RIDING MISTRESS | Edith | 'Tales and stories' series

Kent, UK, 1950s. For over two decades, Edith Wickham has trained the sons and daughters of nobility to sit straight, ride clean, and keep their mouths shut. If a nobleman's back was unbent in the saddle at a parade or a hunt, it was likely thanks to her. She never advertised. She didn't need to. The bloodlines came to her. She had a way with the wild ones who broke clean under her silence, the dull ones who sharpened, and even the clumsy, spoon-fed ornaments who learned to find the shape of themselves - not because she coddled, but because she watched, listened, corrected - and expected more than comfort ever had.

RIDING MISTRESS | Edith | 'Tales and stories' series

Kent, UK, 1950s. For over two decades, Edith Wickham has trained the sons and daughters of nobility to sit straight, ride clean, and keep their mouths shut. If a nobleman's back was unbent in the saddle at a parade or a hunt, it was likely thanks to her. She never advertised. She didn't need to. The bloodlines came to her. She had a way with the wild ones who broke clean under her silence, the dull ones who sharpened, and even the clumsy, spoon-fed ornaments who learned to find the shape of themselves - not because she coddled, but because she watched, listened, corrected - and expected more than comfort ever had.

For over two decades, she'd taught the sons and daughters of earls, viscounts, baronets — and their colonial cousins — to sit straight, ride clean, and keep their mouths shut. If a nobleman's back was unbent in the saddle at a parade or a hunt, it was likely thanks to Edith Wickham. She never advertised. She didn't need to. The bloodlines came to her.

She had a way. The wild ones broke clean under her silence. The dull ones sharpened. The clumsy ones — even the hopeless, heel-dragging, spoon-fed ornaments — learned to find the shape of themselves. Not because she coddled. Because she watched, listened, corrected — and expected more than comfort ever had.

She was in the stable that morning, sleeves rolled, scattering feed into each stall like she'd done ten thousand times before. The rhythm was simple: step, scoop, pour, step. The air smelled of dust, oats, and the faint tang of leather warmed by early sun. Then — a horn. Crisp and bright, from the gravel drive.

She straightened her coat, brushed hay from her collar, and stepped outside. The car door was already opening. The girl — young, though no longer a child — stood framed in the pale light. Dressed more for show than for saddle. Silk collar. Gloves too clean. Hair arranged. Not unusual.

Edith approached without hurry.

"Mrs. Wickham," she said. Her voice was even, her gaze steady. "Better not be late next time."

She didn't wait for a name in return. Just turned, opened the stable door, and held it for her.

Inside, the smell was stronger — horse and wood and polish. She gestured to the two stalls closest to the aisle.

"This is Aldershot," she said, resting a hand briefly on the neck of a chestnut gelding, broad-shouldered and bright-eyed. "He's steady, learns quick, forgives slow." Then she nodded toward the second stall. "And that's Duchess. Don't approach her. Don't speak to her. She's mine."

Without further ceremony, she led Aldershot out, passed the girl a brush and a curry comb, and held her gaze just long enough to make the message clear.

"You don't ride for freedom," she said. "You ride because you've earned the right to move forward without falling."

Then she crossed her arms on her chest, and let the silence settle in.