A Sisterly Regard Read online

  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.

  "Will you stop pounding on my head, young woman! I have hurts enough without you adding to them."

  She snatched her hand away and opened her mouth to voice an angry reply. Before she could find sufficiently cutting words, a shake of her mother's head prevented her from speaking. Lady Gifford asked the young man to try again to sit upright. He succeeded in doing so, though he was forced to suppo
rt himself with one arm for a few moments. Finally he was able to sit alone. He shook his head.

  "Ow! That hurts like the devil!" Then, as if suddenly aware of the company, his mouth twisted. "Your pardon, my lady. An aching head is no excuse for swearing. Thank you for helping me, but I believe I can manage now. Please do not let me delay you further."

  "Very well, young man. You do not seem to have taken any lasting injury. Only let us remain until you feel that you can hold your seat on the phaeton. Jem will assist you in mounting it before we depart. Now, do take a bit more of this wine. I am sure it will make you feel much more the thing."

  The young man drank the wine and had soon lost much of his paleness. Jem Coachman held the horses while Biggins helped him mount to the perch. Biggins took the reins, over his master's half-hearted protest, and he bade a grateful farewell to the ladies.

  They watched the phaeton move rather too rapidly away. "Well, at least the horses are probably too tired to bolt again," said Phaedra. "What a rude young man."

  "I doubt you would be in the best of manners if you had been thrown about as he has. I am so glad that he was not more seriously injured. He could have been killed." Lady Gifford finished replacing the flasks in the hamper. As she walked back to her coach, she spied her elder daughter, who was dangling from the window and watching the phaeton out of sight.

  "Chloe, what are you doing, hanging out of the coach like a hoyden? Get yourself back inside this instant."

  Resettling herself in the coach, Phaedra found her weariness considerably abated. The light activity of assisting the injured gentleman had eased the stiffness in her joints and banished her drowsiness.

  "Mama, who was he? What happened?" Chloe demanded, as the coach jerked to a start.

  "Why, do you know, we did not learn his name," Lady Gifford said. "How peculiar, to be sure."

  "I heard Jem tell Biggins who we are. It doesn't matter, though. He is a rude man whom we do not wish to know." Phaedra brushed dirt and debris from her skirt.

  "You are being unfair. He was injured and no doubt in pain. One cannot hold his rudeness against him under these circumstances. Besides, he did say you were hurting him."

  "Well, I thought he was handsome as anything, from what I could see, and his phaeton looked very expensive," Chloe said. "Perhaps we will meet him in London, and he will ask me to dance. Do you suppose he is wealthy, Mama? I wonder if he is married."

  Phaedra shook her head in exasperation. "Chloe, you think of nothing but parties and dancing and catching a rich husband. You may never see him again, and I am not sure but what that would be desirable,"

  She deliberately changed the subject. "How far is it to London, Mama? Do we make any more changes before we arrive?"

  "Yes, I believe we do, and very soon, I imagine," Lady Gifford replied. "Chloe, how is it that you were so unwell until we stopped, then you suddenly became well enough to make a cake of yourself, hanging out the window? And if you were that recovered, why did you not come to our assistance?"

  "I was much better as long as we were not moving and it did not upset my stomach to look out of the window," Chloe replied defensively. "I feel distinctly unwell now, though, and wish you would not scold. I shall try to sleep until we reach London." She pulled the shawl about her head again and lay back against the squabs.

  Lady Gifford gave a ladylike snort. Phaedra suspected her mama was not misled by Chloe's stratagems. As for herself, she suspected her sister made too much of a good thing out of her motion sickness.

  * * * *

  They gratefully arrived in London shortly after eight in the evening. All three were chilled through and thoroughly tired of traveling, though Phaedra had found the long drive through London the most interesting part of the trip. At one point, she had seen a great domed structure in the bright moonlight. Upon pointing it out to her mother, she was informed that the building was St. Paul's Cathedral, designed by the legendary Sir Christopher Wren.

  The house the Hazelbournes had taken for the Season was just north of Grosvenor Square, in an unexceptional but not highly fashionable neighborhood. In the past Lord and Lady Gifford had stayed at the Duke of Verbain's town house when they visited London. This year, with two daughters to be presented and plans to remain through the month of June, they needed a house. While Lord Gifford was far from under the hatches, his fortune was only modest. He had gratefully taken advantage of an offer from a distant relative of Lady Gifford's who was willing to allow them the use of his London residence for a fraction of what a larger and better-located one would have cost.

  It was barely commodious enough for the Hazelbournes, but there was a small rear garden giving onto a detached mews where the coach could be stabled and convenient for the ladies' use. The house was furnished with a partial staff, augmented by Hazelbourne servants sent up from the country.

  Much to Chloe's dismay, there was no ballroom. She made unkind comments about this serious lack until she was reminded that she and her sister were to make their come out at a ball given by their great-aunt, the Duchess of Verbain.

  The ladies were met by the assembled staff, headed by Edgemont, their butler from Gifford Court, who had come to Town a week ahead of them to make the house ready. Parsons, her ladyship's personal servant, hovered in the background. Lady Gifford, in the manner that had made her beloved of her servants all her life, greeted each of them and said a kind word to even the lowest tweenie.

  "Now, my lady, you will come into the parlor and have a nice cup of tea," Parsons said, as the introductions were finished.

  She bustled ahead of the three, leading them upstairs and into a large room off the central hallway. It was high ceilinged and papered above dark wainscoting with Chinese silk in a red and gold design. Gold velvet draperies covered two large windows overlooking the front of the house. Three red velvet upholstered sofas, several chairs with gold brocade seats, and half a dozen small mahogany tables were placed in stiff lines along three walls. An enormous fireplace with an ornate mantelpiece dominated the wall opposite the entrance, and a worn but still attractive Oriental rug in red, gold, and black covered most of the polished floor. There were several portraits in gilded frames on the walls, including one of Lady Gifford's maternal grandfather.

  Lady Gifford and the sisters gaped at the room's overpowering redness while Parsons fussed. "You must be particularly exhausted. Why, we expected you an hour ago. Did you have trouble on the journey? Here, sit down, this chair looks most comfortable. Miss Chloe, you get a pillow for your mother's back. Miss Phaedra, pour her a cup and let her rest. Poor thing, jogging along all day in that coach, with two chattering magpies for company. Why..."

  "That will do, Parsons," her mistress said. "I am only a little tired, and the magpies did not chatter. I am chilled, I will admit. We were delayed because we came to the assistance of a young man who had had an accident, but the delay was less than an hour. It was really a very easy journey. No, Chloe, I do not want another pillow behind me. I just want to sit here and drink my tea quietly. Do not fuss!"

  The dresser sniffed. "And it was helping the young man that you got your skirt all dirty, I'll warrant." She frowned at the blood and grass stains on the skirt of Phaedra's blue wool traveling dress. "And you too, Miss Phaedra. I declare, you get out of my sight for one day and your clothes are all rags. It will take a bit of scrubbing to get those stains out of your dress, but I don't mind, I'm sure."

  "Do let Mama rest a bit," Phaedra told the dresser. "We will sit here quietly for a few minutes, then I will send Mama straight to her bed. Would you go up and prepare it, please, Parsons."

  "Thank you, dear," Lady Gifford said, as her dresser stalked from the room in outraged sensibility. "She does tend to mother me over much." She turned to Chloe. "Are you feeling better, my dear? You have more color, but you are so quiet."

  "Yes, Mama, I am feeling much more the thing. This house does not move, you see." Chloe smiled. "I was silent because I was thinking about that handsome young gen
tleman we met this afternoon. Do you think he will come to call?"

  "I doubt it. We only told his groom that we were traveling to London and our names. We did not give our direction," her mother replied. "Besides, offering assistance along a roadside does not constitute an introduction. It would be the height of impropriety if he were to call without one."

  "Perhaps he will write, then, and express his gratitude. I truly would like to make his acquaintance." Chloe sighed. "He was so very handsome."

  "Stuff!" Phaedra said. "He was not handsome, when you saw him at close range. He was swarthy and scowly. You are romanticizing, again, Chloe. You will probably never meet him again. Or, if you do, you will find, as I did, that he is rude and overbearing." She began to walk about the room, inspecting it.

  Although somewhat bare, lacking the usual porcelain figurines, vases of flowers, and other decorative touches, its furnishings were quality pieces, if ever so slightly shabby. Phaedra fingered the velvet draperies, noting that they were slightly faded along the folds. Moving to stand before the fireplace, she examined the careful craftsmanship that had gone into the construction of the beautifully carved mantelpiece. "Do you know, Mama, it is really outside of enough that this room is so very red. In any other color, it would be truly lovely. As it is, one is overwhelmed."

  "It does lack something of good taste," her mother agreed. "I am reminded somehow of Carlton House, the Prince of Wales' residence. It also is decorated in this style of overstated and tasteless opulence."

  "Do you mean 'Prinny', Mama?" Chloe asked.

  "Yes, Chloe. But I beg of you, do not use that name for him. It is not polite in you to do so."

  "I have heard you and Papa call him that," the girl protested.

  "What is acceptable for your father and me to do is not necessarily so for a young girl in her first Season, so mind your manners."