I was certain my father and my loathsome fiancé would not dream of finding me in Yorkshire of all places. My maid was from this part of the world and she often talked of home and how you could lose yourself in a big industrial city. I knew no one else from the North, so the chance of being discovered was slim, as long as I was careful. So, I wore my plainest coat and dress, sturdy lace-up boots, and travelled light. I brought no luggage, having no need for the fine ball gowns and tiaras that had been part of my life as the debutante, Lady Rose Elliot-Cavendish in Hertfordshire. 

On arriving at Forster Square Station, in a second-class carriage so as not to draw attention, I wandered aimlessly into the depths of the city. I had fled my home in the early hours before the servants were up lighting fires. I knew not where I was headed except that I should avoid any grand hotels or more affluent areas just in case I was recognised. You could never be too careful in the society I was raised in. The southern aristocracy was spreading their wings and taking advantage of a workforce newly returned from the war. Money was to be made and getting your hands dirty in the north was becoming more acceptable.

Huge dark factories built from distinctive Yorkshire stone towered above me, pumping out smoke and fumes that choked the air grey. Combined with the dirt, noise, and bustle of the city, it was all alien to me. My earlier purpose and bravado slipped away. I had a plan that had worked so far; I’d escaped my dire circumstances but what I was to do now I had no idea. Dusk was setting, workers were pouring out of the factories and I picked my way through them as they, with their weary limbs, trudged along with heads down to homes or pubs. Despair began to hit, but then I saw the horse.

He was a huge dappled grey with a long flowing mane which he tossed with impatience, stamping and pawing at the black coals which lay like a glistening carpet on the road. Either side of him were open workhouses where the clang of metal on metal followed flashes of burning furnaces. The air here was even thicker from the heat and smoke. He was magnificent and misplaced in this humble setting, like a knight’s charger from medieval times. I approached him, cooing softly so as not to cause him to startle. He was already working himself up into a fizz. His highly polished leather tack screamed money. Who on earth could own such a horse in such a low place?

The horse was tethered to a post outside a pub. From the rowdy noise emerging from the double swing doors, an evening of hell-raising lay ahead. The street was busy, people were coming and going at the end of a long working day. Workmen with faces blackened with soot on their way for a hard-earned pint. Children, dressed in little more than rags were playing amongst the muck and mess, staying out until their mothers came calling to bring them home for tea. They stared as they passed me, whispering and shaking their heads. I imagined that they too were surprised at the sight of such a horse, but I was soon to find out that I was the cause of the gossip.

“You’re a beauty, settle down.” I reached up, sweeping his forelock aside to rub underneath. A calming technique that usually helped the most fractious of animals in my care. He wore a double bridle with a Pelham bit. Looking at the power in his arched neck, I could tell immediately he was a stallion without even looking in the obvious place for confirmation. He would need a strong and empathetic rider to keep him under control. I toyed with the idea of springing lightly up onto his back and galloping away. I could live like a nomad, using my wits for survival. There was nothing for me to lose and the romantic notion of escaping my troubles on horseback felt wild and so unlike my ordered life back in Hertfordshire. Discreetly, I felt for the knot that tethered him to the post, looking around to see if anyone had noticed but it was a complicated one and not easy to untie. 

I fumbled for a few moments until a coil of tobacco smoke wreathed into view and the sound of a throat being cleared startled me. I whipped around guiltily. A man stood watching intently. His eyes were the bluest of blue and topped by cheekbones that could have been carved by a great artist. His age was hard to say, he was surely not yet thirty but had the appearance of a man who had seen things too young. He was dressed sharply in an immaculate tweed suit, finished with the flat cap of a Yorkshireman. 

“Are you trying to steal my horse?” he said, tilting his head and inhaling a hit of smoke that curled seductively out of his mouth. His voice was calm, deep, and assured in complete contrast from the question, the sort of which you would expect to be shouted instead of stated conversationally. It was unnerving. 

The stallion unhelpfully decided to give me a huge shove with his nose at that point, so I was catapulted three feet forward. We were now uncomfortably close and I needed to give him an answer. 

A group of men had started to convene around us. They added to the intimidating atmosphere. The pub doors swung open as a couple more joined the fray. I didn’t like where this was heading. 

“What’s going on with the lass, Conor?” jeered a booming voice in a strong Yorkshire accent. The man was bigger than the handsome man in front of me and had the look of someone who liked his drink but also put his body to work every day. 

“Go back inside, Ernest,” said Conor. “Take the rest of the men with you.” I was struck how every man obeyed immediately without question and in a few moments, the road had cleared and we were practically alone. Even the blacksmith furnaces seemed to have stilled at his request. 

After this brief interlude, his attention was solely back on me. 

“I’d think carefully about what you are going to say.” There was an edge in his voice that was not hard to miss but still, he kept his composure. 

He was clearly well respected, but I had a growing feeling of unease that he was feared too. And yet, his eyes expressed kindness. He was giving me a chance, to tell the truth. I was alone in an unfamiliar city, with not even a place to stay and no idea of how I was to support myself while running away from my past. Maybe he would help me. So, I told him the truth. Well almost. 

“I thought about stealing him, yes,” I admitted. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

He flicked his cigarette away and nodded. 

“An honest thief. Admirable. You’re from London, Miss?”

I tried to tone down my upper cut-glass accent when I responded. No need to tell him exactly where I was from. London was near enough to Hertfordshire. I nodded and told him my name, dropping the title and the hyphenation. “Miss Rosie Elliot.”

He reached out his hand which I took. The touch of skin on skin jolted me somehow. His grip was firm, business-like even but still, I caught my breath slightly as we touched.

“Conor Kendal,” he said. “This is my new horse. Just picked him up today and brought him here to be re-shod. You like horses then?”

“Yes, I’ve been riding since I was young. What’s his name?”

“Doesn’t have a name yet. Nearly didn’t get a chance to name him if you had stolen him away, now eh?”

I hung my head. “Are you going to inform the police?” That would be the end of my short-lived adventure. If they checked my records and found that I was Lady Rose Elliot-Cavendish of Hertford, I’d be packed back home to hell. The alarm that I was missing would be raised by now.

           He seemed to find this amusing. “No, I’ll not tell the police, but you need to tell me why you were desperate enough to stoop to such a crime.” He tutted theatrically and shook his head. “From me of all people.”

           “I don’t know who you are,” I said truthfully.

           “You will, Miss Elliot.” He looked me up and down. “You look like you don’t belong here. Your clothes are too good to be a...”. He stopped himself from saying what he was thinking.

           “A what?” I asked, intrigued to know how my previously well thought out outfit appeared to him.

           He paused, then spoke. “A woman who keeps the company of men. At night.”

           My mouth dropped open. I knew that Yorkshire folk were blunt but I’d not heard a man talk like that before and I think he comprehended the shock on my face.

           “I am certainly not a …not that.”

           “Fair enough,” he said with the suggestion of amusement. “What are you then and why are you in Bradford? Have you no friends here?” 

           To hell with it. I wasn’t sure what his intentions were. I’d admitted to nearly carrying out a crime against him, so my fate was in his gift. He was right. It was a reckless thing to do but my situation was dire. My escape from an arranged marriage and fleeing from my parent’s estate was too much to bear. I bit back a lump rising in my throat, determined not to break in front of this man.

Maybe he sensed my emotion because his voice changed from playful to thoughtful. 

“Have you a place to stay?”

“Not as yet, no,” I admitted.

“Money?” 

“A little.” I also had a few jewels taken from the family safe that were creatively hidden in my undergarments but not much cash to speak of. 

“Sounds like you need help, Miss Elliot,” he stated and lit another cigarette. 

I straightened up. “I’m sure I will be fine.” 

“Aye,” he said. I could tell that he saw through my false confidence. “It’s getting late, soon the city will be full of drunks, robbers, and very bad men. I can find you somewhere to stay. Somewhere safe. Then we can talk. What say you? It’s your choice or you can take your chance and walk away freely as you wish.” 

Declining his offer would be foolish. I knew that. He would have allowed me to go on my way, but I owed him an explanation. I wanted to trust him, so I nodded and mumbled my appreciation. He untied the stallion. 

“Tricky knot,” I said.

A ghost of a smile graced his lips. “Stops your horse from being stolen.”

My cheeks heated. I admired the way he effortlessly mounted the huge horse. His seat was natural and light. The stallion was raring to go as it waited for his master’s signal. He reached down. “Take my hand. Up you get.”

I sprang up lightly behind him, assisted by his strong pull.

“Hold on tight. Arms around my waist.” 

The closest I’d been to a man before was dancing at the many balls that I needed to attend at the request of my father. This position felt more intimate than a waltz. My heart raced as I breathed in his masculine scent and felt his lean musculature as I encircled my arms around him as directed.

We rode through the darkening streets. Virtually every person tipped their hat as we passed. It was as if I was being escorted by a King.