Saying that Jo wasn’t brave would be akin to saying that Amy wasn’t an artist, though her paintings sit in white marbled galleries all over Europe, or Beth wasn’t a pianist, though her long slender fingers made men weep as they fluttered along the ivory keys. The fact of the matter was that the saddled and bridled horse did not fancy Jo one bit, snorting and moving aside when she came near to mount upon his back for her evening ride about Sir Walter’s immense grounds.

The groomsman, dressed in clothes far too fine to be mucking out stalls, carrying bales of hay, or brushing down manes until they shine, stood stoicly at the bridle, his moustache not even twitching a bit to give away his amusement at the stallion’s recent change of heart about the whole outing.

Undeterred, Jo moved to the other side of the horse, taking care to go around the horse from the front instead of the powerful, unpredictable, and unguarded rear, whose kick would send her sprawling. She hefted herself with ease into the saddle, …