by Joan Smith
The storm broke as we finished our dinner. We had tea in the Rose Saloon, while the rain beat against the windowpanes, and the wind whistled down the flue. The subject of Maisie's unrequited love did not come up again. I felt she was sorry she had told me, and meant never to say another word on the subject.
When I went up to my room, I removed the magic necklace, laid it with great ceremony in the green leather box with the green silk lining, bearing the little silver plaque, “with our extreme gratitude for your loving aid.” Was it possible the queen had one of those unrequited passions for my ancestor? If so, the historians over the centuries had missed out on it. It was mentioned in no history book I ever read. I felt cheated, somehow, that I had never had even an unrequited love. A sense of urgency amounting almost to panic consumed me. Had God forgotten all about me?
When I arose next morning, all such foolish fancies were dissipated, like the storm. I was back to my normal, assertive, sensible self, giving Booty orders how to proceed during my absence, and Berrigan a good tongue-lashing to hold him in line till I returned. I would turn him off after I got back home. A few days was not sufficient time to find a good replacement.
Three days later I had an answer from Uncle Weston, claiming an interest in the diamond necklace, but stipulating that he was short of funds and could only offer thirty-five hundred. I wrote back asserting I would take four thousand, and that I would leave the next day.
“Do you come with me or not, Maisie?” I asked as I wrote the letter. “I should tell Weston how many of us are going."
“I might as well,” she decided. “It will be dull here alone. There has been no word from Jeremy. I'll write him we are going, in case he planned to come home."
“We take more pains for the comfort of our menfolk than they take for ours."
“I knew how it would be!” she flared up in Jeremy's defense. She fancies herself quite a mother to him.
“What in the world are you talking about?"
“You're mad at him because of selling your diamonds, and the poor boy doesn't even know you are doing it. You should tell him. He'd prefer to sell Westgate."
“He couldn't care less. I'm not doing it for him, but for us. I was talking about his never writing to us."
“How many times have you written to him?"
“Once, and he didn't bother to answer. You write every week. So you are coming with me, then?"
“Yes, I'll go."
I included her name, finished up my letter and sealed it for posting. “There, the demmed thing is done,” I said crossly.
“It is not proper for a lady to say ‘demmed.’ That is fitter talk for a guttersnipe,” she called after me as I went into the hall to place my letter on the mail tray, timing her jibe so I would be sure to hear it, but not consider it worthwhile returning to retaliate. If this fit of crankiness kept up, I would be happier without her company.
Chapter 2
Our traveling carriage was not one of those dashing vehicles that ornament the roads of England. We did not hope to make eighty miles a day, or anything like it. As the crow flies, we are not more than eighty miles from Uncle Weston, but as the road meanders, it is more like a hundred. We would spend one night at an inn. We set upon Salisbury, a little more than half way, which would land us at Rusholme at midafternoon of the next day. We took our own old gray mare and brown bay for the first lap, not an elegant team, but they match the various hues of our carriage well enough. Its black has faded to gray, and would be brown before we had gone far, after the recent downpours we had been experiencing.
We left at a good hour in the morning, about nine, when the air was still fresh and not too warm. Maisie wore her second-best suit, saving her better outfits for the visit at Rusholme. I, the peacock, was unwise enough to wear my new jonquil muslin with a matching spencer that could be removed if the day became too warm. I had my diamonds tucked into my reticule, determined the bag would not leave my fingers till we reached our destination.
I swear we had not been on the road more than two hours, were not yet at Devizes, when it happened. The road was sparsely traveled, but some jackanapes of a fellow came roaring up at us from behind, going fifteen or sixteen miles an hour. I assumed he was one of those Corinthians whose pleasure it is to hunt the squirrel, as he was dressed like a gentleman and not a coachman. Hunting the squirrel is a pastime much indulged in by postboys, mail drivers and other low types. The point of the game is to drive much too closely behind another carriage for half a mile or so, till the driver is vexed and angry, then suddenly surge out fast, to pass so close he brushes your wheel. Your proper hunter preys mainly on females. If he can elicit a shriek or put you into the ditch, his entertainment is complete.
Our hunter achieved both of these noble aims. Maisie and I shrieked our heads off, while John Groom drove smack into the ditch. The green bank coming up at me from the window was the last sight I saw before I was knocked out cold. When I opened my eyes some moments later, I was stretched out in an ungainly position in the ditch with a large, dark man bending over me, shaking me back to consciousness. I felt as though my skull bone had been splintered into a hundred pieces, and was rattling around inside my skin. Looking past the man's shoulder, I saw our carriage had got thrown on its side. The door must have flown open as we flipped, tossing me out by the force of it.
“Are you all right? Can you hear me?” the man asked.
I could see and hear it was a man, could distinguish vaguely a curled beaver on top of his head, and a blur of face. If only he would stop shaking my broken skull, I thought my vision might focus. I closed my eyes, trying to remember where I was, and what had happened. When I opened them, the face had assumed features. A pair of dark, worried, but mostly angry eyes stared at me intently. A great beak of a nose jutted forth beneath the eyes. There was something vaguely hawk-like in the face. You know the angry look a hawk has. There were lines etched from nose to lips—full, sensuous lips that were out of place on that predatory countenance. The forehead was also etched with lines. Mitzi came whining up to me, too rattled to spit, as I am sure she felt like doing. I know I did.
“Cracker, go for a sawbones. She's bleeding,” the man called over his shoulder, then reached down and brushed my hair from my temple. When his fingers came away, they were smeared with my blood. It was sufficient to send me off into another bout of vapors. I am annihilated by the sight of blood, especially my own.
The next time I got my eyes and ears open, the man had discovered there was more than one passenger in our carriage and was in the process of lifting Maisie out the door. She hung like a rag doll in his arms. I struggled to my feet, staggered to the closest tree, till the ground ceased rotating beneath me, turned from black and blue to green, then I went falteringly toward them. Mitzi dragged along behind me. I was petrified to see poor Maisie looking entirely lifeless.
“You've killed her!” I said, in a whisper.
“Rubbish! She's unconscious,” the man answered roughly, though he looked extremely worried. He placed her on the ground. “Watch her,” he ordered me, as he jumped up and ran to the road.
There was a frisky gig coming toward us, pulled by a single nag. He hailed it, and another gentleman hopped down to offer his aid. The newcomer had the air of a bumptious squire. You can spot them a mile away, with their self-important manner, their provincial accents and their poor tailoring.
“These women are hurt. Are you from around here? Where can I take them to be seen to?” our accident-prone friend asked, in the most overbearing way imaginable, as though the whole affair were a great imposition on his time and patience.
“My own place is just two miles down the road. I would be happy to help,” the squire offered.
“Two miles? Christ, they'll have bled to death before they are taken half that distance. Is there nowhere closer? An inn, a farm house...” He looked around as he spoke, but there was no building in sight.
“Devizes is only half a mile yonder,” the squire told
him.
“Help me get them into my rig, will you?” he asked, but in an imperative tone. “The younger one is conscious. She can walk to it. The old lady will have to be hauled."
I was kneeling over Maisie, chaffing her hands, trying to rouse her, while this genteel conversation went forth. “Hauled” as if she were a load of rubbish. The two men came forward, elbowing me aside to lift Maisie from the ground. The squirrel hunter's carriage was not in the ditch, but resting on the shoulder of the road. They were about to place Maisie on a banquette, when suddenly the carriage leaned sharply to the left. A wheel had been broken, but had not fallen till the weight was placed on it. An accomplished curse rent the air. I am happy to say Mitzi had recovered, and took offense at the offender. She has no great love for men. She behaves well with females, but will often take to spitting at loud gentlemen. I usually try to curb her, but let her hiss away on this occasion.
“We'll have to use your rig,” the dark man told the squire. “We won't all be able to fit in it. You take the ladies to Devizes. I'll stay here and send the doctor on to the inn when he comes, if he comes. I've sent a boy off for him."
The squire agreed. “I'll take them to the Rose and Thistle, if you think my rig can hold three of us."
“Of course it can. The girl will have to hold the old lady. Miss,” he said, glancing toward me.
I was still too dazed to object to his arrogant manner, and too worried for Maisie's life. I was helped into the gig, Maisie was lifted up to be propped between the squire and myself. She was beginning to return to consciousness.
“Lizzie, you're hurt!” was her first speech. The blood from my temple was trickling down the side of my face. The man, not the squire, handed me a handkerchief, which I took without a word and held against my aching temple.
“You'll need your hands,” he said. He undid my bonnet ribbons to tie his handkerchief around my head, like a pirate's kerchief. As soon as he was done, I untied it and gave it back to him, blood and all.
“Hand up my dog,” I said. Mitzi was wagging her tail at the gig's wheels, beginning to make those sounds which she thinks are barks, though they aren't really.
He shoved her from him, not kicking her exactly, but just nudging her away. “There's no room. I'll bring the mutt along with me.” Mitzi hissed and spit angrily. I fully expected she would get a kick or cuff before she joined me, but really I was not able to handle her in my condition.
Just as he gave the squire the signal to go forward, Maisie said, “The necklace, Lizzie..."
Till that instant, I had forgotten my diamonds completely. I felt such a spasm of fear for their safety! “Oh, my reticule!” I exclaimed.
“I'll bring it to the inn,” the man assured me.
“No, I must have it now."
“I don't see it,” he said, after one brief glance to the roadway at his feet.
“Maybe it is still in our carriage. I must have it."
With a grunt of aggravation he lumbered off to our carriage, clambered in and came out with Maisie's black patent reticule. Mine was a summer bag, of yellow kid. I sent him off to look again. It was not in the carriage. “Go along. I'll find it,” he said.
When I propped Maisie against the squire and began to climb down, he went for a more thorough search. It eventually turned up a dozen feet from that spot where I first regained consciousness, in the ditch. It was hanging open when he gave it to me. He hadn't the sense to snap it shut. I looked inside to see the green leather jewelry case was safely within. Maisie had recovered sufficiently to ask me if everything was all right, which mysterious statement meant were the diamonds safe. I told her everything was fine, and we were off.
The squire was very helpful. His self-consequence earned respect at the Rose and Thistle. He was called Squire Bingeman, indicating he was well-known locally. He helped me get Maisie settled on a sofa, ordered wine, hot water, basilicum powder and bandages, in readiness for the doctor's arrival. I had the feeling he was relishing the exciting interlude in his daily life, or relishing the excuse to order servants about in any case. He issued his commands with a certain satisfaction. They were promptly obeyed. When he had us settled, he went into the lobby, ostensibly to look out for the doctor, but when there was no sign of him, he said he would just take a stroll into the tavern, where I imagine he was expounding to the customers his role as good samaritan.
He was not gone a minute before Maisie suddenly went off in another faint, her face as pale as paper. I darted into the hall for help. There was a gentleman just passing the door. Seeing my state of distraction, he sprang forward to offer his assistance. He was a handsome fellow, tall and fair, outfitted in the first style of elegance.
“Is there something wrong, ma'am? Can I do anything for you?” he asked.
“My aunt—she's fainted,” I replied, quite at random, wondering in what way he could help.
The clerk came forward and explained the situation, giving him my name while he was about it, though he did not tell me who the gentleman might be.
“Let us see what can be done,” he offered at once, following me into the parlor.
He was thoroughly capable. For a moment I thought I had had the good fortune to have bumped into a doctor. He flung open the window to give her fresh air, chaffed her hands, ordered me to pull the feather from her bonnet for burning—all the while assuring me in a calming way that her plight was not serious. The color was seeping back into her cheeks. He drew out his watch to time her pulse. After she had rallied somewhat, I said to him, “Are you a doctor, sir?"
He laughed, showing a set of flashing white teeth. “Indeed, no, though I would like to have been one. My family felt it beneath me. I am an army man, Colonel Fortescue, at your command, ma'am."
“A colonel!” I exclaimed, smiling my delight at his high position.
“Retired—sent home from the Peninsula for a wound in the chest. A scratch merely. The doctors feared for my lungs, but I swear the bullet was nowhere near them. Just here under the left arm it caught me,” he outlined. He made little of it, but I noticed a spontaneous wince of pain seized his features when he clutched too hard at his wound.
“You have been very kind, Colonel. Everyone has been extraordinarily kind. Thank you so much."
“It is always a pleasure to have the honor of helping a lady in distress. Dare I inquire, a damsel in distress?” he inquired archly.
“Yes,” I answered.
“I thought the clerk said Miss Braden. Are you from around here, ma'am?"
“We live a few miles north, at Westgate. We are going to Fareham."
“Pity, I hoped you might say you were en route to London, as I am myself, so that I would have the pleasure of calling on you. Fate is perverse, is she not? Just when you meet someone...” He came to a flustered halt, smiled rather shyly. “You must forgive these Spanish manners I contracted in the Peninsula. We officers have to rush our few chance acquaintances with the ladies."
He seized my fingers to make his adieux. I was struck most forcibly by a wish that it had been this charming colonel who had run us off the road, and not the hawk-like man. He had the nicest eyes, dark blue, with lashes a yard long. The eyes were tinged with regret at the necessity to leave. He was not gone long before Bingeman returned to pester us.
I had a glass of the wine he had ordered. It helped me regain my spirits, but augmented my headache. I felt extremely nervous and quite weak. A peep into the mirror told me I also looked a fright. It was a wonder the colonel had bothered to inquire my name. Till the doctor came, there was nothing to do but sit and wait and worry. Maisie was beginning to complain of a wrenched ankle, which was indeed swollen when I lifted her skirt to take a look. The squire was at my elbow, eager for a glimpse. He also put his hand on my shoulder in a way I did not like, though I hesitated to call him to account after his kindness. When the hand slid in a seemingly careless way to my waist, however, I found it possible to lift it away, without any verbal rebuke.
Within a q
uarter of an hour, the doctor arrived with the man who had caused all our difficulties. We were exciting a good deal of curiosity at the inn. Every servant and half the patrons came to the door on some pretext or other—offering help or just plain inquiring what had happened. Several of them got right inside. I shooed them out and bolted the door.
“Make it snappy,” the squirrel hunter ordered the doctor. “I am in a hurry. I'm very late for my appointment already. Just let me know the ladies are in no danger and I'll be on my way. Naturally, I shall settle for all expenses."
“If you and Squire Bingeman would care to step outside, Sir Edmund, I will examine the older lady first. She seems to be in the worse case,” the doctor replied.
I now had a name for our malefactor. “Our carriage must also be repaired, Sir Edmund,” I said, eager to get it arranged before he darted off on us.
“Naturally. I said I would stand buff,” he answered, offended. Then he turned to the squire. “You are a local fellow, Bingeman. Would you take care of having the ladies’ carriage and horses tended to for me? Tell them to charge it to Sir Edmund Blount. Maybe I ought to leave some money. They may not know me here. I'm from Gloucester."
“You'll be leaving your own carriage and horses as well, Sir Edmund,” the squire pointed out. “They'll not be wanting more collateral than those bits of blood. I think one of your nags has got a nasty sprain in her left foreleg. I wouldn't take them on the road after the spill. Nags are easily excitable."
“That's true. My groom will take care of my rig, but he only has two hands. Will you see to theirs?"
“The inn will send a lad down the road to do it,” the squire answered.
Sir Edmund cast a defeated, angry glance at the man and went out the door. He had met someone as unbiddable as he was himself. Bingeman went out behind him. The doctor spent about twenty minutes in his ministrations to Maisie. Her ankle was deemed to be sprained, not broken. He bound it up tightly and suggested she stay off it for a few days, then he turned to me. Both Bingeman and Blount felt free to return once Maisie's skirt was pulled back down. My little scratch was washed and had a plaster stuck on it.
