by Mira Stables
Judd touched his hat in acknowledgement and retired to his box. If he was a trifle disappointed that his lordship had not required him to go forward and see what aid he could render, thus permitting him a closer view of the smash, he accepted it philosophically. He had expected nothing else. In the space of six months he had learned that Lord Skirlaugh avoided all unnecessary contact with his fellows. It was a pity, thought Judd, who, behind his slightly simian and mournful countenance, was actually a gregarious soul, but one couldn’t blame him. There was that silly besom in Watford, for instance, who had screamed blue murder at sight of milord’s face, and he, poor soul, not thinking of himself, just springing forward to help her up because she had tripped and fallen and spilled all the parcels out of her basket. Judd would not easily forget the look on his master’s face, or the voice in which he had been bidden to help the wench. He would rather have given her a piece of his mind but had not dared to do so lest his lordship should hear him.
He sucked his teeth reflectively and meditated on the ways of foolish women who cared so much for the outside of the cup and platter and little enough for what was within. His young lordship was as decent a lad as ever stepped, careful of his cattle and considerate of his servants. And a pleasant way with him of saying, ‘Thank you,’ for a man’s services, just as though he wasn’t well paid to render them. Judd was steadily coming to the opinion that in taking service with him he had made a very good move.
Evidently the accident was not of a serious nature, for it was not much more than twenty minutes before the stage coach came thundering down the road, its driver obviously anxious to make up for lost time acknowledging their presence with a cheerful twirl of his whip. Judd set his horses in motion, but held them to a walk. There was still the smashed curricle to negotiate and the road took a sharp turn to the left. That had probably caused the first accident. There was no telling what might be coming the other way, and he had no desire to end up in the ditch.
He edged his way neatly past the wreck and was just about to urge the team to greater speed when a young lady ran out into the road, waving to him to stop, and he perceived that a post-chaise was drawn up at the side of the road just in front of the curricle. A young man was stretched out on the grassy bank that bordered the road, an older female was kneeling beside him, chafing his hands in a rather ineffective way, and a postilion, wearing an air of sullen defiance, was announcing to the ambient air his determination to bide with his horses and not go for no doctor, which likely there wasn’t one any way.
“Oh! Please will you help me?” begged the lady breathlessly. “Or perhaps your master will be so kind,” she added a swift glance having shown that the solitary occupant of the coach was a gentleman. “This poor young man! He vowed he wasn’t hurt and indeed he seemed all right save for the bump on his head. One of the stage coach passengers gave him some cordial to drink from a flask that he had providentially placed in his pocket and it seemed to do him good at the time. Then, just after the stage drove off he suddenly collapsed. Miss Hetherstone and I have tried all we know to bring him round but nothing serves and the post boy won’t go for a doctor though I begged him to. Do you think your master would permit you to do so? Is he in great haste to push on? Something should be done for this poor man, even though the accident was quite his own fault.”
“You could ask him, miss,” said Judd doubtfully, and then, as she turned to do so, hitched up the reins and sprang down from the box. It might be less awkward for both parties if he did the explaining.
Damon, impatiently aware of further delay and some kind of argument going on in the road, had just leaned forward to lower the window when the two appeared outside it. Seeing a strange female he sank back hastily, averting his head and gazing straight in front of him as Judd gave a brief account of the mishap. To the watching girl he looked insufferably proud and bored. And when, instead of getting out of the coach and going to see what he could do to help, he only directed the coachman to try and discover what ailed the fellow, mounting indignation spilled over into rash words.
“I wouldn’t have asked your help, milord” — she had heard Judd address him so — “if I had known you were so puffed up with your own importance,” she told him. “How shocking that your journey should be delayed by anything so commonplace as an accident. Pray forgive me! Being myself a person of no importance at all, I wasn’t even aware that gentlemen of your consequence did not so much as deign to glance at such inferiors as ventured to approach them.”
She regretted the outburst as soon as it was made. Not that he didn’t deserve every syllable and a good deal more beside, but it was certainly not her place to take him to task, and ripping up at him in that ill-bred fashion was scarcely the way to engage his assistance for the unfortunate traveller.
For a moment it seemed as though the toplofty gentleman in the coach meant to ignore her remarks as completely as he had ignored her presence. Certainly he did not turn his head or look at her. But after a distinct pause, which left her fidgeting uncomfortably from one foot to the other wondering whether to go off after the coachman or stay where she was to outface her antagonist, he said cuttingly, “Your youth must serve as an excuse for your lack of conduct. One can only trust that you will study to behave more seemly when your schooldays are done. Meanwhile do not let me keep you from one who undoubtedly stands in more need of feminine assistance than I do.”
Fortunately, by the time that she had drawn breath adequate to the task of annihilation, Judd came running back. At the sound of the pounding footsteps the gentleman in the coach shed his air of indolence. “Serious?” he snapped, jumping down into the road without bothering to let down the steps.
“Yes, m’lord. At least, no — not the gentleman. He’s no more than dead drunk — half-sprung to start with, by what the post-boy says, and some fool on the stage knew no better than to pour half a pint of Hollands into him. It’s one of his horses. The poor brute is bleeding pretty badly from a gash in his breast. No one thought to look to them save to free them from the wreckage.”
The haughty gentleman might have appeared indifferent to the claims of suffering humanity but it was at once apparent that he had a softer heart for the animal kingdom. His long legs carried him swiftly enough to the scene of the accident and after one appraising glance he began issuing a string or orders, bidding Judd make haste and bring him clean linen from his valise — shirts would do — something to make a pad to bind over the wound. The post-boy, peremptorily bidden to go to the poor creature’s head, objected sullenly, vowing that the brute was savage. It had already tried to bite him once, and him only doing his best to get it clear of the tangle of harness.
“And a sad pity he didn’t succeed,” snapped milord. “But he’s in no case to bite you now, poor devil. You will be perfectly safe. He’s a valuable animal, too. I’ve no doubt his owner will reward you handsomely for your help in saving him.”
“Him!” snorted the post-boy in accents of deep disgust. “Him — as had no more sense than try to pass me on that bend with never a thought for what might be coming the other way? Drunk as a lord, the young care-for-naught. And hard-working lads like me, with a living to earn, we gets blamed if there’s a haccident. It’s never the quality’s fault — oh no! blood kin to half the magistrates in the county, they be. His sort isn’t fit to drive an army mule, let alone high-couraged cattle like these.”
“On that head I find myself in complete agreement with your sentiments,” said milord pleasantly, realising that a good deal of the post-boy’s contumacious attitude might be set down to the shock of his own narrow escape and to shame that he had not noticed the animal’s injury. “Very well, then, do it to oblige me, there’s a good fellow.”
To the entire amazement of one, at least, of the bystanders, the post-boy gave a shamefaced grin, and obliged. Judd having returned with his lordship’s valise, the two of them set to work to bind a firm pad in place over the ugly looking wound. It proved an awkward task. The horse w
as young and nervous, and even in his weakened state he resented the handling of strangers, plunging feebly just when he was most required to keep still. Moreover the first makeshift bandage was too short to fasten securely and the job was all to do again.
Obsessed as he was by the need to have his swab in place before the animal lost too much blood, Damon scarcely noticed at what point a fourth assistant joined the party. He snatched thankfully at the length of linen that Judd handed him without pausing to enquire where it came from, and passed it about the horse’s body. This time it was amply long enough for his purpose. But it was not until Judd took one end from him to pull it taut that he realised that the hands holding the pad in position were small and white for all their firm efficiency, and that the impudent young hoyden who had taken him to task for his manners was standing quite coolly almost under the animal’s forefeet, her cheek pressed to the quivering neck, a crooning murmur of nonsensical endearments issuing from the same soft lips that had been so prompt to pour insults upon him. However, this was no time to be considering feminine sensibilities and the wench seemed to know what she was about. Damon dismissed her from his thoughts and concentrated on the adjustment and tightening of the linen that was holding the pad in place.
“He should do now,” he said finally, standing back and surveying the patient with a critical eye. “I’ve seen animals worse wounded recover completely. But he’ll need good care for a few days. How about his owner?”
They turned with one accord to survey the curricle driver, a nattily attired young gentleman of some nineteen or twenty summers, who lay in the blissful abandon of drunken slumber, his cheek resting on a stone as confidingly as though it were his pillow. The middle-aged female who had been tending him when the rescue party arrived on the scene had retired to the post chaise and, for some inexplicable reason, had removed several portmanteaux from it. She was now engaged on repacking these, an unusual, not to say inadvisable proceeding on a gusty March day with lowering clouds promising a downpour at any moment. So intrigued was Damon by this eccentric behaviour that he momentarily forgot his disfigurement as he stared at her. By the time it had dawned upon him that that useful roll of linen had come out of one of those portmanteaux both the girl and the post-boy were gazing elsewhere. The muttered oath of the one, the sharply indrawn breath of the other had passed unnoticed.
He stooped over the slumbering youth and shook him roughly but without effect.
“It’s no kind of use, guvnor,” opined the post-boy. “I reckon he was lushy to start with, else he wouldn’t have gone for to pass me just there, and then some cove on the stage gave him gin to pull him together.”
Damon nodded. “Then we must take our own measures to see to the poor brute. His fellow will take no harm if we turn him loose in this field until his master comes to his senses. But this one needs warmth and proper attention. How far to the nearest posting inn?”
“Matter o’ seven mile, your honour,” the post-boy told him.
Damon shook his head. “He’d never make it,” he decided. “Any one hereabouts — some farmer perhaps — with a stable or barn where he could lie snug?”
The boy’s rather sulky face brightened considerably. “That there is,” he exclaimed quite eagerly. “Not a quarter of a mile away — and him my own uncle and as good a man as ever twanged. I’ll go bail for it he’ll be glad to oblige yer honour. If miss, here, will agree to it, I’ll take him now, across the fields and see him safely bestowed.”
‘Miss’ nodded vigorous approval of this suggestion, begging him only to wait till she could find her purse so that she could give him money to defray such expenses as his uncle might incur on the patient’s behalf.
“By no means, ma’am,” interposed Damon coolly. “This is my patient so it is my privilege to act the good Samaritan.” He was already slipping some coins into the boy’s ready palm and agreeing to Judd’s suggestion that he should go along to lend a hand with bedding the patient down and to make sure the bandage did not slip. “We are already so late that another hour can make small difference,” he ended resignedly, and watched the little procession set out at snail’s pace across the fields, the loose horse accompanying them in an inquisitive way as though wondering what they were doing with his stable companion.
A soft voice at his side said penitently, “Now I am truly sorry that you should have been delayed. It is all my fault, allowing myself to be taken in by that horrid drunken wretch.” She scowled darkly at the sleeper and said defensively, “But how was I to guess? I have never seen a gentleman in his cups before. I did not know that was how they behaved.”
He could not help smiling a little. “Then you are fortunate in your first experience, ma’am. Gentlemen in their cups usually give a good deal more trouble than this one. And in causing you to seek assistance, at least he did his horse a good turn. If Judd had not noticed its condition the poor creature would certainly have bled to death. Which reminds me — I believe I have you to thank for the provision of the bandage that turned the trick. You must permit me to reimburse you for that.”
“Indeed, no,” she said indignantly. “You have already paid the farmer. Am I to have no share at all in the satisfaction? As for the linen I can easily buy more when I reach London. Very likely of a finer quality, too, which will please Papa, because if he has one tiny vanity it is his pleasure in fine linen. He dearly loves horses, too, so I daresay he will consider that his new shirts were sacrificed in a good cause.”
He looked at her curiously, mildly amused by her candid remarks about her father. She was a little older than he had first thought. He had been misled, he decided, by the mouth. Her two front teeth were very slightly crossed and this gave to her upper lip an innocent childish fullness. A very kissable mouth, decided Damon impersonally. The rest of the damsel was no more than ordinarily pleasant looking. But her bearing had a confidence, her figure a rounded suppleness that suggested she was definitely out of the schoolroom. She might be eighteen and despite his first impression she was demonstrably a lady. Perhaps she, too, had been overset by the strain of a near accident, he thought charitably. Her modest travelling dress bore out her claim to social insignificance. At the moment it was sadly soiled and stained, but this she did not seem to have noticed. He wondered whither she was bound and if he ought to draw her attention to the fact that she was scarcely in a fit state to go visiting. The portmanteaux seemed to indicate a projected stay of some duration. He could not help picturing the reactions of a conventional hostess faced with such a guest.
The lady had turned her attention to the sleeping curricle driver. “What should we do about him?” she enquired hopefully, plainly expecting Damon to accept this responsibility along with the rest. “Of course he has behaved very badly, but we can scarcely leave him lying by the roadside, can we?”
Damon’s mouth twitched but he hastily controlled it. “No, indeed. It makes the place look so untidy doesn’t it? How shall we dispose of him?”
She eyes him suspiciously. “This is no time for funning, milord,” she told him severely. “If it were to come on to rain I daresay he would take a shocking cold.”
“Very probably,” agreed Damon solemnly. “And a cold can be so dangerous. It might settle on his lungs and carry him off, and then how should we feel? But before we do anything rash, may I remind you that we don’t know who he is or where he lives and that by removing him from this admittedly draughty roadside and bearing him off with us we may be subjecting his relatives to considerable anxiety. Not to mention laying ourselves open to a charge of abduction,” he concluded, his sense of the ridiculous getting the better of him at last.
“I wish you will be sensible, milord,” she repeated, her own lips quivering into laughter. “Perhaps he carries a pocket book or some letter which might furnish us with his direction. If you were to go through his pockets” — The brown eyes regarded him with a hint of mischief in their depths.
“And add highway robbery to the charge of abduction?” qu
eried Damon, laughing outright. “You are determined to get me hung or at least transported, aren’t you, ma’am? And let me inform you that there is something very distasteful about the notion of going through a man’s pockets, however charitable one’s motive.”
The girl’s face crumpled into mischievous laughter. She looked quite enchantingly different. “But for me to do so would be quite improper, as well as distasteful,” she pointed out demurely.
“Very well, ma’am. But if I am taken up by the law I shall rely upon you to give evidence in my behalf — or at least to visit me in jail,” he told her lightly, and stooped over the happy sleeper. Before, however, he could place himself in any danger of apprehension by the law, the sound of wheels caused him to look up. A farm tumbrel was coming down the road towards them. He rose to his feet, meaning to signal to the waggoner to stop, but this was unnecessary. The tumbrel was already creaking to a halt.
Its driver climbed down and approached him, surveying the scene of disaster with absorbed interest. Presently he announced, “That be young Master Ralph you got there.” He tried to squint round Damon’s tall form which chanced to come between him and the recumbent youth, gave up the attempt, and added sapiently, “Leastways that be one o’ Squoire’s match bays grazing in field yonder. What be come o’ t’other one? And be ’e ’urt bad? Master Ralph?”
“Have you come in search of him?” asked Damon, rather amused by the newcomer’s verbal economy.
“Ye might say so,” drawled the carter equably. “Though ’t were a load o’ turnips as I come arter. But Squoire said to keep an eye lifting for ’e. Rackoned ’e’d come to grief.”
“His father?” enquired Damon, interested in so Roman an approach to a son’s welfare.
The carter nodded, and stumped across to gaze with mild admiration at the sleeper. “We-ell-a-well!” he exclaimed. “Squoire said ’e was cupshotten when ’e set out. Got a proper skinful now, ain’t ’e? Reg’lar put about Squoire’ll be.”
