Treasured Vows

by Cathy Maxwell

  “I’m pleased that you listen to reason, guv’nor,” said one of the highwaymen, who appeared to be the leader.

  At that moment another masked man, breathing heavily, came crashing into the circle of light. “I couldn’t catch the boy,” he reported between panting breaths.

  The leader cut him off with a movement of his hand. “It won’t matter. There isn’t anyplace he can go to around here for help.” He looked at Phadra and the banker. “Give us your purse, man, and remember to move your hands slowly. The light is dim, and I wouldn’t want my friend’s pistol to go off.”

  Mr. Morgan reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a flat purse. He tossed it to the leader, who caught it easily.

  “And now you, miss. We’ll be taking that roll of notes.”

  Something snapped inside Phadra. How dare these men come and think they could dance off with every shilling she had in the world? She lifted her chin defiantly. “No.”

  Mr. Morgan muttered under his breath, “I should have known better than to think this would be easy.”

  But Phadra’s attention was focused on the leader. His eyes glittered like hard diamonds at her open show of defiance. “I didn’t ask, woman. I ordered. Give me your money.” For emphasis, the man holding the pistols raised them menacingly.

  Phadra gazed at him shrewdly, her mind working quickly. “You know I have money, don’t you?” She didn’t give the leader time to answer but charged on. “The guard on that other coach is working with you. That’s why he ran his hands all over me. He tipped you off to my money. Why, you men were probably in the inn yard.”

  She took a step forward and, in a voice filled with righteousness, demanded, “How many other poor passengers have you robbed? How many unsuspecting women has that poor excuse for a man accosted?”

  The leader answered her questions by pulling out a pistol of his own. “You know, guv’nor, you should teach your woman to keep her mouth shut.” He lifted the gun so that its barrel was aimed directly at her and said, “We can’t have her going around telling tales on our friend Watty, can we?”

  At that moment Mr. Morgan jumped between her and the leader, exclaiming in a high, shrill voice that didn’t sound like him at all, “Miss Abbott, how many times do I have to tell you to keep your mouth shut?” He stepped forward, his manner foppish as he waved his hands in the air. “I have to talk to her and talk to her,” he complained in that amazing falsetto voice. “She never listens to reason. Doesn’t listen at all!”

  A handkerchief appeared in his hand, and he fluttered it nervously before using it to dab his forehead. “I think there really is only one thing we can do with her,” he announced in a worrisome voice before breaking into the silliest giggles Phadra had ever heard. She couldn’t fathom what was the matter with him. He acted as if he’d gone mad.

  The highwaymen looked at each other and then started laughing, as if enjoying a show. Their leader shifted in his saddle and waved his pistol at Mr. Morgan before asking good-naturedly, “And what is it we can do with her, lad? Or should I say laddie?” He guffawed at his pun, and the others joined him.

  The man holding the pistols looked up at his comrades. “Watty didn’t tell us about this!”

  Mr. Morgan laughed loudest of all. His high-pitched “tee-hee” annoyed Phadra. He even bent over and slapped his knees with mirth. “That’s very clever!” he said. “Very clever,” he repeated, only this time his handkerchief-wielding hand had turned into a large fist, and it connected with the jaw of the man holding the pistols. With a lightning-fast movement, Mr. Morgan grabbed one of the arms of the staggering man and pointed one of the pistols at the leader just as the man pulled the trigger of his gun.

  The barrel spit fire, the acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air, and the ball found its mark, striking the leader with enough force to topple him from his horse. His own weapon discharged harmlessly into the air. The animals reared in alarm.

  “Miss Abbott, get down!” ordered the very masculine voice of Grant Morgan.

  “It was a trick!” she exclaimed with pleasure, ignoring his command.

  Mr. Morgan didn’t answer but quickly turned with the second pistol that the highwayman had been holding and fired it in the direction of the other man on foot, who ran into the darkness. “Miss Abbott, can’t you do anything I tell you to do?” Mr. Morgan roared before his concentration was completely claimed by the man in his arms and a bout of fisticuffs.

  Phadra doubled her own fists, wishing to jump into the fray. When the other mounted highwayman moved to help his friend, she stooped down and picked up rocks, throwing them at him. Her pebble missiles weren’t dangerous, but they caused the man’s horse to rear and prance, threatening to unseat the rider.

  Suddenly, through the dust and fog, Phadra saw the man fighting with Mr. Morgan break free and run into the woods. Mr. Morgan didn’t chase him but turned his attention to the mounted man.

  Phadra watched open-mouthed as Mr. Morgan reached up toward this new attacker, using brute strength to make the nervous horse back away. The highwayman shouted and reached into his coat.

  “Grant, he’s armed,” Phadra shouted, and boldly reached up herself to pull on the man’s coat. Her action startled both the man and the horse, which backed up and reared slightly at this new aggression. The man had to use both his hands to keep his seat on the horse. With a shove of his elbow, he hit Phadra in the chin and pushed her away.

  Grant Morgan’s face went livid with fury when he saw her fall back. With murder in his eyes, he reached to grapple the man from his horse.

  The explosion of a pistol broke through the chaos. The horse screamed and jumped forward, taking his rider with him. Still lying on the ground where she’d fallen, Phadra watched in shocked horror as Grant Morgan jerked in response to the shot and then fell to the ground.

  The leader of the highwaymen sat up slowly, as if crippled by pain, the pistol in his hand still smoking. The rider didn’t waste time but circled back to reach the leader and heaved him onto the back of the horse. Together the two men charged away into the night.

  Phadra didn’t care where they went or whether they would come back. She crawled on hands and knees to Mr. Morgan. “Grant? Grant, speak to me.”

  He didn’t move. She reached to touch him and then drew her hand back. Blood stained the back of his coat. The shot had gone in his upper back. “No, Grant, no!” she cried, moving to rip a strip of her petticoat to staunch the flow of blood. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I should have given them the money. I should have listened to you.”

  Tears poured down her cheeks as her hand came back with the cloth covered with dark, fresh blood. The stain on the cloth spread—and that was when she realized that it wasn’t only her tears she felt dripping onto her arms but also the start of the steady rain that had threatened all evening and now had begun to fall.

  Quickly she pressed the cloth back against the wound and then struggled out of her wool cloak, wrapping it around him to protect him from the rain. Her fingers pressed against the roll of banknotes, and she felt a stab of guilt. She forced herself to keep working, whispering, “I mustn’t panic. I must be brave. I must have courage.”

  “Miss Abbott, are you quoting Mary Wollstonecraft again?”

  Phadra’s eyes opened wide at the sound of his voice. “You’re alive!” she cried, reaching down for him as he started to turn over and sit up.

  He sat for a moment, the rain plastering his hair to his head, before he grumbled, “The next time a man holding a gun asks for your money, give it to him!”

  Phadra didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—so she did a combination of both. “I will. I solemnly promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to that promise,” he said, and got to his feet with her help. Alarmed, Phadra realized that he must be losing a good measure of blood.

  “Help me up into the coach, will you?” he grunted.

  “You must be in terrible pain,” she said, placing his arm around
her shoulder.

  His lips twisted into a grimace. “I’ve been better.”

  They’d just reached the shelter of the coach when a timid voice called out, “Hello? Is everyone all right?”

  Phadra leaned over Mr. Morgan’s body protectively. Her voice a whisper, she asked, “Who is that?”

  “The postboy, I imagine,” he said, and then raised his voice to call, “Jim?”

  “Aye, sir,” came the answer. A moment later the postboy stepped into the flickering light cast by the coach lamps. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of his two passengers. “I’m sorry I ran.”

  “No, you were a smart lad and saved your life. Here, come help me,” Mr. Morgan commanded. “I need help getting my jacket off.”

  Phadra climbed into the coach and had Mr. Morgan sit on the step, his booted legs hanging out of the door. Working together, she and Jim removed his jacket and his lawn shirt. Mr. Morgan reached around to feel the hole.

  “It’s in the fleshy part right under the arm. Damn, it didn’t go through.”

  “What didn’t go through?” Phadra asked, busily tearing her petticoats into strips to make a bandage.

  “The ball. The shot is still in there. He got me in the back.”

  “At least he didn’t hit anything vital,” Jim said. “I can see the hole from back here. You need to have the ball removed, sir.”

  “Bind the wound. It’ll stop the bleeding,” Mr. Morgan ordered.

  Phadra had removed her cloak so that she could move freely. Now she reached around his chest and started binding the wound tightly. His blood stained the bodice of her dress. She spoke to the postboy as she worked. “Jim, we must go for a doctor immediately.”

  Grant countermanded her order. “We’re not stopping for any doctor. I’ll be all right until we get to London. We must be there before dawn.”

  “But your wound!” Phadra protested.

  “Get us to London before first light and I’ll throw in five guineas for you,” Mr. Morgan said to Jim.

  “Take us to a doctor and I’ll give you five hundred pounds,” Phadra shot back.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Mr. Morgan roared.

  “Yes, I would. And you should save your energy. You’re going to need it until we can get you to a doctor and have him look at this wound.”

  “It’ll wait until morning after I return you to Evans House,” Mr. Morgan said.

  “It will not!” she snapped. “I know little about wounds, but I do know that riding around the countryside in the rain is not a remedy. And you have to get that ball out.”

  “She’s right, sir. That ball can only be causing you pain, and may even poison you.”

  Mr. Morgan frowned so fiercely, the postboy backed away until he stood out in the rain. Suddenly Mr. Morgan’s shoulders sagged and he leaned back into the coach against the seat. His face looked pale in the darkness of the coach.

  “Jim,” Phadra said, “where is the nearest doctor?” She rose up on her knees and with Jim’s help pulled Mr. Morgan into the coach, crushing her bonnet in the process.

  “There’s Dr. Blounder, but it would be closer to take him back to the inn. Mr. Allen, the innkeeper, has a good steady hand.”

  “Then get us back to the inn,” Phadra ordered. She took another look at Mr. Morgan’s face. He’d closed his eyes. She turned to Jim, angry that he hadn’t started moving yet. “Did you hear me?” The shrillness of her voice spurred the young man to move. She slammed the door shut, protecting them from the rain, and struggled to maintain her composure.

  Mr. Morgan’s voice came to her in the dark. “You shouldn’t have yelled at the lad.”

  The two of them sat in the cramped space on the floor. Phadra busied herself by wrapping her wool cloak around his shoulders. She kept her voice light. “Why is it that no matter what I do, you always find fault?”

  “It’s my role, Miss Abbott. I’m your banker.” She could hear the dry humor in his tired voice.

  “Have you ever considered that perhaps you take your responsibilities too seriously?” she teased back, but her voice shook on the last words, and one of the tears she’d been struggling to control escaped and ran down her cheek.

  Jim was turning the team and coach on the road, a maneuver that caused the post chaise to sway and jerk. Mr. Morgan hissed slightly in pain, a response to the jarring his body received.

  She reached up and placed her arms around him. “Lie back against me, Mr. Morgan.” He didn’t fight her but slowly slumped against her, his body rolling with the movement of the coach, Phadra closed her eyes for a second, sending a silent blessing to Jim for moving them toward their destination with all possible haste.

  At first she held her hands in the air as if afraid to touch him, but then she gingerly lowered her arms, feeling his body beneath her hands. She readjusted her cloak, tucking it closer around him. He didn’t move, even when she let her fingers touch his wet curls and push them back from his brow. She knew he needed to rest. The less he moved, the better.

  His slow, drowsy voice startled her. “Did you realize that you used my Christian name, Miss Abbott?”

  “I beg you pardon?”

  “My name,” he said in a voice so low, she had to bend to catch the words. “You called me Grant.”

  The news surprised Phadra until she realized she had shouted his name once when the fighting had been its heaviest and again later when he’d been wounded. At the time, it had seemed perfectly right and natural.

  She sat back, one hand resting against his brow, another wrapped protectively around his shoulders. “So I did, Mr. Morgan,” she replied quietly, certain that he had lapsed into unconsciousness and could no longer hear her. “So I did.”

  The barking of dogs signaled to her that they were at the inn. Jim yelled for help and then set the brake and ran up to the inn door, pounding on it madly. Soon Phadra heard the voice of the innkeeper. He threw open the coach door and took Mr. Morgan from her arms with the help of another servant.

  Phadra followed behind them anxiously.

  Inside the inn, the innkeeper had Mr. Morgan laid out on the same trestle table he’d used to serve the coach passengers cheese and bread. Ordering Jim to hold the lamp high so he’d have enough light to see, he cut off the bandages with a good-sized knife. While his master probed the wound, Jim told the story of the mail coach guard’s duplicity and how Mr. Morgan had fought off four highwaymen.

  Mr. Morgan came to his senses with a hiss when the innkeeper poked the wound. He insisted on sitting up. For a brief moment his silver-gray eyes, dazed with pain, met Phadra’s gaze.

  The innkeeper looked over his shoulder and didn’t hide his look of disgust at seeing the “errant wife.” Phadra felt her cheeks flame.

  “What is going on here, Mr. Allen?” the innkeeper’s wife called out. She came down the stairs in her mob-cap, dressing gown, and shawl.

  “The lad, the one from earlier, has a pistol shot in him from a run-in with highwaymen.”

  She gasped. “Never, you say!” She quickly came down the stair and crossed over to Mr. Morgan, pausing for a moment to give Phadra a disapproving stare.

  “You can feel the ball?” Mr. Allen asked his patient.

  Mr. Morgan nodded, sweat beading his forehead. “It must be near the bone. Otherwise it would have gone through.”

  “Well, you’re lucky the blighter wasn’t a better shot,” Mr. Allen said.

  “I would have been luckier if he hadn’t shot at all,” Mr. Morgan said dryly.

  The innkeeper gave him a grave smile. “You still have your sense of humor. Keep it. We’ll have to cauterize the wound after we get the ball out. It’s never good to take chances. Jim, go get my whisky. Mind you, not the good bottle but the rotgut. It cleans better and works faster,” he explained to Mr. Morgan. “When we get done, I’ll let you have a swig from the good bottle—not that you’ll be able to taste the difference at that point.”

  Phadra didn’t understand what he meant, but Mr. Morga
n nodded. Mrs. Allen brought a bowl over as well as a wicked-looking set of sharp tongs. Taking the bottle from Jim, her husband poured a good portion of the whiskey over the tongs and ordered Jim to build the fire a bit higher and place an iron rod in it. Mrs. Allen swirled a clean cloth through the whiskey in the bowl and made a pad of the cloth.

  The innkeeper looked over his shoulder at Phadra. “Get over here, lass, and do your share. It will take every one of us to hold him down.”

  “It’s not necessary to include her in this,” Mr. Morgan protested.

  “I want to help,” Phadra said, coming to his side. Mrs. Allen looked down her nose at Phadra, obviously unwelcoming.

  Mr. Allen held the bottle out to Mr. Morgan. “Better take a swig, lad. If the ball is lost in the flesh or touching the bone, you’ll go wild with pain. I’ll not be fighting you to get it out.”

  “He doesn’t drink,” Phadra said, feeling a need to explain.

  “He will now,” Mr. Allen answered. “We’ve nothing else for the pain.”

  Mr. Morgan took a healthy drink. He rocked back, wheezing and sputtering.

  “Aye, it’s raw stuff,” the innkeeper commiserated, “but like I said, it works fast.” He began probing the wound with his fingers, and Mr. Morgan needed no further encouragement to drink the liquor.

  “The ball ripped into you,” Mr. Allen said. “But once we fix you up, a big man like you will be up and about in no time.”

  Mr. Morgan took another draw on the bottle. His gaze started to lose its keen edge, although the lines of pain were still etched plainly around the corners of his mouth. Phadra reached for his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He clasped hers in response and tilted the bottle up once more.

  Phadra tried to smile, but it was difficult. The sight of him acting with anything less than his usual steely control frightened her. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against her shoulder.