When a Rake Falls

by Sally Orr

  The basket tilted violently, but through his sheer strength, he managed to pull himself up using the rope. “But won’t the grapnel stop us eventually?”

  The wind stopped as suddenly as it arrived, and they were now losing altitude fast.

  “Look,” she yelled, pointing to the grapnel dragging a trench through the field of Spanish turnips. Seconds later, the basket crashed to the ground. The balloon flared out in front of them and dragged the basket over on its side. “Release the grapnel or we will be dashed to bits,” she shouted over the explosion of wicker, rigging, turnips, and dirt as they were propelled toward the woods at the speed of a runaway horse. “We are too close to the trees. Release the grapnel. I’ll release ballast.” She managed to pull her entire body weight to the edge of the basket and free a bag of ballast.

  Parker untied the grapnel line, and the basket flew upward, both of them landing in a heap on the floor facing each other, each breathing hard. “Eve, I need to tell you—”

  “Untie more ballast.” She managed to stand and discovered they were mere feet away from the dense woods and gaining altitude. At their current trajectory, they were about to hit a large tree dead center. She screamed, “Drop a bag! Drop a bag!”

  Seconds after Parker released a ballast bag, they hit the first tree.

  She instinctively threw her arm over her face to protect herself, but leaves and branches hit her almost everywhere.

  Parker embraced her fully and turned. His back took the brunt force of the whipping branches, and he winced once or twice.

  The balloon above them appeared to be unhampered, so it continued to pull them through the trees. They could not gain altitude because the basket and rigging were caught amongst the branches. Pieces of wicker from the basket groaned and snapped.

  In a brief moment of calm, he attempted to release more ballast. Then the basket hit another large trunk, the deep, bell-like sound reverberated through the woods. Around them, startled birds flew up into the blue skies.

  After impact with the giant tree, the ensnared basket tipped ninety degrees.

  Eve fell to the floor again and began to tumble toward the edge. Directly in front of her, the green underbrush loomed, like a green sea waiting for her to dive in. As she attempted to grab onto the side of the basket, she noticed her father’s Results book slide down alongside her. She reached under some falling cages to clasp the book, but a strong hand around her calf stopped her forward progress.

  The book slid beyond her reach and bounced around in a jumbled mixture of cages and instruments.

  Her stocking started to bunch, and the grip slipped down to her ankle. “No, no, save the book, save the book. Let me go. Save the book, not me.”

  His grip tightened. “Don’t be foolish. Your life is worth more than a book.”

  “Nooo.”

  “Certainly.” With a loud grunt, he pulled her upward until she lay about a foot from the edge. “Worth.” His other hand clasped her other leg. “More.” Even with slippery stockings in his hands, his significant strength pulled her several feet up and away from the edge. “To me.”

  She watched in horror as the book slid over the side and disappeared into the deep underbrush.

  Next, the cage with the pigeon fell end over end down the length of the basket. The door opened and the pigeon flew up and out of harm’s way. The wicker cage plummeted into the green underbrush.

  “Thank God,” Parker uttered.

  They hit the third tree hard. In a rare second where the basket ceased to travel, they both managed to right themselves. They reached for each other and hugged. Parker gave her a swift kiss on the top of the head. “Right, release more ballast.”

  Seconds later, they hit the branches of another large tree just as Parker managed to release a ballast bag. The basket then rose violently, hit a large branch, twisted over on its side, and Parker fell on his back, resting on the very edge. One more hit, and he’d likely roll off. They exchanged glances. Neither could look away.

  He had saved her life; now he could lose his.

  She moved toward him, but before she could reach him, she watched in horror as the basket hit another tree. Parker flipped out of the balloon like a rag doll. She screamed. A flash of light off the sole of his boot was the last thing she saw before the dark undergrowth swallowed him.

  Seven

  The balloon finally lifted above the treetops, and Eve grabbed the rough wicker edge to catch her breath. In the middle of the crash, her mind had been fixed upon the book, but now there was only one matter of importance—Parker. If he were to die, her vaulting ambition to be the first female to cross the Channel would be to blame. Her stomach churned, and she almost cast up her morning biscuit. Despite Parker’s expressed fears that he had lost his father’s respect, the marquess’s actions revealed he may not have been pleased but in no way had forsaken his youngest. He didn’t cut him out of his living, for example. How could she explain Parker’s loss to his father? How could she find Parker quickly? How could she ever forgive herself? She wished she had used her wits to note their location or elevation at the moment he fell from the basket. Now she had no data to determine where to start her search or if his fall could be a survivable one.

  Below her, at least a hundred feet of woods remained, and beyond, she could see another broad stretch of cultivated fields. She would have to wait until she reached the safety of open ground before she could release any more gas. Turning back to examine the spot where Parker had likely fallen, she memorized every detail in the hopes that an odd tree or unusual landscape feature would help her find him in the future. She noticed a dead tree with a completely brown canopy amongst the green trees. Parker must have landed within yards of that tree, so she’d use it later as a marker to find him.

  Once over the cultivated field, she was pleased to find it was a very broad one. A stand of woods loomed in the distance, but she would land before she reached the trees, barring any more freak winds.

  This time she managed a rapid and controlled descent. No sudden gusts caught the balloon. The shimmering silk above her merely undulated in the breeze. Thankfully, the plowed rows of turnips below her would provide a relativity soft landing. Within twenty feet of the ground, she noticed a man in his wagon heading in the direction of her landing. She had no idea whether he rushed to assist her or attack the balloon as some giant monster.

  In readiness to land, she widened her stance and held on to the side.

  The basket hit the field with a soft thump. At first it remained upright, but after the silk balloon landed on the ground, it spread out upon the field and still retained enough power to pull the basket onto its side.

  There was nothing for her to do at that point except continue to hold on and pray. If she fell out, the basket might run over her, grinding her into the dirt. All she could do was wait until the remaining gas escaped.

  After several minutes, the silk balloon collapsed enough so that the basket dragged through the turnips at a fast walking pace. She managed to exit the basket and pull the edge in an effort to stop its forward momentum.

  The farmer sat upon his wagon pointing out the balloon to a young boy. “Ah, well, would you look at dat, Jem. A young miss.”

  She tugged on the basket again, but her efforts produced very little effect.

  All of a sudden, she noticed the boy on the other side of the basket doing his best to help her. The slim lad was around twelve years, but she knew every little bit of opposing force helped.

  “Come away, Jem,” the farmer shouted. “Don’t want yo’ getting hurt. Let de lady handle her own problems.”

  The boy smiled at her and pulled the basket with greater effort, grunting in the process.

  She returned his smile. “On the count of three, let’s give one big tug. Ready?”

  The boy nodded. “Ready.”

  “One, two, three.” They tu
gged hard and their efforts proved successful as the basket slowed.

  A minute later, the farmer strode forward, grabbed the basket, and widened his stance. Then with one mighty jerk, he pulled the basket to a complete stop.

  She hugged the boy. “Thank you.” She then ran forward to gather up the harness and fold the balloon as best she could so it would remain stationary.

  The boy emulated her movements in earnest, his tan face focused on rapidly folding the silk.

  “Never dought I live to see ladies flying about in balloons,” the farmer remarked, removing his cap to scratch his scalp. “And it may be all right for you, miss. But what about da turnips? You’ve damaged half an acre, maybe more. Missus won’t be too happy neither.” Dressed in corduroy breeches tied at the knee and an open waistcoat, his slow manner of movement announced a hardworking man unlikely to be unsettled by any event. He had probably handled a multitude of disasters before, so no mishap could ruffle his feathers now. “Now, my lady, do you have recomp…” He rolled his limp felt hat in his hands. “The funds for turnips spoilt?”

  She glanced around at the destruction of the turnip rows. She even had quite a few leaves, not to mention dirt, on her person. “Yes, I apologize, Mister…”

  “Ah, my name is Mr. Muckles. Missus calls me Frank. She puts good store into my judgment too. So I expect payment for damages.”

  “Of course, Mr. Muckles. But you see my passenger, Lord Boyce Parker, fell out of the balloon into the trees, so you must help me find him immediately. He might be injured or—”

  “Now don’t you go running off, payment first. Den we can search for this lord o’ yours.”

  “But the circumstances of my lift-off were unusual, so you must understand the fact that I have no immediate funds on board to compensate you for your turnips.”

  Mr. Muckles headed toward the basket, straddling each row of turnips with a single stride. “Jem, let us see what we can take from dat basket—”

  She followed but struggled to keep pace. “Mr. Muckles, please. My father and I will pay you for your turnips. When I get back to London—”

  “Look for a good find, Jem. Some instrument or another, I suppose.”

  “Mr. Muckles! We must search for his lordship.” The blank face that greeted this statement urged her to emphasize the logic of the situation. “If we find him now, I am sure he will pay you twice what your turnips are worth.”

  Mr. Muckles ignored her and dragged the big chest out of the basket.

  Why did he ignore the gravity of the situation? “Please, Mr. Muckles, a man’s life is at stake.”

  He looked up and brushed his hands upon his loose plaid waistcoat but showed no signs of movement toward the woods.

  “Please, I insist you call for help. He could be hurt or in pain.” The thought unsettled her, and she forced it out of her mind. “Sir, Lord Boyce is an important young gentlemen. I am sure his father will be very pleased if every effort is made for his recovery.”

  He continued to pull items out of the wicker chest.

  She restrained herself from kicking him in the shins, turned, and marched toward the woods.

  Once she reached the beginning of the trees, her heart sank with the discovery of a thick undergrowth of bracken, gorse, ferns, and brambles. She ran up and down the edge, looking for a footpath, stopping only to cup her hands and yell, “Lord Boyce.” No response. “Parker.” She repeated her call again and again only louder. “Parker.”

  Mr. Muckles and Jem reached the edge of the woods and waited until she moved closer. “Well, miss, we have a machine labeled ‘barrowmeter’ from de box of instruments in da wagon. Dat should satisfy missus until you can get your funds you be talking about. So come with us back to the priory, and we can set out a proper search party for the lord o’ yours.”

  “Please, Mr. Muckles, he could be bleeding. Time might be of the essence. Is there any pathway through this wood?”

  “The only pathway drew the woods is up by de stables. Jem, fetch de wagon and we’ll be off.”

  She couldn’t abandon Parker; she just couldn’t. “You don’t understand. His lordship is a fine young gentleman, much more…caring than most.” Her words seem to land on deaf ears. “He likes birds; he even sings. Please, Mr. Muckles, I need to know the direction of the pathway.”

  “If you won’t come with Jem and me, we’ll return to the priory now. You see, missus won’t be happy if we spend de day playing with balloons, missing gentleman, and de like.”

  “Now, now, my good man. Can you give me some assistance?” shouted a deep voice resonating from within the woods.

  Eve’s heart almost leaped out of her chest at the sound of Parker’s voice. She ran into the fern underbrush, but her gown became hopelessly stuck on a bramble after about twenty feet.

  Mr. Muckles frowned in the direction of the speaker and without hesitation waded into the verdant undergrowth, swatting thorny branches with his bare hands. He soon disappeared out of her sight.

  She waited and waited and waited. Then she saw Parker, supported by Mr. Muckles, slowly making their way through the underbrush. As they neared, she noticed Parker had lost one boot and sported a torn coat sleeve, revealing a bulge of bare muscle on his upper arm. When clothed, he appeared to be very much the fashionable Tulip, but now she understood the source of the strength he had used to restrain her during the ascension and later when he helped with the cages.

  “Careful now, your lordship. Not too fast. We will get dere soon enough.”

  She had never, never been so glad to see someone in her life. She started running toward him, twisted her ankle in the soft dirt, but continued, albeit with a decided limp. As she got close, in unison, they both foolishly grinned and started to laugh. Now even she felt like singing.

  Parker opened his arms, and she practically jumped into them. A long, rocking hug ensued. “I’m so glad, so glad,” she said. No other words came to mind.

  He grunted. “Careful, bit bruised. Now what is the problem here? Mr. Muckles says you are being uncooperative.”

  “Mr. Muckles wants me to pay for the damages to his turnips, but I have no money, so he took our barometer. I expected to land immediately, remember.” She took his other arm and helped Mr. Muckles escort him back to the open field.

  “Careful, my child, I’m a bit sore. Had a tangle with a boot-grabbing tree.” He moved stiffly; with each step a strained expression flitted across his handsome face.

  Mr. Muckles must have noticed his condition too, because he adjusted his arm around his lordship’s waist to support him better.

  “Now, my good fellow,” Parker said. “Miss Mountfloy here has crashed her balloon. I know you have a good heart, so you understand she is feeling lost, injured, and stranded. We must help her, sir, a lady in distress. As Englishmen, it is our duty. So I plead for your assistance on her behalf. Please do not worry about compensation for your most excellent turnips. I will personally see the situation is set to rights to your satisfaction.”

  Mr. Muckles must have believed the promises from a young man who could only be described as the remains of a fine gentleman—rather than listening to a young miss with a common, soiled, and torn gown. He stopped complaining about his turnips. “I believe you, your lordship. But since you are feeling so poorly, I will take you up to de house, so as a doctor be called right and proper.”

  Parker uttered an involuntary sigh. “Thank you, Mr. Muckles. The girl too.”

  “Aye,” said the farmer as he gently helped Parker up into the back of the wagon.

  She gathered what remaining instruments she could easily carry, so as not to leave them in a field, and returned to the wagon.

  “Now Jem and I will fetch all of your possessions. You don’t need to worry on dat score, and I’ll get de stable hand to help with de balloon.”

  Over Mr. Muckles shoulder, she noticed a lady
in an elegant gig approach. Her coach was unsuitable for a plowed field and violently bounced over each row of turnips. By her equipage and dress, Eve could tell she was probably the lady of some nearby country estate.

  The lady pulled up, and Jem ran to steady her horse. With great effort of arranging her gown so it would not be spoiled, she carefully stepped out.

  Eve had seen women like this one before. Her great-aunt Elizabeth was a fine lady. This beautiful female straightened her shawl in an uncanny awareness that a part of her raiment had become out of place. Even a simple head toss was quickly met with a hand to check no curl became disturbed.

  Knowing she probably looked as proper as an overturned turnip, Eve adjusted her cap, brushed several wayward curls behind her ears, and glanced at her gown. Dirt streaks and deep creases marred every inch. She quickly brushed the front with her hand and then sighed when her efforts produced no notable change. Even wearing her best gown, she would never be considered beautiful. She straightened her shoulders and held her head high.

  As the lady neared, she came to the conclusion that if the finest French confectioners made a sugar cake, this lady was the embodiment of that cake. Statuesque, not a single gold ringlet out of place—she gave the appearance of floating when she moved.

  Hesitant to put her white kid gloves on the dirty boards of the wagon, this female confection gingerly approached to examine the wagon’s contents. “What do we have here, Frank?” She leaned over the side of the wagon and took a long look at Parker. “Well, well, my prayers have been answered. It’s Piglet Parker.”

  Boyce frowned.

  She giggled. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I mean the remains of the charming Lord Boyce Parker. I am very, very cross with you.”

  Eight

  The confection giggled.

  Eve thought the sound remarkable. Her childhood friends had giggled, but this sound involved the throat, so the notes were deeper. Yet somehow it still gave the impression of lightness and the promise of fun. Since her mother’s death, Eve had rarely found herself in female company. She spent her days with her father, his assistant, or other gentlemen of science.