ensure decency.”

“That’s what you think,” Phoebe muttered. She hitched up her skirts, thrust her foot into the stirrup, grabbed the pommel, and heaved herself up, swinging her leg over the saddle and thumping down. The horse shifted on the cobbles as it felt her weight. Phoebe gave a cry of alarm and clung to the pommel.

“Relax,” Cato said, which struck Phoebe as a senseless command. Cato attached a long leading rein to the mare’s bridle and led her across the stable yard towards the home paddock, Phoebe muttering to herself and hanging on for dear life.

In the paddock, Cato stepped away from the mare, paying out the leading rein. Phoebe gazed at him in alarm. “Where are you going?”

“I’m still holding her. Let go the pommel and take up the reins.”

“This is such a bad idea,” Phoebe complained, doing as she was told. “I can’t tell you what a bad idea this is.”

“On the contrary, it’s an excellent idea.”

Cato instructed the mare to walk on, and she started forward placidly around the paddock at the end of the long rein while Cato remained standing in the center of the field.

There seemed nothing for it but to grit her teeth and endure. Phoebe clung grimly to the reins, closed her eyes, and prayed for it soon to be over.

“You’re sitting like a sack of potatoes,” Cato chided. “Sit up straight… put your shoulders back. There’s no need to grip the reins so tightly… For God’s sake, Phoebe, open your eyes!”

Phoebe opened them. There didn’t seem anything of the least interest to see. She closed them again and jounced in the saddle, her jaw aching with the effort to keep her teeth from clattering under the unstable motion of the horse.

“Oh, this is ridiculous.” Cato signaled to the horse to stop. He came across the paddock, reeling in the leading rein. “I have never seen anything so pathetic, Phoebe! I am losing patience.”

“Well, what do you expect me to do?” Phoebe exclaimed.

“I expect you to keep your eyes open, your hands off the pommel.” Cato spoke with exaggerated patience. “I expect you to sit up straight, grip the saddle with your knees, and for God’s sake, girl, relax!”

“Well, where do I put my hands if I don’t hold the pommel?”

“You hold the reins loosely, fingers like this.” He reached up and grabbed her hands, roughly adjusting her fingers. “The reins have to lie just so. D’you see?”

Sorrel, taking advantage of the break in the proceedings, bent her head to crop the grass, and Phoebe grabbed the pommel again with another cry of alarm as the mare’s neck offered a glossy slide to the ground.

“Pull her head up,” Cato said tautly.

“It won’t come,” Phoebe said as she gave a little tug on the reins. “She’s not going to take any notice of me.”

“No, of course she’s not if you sit there like a blancmange. You have no more backbone than a vanilla custard.” Cato put his hand against her spine. “Sit up straight!”

Grimly Phoebe straightened her spine against his hand.

“Now take a firm hold of the reins and pull her head up. She needs to know who’s master.”

“Oh, I think she knows that already,” Phoebe muttered again, giving a tentative tug on the reins. To her relief, Sorrel had decided she’d had enough of the icy grass and lifted her head apparently to order.

“That’s better. Now we’ll try a trot.” Cato stepped back again, paying out the leading rein. “You have to rise up in the stirrups… no, for heaven’s sake. What’s the matter with you? Feel the rhythm of the horse. Can’t you feel it?”

Phoebe could feel it in her teeth. She couldn’t imagine a more uncomfortable, unnatural motion for a human to be involved in.

“This is just ridiculous,” Cato declared, drawing Sorrel to a halt again. He came back towards her. “I have never seen anyone so completely at odds with a horse. I have been trying to explain – ”

“No, you haven’t. You’ve been shouting at me!” Phoebe cried, now pushed beyond bearing. “I’m doing the best I can, but I take leave to tell you, my lord, that you’re a horrid teacher! You have no patience at all! No one could learn anything from you.”