Oubliette by M J Moores

Author:M J Moores
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781988044156
Publisher: Infinite Pathways Press
Published: 2019-08-16T04:00:00+00:00

Fall down Seven Times, Get up Eight

R ain soaked through Louisa’s black chemise. It clung to her form, clearly marking her as a woman, not that anyone would notice at this time of night. Her foot slipped on the broad wooden pole. She sank into a bend with the opposite knee and wobbled.

“Get yo ahms out. Birds fly, not fall,” Joe drawled, his deep, southern accent dancing between the drops of rain.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered.

“How are you goin’ ta sneak up on someone if dey can hear you?”

“Only you can hear me.” Louisa scowled. The rain disappeared as fast as it had come—not nearly enough to sate the drought, but more than enough to cause havoc on her training course.

Now steady, she used her arms to keep balance as she finished crossing the equestrian jump-bar—set to the highest run. Louisa leaped off the end in front of the bartender.

Joe closed the umbrella and leaned on the handle. One dark eye stared at her, the other looked through her even though its blank white orb professed a lack of sight. Louisa shivered and adjusted her leather mask. The pheasant feathers molded to her hair in the damp.

“Head into the barn and give me twenty,” Joe said.

Louisa clenched her teeth, turned, and did as she was told, biting back a sigh and another curse. She slipped past the man door and wiped her hands on her wet hose. The leather of the corset bit into her sore ribs, but only a dull throb remained of last week’s ignorance. Joe insisted if he trained her, she had to learn to move in it even when injured. Morrie’s bartender kept her to task, something she was certain he’d experienced under far worse conditions.

She waved her hands in the air as a warm snort greeted her over the first stall door. Louisa moved to the empty stall beside Kisber, the thoroughbred racer, and across from Prancer, the first British horse to participate in the show at the Agricultural Hall in Islington this past summer. Of course, only the horses knew she and Joe were there, and they didn’t mind the company. Once in position, Louisa jumped up to hang from the metal pole spanning the breadth of the open stall door.

“Turn ‘round,” Joe crooned, his voice matching the earthy tones that came from the piano at the bar.

She scowled but did as instructed and rotated herself in the air, moist hands slipping on the slick metal.

He beat the wooden floorboard with the umbrella, a strong, steady rhythm, and chanted.

Hoe Emma Hoe, you turn around dig a hole in the ground, Hoe Emma Hoe.

Hoe Emma Hoe, you turn around dig a hole in the ground, Hoe Emma Hoe.

Emma, you from the country.

Hoe Emma Hoe, you turn around dig a hole in the ground, Hoe Emma Hoe.

Emma help me to pull these weeds.

Hoe Emma Hoe, you turn around dig a hole in the ground, Hoe Emma Hoe.

Emma work harder than two grown men.

Hoe Emma Hoe, you turn around dig a hole in the ground, Hoe Emma Hoe.

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