All the horses jumped but Rufus himself shied sideways, almost colliding with Lord Ryde’s long-backed grey. Already in the act of transferring reins and whip to her other hand, and preparing to move on, Mrs Bascombe was caught unawares. A loud report very close to her ear made her jump violently and unnerved Rufus even further.
To Lord Ryde, things began to move very slowly. Gaining control of his own mount, he looked for Mrs Bascombe, half expecting Rufus to be at least three fields away by now.
Mrs Bascombe, however, was sitting perfectly still, a strained expression of shock and bewilderment on her face.
Time slowed even further.
She pressed a hand against her shoulder, took it away again, and stared in perplexity at the bright red stain across her palm.
Lord Ryde, who knew a gunshot when he heard one, was already swinging himself down from his horse. Throwing his reins to a shocked Mr Martin, he strode forwards. As he reached up to help her, her eyes refocused and all the colour swept from her face. His lordship saw she still had a smear of mud across one cheekbone. White lipped, she whispered, ‘I believe I have been shot!’ and fell from the saddle into his arms.
Chapter Three
Time started up again. Sound came back into the world. Mr Martin, momentarily paralysed with horror, watched his lordship gently lower Mrs Bascombe to the ground and rip off his cravat to attempt to staunch the flow of blood. Like his lordship Mr Martin also recognised gunfire. Cursing the fact that riding in England meant his saddle holster was empty, he stood in his stirrups, vainly attempting to peer over the tall hedges in an effort to locate the culprit.
‘You,’ demanded Lord Ryde of Roberts. ‘Do you know where the doctor can be found?’
Roberts, a good deal astonished but not, as far as his lordship could tell, at all afraid, replied at once, ‘Yes, my lord. It’s not far from here.’
‘Then get yourself off at once. Bring him back to Ryde House – it’s nearer than Westfield. We’ll get your mistress back there. After you’ve found the doctor, ride to Westfield and tell them what’s happened. Try not to alarm them too much.’
Roberts nodded.
‘Is there someone capable you can bring back to assist with the nursing?’
‘Ah. Miss Fairburn, my lord. Mrs Bascombe’s friend and a cool head on her.’
‘Good. Off you go. Hurry, man.’
Roberts wheeled his horse around and departed with haste.
‘Charles!’
‘My lord?’
‘Back to Ryde House. Get a cart – anything in which we can lay her flat. Tell Munch what has happened here. Hot water. Bandages. You know the drill.’
‘Yes sir.’ Mr Martin paused briefly to rip off his own cravat and rummaged for a handkerchief. These he handed over and then he too was galloping away.
Lord Ryde wadded his friend’s cravat into a ball and pressed it over the wound. Within seconds, it was as blood-soaked as the first. His lordship’s face grew grim. With a muttered curse, he pulled a small penknife from his pocket and began to cut through Mrs Bascombe’s clothing, eventually laying bare a ragged hole from which blood was still flowing.
Mrs Bascombe’s eyelids fluttered and her eyes focused. She became aware of his lordship tugging at her clothing and uttered a small, distressed sound.
‘Please remain still, Mrs Bascombe,’ said his lordship with a calm he was far from feeling. ‘You have sustained a small wound. I am endeavouring to stop the bleeding.’
She was not completely aware of her surroundings and tried again to cover herself.
‘I’m sorry,’ said his lordship gently, ‘but I must see what I’m doing. Please close your eyes and let me work.’
To Mrs Bascombe, this seemed very sound advice. By closing her eyes, she could pretend none of this was happening. A sharp jolt of pain dispelled this happy thought. Her eyes flew open. She groaned, lifted her head, and again tried to pull her clothing across her exposed breast.
‘Very well, ma’am,’ said Lord Ryde. ‘You may make yourself useful.’ He took her hand and pressed it against the makeshift bandage. ‘Press here. Hard. That’s it. That’s my good girl.’
He began to rummage in his own pockets, pulling out a handkerchief. His eye alighted on Mrs Bascombe’s hat, lying a few feet away, her blue scarf trailing from its crown. He ripped it off, folded his handkerchief into a pad, applied that to the wound as well, and knotted the whole in place with her scarf.
Satisfied, he sat back on his heels to consider what else might be done.
Like Mr Martin, he was listening for any indication their attacker might still be in the vicinity – possibly reloading or pulling out a second pistol, but some minutes had passed now since the original shot. If their assailant had a second attack in mind, he was taking his time.
The hair on the back of his neck had risen and he was conscious of what a target he must present, but apart from his own rapid breathing, he could hear nothing and told himself it was only a careless poacher. That a poacher would hardly be out about his business at four o’clock on a sunny spring afternoon was highly improbable.
Mrs Bascombe lay quietly, eyes closed, her breathing very shallow.
His lordship said commandingly, ‘Mrs Bascombe!’ and her eyes flickered open again. He awaited the inevitable, ‘What happened?’ from a lady lying sprawled upon the ground with her clothing torn away, but even now, Mrs Bascombe departed from the norm and demanded to know, albeit faintly, if anyone else was hurt.
‘Just you, ma’am. Please lie still. Your groom has gone for the doctor. Charles has departed to find a conveyance. Please keep very still and try to remain calm.’
He felt slightly foolish as he said this, for indeed, like a model patient, Mrs Bascombe was lying still and for a woman who had just been shot, she seemed remarkably calm.
He would have liked to stand up and look around these tall hedges, if only to reassure himself their attacker had taken advantage of the confusion following his shot and made good his escape, but when he looked down, Mrs Bascombe had grasped a fold of his riding coat and was holding very tightly.
Slightly touched, he smiled and put his hand over hers, saying, ‘Not long now, Mrs Bascombe. We’ll take you back to Ryde House and then you will be comfortable again.’ That no one could ever be comfortable at Ryde House was something better not mentioned at this point.
She made no response. She had again turned very pale. His lordship checked his dressing was secure, shivered in the suddenly chilly wind, and wished very much that Charles would miraculously reappear with a conveyance, although he could not have been gone more than a quarter of an hour. He could hardly have reached Ryde House yet.
However, he was mistaken. Only a few minutes later he heard and felt the unmistakeable sound of approaching hooves and the rattle of a wagon. Mr Martin appeared, accompanied by an enormous man in a full frieze coat and gaiters, driving a farm cart.
‘He was just down the road,’ said Mr Martin, dismounting. ‘He heard the shot and was coming to investigate anyway.
Mrs Bascombe made a small sound.
‘Just a minute, Charles.’ He stripped off his coat and gently covered her. The driver too had climbed heavily down, took one look at Mrs Bascombe, and vigorously called for God to bless his soul.
‘Quite,’ said his lordship. ‘Do you hold your horse while we lift her on board.’
‘No need, yer honour,’ said the driver brusquely. ‘She’ll stand quiet.’
Between the three of them, they lifted Mrs Bascombe into the cart, a proceeding she bore quietly and with no complaint, and made her as comfortable as they could. Mr Martin was despatched ahead to alert the Munches. The driver shook his reins, his horse lifted her head and they moved off with the best speed they could safely muster.
The journey back to Ryde House was bumpy and Lord Ryde had much to do to keep his passenger as unjolted as possible. Several times he nearly dammed the driver’s eyes but recognised the farmer must get Mrs Bascombe to safety w
ith all possible speed and held his tongue.
He had been too busy attending to her wound to spare a thought for any other subject, but sitting now in the back of this bouncing cart he found he finally had enough time to turn his mind to this incredible occurrence. And incredible was the only word for it. This was England. Not only that, this was, as he had frequently been assured, and knew from his own bitter experience, one of the safest and most sedate neighbourhoods in that safe and sedate country. People – ladies especially – were not publicly shot at. Not often, anyway. What on earth could Mrs Bascombe have done to incur such enmity? His lordship resolutely banished the frivolous suggestion that he might not have been her only victim. He could not help smiling a little at the thought of this neighbourhood being positively strewn with others who had fallen under Rufus’ hooves, but dismissed the idea. A particularly severe bounce recalled his mind to the present emergency. He and Charles could discuss this later.
Lord Ryde had expected to follow Green Lane back to Ryde House, but the driver turned off and cut across country. He opened his mouth to protest and then closed it again. Presumably the fellow knew what he was about.
His trust was rewarded. In a surprisingly short space of time, they were trotting up the avenue and Mr Martin came hurrying down the steps to meet them.
‘You go on, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to the driver and join you shortly.’
He reached into his pocket as he spoke, but the driver loudly rebuffed any attempt to reward him, saying brusquely he wanted no reward for bringing Mrs Bascombe back safe, no, nor would anyone else around here, so he could put that back in his pocket right now. Sir. He picked up his reins, cast a stern glance at Mr Martin and informed him he should get himself inside – them Munches were a feckless pair and his lordship would have need of him.
‘Well, thank you anyway,’ said a chastened Mr Martin.
‘Ah,’ he replied, displaying a possible relationship to Mrs Bascombe’s Roberts, and took himself away.
Running up the stairs, Mr Martin realised he had forgotten to instruct the fellow to keep his mouth shut, but on reflection decided it would have been a waste of breath. He rather fancied the man would say nothing.
He found that Mrs Munch had kindled a fire in one of the small bedrooms at the top of the stairs and a sorely-tried Munch was toiling up and down the stairs with as much hot water as he could procure.
His lordship laid Mrs Bascombe on the bed, pulled back his coat to check his bandages were still in place, and decided there was nothing more to be done until the doctor should arrive. However long that would take.
Taking one look at the dim light that barely penetrated the small casement windows, Mr Martin disappeared in search of candles. Having delivered these, he found himself despatched to Westfield, in case Roberts had not yet found the doctor, and to bring back suitable assistance.
Mrs Munch was plying the bellows to get the flames going to her satisfaction. Heaving herself off her knees, she demanded of no one in particular to know what the world was coming to and began to tear a sheet into bandages. That done, she piled them ready on the bedstand and began to light the extra candles. Munch was despatched to heat yet more water.
Mrs Bascombe, looking very small and white on the faded bedcover, lay quietly, her eyes closed.
Apart from the crackling fire, the room was very quiet.
Roberts, it seemed, had found the doctor at home and to his lordship’s relief, he appeared in the doorway some twenty minutes later. Lord Ryde described what had happened, indicated Mrs Bascombe upon the bed, informed the doctor he would be downstairs if required and withdrew to find the brandy.
Mr Martin, meanwhile, was on the road to Westfield. He found the place easily enough. The sight of a total stranger galloping up the avenue at such a speed was enough to bring Porlock to the door unsummoned. Long experience of Mrs Bascombe and her own individual style of riding had long since left him expecting the worst every time she left the house. When he learned, however, that she had been the victim of a shooting, he was very much shocked.
‘I will summon Miss Fairburn,’ he said, and having provided Mr Martin with very welcome refreshment, disappeared.
Mr Martin’s experience of female companions was based on his Aunt Augusta’s terrifying Miss Connor – part woman, part basilisk – and so his expectations of a female dragon were more than confounded when he found himself confronting a woman, very nearly his own height, with a creamy skin, dark hair, and bright eyes. She was simply dressed in a quiet fawn morning gown with a pink sprigged sash. Another woman would instantly have recognised her clothes as well-made, but home-made.
She listened quietly to his account of events, neither screaming nor fainting, although she caught her breath a little and her eyes widened. To his enormous relief, although undoubtedly alarmed, she showed no signs of hysteria or panic,
Thanking him somewhat disjointedly, she seemed to think for a moment and then, to his surprise, began to question him closely as to the domestic arrangements pertaining at Ryde House. That these did not meet her approval was immediately apparent.
A series of instructions were rattled off to Porlock, who immediately left the room.
‘No, I’m sorry, ma’am,’ protested Mr Martin, aghast at this departure from his lordship’s instructions. ‘There is no time. We must set off immediately.’
He paused to consider, briefly, that he and his lordship had travelled the length and breadth of Europe and beyond, with never so much as a servant between them for much of the time, although that was, admittedly, usually due to straightened circumstances, rather than by choice, but that was not the point.
Through the open door into the hall, he could see boxes, baskets, cases, and all sorts of female apparatus piling up. Truly, the amount of paraphernalia required by the average female taking to the road was astonishing. Mr Martin had no difficulty in imagining Lord Ryde, who had very little patience for this sort of thing, pitching the whole lot straight back out of the door. He regarded the growing heap with misgiving. When the heap was augmented by three additional females, each dressed in her outdoor clothes and showing every sign of being included in what was rapidly becoming an expedition, he threw convention to the winds and appealed to his fellow man.
Porlock, however, was unmoved by this piteous entreaty.
‘It is Miss Fairburn’s opinion,’ he soothed, ‘and mine as well, that the addition of herself and Mrs Bascombe to his lordship’s bachelor establishment will place an intolerable strain on such domestic arrangements as are in place. And if, as you tell me, Mrs Bascombe is seriously injured and will require careful nursing then I think it fair to say that Mrs Munch – excellent woman though she is – will not prove equal to the task.’
Mr Martin, who had strong recollections of several meals over the last few days when Mrs Munch had not proved equal to the task, was very struck by this argument. He was a man who enjoyed his food. He suspected that Lord Ryde, notoriously indifferent to what was put in front of him anyway, was using each of the many discomforts of Ryde House as an excuse to leave as quickly as possible. Sometimes, Mr Martin thought, he seemed to look for reasons to hate his family home. And he was certainly never one for cluttering up the place with a lot of females anyway – at least not this sort of female, thought Mr Martin, eyeing the more-than-respectable Margaret, just now tying her bonnet strings. He became aware that everyone was watching him expectantly.
Mr Martin, who had faced outlaws in the Pyrenees, street gangs in Rome, and a Greek grandmother who was mistakenly under the impression Lord Ryde had agreed to marry her granddaughter, began to feel a little harassed. With some idea of enlisting a kindred spirit, he looked around for Miss Fairburn, who had disappeared. He was punished for his inattention. While his back was turned, yet another female had joined the group. And this one did look like the dragon of his imaginings. They stared at each other.
‘Er – good afternoon?’ he hazarded.
Porlock sailed smooth
ly forwards.
‘Allow me to introduce you, sir. This is Tiller, Mrs Bascombe’s maid. And this is Margaret, our head housemaid; Eliza, our kitchen maid, and Janet from the laundry. I trust you will find them all perfectly satisfactory, sir.’
‘No. Wait …’ said Mr Martin, well aware of what his lordship would say when he arrived at Ryde House towing five females. And where the devil would he put them all anyway? Mr Martin, as cool-headed under fire as anyone could wish, now caught between five females on one hand and Lord Ryde on the other, almost began to wish the bullet had found him instead.
Hearing the sound of hooves and wheels outside, Porlock flung open the doors to reveal two carriages. Immediately, the baggage was dragged outside to be loaded. To Mr Martin’s eyes, it looked as if a small army was about to invade. A not-inappropriate simile. However, he did recognise one face. Roberts, seeing him at the top of the steps, came forward and touched his hat.
‘You found the doctor, then?’ said Mr Martin, in relief.
Roberts nodded. ‘Should be there by now, sir.’
‘Good man.’
‘Ah.’
They both stood together, possibly for mutual support, while a sea of women ebbed and flowed around them, with Porlock directing operations.
Miss Fairburn appeared, dressed for travel, and added yet more boxes.
Mr Martin hailed her arrival with relief.
‘Miss Fairburn, I really don’t think …’ he began.
She broke off from instructing Roberts to place Mrs Bascombe’s dressing-case inside the coach and smiled, and Mr Martin, who had already had a trying afternoon and was, perhaps, a little more susceptible than he knew, blinked and then smiled back.
They stood like this for a while until the sudden absence of noise caused them to look around. All the baggage was loaded and all the females had climbed aboard. Roberts had mounted his horse and everyone was looking at them.
A Bachelor Establishment Page 4