by Mary Nichols
He walked beside her to where the old coach had been left and she climbed up on the driving seat with Luke beside her. She had driven the new carriage in the park once or twice, but not this bulky coach and not in heavy traffic and she was more than a little nervous. But she had to pretend to be confident because Mrs Stebbings and several of the others had come out to see them go.
She waved cheerily to them and picked up the reins, while Luke muttered instructions. It was not as bad as she feared. The horses were nearly as ancient as the coach and they were quite content to set off at a steady plod.
‘Keep ’em walkin’, Miss Sophie,’ Luke said. ‘But keep a tight rein in case they’re spooked by the traffic.’
She obeyed and slowly the nervousness left her and she began to enjoy herself. This was better than sitting over the teacups listening to the latest on dit. In fact, the whole day had been very rewarding, except for Luke’s accident. She felt responsible for that and very concerned about him.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked him, when she had safely negotiated the worst of the traffic around Covent Garden, most of it empty farm carts, which were being driven home after a successful day’s trading in the market. ‘Is it very painful?’
‘It ain’t too bad, Miss Sophie,’ he said stoically. ‘But what are we going to tell Lady Fitzpatrick? If she was to ask me to drive the carriage this evening…’
She hadn’t thought of that. ‘Goodness, we shall have to think of something. How could you have sustained a cut like that while driving me out shopping?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said gloomily. ‘I wish I’d never let you coax me into this humbug, Miss Sophie. It’ll get me the bag for sure.’
‘You won’t be turned off, Luke, you are employed by Mr Hundon, not Lady Fitzpatrick.’
‘But we gotta tell ’er something.’
‘Yes, we must,’ she said, turning into Oxford Street. It was crammed with vehicles of all kinds, from high-perch phaetons to sedan chairs, heavy drays to stage coaches laden with passengers. There were beggars in the gutter, pedestrians on the pavement, hawkers plying their wares from trays and here and there a stationary vehicle to negotiate. It was a minute of two before she felt confident enough to put her mind to other things besides her driving. ‘I think you must have done something heroic,’ she said, at length. ‘Then everyone will be all sympathy and allow you to rest and recover.’
‘On my life, Miss Sophie, I ain’t no ’ero.’
She had enough to do concentrating on the road and trying to think of something Luke could have done to sustain his injuries, without further distraction. But there was no mistaking the tall figure of Viscount Braybrooke, standing on the side of the road, watching her with a such a look of amazement on his face, she could not help breaking into a smile. He was elegantly dressed in a dark green superfine frockcoat and biscuit pantaloons, his dark curls peeping beneath a shiny brown beaver. Mischievously she wondered whether to stop and offer him a lift and if he would be too proud to accept it, but before she could pull the horses up she heard shouting ahead of her.
She looked up to see a curricle bearing down on them at great speed. There was no driver but a little boy was clinging to its sides, so terrified he could not even cry out. Everything in its path was being frantically pulled to the side out of its way. Pedestrians were fleeing in all directions, some of them screaming. Lady Fitzpatrick’s old coach was too cumbersome and the horses to old to move fast and though Sophie did her best, it seemed a collision was inevitable.
Sophie’s only thought was for the poor little boy. She hauled on the reins, helped by a one-handed Luke and the curricle hurtled alongside so close they almost touched. Luke was down like a shot long before they pulled to a halt and made a grab for the reins of the runaway horse, as it passed. He was not alone. Richard had moved equally fast and was on the other side. Sophie watched in horror as the terrified horse dragged them both along the street.
The vehicle was bouncing from side to side and the little boy in danger of being thrown out. Sophie jumped down and ran along the road, desperate to save him, though how she thought she could do it, she did not know. The panicking horse, trying to throw off the two men who impeded its progress, halted suddenly and reared up. The curricle turned over and Sophie heard the little boy scream. Then everything stopped.
The horse stood still; the curricle lay on its side, the uppermost wheel still spinning; Luke and Richard, both battered and bruised, were too winded to move. The bystanders were doing no more than gape. To Sophie, running towards it, the whole thing seemed like a set tableau and she was the only one capable of action.
And then everything started again. The little boy began to cry, proving he was still alive, Richard left Luke calming the horse and ran to the overturned curricle, the bystanders began to crowd round all talking at once, and Sophie reached Richard’s side. Without speaking, they lifted the little boy out. He was about six or seven years old, his small face deathly white and his eyes wide with terror.
Sophie picked up one of the seat cushions which had been thrown out and put it on the ground, so that she could sit down and nurse him. He was badly shocked and there was a nasty bruise on the side of his head, but a quick examination by Richard established that no bones were broken.
‘Thank heaven for that,’ she said, stroking the boy’s tumbled curls away from his face and wiping his tears away with her handkerchief, while Richard dispersed the spectators with such an air of authority it did not occur to them to do other than obey. ‘He’s had a lucky escape. I wonder where his parents are.’
‘I don’t know,’ Richard said grimly, looking back along the street. ‘I shall certainly have something to say to them, when I see them. How could they be so irresponsible as to leave a small child alone in a vehicle like that?’
He looked down at Sophie. Her face was dreadfully pale and there were smudges below her eyes. Her gown, visible beneath the grey cloak, was grubby and her hands, tenderly ministering to the child, seemed workworn, her usually well-buffed nails broken. What in heaven’s name had she been up to? But the child did not care about that. He was lying in her arms, his head against her soft breast, while she stroked his hair and talked soothingly to him, with an expression of such compassion and love, Richard’s heart turned a somersault in his breast.
‘What’s your name?’ Sophie asked him but he looked blankly at her.
‘Ne comprends pas.’
Sophie smiled and tried again. ‘Qu’est-ce que t’appelle-toi?’
‘Pierre Latour.’
‘Je m’appelle Sophie,’ she said. ‘You are quite safe now. Where are your parents?’
He turned and buried his head in her breast, crying for his mama and talking in rapid French, which Richard found very difficult to follow, punctuated as it was by sobs.
‘He says his papa left the carriage to ask directions and the horse bolted. His father tried to stop it but was hit by the wheel,’ Sophie translated without even thinking.
‘Then he must be lying injured in the road. I’ll go and look for him.’
But before he could go, a man limped towards them, his fine clothes torn and muddy and his expression distraught. He rushed up to the child. ‘Pierre! Mon pauvre fils!’
‘Papa!’ The boy reached out and was enfolded in his father’s arms.
‘Merci, merci, madame,’ the man said to Sophie.
Sophie smiled and, relieved of her burden, stood up. Now it was all over, she felt weak and stiff. She took a step and stumbled, but before she could fall, Richard reached out and pulled her towards him, supporting her with his arm around her. It was comforting there and she did not move away.
Monsieur Latour had been speaking to his son and now he turned to Richard and Sophie to thank them, explaining that he was a diplomat and had come to England as part of a delegation. His wife had never visited England and so he had brought her and their son with him. He had hired the curricle to show them some of London. He had left his wife at t
he mantua-makers and taken Pierre for a turn about the park before returning for her and they had lost their way.
He had stepped down to ask directions and something had spooked the horse. He was eternally grateful to monsieur and madame for looking after the child. Now, he must go and find his wife, she would be beside herself with worry. All this was said in rapid French which Richard had great difficulty following. Not so Sophie, who answered so fluently he was astonished.
Luke had calmed the horse and enlisted the help of bystanders to right the vehicle, but it was in a sorry state. ‘The wheels might turn, but I wouldn’t like to try and drive it,’ he said.
Sophie immediately offered to take the Frenchman to his destination, forgetting that Luke could not drive. In fact, his struggle with the horse had set his hand bleeding again and the bandages were stained red with his blood.
‘Very tender-hearted of you, my dear,’ Richard murmured close to her ear. ‘But perhaps the gentleman does not have my confidence in your ability as a whipster.’
‘What are we to do then?’ she asked. ‘We cannot abandon them.’
‘Then I had better drive.’
‘My lord, I am sure you have other things to do. An appointment perhaps.’
‘Nothing of any import,’ he said. ‘I cannot simply walk away, can I?’
‘N…no, but—’
‘Your French is unquestionably better than mine,’ he went on before she could find any more objections. ‘Tell the gentleman I shall be pleased to drive him. Then lead the way back to that bone-breaker you call a coach. The sooner we reunite the boy with his mama, the better. He should see a doctor and so should your groom. We shall take him, after we have discharged our duty to the Frenchman.’
She knew it would do no good arguing with him but, in truth, she was feeling very shaky and very tired and thankful to have someone with an air of authority to take charge. The Frenchman and his son took their places with her inside the coach alongside the brooms and bucket, while Richard hitched the horse from the curricle to the back of the coach. The vehicle itself was abandoned and would have to be fetched by the hire company. Luke managed to climb up to the driver’s seat, where Richard joined him.
It took Sophie a few minutes to establish which mantua-maker Madame Latour was visiting, but it was not far away and the little boy was soon reunited with his mother, who had been standing outside the shop looking this way and that in growing panic. When she saw the state of her husband and son, she all but fainted and then burst into tears. It took Monsieur Latour a little time to convince her that he was not hurt and there was nothing to get into hysterics about. Eventually she joined him and their son in the coach and were conveyed to their hotel where a doctor was sent for and the runaway horse was handed over to one of the hotel staff to return to the hire company.
They insisted on Luke, the hero, being administered to after the doctor had treated Pierre and given him a sleeping draught, and it was very late when they took their leave.
‘I am afraid Lady Fitz and Charlotte will be wondering what has become of me,’ she said, as Richard escorted her back to her coach.
‘That, my dear Miss Hundon, is an understatement. The sooner we have you safely home, the better.’
It was then she realised that he intended to continue his mission of mercy. And though half of her wanted him to stay, wanted his support, the other half told her it would be dangerous to her hard-won independence. ‘My lord, there is no need to accompany me,’ she protested. ‘I admit I was a little shaky, but I am fully recovered now and perfectly able to drive.’
He smiled. ‘I should be a poor tool, indeed, if I allowed that. And no doubt you will have some explaining to do to your patroness. I should hate to see you roasted, so I shall come to lend you support.’ He turned to Luke, who was looking decidedly green after having his old dressing removed and several stitches inserted in the wound to his hand. ‘Get inside, old fellow. Miss Hundon can ride on the box with me. It is a position she seems to prefer.’
‘Yes, do it, Luke,’ Sophie said, as he hesitated. ‘I do not want you fainting and falling off.’
Reluctantly he climbed in and Richard helped Sophie up on the driver’s seat before taking his place beside her.
‘Now,’ he said, as he took up the reins and the coach moved. ‘I should very much like to know what deep game you are playing.’
‘Game, my lord,’ she repeated innocently. ‘There is no game. I came out shopping and you saw what happened.’
‘Shopping for buckets and brooms, I assume.’
So he had noticed them! ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘What a hum!’
‘My lord,’ she said, mustering her dignity, ‘I am not accustomed to being called a liar.’
‘Then you had better become accustomed to it or resolve to tell the truth from now on.’ He turned to glance down at her. ‘Do you usually go shopping in dirty clothes, with smudges on your face?’
‘Have I?’ she asked, momentarily diverted and scrubbing at her cheeks with the handkerchief she had used to mop up Pierre’s tears, which made her even grubbier.
He laughed, loving her whatever she was wearing and however dishevelled she was. In fact it made her even more appealing. ‘You look like an urchin.’
She managed a wan smile. ‘It is not to be wondered at, is it? I have been sitting on the ground, comforting a small boy.’
‘Oh, it didn’t happen then,’ he said airily. ‘Certainly not all of it.’
It was not a question and so she declined to confirm or deny it. ‘And you are no picture of elegance, my lord. In truth, I do not think you are in a fit state to go visiting. Your sleeve is torn and you have lost your hat, not to mention scratches and bruises on your hands.’ She glanced down at them as she spoke. Big, tanned, capable hands, hands which had recently been about her waist, hands which had caressed her and comforted her, hands that bore the scars of his efforts to stop the runaway curricle; hands she longed to take in her own and put to her lips.
‘Touché, my dear,’ he said with a smile. ‘But the more determined you are that I shall not take you home, the more determined I become that I shall. I am interested to know what Banbury tale you will tell to explain your tardiness.’
‘The overturned curricle, my lord. You can bear witness to that.’
‘Oh, I am to compound your mischief by telling half-truths, am I? And I suppose your coachman sustained his injuries stopping the runaway horse.’
‘It certainly made his hand worse, it was only a scratch before that.’
‘Do you take me for a flat, Miss Hundon? You would hardly put half a yard of bandage on a scratch and you forget I saw it when the doctor stitched it. It is a severe cut. And whatever your activities this afternoon, they were not those usually indulged in by well brought-up young ladies.’
She had to put an end to his questions somehow. ‘My lord, you said you would hate to see me roasted and then you proceed to do exactly that. It is very uncivil of you. What I do with my time is my own business; if it had not been for the accident, I would have been home in good time for dinner at five and no explanations would have been necessary. I beg of you to desist from quizzing me.’
‘And will you desist from bamming me?’
She did not answer and he turned in his seat to look at her. There were tears glistening on her lashes and he was suddenly filled with compassion. He wanted to stop the carriage, to take her in his arms and tell her that whatever she did made no difference to how he felt about her, that his search for a wife had been no more than a half-hearted effort to appease his grandfather and he had long ago become heartily sick of it. ‘Oh, my dear Miss Hundon, forgive me. I had no right to go on so, when you have had such a dreadful day.’
‘I have not had a dreadful day,’ she contradicted, regaining her spirit suddenly. ‘I have had a very good day. It is others who have suffered, not me. That poor little boy and Luke. Even you. You must be in great haste to return home to change your cloth
es and put some salve on your hands, I am sure they are very painful. Do see if you can put a little life in the horses.’
‘I comprehend the game must be played to its end,’ he said, as he urged the horses into something resembling a trot. ‘I do hope, my dear Miss Hundon, you will not come out the loser.’
It was no comfort at all to her; she was already the loser and though she wanted to tell him that she was not his Miss Hundon, dear or otherwise, she decided she had nothing to gain by confession. She wasn’t the only one playing a game; he had been indulging in one himself, pretending to be looking for a wife, setting all the young ladies into a twitter, when his choice had already been made.
The rest of the short journey was made in silence. At its end he saw her safely into the drawing room, paid his respects to her ladyship and withdrew, leaving Sophie to tell the tale in whatever way served her purpose. But it wasn’t the end; his curiosity had been aroused and until he had satisfied it, he would not say anything of what was in his heart.
Chapter Six
Lady Fitzpatrick and the girls were taking tea with Lady Gosport and a group of her friends two days later and the talk was all of the accident to the curricle.
‘Poor Luke was dreadfully injured,’ Lady Fitzpatrick said. ‘And Sophie came home covered in blood and dirt and with her hair all falling out of its pins. I never saw the like.’
‘I was not hurt, my lady,’ Sophie said, squirming uncomfortably. ‘I beg you do not refine upon it.’
Her ladyship ignored her. ‘And it was so late I had twice put back dinner and then Cook said if she did not serve it at once it would be quite spoiled, so I allowed Tilly to bring it in. But I could not eat a morsel of it, fearing some terrible fate had befallen Sophie. Charlotte was weeping and would not be comforted, not that I had any comfort to offer, for I had not. There are so many villains about, especially with all the soldiers abroad on the streets.’
‘The soldiers cannot help it if they have no work and nowhere to go,’ Sophie said. ‘It is not right to blame them for every misdemeanour in town. I was in no danger with Luke beside me.’
