Fairchild (10 page)

Only Jem, the youngest groom, was in the stables. Sophy seized her chance and bullied him into saddling Ajax. She had worshipped Lord Fairchild’s magnificent roan hunter for a year, but been forbidden to ride him. Fate had blessed her with a chance at last. Sophy kept a sedate pace until she was out of sight of the house, then she booted him to a canter, sending clods of black dirt flying behind her. Overhead, the sky was stone grey, and as cold. Flying over the ground, the chill rasped her lungs, stinging her cheeks and stiffening her fingers through her gloves. The damp twisted her flyaway strands of hair into corkscrews.
 

She loved this, the heavy smell of earth and rotting bracken, the fens so green and alive. She didn’t check when she came to the end of Fairchild land, though she was not allowed to ride beyond without a groom. None of the servants would know. Even if she was discovered, there was no one to whom they could complain. Smiling, she turned down the lane to the village. She made some farewells, thanking Peter Larkin again for the puppy, and bidding goodbye to Stokes, the farrier. Old Mrs. Stokes offered her tea and biscuits, silencing her growling stomach. As she left, Mrs. Stokes urged her to return home, but Sophy wasn’t finished yet.
 

The servants couldn’t complain if she was back late. She wasn’t hungry, and she was free. She did not know when she would see these sights again: white windmills, the flat expanse of surrounding farms, flocks of sheep cropping the new spring growth. She’d never been this far on her own and was surely trespassing. It scarcely mattered. No one would see her. The chill had chased most people inside.
 

Her hand brushed her coat, crinkling Jasper’s letter inside her pocket. She dismounted in a spinney of birch trees to read it. The missive was brief, full of his usual nonsense. It made her smile.
 

A fat raindrop splashed onto her hand and Sophy glanced through the budding branches at the sky. It was darker, and not just because night was fast approaching.
 

“Damn.” It took a moment to find a large enough stone so she could mount Ajax. By the time she rode out of the spinney, the rain was falling fast. The plume on her hat, limp as the tail of a dead mouse, drooped over her eyes. Wincing over Dessie’s displeasure, she yanked it free and let it fall. Her habit was plastered to her back. Water ran down her neck and her nose. Clenching her chattering teeth, she left the road to cut across the fields, urging Ajax faster. She needed to get home. John would be furious with her for keeping Ajax out in this weather.

There was a stream ahead, bordered by thick trees. Sophy ducked her head as she rode unchecked beneath the branches. Ajax gathered on his haunches, preparing to spring across and lurched beneath her, throwing her to the side. Before she could cry out, she flew from the saddle.
 

As the ground rushed to meet her, her left hand caught in the reins, yanking her arm, sending her into an awkward spin. She felt a tearing in her shoulder as she slammed into the ground and a moment of sheer terror before her hand pulled free from the reins. Waiting to be crushed by Ajax’s hooves, it was some moments before she realized she had been thrown clear.
 

Lungs heaving, she rolled onto her back, gasping but making no sound. Frantically she gulped air, unable to exhale. At last she managed it, a high-pitched whistle of pain.
 

Wet leaves stuck to her cheek. She scraped them off with her right hand and tried to sit up. The movement sent a stabbing pain through her left shoulder. She let out a strangled cry. Gingerly, she tried to move her left arm.
 

It was useless. She couldn’t move it, not without the edges of her vision swirling darkly. Flat on her back, she stared dizzily at the sky, drawing shallow breaths, her heart beating presto.
 

You can’t stay here. No one will find you, and you’re cold. And what about Ajax?

Turning her head, she spied him standing not far off. “Beast,” she managed to gasp. He lowered his head, as if he was ashamed.
 

They had to get help, quickly. Something was terribly wrong with her arm.
 

Don’t think about it. Just get up.

Reaching her right arm across her middle, she clamped her left arm against her side, and rolled to the right with a groan. Biting hard on her bottom lip, she lurched upward. Good. She was sitting now. Getting to her feet was easier. Her shoulder throbbed, but holding it against her side seemed to help. Unfortunately, she had to let go, to reach for Ajax’s dangling reins.
 

The pain was staggering, but she caught the reins with a clumsy swing. Looping the leather around her right wrist, she clutched her left arm again.
 

“Come on,” she said, unsure if she was addressing the horse or herself.
 

A slick layer of wet leaves covered the ground. No wonder Ajax had lost his footing. She’d be lucky if she didn’t fall herself, the way she was trembling. Eyes on the ground, she picked her way out of the trees, leading an unusually docile Ajax.
 

There was little light left. She wouldn’t be able to walk far. Getting herself into the saddle was impossible. Pressing her lips into a thin line, breathing noisily through her nose, she started walking, hoping it would not be long before she found the road.
 

It was a foul day for riding, Tom thought, but that was England for you. It had rained all the way from Bury St. Edmonds, and he was wet to the skin by the time he glimpsed Chippenstone’s lights.
 

His mother, of course, was waiting for him. As he dismounted, a groom ran out to lead his horse away. He hadn’t taken two steps before the butler stood beside him, holding out an umbrella. Tom didn’t recognize him, but he was used to new faces. Servants didn’t usually stay at Chippenstone for long. Stepping inside, he very properly handed his hat, whip and gloves to the waiting lackey. His mother rushed towards him from the drawing room, her crisp purple silk rustling, the ludicrous tower of curls atop her head bouncing madly.

“Martin’s preparing a bath,” she said, helping him from his coat, pushing aside the hovering butler. She kissed him soundly on both cheeks. “I needn’t ask about your journey. You look like a drowned cat.”
 

“And you look your angel self, mother. Stand off, so I don’t get wet all over you.” He thrust his sodden greatcoat at the butler. “May as well make just one puddle,” he said, fumbling at the buttons of his coat with numb fingers.
 

“James, bring a dressing gown for Mr. Bagshot,” the butler commanded.
 

It was, Tom knew, unusual for gentleman to strip down in the front hall. It didn’t bother him to fret his servants; after all, they knew what kind of people they worked for. And if it pleased them to find more congenial employment elsewhere, that didn’t bother him either. It was his mother who suffered agonies of humiliation when the servants explained to her how things should be done, or gave up and left. He wished she would let up, but had lost hope long ago.
 

 
“Thank you, James,” Tom said exchanging his waistcoat for a brocaded silk dressing gown. Lord, it felt good to pull on something warm and dry. Pity he had to keep on his wet shirt and trousers. He didn’t mind upsetting the servants, but his mother would be mortified if he removed shirt and breeches down here.
 

“I’m for the bath,” he said. “I’ll be down in two ticks.”

“I’m glad you’re home,” she said.
 

He winced. Chippenstone would never be home. Two years since his father’s death, and his mother still hadn’t given up this pile of brick, the evidence of her husband’s last, failed dream. She was lonely here, but nothing Tom said could persuade her to leave. Visiting her was no hardship; he would ride twice as far, in any weather. But when she joined his father, he knew he would sell this place.
 

“I missed you, mum,” he said and chucked her under the chin, before bounding up the stairs three at a time. Behind him, he heard the butler tell James to take his wet clothes away. Then he heard a knock. He stopped. His mother never had visitors. And who would call in this weather, at this time of night?

Turning round, he saw a dark wraith framed in the open doorway. Without thinking, he descended the stairs and crossed the hall. The creature was clutching one arm and shivering uncontrollably—no wonder, for water streamed from her skirts onto the floor. Her face was white as wax, her lips a ghastly purple. Muddy war paint smudged her cheeks and leaves stuck to her skirts.
 

“Forgive me for b-b-begging your assistance,” she said through chattering teeth.

“You’re hurt.” Tom frowned, moving closer.

“Yes.” She gulped. “But my horse . . .” She glanced worriedly behind her, out the open door. “He needs tending.”

Looking past her, Tom saw a huge animal standing on the gravel drive.

“He’s chilled,” the girl explained, her voice close to breaking. “If he gets sick in the lungs, he’ll never race again.”
 

“See to her horse,” Tom ordered, to no one in particular. “You must come inside.” She wasn’t thinking straight, he thought. Probably had the wits knocked out of her.
 

He offered his arm, but she hesitated, biting her lip. “The pain is too great to let go of my arm. If you will lead me—”

She attempted a step forward, her face contorting with pain.
 

“Wait,” Tom said, wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her. Cold water seeped through the sleeves of his dressing gown. She must be half-frozen. “I’ll carry you.”

Probably he should wait for her permission, but that seemed foolish in the circumstances. She looked ready to fall to the floor. Scooping her up, he saw her wince though he had tried not to jar her shoulder. Every step he took, her teeth cut deeper into her lip. How in Hades had she managed to walk to the house?
 

His mother reappeared, burdened with a stack of towels. “We must get you warm,” she said, bustling ahead of them into the drawing room.
 

“I’m going to set you down here,” he said, indicating a large sofa by the fire with a jerk of his chin. “Ready?”

She nodded. He tried to lower her smoothly, but she was no featherweight, despite being so slight. Laying back, she let out a sigh. “I’m ruining the silk of your sofa.”

He supposed she was. No matter. “What happened?” he asked, as his mother tended to her with the towels.
 

“I was riding across the fields, trying to hurry home.”

“Oh?” his mother looked up, but the girl didn’t elaborate.
 

“Ajax lost his footing jumping over a stream and I fell.” Her lips shook.
 

“Let me see the arm,” Tom said, moving closer. “You can’t move it at all?”

She shook her head, shrinking away from him. “It doesn’t work. When I try the pain in my shoulder is unbearable.” Her reedy voice betrayed suppressed panic. Frowning, he studied her. The arm was straight and didn’t appear swollen. “Did you land on it?”
 

She shook her head. “My hand tangled in the reins.”

“Pulled your arm?”

She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut.
 

He considered only a moment. “I can help,” he said.

 
“Are you a doctor?” Her gaze was desperate, but suspicious.

“No.” He smiled. “I’m a sailor. I think you’ve pulled your arm out of your shoulder. I have a surgeon friend, who I’ve seen fix injuries like this a time or two. You won’t feel a thing.” That’s what Jack told his patients anyways. He hoped it was true.

She tensed, drawing away from him.
 

“I’m just going to hold your hand and your elbow,” he said, reaching forward. “Don’t be afraid. This won’t hurt you.”

Moving slowly and maintaining a soothing patter of words, he cupped her elbow with one hand and clasped her wrist with the other. Her hands were like ice, the skin under her nails matching her purple lips.

“Wretched weather you choose to ride in,” he said.

“You’ve been outside too,” she said through gritted teeth. “You’re hair is all wet.” He saw her eyes flick to his dressing gown, but she didn’t mention it.
 

“That’s how I know it’s so awful. I thought I was cold. How long were you out there?”

She didn’t reply, just sucked in a breath as he lifted away her uninjured hand. Inch by inch, he bent the elbow of her injured arm until it was square, then turned her forearm, bringing her hand down to the seat of the sofa. When her hand was almost to the cushion, he felt her shoulder catch. She gasped, her eyes popping open.
 

“Leave it,” she commanded. “I want to see a doctor.”

“Breathe out,” he said. “You’ll be all right.” It was nearly done. Jack said dislocations were best treated quickly, before the muscles could spasm. He nudged her upper arm forward, feeling it slide into place. He released her and sat back on his heels. “Try to move it now.”

 
She lifted her arm tentatively, closing her eyes and letting out a wavering sigh. “Thank God.” Relief crumbled her fragile control and her shaking returned. Staring past him with huge, catlike eyes, she let out a half-smothered sob.
 

“Can you lift your arm all the way up?” She seemed past hearing, so he took her arm and circled it around. The joint moved freely, and he felt his anxiety ebb away.
 

“We must get you warm,” he said.
 

“You go make sure the surgeon’s been sent for,” his mother said. When he didn’t move, she took his arm and steered him to the door. “I’ve got to get her out of those wet things. It’s all right to move her arm?”

He blinked. “I don’t see why not, though I imagine she’s pretty sore.”