The Unflappable Miss Fairchild

by Regina Scott

  “I like your Miss Fairchild very much,” she told him with great solemnity. “She is very kind, and she has a nice smile. You should go to Bath.”

  He tried to humor her. “I could see you to Bath, Mother, but it would be another day before I could get back to London. I must see Anne today, before her aunt has time to prejudice her against me.”

  She stamped her tiny foot on the carriage floor, startling both Chas and her maid. “No! You have to go to Bath. Millicent said Anne was going there.”

  “When?” he asked with a frown.

  “Today. Now. So, you have to go too.” She waved him away. “I will be fine. Please bring good news, and be a good boy while you’re gone.”

  He bent and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll meet you at Prestwick Park.”

  She smiled at him, obviously pleased with herself. “Of course you will. That’s where we live. It’s your home.”

  “So it is,” he agreed, returning her smile. He quit the carriage and practically leaped back onto the curricle.

  “What’s the record for curricle and pair to Bath?” he called to Leslie as he whipped the reins and set the bays into a gallop.

  “Nine hours, eighteen minutes,” Leslie called back, hanging onto his curly brimmed beaver as the wind roared past. “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to beat it!” Chas proclaimed with a grin.

  Chas kept his pair to a even gait for the first few miles, but, as the fog thickened, he was forced to slow. Still, they made good time in the light carriage, even stopping to eat mid-day at a coaching inn where he persuaded the innkeeper to allow him to change horses.

  By late afternoon, however, Chas was beginning to tire. Leslie was as full of good humor as usual. He was whistling as if it were a balmy spring day instead of a bleary day in early March. At last, Chas, whose own head was beginning to pound from lack of sleep, threw him the reins.

  “Here, make yourself useful,” he declared, leaning back against the seat.

  Leslie caught the reins with a grin and chirruped to the horses, who seemed to spring more airily at the sound. Chas closed his eyes and rubbed his throbbing temples. Beside him, he felt Leslie whip up the reins.

  “Now, Chas, my boy, you’ll see how horses were meant to be handled. Unless I miss my guess, these are Hazeltine’s lands we’re passing, which means around yonder curve is a small hill and, beyond that, a straightaway that lasts a good ten miles until Castle Combe. I wager I can make it in less than an hour, even in this fog.”

  “You’re on.” Chas grinned, infected with his friend’s good humor despite himself. Leslie snapped the reins again, and they took the curve entirely too fast.

  And ran straight into the hack.

  It loomed up out of the fog like some ancient behemoth. The horses reared and screamed, and Leslie managed to turn them before they struck. The curricle keened sideways and struck the corner of the carriage, which was already tilted at a crazy angle. There was the sickening crunch of wood and the sound of a woman screaming. Then they were past, and Leslie was struggling to pull the panicked horses to a stop.

  He managed it less than a quarter mile from the accident and sat for a moment before turning wide eyes to Chas.

  “M’God, Chas, what happened?”

  Chas took the reins from his slack hands and tied them around the brake pole. “I don’t know, Les. You check the horses. I’m going back to see if I can help.” When he was satisfied that Leslie understood and was moving to comply, he ran back down the road.

  He heard the wreck before he saw it. A woman was sobbing hysterically. When he reached her, she was crouched at the side of the road, her face buried in her hands. He could barely understand the words through her sobs. An older man was standing a few feet away, ignoring her completely and eyeing the wreck of the carriage, which had fallen over on its side and slid off the road toward a copse of trees.

  “Is anyone hurt?” Chas asked the man over the woman’s sobs.

  “Damn carriage is ruined,” the man muttered. He eyed Chas calculatingly. “And who’s going to pay, that’s what I wants to know.” He spat onto the road.

  The woman struggled to her feet. “Pay? Pay! You filthy, rum-swilling, ham-fisted, foul-mouthed bugger! How can you talk about money at a time like this!”

  “And me ‘orses,” the man put in to Chas, ignoring the woman’s outburst. “A fine set. Run off. Doubt I’ll ever see ‘em again.”

  “Horses!” The woman was obviously at her wits end. She grabbed the man and, to his and Chas’ surprise, shook him like a terrier does a rat. “My Miss Anne could be dyin’ and you talk about horses!”

  Chas stared at her as every drop of blood in his veins turned to ice. He grabbed her and stared down in confirmation into Bess’ panic-stricken face. Dropping his hold, he half ran, half slid down the embankment, digging in his heels to keep from falling, until he reached the wreck of the carriage.

  The coach looked as if it had been crumpled by a giant fist. It was precariously balanced on a boulder, which kept it from sliding down to the trees at the base of the steep hill. One of the doors faced the sky. His mind sending up a wordless prayer for her safety, he started to clamber up to the door, but the frame shook so, he was forced to drop back to the ground in fear that he would send it crashing down to the trees.

  His heart beat alarmingly fast as he surveyed his options. Slower now, with every movement painfully thought out, he pulled himself up to the point where he could reach the door handle. He managed to wrench it open and wedge first his shoulder and then his arm and head into the opening. He peered into the wreckage, half afraid of what he would see.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, he could make out blankets and baskets strewn about, and a pile of clothes tumbled into the far corner. It took him a moment to recognize with sick certainty that the pile of clothes was Anne.

  He pulled his head out and carefully moved his body onto the side panel of the carriage. For the first time he realized that Bess and the driver were watching him from the road in silence. A few yards down the road, he spotted Leslie walking toward them.

  “I can see her,” he said for Bess’ benefit. “Tell gentleman who’s approaching to await my direction when he reaches you. I may need help.” He opened the door once more.

  “Anne?” he called softly, and every fiber in his being prayed for an answer. The pile of clothing didn’t move. “Anne?” he tried a little louder, but again there was no answer. Fighting panic, he looked up to see Leslie peering over the edge of the carriage at him.

  “I can’t seem to rouse her. I’m going to have to go in and get her. If I lift her up to you, do you think you can pull her out?”

  Leslie nodded numbly, for once, apparently, at a loss for words.

  Chas slid carefully down into the carriage. He crouched on the door panel then braced himself as the carriage shook with the impact of Leslie climbing up in his place. He pulled the hamper away from Anne’s face. In the dark, her paleness struck him as sharply as a knife. He was afraid to move her, but he knew he had to get her out of the unsteady carriage.

  He cradled her head with one arm and gently lifted her against his chest. Her head lolled to one side and, for one sick moment, he thought her neck might be broken.

  “Anne!” the cry was wrung from him involuntarily, but it did the trick. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at him bewildered. “Chas? How . . .”

  “Thank God!” Chas found he could breath again. He tried to give her an encouraging smile as he shifted her closer. “Quickly, my dear, tell me how you feel. Is anything broken, do you think?”

  Anne gingerly stretched out her arms and legs. “Everything seems to be work . . .ow!”

  “What?”

  “My. . . my left knee. It won’t straighten.”

  “Forgive me,” Chas murmured as he felt along her leg. Even through the thick skirts he could tell the knee was swelling. “You’ve done it some damage, but I can’t tell if it’s br
oken.” He pulled her up with him as he stood, careful to let her full weight lean against him. “Hear that, Leslie?”

  “Right-o.”

  Anne looked up, startled.

  Leslie had recovered sufficiently to grin at her and doff an imaginary hat. His beaver must have fallen off in the crash. “Good afternoon, Miss Fairchild. May I say you look lovely under the circumstances.”

  Anne blushed.

  Chas felt absurdly jealous. “Enough of that nonsense, you moonling. Are you in position to help Miss Fairchild out of here?”

  “Ready and willing. Toss her up like a good chap.”

  Anne looked up at him, alarmed, and he couldn’t help grinning. “Don’t look so worried. I assure you, Leslie and I toss young ladies about all the time.”

  “Doubtless,” she quipped. “But as I am not used to being treated like a child’s toy, perhaps could you be a bit gentle?”

  He could see the concern in her dark eyes, and he brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “It will be as easy as flying to a bird, I promise.” He gripped her about the waist, feeling her tremble at his touch, and lifted. Leslie caught her hands and pulled her past him while Chas steadied her from below. She seemed suddenly tiny to him, fragile, and he watched with trepidation as her feet disappeared over the edge above. When Leslie called the all clear, he was glad to pull himself up after her.

  They managed to get Anne down to the ground without mishap. She stood safely on the far side of the road from the wreckage, leaning against a reassured Bess as Chas, Leslie, and the coachman stood on the opposite side and surveyed the damages. Leslie had assured the man that he would make full restitution, but aside from a grunt and a spit across the road, the man had made no other comment. Chas felt an instinctive distrust.

  To Chas’ assessment, there was little they could do. The carriage was ruined, the horses broken from the traces and fled. His own curricle had faired better, but even it had a cracked axle and, worst of all, one of the horses had come up lame. Chas could only hope that the injury would heal with time. As it was, the curricle could at best carry two people for a very short distance. The fog was lifting enough to show him the setting sun. There would likely be no more carriages this way that night.

  “How far is it to the nearest town, do you think?” he asked Leslie.

  “Another ten miles to Castle Combe, if I have my bearings,” his friend answered. “Although there may be an inn along the way. And the last town we passed was farther back than that. This is a poor place for an accident, and that’s a fact.” He wrapped his great coat tighter about himself as the first traces of a rising north wind whistled past.

  “Well, we jolly well can’t stay here. You said you knew these parts, Les. Any chance of cutting across the country and finding shelter?”

  “Hm. There’s a thought. Hazeltine has a hunting lodge on the edge of his property, shouldn’t be too far from here.” He broke away and scanned the copse of trees, now fully visible in the last rays of the sun. “Yes, I’m sure. The lodge has to be about a mile straight through those trees.”

  “You’re sure you can find it?”

  “Of course! I’d wager my life on it.”

  “Good,” Chas replied, turning away from him. “Because that’s exactly what you’ll be doing.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Anne watched Chas walking toward her as if in a dream. Everything seemed so unreal--the accident, the fog, and the gathering darkness. She’d thought never to see him again, let alone wake in his arms. What did it mean that he was here? She had been so determined to try to find a wealthy husband, for Millicent and Agatha’s sakes. Was fate trying to test her resolve?

  She forced herself to focus on the present, starting with her own condition. Every inch of her body ached, especially her knee, and the cold was seeping through her layers of clothing to her bones. Darkness approached with no help in sight. The situation was precarious, but when Chas smiled at her and took her hand, she found she could smile back.

  “Ladies, I’ll speak candidly. We don’t have many options. If we wait here for help, we’ll likely freeze. And my curricle won’t hold more than two. But I think Leslie and I have hit upon a plan, and we’ll need both your help.”

  “You can count on me, guvner,” Bess promised. Anne nodded agreement.

  “You may not say that when you hear the rest. Bess, I want you to go in the curricle with the hackman.” He held up a hand as she started to protest. “Leslie is needed here to guide us. I dare not leave him alone to care for the two of you. I cannot send Anne alone with the coachman, and I dare not send him alone. I don’t trust him. He’s likely to drive off with the hired horses never to be seen again. I know I can trust you, Bess, to see to it that help is brought.”

  Bess nodded silently, her face set.

  “And the rest of us?” Anne asked, seeing the logic in his plan.

  He took a deep breath as if reluctant to proceed. He squeezed her hand. “Leslie knows these lands. He says there’s a hunting lodge less than a mile from here where we can shelter until help arrives. Just see that you bring that help, Bess.”

  “Yes, sir. You can count on me.” The little maid gave Anne a fierce hug and trotted off to badger the coachman.

  “You don’t sound optimistic,” Anne ventured. She wanted him to understand that she realized how desperate their situation had become and the liability she, with her injured leg, represented. “I’ll only slow you down. Perhaps I would be all right with the driver in the curricle.”

  A myriad of emotions flitted across his face before his social mask dropped into place. “Do you find my company that repugnant, madam?”

  Anne gasped at his interpretation of her motives. “No, of course not!” She put her hand on his arm both to steady herself and to reassure him. “I was only trying to be practical. You and Leslie would do far better without being burdened with me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What kind of monster do you take me for? Do you honestly think I could leave you alone, injured, with that ruffian?”

  Realizing he was determined to keep a wall between them, and that perhaps it was for the best, she dropped her hold on him, even though it pained her leg without the added support. “I was only trying to be helpful, Mr. Prestwick. No need to brindle. I shall, of course, be guided by whatever plan you set.”

  “Fine. I see the coachman is prepared to leave. I suggest we do likewise.” He turned and stalked away from her. Anne bit her lip, wracking her brain for a way to cross the same distance. He must have realized she wasn’t following, for he stopped and looked back.

  “Well, do you persist in arguing with me?”

  Anne lost patience. “Not at all, Mr. Prestwick. I delight in hopping about strange forests in near darkness on one leg. Pray, don’t give it another thought.”

  “Damnation!” He strode back to her, and, before Anne knew what he was about, he lifted her once more into his arms. He then set off after Leslie as if she were a feather pillow. Despite herself, Anne was impressed.

  A short while later in the forest, she was less impressed. Leslie had found what appeared to be a game trail, leading in the general direction of where he thought the hunting lodge might lie. Barely three feet wide, it was overgrown with brambles and gnarled yew. Roots rippled the floor, tripping Chas repeatedly. Thorns snagged his great coat and her cloak, and branches reached out to hold them back. Soon Chas’ breath was white in the air above her, and she could see sweat beading his brow.

  “Please, can’t you put me down?” she offered guiltily as he twisted to avoid a particularly evil-looking thorn bush. “I think I could hobble along.”

  “Save your breath, madam, as I intend to save mine.” He hitched her up closer to his chest and plunged on. Anne said nothing more.

  The next hour or so was like some hideous nightmare. The woods around them were dark and almost unnaturally quiet. Leslie continued to lead the way, though at times, between the general murkiness of the wood and her position agai
nst Chas’ chest, Anne was hard pressed to keep him in sight. Chas continued to stumble along with her in his arms, his face shuttered and intent, his green eyes focused on Leslie’s retreating back. Anne tried to make it easier for him by not wiggling, but her muscles were soon cramped from the strain. Her knee ached, and her face smarted where the brambles had stung her and the branches had whipped her.

  To make matters worse, the temperature had dropped with the setting sun, and, even in her travel cloak against Chas’ chest, Anne began to shiver. She clamped her mouth shut to keep Chas from hearing her chattering teeth.

  Chas stopped suddenly and sank to his knees next to a moss-covered log. Anne managed to swing herself away from him and lean against it. The forest was now fairly dark, although faint lines of moonlight lanced though openings in the bare trees. The smell of the cold, damp forest permeated her lungs and seemed to have settled inside. Chas’ breath came in great white puffs of fog as he gulped air. He smiled at her wryly.

  “Don’t look so dismayed, my dear. Though it pains me to admit it in your presence, this isn’t as easy as it looks. I just . . . need to . . . catch my breath.”

  Leslie appeared beside them. “Let me take a turn, old man. You mustn’t keep the delight of carrying such a lovely to yourself.” He bent to reach for Anne, but Chas’ arm shot out to prevent him.

  “Sorry, . . . Leslie. My . . . responsibility.”

  “Don’t see how you can say that when I’m the one who hit the carriage.” Leslie’s voice sounded petulant. “Seems to me I ought to be shouldering more of the burden.”

  “Not . . . at all.” Chas struggled to his feet. “I’m fine now. We should be there soon. Then we can all rest.” He put his hand out to Anne. She took it, noticing that in the short time she had sat, her hands and feet seemed to have gone numb. She put the panic the realization brought firmly out of her mind.