A Sisterly Regard (2 page)

The sisters reached the front door barely in time to wave
farewell to the carriage carrying Lady Gifford's maid and all the luggage.
Their papa was standing just outside the door, but there was no sign of
Lady Gifford. Phaedra cocked an inquiring eyebrow at him.

"Your mother had 'just one more thing' to tell Nurse. I swear,
that woman was never so empty headed when we went to London before.
What ails her?"

"I believe, Papa, she is apprehensive about having two daughters
to pop off this year."

"Slang! Young lady, you've been around your brothers too
much. It don't befit a proper young lady to use slang. Besides, we're not
going to London to 'pop off' our daughters, but to give them experience of
Society."

"Pooh, Papa, you know that the whole purpose of a Season is to
find a husband."

"Yes, but it ain't something you speak aloud of, m'dear. You've
got to watch that tongue of yours. It'll get you into trouble yet, mark my
words."

Lady Gifford bustled through the front entrance, distracting
them. "Here I am, at last," she said brightly. "Come girls, get into the
carriage. No, Chloe, you cannot sit there now. You know you become
dreadfully unwell if you ride too long facing backwards. Let your sister
have a chance to sit beside me for the short while we will be on our
excellent local roads. Those nearer to London are quite abominably
rough. And the frozen ground will not improve them, though it will make
our journey easier than the mud we had last week."

She turned to her husband. "Oh, my dear, I will miss you
terribly. I wish you did not have to remain here for another fortnight."
Her eyes filled and she sniffed. Phaedra, watching, bit her lower lip and
swallowed the small lump in her throat. She was always deeply touched to
see evidence of her parents' love for one another.

Lord Gifford, oblivious as always to watching children and
servants, took his wife in his arms and kissed her thoroughly. "There,
there, my love. You'll go on famously without me. Why, I'd only be in the
way while the three of you are sporting the blunt for all frills and
furbelows. You'll not even miss me, what with fitting the girls out in the
first style of elegance. I'll be in London in time for Aunt Margaret's ball,
never fear." He loosened his arms and handed her into the carriage. "God
be with you, love. I'll see you soon enough."

He turned away and hurried toward the house, but Phaedra
knew he'd lurk behind the library curtains, watching the carriage carrying
his wife until it was out of sight.

* * * *

Phaedra woke from a light doze when her mother spoke. "My
dear, I am afraid you must trade places with your sister now. She is
looking decidedly unwell."

Indeed Chloe's face was distinctively of a greenish cast.

Once on the rear-facing seat, Phaedra fell again into sleep,
disturbed only by the noise of the inn yard at their first change of horses.
Her slumber was troubled, filled with scenes where she found herself in
embarrassing situations and unable to find words. In one instance, she was
entering a grand ballroom without her shoes; everyone stared at her naked
toes and gasped with shock. She roused slightly and changed her position,
leaning her head into the corner between the seat and the coach's side
wall.

Another dream held a tall, dark, threatening man who was
saying to her father, "No, no, it's not this whey-faced female I want, with
no spirit and no conversation. I want the other one, the pretty one, for my
wife." Finally, when she escaped from a scene in which she struggled to
free herself from grasping hands dragging her to the altar to wed an
ancient, stooped, evil-looking man, she resolved to sleep no more.

"I was just about to awaken you," Lady Gifford said, as Phaedra
tried to ease the stiffness from her neck. "We will halt shortly for
luncheon. Tidy your hair and put on your bonnets, girls."

There was a moan from Chloe. "Do not speak of food. I shall
die!" She was huddled in a corner of the coach with a shawl wrapped
around her head.

"Chloe, I declare if you would not so indulge yourself, you
would feel much more the thing," Lady Gifford scolded. "When you have
taken some weak tea and toast you will feel much the better for it."

Another moan was the only answer to these unsympathetic
remarks. But the girl had little longer to suffer, for the carriage soon drew
up to the inn, where the landlord unctuously escorted them to a
comfortable private parlor. Chloe was tucked into a soft chair, with her
shawl still wrapped about her shoulders, and given her mother's smelling
salts. She looked pale and wan, and her usual sparkle was missing.

"I could not eat or drink a thing," she whimpered, when their
mother once again mentioned tea.

"Yes, you shall, miss," her mother said. "'Twill do you no end
of good."

Lady Gifford and Phaedra did justice to the fluffy omelette and
freshly baked bread that soon arrived. Chloe sipped reluctantly at her tea
and nibbled her dry toast. She did look less unwell, however, after eating,
and pronounced herself able to face the remainder of the journey. But
only, she reminded them in long-suffering tones, because they were on
their way to London.

* * * *

The sun was nearing the western horizon when the sound of
pounding hooves, the rattle of harness, and frantic shouts awoke the
Hazelbourne ladies. Their coach swerved violently, as Jem Coachman
worked to halt the team.

Phaedra leaned from the window to see what was happening.
Ahead of their team and very nearly under the leaders' noses, another
equipage sat askew of the roadway. A man was grappling with its harness,
trying to calm the rearing horses. She opened the door and jumped to the
ground. Her mother protested and Chloe cried out in alarm, but she
ignored them and hurried toward the other conveyance, noting as she did
so that it was a perch phaeton of uncommon elegance.

Jem Coachman was just behind Phaedra as she reached the heads
of the rearing horses. They both grabbed for the harness. With three
people working to soothe the animals, the pair was soon quieted. Jem
wrapped the reins around a nearby tree trunk and kept a good grip on
them. The horses stood nervously in the road, snorting and twitching.
Their driver, a short, bandy-legged fellow in rough clothing, ran practiced
hands over their sweating coats and checked their legs before
speaking.

"I'm that obliged to ye, my lady, and you too, mister," he said,
somewhat breathlessly. "If your man could just help me get turned and
past your coach, my lady, I'll be back to see what harm me master ha'
taken."

"Your master?" said Phaedra. "Do you mean someone was
thrown from the perch?"

"Aye, that he was, my lady. And he must ha' been hurt, else he
wouldna' let go the ribbons," the groom replied, as he gathered the
reins.

"Then you must, by all means, return to seek him. We will
follow, to offer such assistance as we can. Jem, get our coach moved as
soon as possible, and turn it to follow this man until he finds his master.
We must discover how serious his injuries are."

Jem Coachman held the pair while the other man mounted to his
perch, then climbed to his own seat and began moving the Hazelbourne
coach off the road. Fortunately there was a level, grassy verge, so he was
able to pull completely out of the way. The phaeton was quickly turned,
although Phaedra could see that the driver was challenged to manage the
still restive pair.

As soon as she clambered into the Hazelbourne coach, she was
bombarded with questions.

"Why are we turning?"

"Who is that person?"

"What happened?"

"One at a time." She pleaded, laughing in spite of her concern.
"I have no idea who he is--a groom, whose master was thrown from his
seat. We are going back to assist him in the event his master is
injured."

"But why--"

"Of course, we must--"

By the time her explanations were finished, their coach was
bowling along the road in the wake of the phaeton. Lady Gifford
commended Phaedra's thoughtfulness, agreeing that they must discover
what assistance they could provide the probably injured man.

Chloe moaned quietly beside her mother, as their speed was
much greater than their usual traveling pace and the coach rocked quite
violently. Phaedra thought that they had traveled about two miles before
the coach slowed.

Jem had barely pulled the team to a halt before she jumped from
the coach. Lady Gifford commanded Chloe to remain where she was and
recover from her nausea, then she, too, climbed down. Jem secured his
own team, then hurried to the heads of the phaeton's pair, while Phaedra
followed the other driver to the side of the road where a body lay
sprawled. The groom was touching the outflung arms and legs with much
the same care as he'd given the horses' legs. Not quite sure what to do,
Phaedra watched, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

The groom sat back on his heels. "He don't seem to have broken
anything, my ladies." he said, As Lady Gifford joined them. "But the way
he landed, all limp-like, makes me think he must ha' hit his head. Though
he moaned when I first laid hands on him, he did."

Lady Gifford knelt and laid her fingers on the pulse in his wrist.
"His heart is strong," she said after a moment. "I do not think he is
seriously injured," She released his wrist. "Jem, do bring me the flask of
water, and one of the rugs, I think. Perhaps if we bathe his head he will
come round."

Phaedra, meanwhile, had knelt at his head, and now she
examined his scalp with gentle fingers, parting the thick, dark hair. As she
felt for cuts and scrapes, she said, " A bump behind his ear seems to be the
most serious injury." She moved, to settle his head more firmly on her
knees. "Oh! Here is blood upon my skirt. Where is he bleeding?"

"His wrist is cut," Lady Gifford replied. "But it does not appear
too deep and has almost stopped bleeding. Let me tear the cravat in half,
and I will clean and bind it up. Oh, thank you, Jem," she continued, as her
coachman handed her a flask of water. She dampened both pieces of the
torn cravat, handing one to her daughter.

The two ladies cleaned and bandaged the injured man. As they
worked, his groom spoke.

"Master, he was tryin' out this pair before he bought 'em. I told
him that they was too fresh and not properly trained, I did, but he wanted
to give 'em a try. Drives to an inch, the master does.

"We musta' hit a rut or a stone in the road, for the rig gave a big
lurch to the side and he was throwed. Hung on to the reins, as he shoulda',
and that's when the barstards--'scuse me ladies--the horses bolted.

"Master, he was throwed out still a'holdin' to the reins, and I
couldn't do nothin' to stop the horses. Soon's I saw master had loosed the
reins I knowed he was hurt, so I jumped onto the off horse's back and did
me best. 'Twasnt 'til I got me feet on the ground and was drug a spell that
I was able to slow 'em. Your coach bein' in the road is probably why I got
'em stopped. It and the tall shrubberies along the road slowed 'em enough
that I got me a good hold on their heads."

As he finished his recitation, his master's eyelids fluttered under
heavy black brows and he groaned. "Ouch, stop that, damn you, Biggins.
My head's hurting like the very devil. Stop poking at it!"

Phaedra lay off dabbing at his forehead with the damp cravat. As
his eyes opened completely, she saw that they were even darker than her
own.

"Who're you? What happened?" He groaned again, and closed
his eyes for a few seconds. "Oh, yes, I was thrown. The horses? Biggins,
the horses!" He tried to sit up, but Phaedra held him firmly by the
shoulders.

"The horses are fine," Biggins assured him. "Just a bit winded,
you might say. These ladies helped me stop 'em and came back to see if
you was hurt. You just stay there, master, and get your senses
back."

"Yes, young man," Lady Gifford said soothingly, "you must sit
quietly for a while. You were quite unconscious for a spell. Do not worry
yourself." She turned to her coachman. "Jem, if you please, fetch the
hamper. We will pour this young man some wine, which, I am sure, will
make him feel much more the thing."

Phaedra resumed dabbing gently at his forehead.

"Stop that, girl!" he demanded. "You're only making it hurt
worse."

"You are an ungrateful man," she retorted, pulling her hands
away, "I was only trying to get some of the dirt off your face so we could
see if you had any other cuts or bruises. It would serve you right if you
had, and they became infected, and you died of them."

"I promise you I won't die, unless you knock me out again with
your ministrations," the young man replied. "I am feeling better by the
minute. I do appreciate your assistance, but, as you can see, I am not
seriously injured." He attempted to sit upright but failed; his head fell
back onto Phaedra's knees.

His eyes closed again briefly and his lips tightened. After a few
moments, he said, "I shall just rest here a moment, and not trouble you
more. Biggins can see to me, and we will shortly be able to return these
accursed horses to their owner." He attempted a laugh, but failed
miserably. "He'll continue to be their owner, too, after this fiasco."

Lady Gifford held the cup to his mouth. "We will remain until
we are certain that you are recovered from your fall. Here, see if you can
swallow some of this wine."

He raised his head slightly and sipped. The effort seemed to
exhaust him, for he relaxed back onto Phaedra's knees. As he lay there,
she observed that his body, clad in buckskins, a fine linen shirt, and a
well-fitted riding coat which, though torn and dirty, was of the finest fabric,
was well muscled and trim. Fearing from his stillness that he had again
fallen into unconsciousness, she placed her hand on his brow. His dark
eyes flew open at her touch.