Amy spoke with a forced, aggressive humor, and then burst into tears.
Emma, who had spoken few words since they left Bath that morning, looked at her in distress not knowing how to help, and Mrs. Parkhurst was uncharacteristically silent and stony faced.
Ben rested his arm around Amy. No one seemed to notice or object. He had a look of firm determination on his face as he stared straight ahead. Someone he felt a closeness to was under threat.
“We will find out who you are.” Ben spoke softly and introspectively. “We will find out who is a threat to you. We will find out where Ishmael Anselan is. And he will not dare threaten you or put you in danger.”
As day turned into evening, the coach with its stony faced occupants bounced and swayed its way into Bath.
Chapter 26
“Hush Bucephalus,” Emma whispered into the ear of her horse.
Bucephalus was not happy about being tethered to the trap on a warm August morning. As a horse named after the noble battle horse that belonged to Alexander the Great he felt he was made for better stuff.
“I know you don't like pulling the trap alone while Pansy is relaxing in the meadow, but you have an important job. You will be engaging in a charitable work.”
These words that Emma whispered in his ear seemed to placate him. Perhaps it was the thought that he of the noble name was doing a noble work, while Amy’s horse Pansy was practically guilty of a dereliction of duty, that did it.
Then again maybe not, for who knows how or what horses think. Or maybe it was the sight of Amy with Effie’s help lugging a large basketwork hamper towards the trap. As Amy, with the help of Emma and Effie, and old Hubert, were securing it in the trap’s boot, Ben rode up. He dismounted and hurried to assist them but he was too late.
“I see you ladies are having another picnic.”
“Not at all, Sir Benjamin,” said Amy. “Do you think all we do is gad about and have fun?”
“Well, I'm sure that's not all you do, but I’d say that's what you mostly do.”
“To show you how wrong you are, Sir Benjamin, just let me inform you that we are doing charitable works like all good Christians should.”
Ben looked surprised.
“If you will stand aside, Sir Benjamin, we must be on our way to deliver the hamper of food to a needy widow. Excuse me please.”
She attempted to climb into the trap and join her sister who had climbed in while Amy was reprimanding Ben. He quickly came to her aid. She curtly nodded her thanks as she sat down and took up the reins.
“Would you like me to join you two ladies and drive the trap?”
“If we needed someone to drive the trap, Hubert could do that. As it is we can handle it quite well alone. Unless you intend to force your way onto the trap.”
He was about to deny he would do such a thing but paused. Emma was violently nodding her head up and down.
“Is there something wrong, Miss Emma?”
“Yes!” said Emma emphatically. “Men are blind.”
“I'm not sure I understand.” Ben looked puzzled.
“Don't you see,” said an exasperated Emma, “she wants you to ‘force’ your way onto the trap and take the reins.”
“I do nothing of the sort!”
Amy put on the strongest display of insulted pride she could muster.
“Yes you do,” said Emma with a giant grin. “Get on board, Ben.”
“I'm not sure I know what to do,” responded Ben. “You young ladies are sending mixed and confusing signals.”
“Oh, get on board,” snapped Amy.
He tossed the reins of his horse to old Hubert and joined the two young ladies.
“I do not think my mother would approve,” said Amy belatedly, as the trap rolled down the drive.
As it turned onto the road towards Stokely-on-Arne, Ben urged poor Bucephalus forward.
“I don't wish to seem like I'm prying, but would you tell me where we are headed.”
“We are delivering a hamper of food and some other things to Mae Bickford and her children. Widow Bickford lost her husband last year. She has seven children and is unable to work.”
“I thought the village was required to care for those who cannot work,” said Ben.
“It does, but only the barest of necessities. Mother likes to take a hamper to those in need. We are short ourselves since father had his accident and hasn't been able to care for things. We used to do more but mother tries to send two or three hampers a month to those in need.”
“That is most commendable,” mused Ben. “I must find out who needs help. Perhaps I could do something to help out. If you could make me a list and show me what to do, I would very much appreciate your help.”
When they reached the Bickford cottage, which was obviously in need of some whitewash and thatching, they received an enthusiastic greeting from a mob of small children, and a slightly more sober and shy greeting from two older siblings.
As soon as the hamper was unloaded the two older children grabbed the handles and with the smaller ones struggling unsuccessfully to help, carried it towards the front door of the cottage.
“I can see right now I’m completely unnecessary,” smiled Ben.
The hamper handlers started to maneuver it through the front door of the cottage as Ben, Amy, and Emma approached. As soon as it was inside, the children set it down by their mother, who sat reclined with her feet on a stool next to a small table, the only one in the cottage. It rested under the lone window. The children eagerly opened it and began to quickly empty it of its contents, which were delicacies to them despite being common fair at the Sibbridge house.
“Children, children,” scolded Mae Bickford, and through a fit of coughing told them to mind their manners. “Proper children would thank Lady Amy and Lady Emma for their kindness and compassion, and...”
She had just noticed Ben who entered the cottage last.
“Oh sorry,” said Amy. “This is Sir Benjamin Anstruther. He is a kind friend of ours.”
“Honored to meet you, M’Lord.”
Mae struggled to get up, but Amy placed her hand on the ailing woman’s shoulder.
“I'm afraid I'm not a lord, just a plain old baronet. And that's only because I inherited it. Frankly, titles and the like have little meaning to me.”
Emma interrupted asking: “Where’s Meg?”
Mae Bickford struggled to turn and look into the dark rear corner of the cottage.
“Poor Meg is ill. Been runnin’ a fever since last night. She's asleep right now.”
Emma looked worried and went over to where Meg lay. Amy could hear her talking softly to Meg, although she couldn't make out what she was saying or whether Meg was replying, but obviously the poor feverish girl wasn't entirely asleep. Meanwhile, Ben was helping the excited, giggling children empty the hamper of the last few remaining items.
Afterwards, the children were soon out of the dark cottage playing and squealing in front of the cottage with their newfound treasure of sweetmeats. Ben smiling, stood in the cottage door and watched the children, shaking his head at their delight over such common fare. Ben was no stranger to mixing with the lower rungs of society but it was usually ones of the rougher sort. Simple, honest, poor folk were a refreshing yet, in a way, troubling change.
Amy, now joined by a more solemn Ben, spent about half-an-hour in a serious conversation with the widow Bickford.
On the way home Ben had a number of comments about the village and especially about the Bickfords.
“Something has to be done to help the honest poor of our land. I know the village helps, which the law requires, but I rather suspect that there are other places that don't take their responsibilities as seriously as Stokely-on-Arne. Especially, is it bad in the cities.”
“I hope poor Meg is well soon,” said Emma.
Amy, who had been wearing a worried expression, turned to Ben.
“Maybe you can do something about it someday.” Before he could respond she
added: “There is something that Mattie told me about our visit to Bath you need to know.”
Ben looked at her, surprised.
“Mattie?”
“Yes. While we were away in Bristol, Mattie and Cassandra decided to visit the gardens near the Quillin house. At the gardens, they encountered Lord Eskman. He escorted them around the gardens, purchased food and other things for them, and generally paid close attention to them.”
“Seems like what any gentleman would do. It is a matter of courtesy, since he knows your family.”
“He knows my family, but only slightly, but that is not what concerns me. According to my sister—Mattie—Cassandra does not like Lord Eskman, in fact, according to Mattie, Cassandra said he causes cold shivers down her spine.”
“Maybe Cassandra possesses that mysterious ability women have been given to judge character. Although in truth, I know nothing unfavorable about Lord Eskman. Actually, I know precious little about the gentleman.”
“Mattie was a little annoyed at Cassandra, because she finds Eskman a very charming gentleman. In fact, she was very flattered by his attentions. She was quite excited by them. What concerns me is that he seems, if I am reading Mattie aright, to have had much greater interest in my sister that he did her friend. I can think of two reasons for that and both of them are quite discomforting.”
“Oh? And what are Lord Eskman’s sinister motives?”
“I am most worried that he has designs on my sister. He is so much older and she is so young.”
“I think you are likely mistaken. He was just being a gentleman. Anyway, I believe Eskman is married.”
“You do? Then where is his wife? Why haven’t we seen her? He did dine with us in Bath and she was not there.
“I don't know. Maybe she was visiting relatives. Maybe she's an invalid. There could be many reasons, after all, how often have you seen Eskman? Two or three times at most?”
“I hope you are right Ben, because Mattie is very persuadable, and she is so sweet and kind. She doesn't seem to realize that there are bad people in this world.”
They were not far from the Sibbridge drive and the trap was moving slower and slower.
“I think you're worrying unnecessarily. You've told me that your sister's affections change to a new target with some regularity. Before he realizes it, if he does indeed have intentions toward your sister, she'll be off to another and Eskman will be left lonely and weeping with a broken heart.”
“Somehow, and I may well be misjudging him, from what I've seen of Eskman I cannot picture him weeping, and I am not too sure if he has a heart to break.”
“The lady is so judgmental.”
“There is something else. Perchance I might be seeing what isn’t there, but while we were gone, and he was having his tête-a-tête with Cassandra and Mattie, and while if I understand aright, Cassandra was briefly not present, he asked Mattie about our return to Bath just three weeks after our previous visit, and he seemed curious about our absence that day. She told him we were on a special trip to Bristol to try and locate someone. He started to question her further about the purpose of our visit to Bristol and who we were searching for, but was interrupted by Cassandra's return.”
“A little strange, I’ll grant you, but maybe he's just a curious person.”
They realized that Bucephalus had started to dine on the grass by the roadside. He hadn’t entirely come to a stop, perhaps trying to fool them into thinking he was still moving, but he was not making any meaningful progress.
“C’mon Bucephalus m’lad” Ben said urging him onward.
As Ben bent forward to tap Bucephalus with the riding crop, a shot rang out with an ear cracking bang. Amy felt as if someone had struck her in the left shoulder with a hard object. Ben was looking for the source of the shot, but seeing no one, he urged Bucephalus forward at full speed.
“We better leave as fast as possible before he reloads,” said Ben with urgency. “I guess one of the people I have a disagreement with has tracked me here. I must get you ladies home fast, and then I will find out whoever it was. I don't take assassination attempts lightly.”
Emma gasped and gave a little squeal.
“Oh, look Amy. Look at your front.”
“Amy looked down. Blood was starting to stain the top fringes of her dress.
“Ben, I’m hit.”
For the first time Amy and Emma heard him curse.
“If only I hadn't bent over to urge Bucephalus forward. You took the bullet that was intended for me. I will never forgive myself.”
They had already reached the Sibbridge drive and Bucephalus galloped full speed toward the house. For the first time Ben was able to glance at Amy. The blood stain on her dress had grown enormously. Amy slumped over onto Emma's lap, as they reached the front door.
Emma started screaming as Ben jumped from the trap and lifted an unconscious Amy in his arms, grateful to see she was still breathing.
The noise had drawn half the household.
Ben yelled at the gardener: “Can you drive a trap?”
When Kenneth nodded, he yelled at him to hurry and get the doctor.
Ben carried Amy inside the house and laid her on the couch in the drawing room. She was breathing heavily. As Amy's mother, Mattie, and Effie crowded around Amy to help her, Ben stepped back out of respect for her modesty as they uncovered the wound.
Standing several feet away, grimly leaning against the door post of the drawing room, Ben felt a soft hand on his arm. He looked at the ashen gray face of Emma. She was trembling.
“Why would anyone try to kill you Ben?”
Before he could stop himself he blurted out: “I hope it was me they were trying to kill.”
Chapter 27
It was annoying. Her twelfth birthday, then suddenly she is told her father has been thrown from his horse. But that wasn’t her birthday, it was just last year. Shades of dreams spun around willy-nilly. Her head hurt. No, it was her shoulder that hurt. Both hurt. And people kept talking jingly-jangly.
“We may have to give her more laudanum. She’s moaning. She seems to be in pain.”
Voices. That’s mother’s voice. More voices. Dr. Chisolm’s voice. Her eyes are open. Everything is blurred. What is happening?
“She is trying to speak. She’s coming round.”
“Oh!” Amy gasped from the pain.
“Can you hear me,” asked Dr. Chisolm gently.
Amy tried to nod. She must have succeeded because Dr. Chisolm asked her: “Do you need more laudanum?”
“What time is it?” asked Amy.
“Just after eleven,” said the doctor. “That’s a strange question.”
“That late?”
“Late? No dear, it is morning.”
“I slept all night?”
“You were unconscious all night.”
“Unconscious?”
“Yes, dear, you had a very bad wound in your shoulder.”
Dr. Chisolm was a kindly old Scots doctor who once had a good practice in London at Cavendish Square. He had given it up years ago in an effort to retire, but in one way or another found himself in Stokely-on-Arne working harder than ever for a lot less money.
Dealing with simple folk, for the most part, he had developed a casual manner which didn’t go over well with some of the local gentry, whose pride was offended by his casual form of reference which ignored their high status.
Amy’s vision was clearing up and she could see a group of worried faces. Her mother was at the doctor’s arm, with Mattie, Emma, and Effie standing in back. Even her father was there. Although he wore a solemn expression, he said nothing, and so there was no way of telling how much he understood.
Dr. Chisolm leaned forward. “Do you need more laudanum?”
“Not at this time, Dr. Chisolm,” said Amy, then winced from the pain.
Dr. Chisolm nodded and raised up with a grim smile.
“You are blessed to be alive, my dear. That bullet was not far removed from
your heart.”
“Did you get it out?”
“Yes, but it was not easy. You gave me quite a bit of work. I had to really sweat it.”
“I’m sorry for being so much trouble.”
“Oh, my dear Amy, don’t say that,” smiled the kindly old doctor and patted her on her other shoulder.
“One of the rewarding pleasures of the medical profession is when a life is saved. We still lose too many good people.”
“Will I be all right?” said Amy, a note of fear in her voice.
“I’m certain of it. I thoroughly cleaned the wound with wine. When I was in the army, we found that wine for some reason seemed to heal a wound and prevent fever afterwards—that and a good cleaning. We don’t know why it works, but some day we will.
“Some army surgeons feel that some varieties of wine work better than others, but I don’t know. All I’ll concede is that some wines taste better than others, but other than that, which I will admit is not to be looked askance at, I rather think they all work, and the rest is up to the severity of the wound and the skill and dedication of the healer.”
Amy attempted to sit up higher on her pillow but it hurt badly, however she was determined to stoically bear it, at least until evening. She wanted her mind to be clear.
“Despite all the efforts we make,” continued the doctor, “I am sorry that we cannot avoid a scar, but at least it is where it cannot be seen. I’ve done all I can do now, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Will she be all right?” asked Amy’s mother.
“Don’t worry, Lady Sibbridge. She’s a strong and healthy young lady. You have nothing to worry about. I’ve got to run along now to Mae Bickford’s cottage. Her children are sick. I think it’s likely just a summer cold but I have to take a look.”
As he closed his bag, Mattie said softly: “A scar. How dreadful.”
Dr. Chisolm walked to the door of Amy’s room, then turned and instructed no one in particular: “Try cleaning the wound several times a day with brandy, preferably cognac if you have any. The last time I was in London, Dr. Greyson was telling me that he found it helped to reduce scarring.”
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