Chap­ter 22: Earl­shall begins a piv­otal shift in my jour­ney as Gin­ger and I are trans­port­ed from the calm and kind care of Birtwick to the grandeur and for­mal­i­ty of Earl­shall Park. The estate is vast, with well-kept grounds, a splen­did house, and spa­cious sta­bles that hint at lux­u­ry. Yet despite the sur­face ele­gance, it becomes clear that life here will be very dif­fer­ent. Mr. York, the head coach­man, greets us with a mix­ture of pro­fes­sion­al­ism and author­i­ty. He lis­tens polite­ly to John’s care­ful expla­na­tion of our histories—my steady nature and Ginger’s hard-won progress from ear­li­er mis­treat­ment. John makes a spe­cial point of warn­ing him about check-reins, stat­ing that we’ve nev­er worn them and that they might cause real dis­tress. Though York nods and assures John we will be treat­ed well, there is a cer­tain stiff­ness in his tone, hint­ing that deci­sions at Earl­shall are shaped more by rules than by under­stand­ing.

Soon, we are absorbed into the dai­ly rou­tine of Earl­shall, and our lives begin to change. The lady of the house insists on a fash­ion­able appear­ance, demand­ing the use of high check-reins for all car­riage hors­es. Though the Earl him­self shows inter­est in our well-being and express­es some sym­pa­thy with John’s advice, he ulti­mate­ly defers to his wife’s pref­er­ences. Our first ride with the reins tight­ened uncom­fort­ably high is a shock. The strain on our necks is imme­di­ate and unnat­ur­al. My mus­cles ache, and Gin­ger, once again fac­ing the restraints she had once escaped, grows vis­i­bly tense. She warns me qui­et­ly that she will not endure such treat­ment again with­out protest. Her tone is not dramatic—it’s tired, edged with the mem­o­ry of pain she thought was behind her.

Ginger’s words stay with me, and each day at Earl­shall con­firms her unease. While we are groomed with care and our sta­bles are kept clean, the work itself becomes a source of pain. The con­stant use of the check-reins forces us into posi­tions that are not only uncom­fort­able but dam­ag­ing. Breath­ing becomes hard­er, and our heads are held so unnat­u­ral­ly high that it throws off our bal­ance. What once was smooth motion now feels stiff and mechan­i­cal. The staff sees our dis­com­fort, but the sys­tem they fol­low leaves lit­tle room for adjust­ment. Even Mr. York, who seems to under­stand hors­es bet­ter than most, is unwill­ing to chal­lenge the expec­ta­tions set by the lady of the house. There is a hier­ar­chy here, and hors­es, no mat­ter how noble or will­ing, are at the bot­tom of it.

Despite the dis­com­fort, I try to adapt. Gin­ger, how­ev­er, begins to show signs of agi­ta­tion. Her ears pin back more often, her steps grow sharp, and her patience short­ens. One after­noon, while being har­nessed, she toss­es her head sharply when the reins are adjust­ed. The sta­ble hands mut­ter about her tem­per, for­get­ting how much she endured before com­ing here. They do not under­stand the toll that pain takes when endured in silence. As we are dri­ven through town, onlook­ers admire our appear­ance, obliv­i­ous to the strain behind our poised heads and arched necks. The truth is masked by pol­ished har­ness­es and well-trimmed manes.

This chap­ter cap­tures more than just a change in location—it reflects a deep­er shift in the kind of care we receive. At Birtwick, kind­ness and under­stand­ing guid­ed every action. At Earl­shall, pre­sen­ta­tion reigns supreme. The lady wants to be seen in a fine car­riage with hors­es who hold their heads high, no mat­ter the cost. The dis­com­fort we feel is jus­ti­fied by aes­thet­ics, and empa­thy gives way to tra­di­tion. Though Mr. York is not cru­el, he does not stand against what he knows to be harm­ful. For me, this place becomes one of ten­sion and qui­et endurance. For Gin­ger, it threat­ens to undo all the heal­ing she once found.

Our time at Earl­shall serves as a reminder that appear­ances can mask suf­fer­ing and that pres­tige often over­shad­ows com­pas­sion. The pol­ished image the estate presents to the world is main­tained at the expense of the ani­mals that serve it. What begins as a promis­ing new chap­ter quick­ly becomes a cau­tion­ary tale about the con­se­quences of plac­ing form above func­tion and style above well-being. Through our expe­ri­ence, the sto­ry explores the fine line between dis­ci­pline and cru­el­ty, and the qui­et but pow­er­ful resis­tance of those who have already endured too much.