Page 39 of A Winter’s Romance
She feared for William; by no means convinced…that he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase.
—Austen, Mansfield Park (1814)
A group of huntsmen in scarlet coats crowded the yard of the Crest and Comb, their attendant grooms readying their mounts, as the Hampshire Tally Ho drew up.
“Rather a late start for them,” observed Eliza to Kirby.
“You wouldn’t catch Sir Miles dilly-dallying,” replied the Ardens’ sturdy maid. “And he hates when the master of the hunt invites strangers. Town swells who care for naught but riding hard.”
“As if Sir Miles didn’t ride hard himself,” Eliza laughed. “He has been ‘neck or nothing’ since I was a child. Well, let us hope he remembered to send the Ardenmere carriage for us before he set off to spend the day thundering through gorse and woodland.”
Heads turned to regard the young lady with the high color and shining chestnut hair being handed down from the Tally Ho, heads which were averted the next moment when her hulking duenna descended after, throwing warning scowls about.
“You wait here, Miss Blinker,” Kirby commanded, matter-of-factly guiding Eliza to stand near the inn door, “while I sort this out.” “This” being the luggage and the whereabouts of the Ardenmere vehicle.
It was a cold December day which promised a hard frost, and Eliza drew her cloak closer about her. She had not, in truth, been looking forward to spending the vacation with the Ardens, though Lady Arden had been her mother’s dear friend and never failed to extend regular invitations. Indeed, of all the teachers at Mrs. Turcotte’s Seminary for Young Ladies in Winchester, Eliza Blinker was one of the few who never went anywhere between terms, having nowhere else to go. But this December, Mrs. Turcotte had been determined to repaint and repair the depredations wrought by two decades of pupils, and to this end she declared that absolutely everyone must find somewhere else to shelter for the month. With no alternative but to visit Ardenmere, if she did not want to share a narrow room in town with Madame Froissart the French teacher, Eliza yielded.
“Pardon me, miss,” came a low voice, and with a start she retreated a step to let the gentleman by. He was a trim person—perhaps six inches taller than she and of pleasing proportions, and though not even the edge of his sleeve brushed her, she felt her face warm as if it had. Something about the hooded eyes which met her involuntary glance, eyes the shade of an amontillado sherry, set deeply in a finely cut face.
The moment was fleeting .
“Come on, then, Thornton!” someone hailed him. “We must ride hard to catch up.”
Without a backward glance, this Thornton swung himself up, clicking his tongue to his mount and trotting away.
“What did I tell you?” grumbled Kirby, looming at Eliza’s elbow. “Town swells.”
Thankfully Sir Miles had not forgotten to send the coachman, and not twenty minutes after the huntsmen were gone the Ardenmere landau arrived, supplied thoughtfully by Lady Arden with hot bricks and blankets for the drive. Kirby had words for the coachman Molson and joined him on the seat, leaving Eliza to blissful solitude for the first time since leaving Winchester the day before. She was tired and creased and would need to gather her strength to meet Lady Arden.
Within the quarter hour they had turned up the gently winding gravel drive of Ardenmere which terminated in an old-fashioned manor house of red brick with contrasting stone trim and painted sash windows. A triangular pediment capped the center of the hipped roof, while a sweep of low steps led to the carved stone door-case.
“My dear, dear Eliza!” cried the good woman, rushing out on her tiny feet to meet the carriage and clapping mittened hands together while the crisp silver curls under her cap bounced. “How glad I am you have arrived, for the glass is falling and they say it will be icy tonight. Did you see the hunters as you came? I asked Sir Miles if he could miss just one hunt to await your arrival, but he declared it would likely be the last of the year, and therefore how could he? You will forgive him, won’t you? I am so glad you have come at last. Since Frederica married I have been at sixes and sevens, hardly knowing how to occupy myself. And to think you will be with us until your school opens again in January!” Now she wrung her hands, even as Eliza gave her a kiss. “Oh, that Sir Miles! He should have been here. If only he didn’t ride like such a madman! He will surely break something or fall into a ditch at his age, but he never listens to me.”
“Well, you and I must manage as best we can without him,” Eliza answered, when Lady Arden drew breath. “And thank you for sending Kirby for me.”
“Certainly we could not let you travel alone, Eliza! Winchester might be only fifty miles as the crow flies, but who can say what mischief might befall a young lady alone in a coach with strangers?”
“Dear Lady Arden,” laughed Eliza, as she led the plump and heavily shawled woman toward the house, “you speak as if I were still sixteen, instead of twice that.”
But Lady Arden was not alone in thinking Eliza Blinker looked younger than her age. At Mrs. Turcotte’s seminary it had happened more than once that a new parent mistook Miss Blinker, teacher of Italian and history and frequent dance-lesson accompanist, for one of the pupils.
“Two and thirty?” wondered Lady Arden. “Already? My, my. I had hoped you would marry one day. So many gentlemen pass through Winchester at one time or another for the Assizes or the races…”
Eliza would have sighed, except she had done her sighing in advance, knowing exactly the opinions Lady Arden would express. The same opinions she had been expressing since Eliza had been, in fact, sixteen. Therefore she wore her calmest smile—one her students would have recognized as suitable for a pupil being corrected for the fifteenth time: “No, Miss Price. It is ‘ per strada ’ not ‘ in la strada .’ It simply must be memorized.” With this hard-won, beatific expression in place, Eliza explained to her hostess, “There may indeed be plenty of gentlemen in Winchester, Lady Arden, but if I am ever in places where they may be found, it is usually in the role of chaperone. Becoming a schoolteacher is a way of becoming invisible.”
“Perhaps, but not invisible to those who do not deserve the name of gentlemen.” Lady Arden gave a mournful shake of her head over the ways of the world. “But at least you are safe from scoundrels here.” She raised a hand to beckon her toward the staircase. “You will have your usual bedchamber, naturally, but I am afraid my maid Powell’s tremor has worsened.” Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper she added, “I no longer trust her with the iron because her hand shakes so! She is as like to scorch herself or one’s face, you understand. These —” pointing at the tight curls framing her forehead “—a re false .”
“Oh?” asked Eliza brightly.
“Indeed. Therefore I hope you don’t mind if Kirby serves as your maid. I know she doesn’t look much like a lady’s maid, but Powell has been instructing her…”
“I am sure Kirby will be fine,” answered Eliza because, honestly, what else could she say? She cast a doubtful glance behind her to where Kirby followed them up the stairs with Eliza’s trunk hoisted on her shoulder.
“We have a few suppers we have been invited to, and we must give one ourselves while you are here,” went on Lady Arden, throwing open the door to Eliza’s familiar room, unchanged not only from her childhood but indeed from the reign of Queen Anne: low ceiling, yellow curtains, walls painted leaf green to complement the walnut furniture. “It is the season, you know. But I’m afraid the only eligible gentleman you will meet is Mr. Marvin the curate.”
“Oh, Lady Arden!” protested Eliza. “No matchmaking, if you please. I am happy to dine with your friends and neighbors, but please do not thrust me upon anyone!”
The well-intentioned Lady Arden pouted at this, and Eliza felt at once ashamed of her complaint, but not ashamed enough to retract it. With a grunt, Kirby lowered her trunk to the carpet and began unpacking Eliza’s serviceable wardrobe, providing a welcome distraction. Eliza turned away to busy herself with arranging things.
“I will not insist,” her hostess sighed. “Though you will see. He is a pleasant man, and Sir Miles likes him because he’s a hunting parson.”
“I quite believe that,” Eliza replied, her humor reviving. “Is this Mr. Marvin out with Sir Miles today?”
“To be sure. Just like Sir Miles, Mr. Marvin never misses an opportunity to hunt if he can help it. The only time he could not avoid it was when old Mrs. Plimpsett was positively dying one morning, and poor Mr. Marvin could hardly leave her deathbed. But he felt it sorely, I can assure you.”
“I hope Mrs. Plimpsett apologized for inconveniencing him,” said Eliza with twitching lips.
“She did ,” Lady Arden replied innocently, “but he missed the hunt all the same. ”
Eliza put an arm about her companion’s waist. “Well, we had better leave off discussing the parson now, Lady Arden, or I will fall in love with him despite myself. Shall we go down and have some tea? I would be happy to read to you or play for you. No need to wait for Sir Miles, for he likely will not return for hours.”
Eliza was mistaken, however, for no sooner was the tea served and the Ardens’ sheet music sorted through, than a loud confusion of voices was heard.
Before Lady Arden could remark, the drawing room doors flung open, admitting a cluster of men led by Sir Miles Arden and accompanied by an influx of chill air. But it was not the draught which elicited his wife’s shrieks. Rather it was the burden laid out upon a door and carried by two of the huntsmen: a muddied and mangled and bloodied fourth party. Unconscious, mercifully. Eliza’s heart gave a little jump. She could not say how she recognized the man in his present condition, but recognize him she did.
“Stop that fearful caterwauling, Mary, and get off the sofa!” shouted Sir Miles to his lady. “We’re going to roll him onto it.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Eliza declared, springing up with raised hand to stop them. “If he’s broken anything, jostling and tumbling him will only make it worse. Better let the surgeon see him first.”
“Oh—how now, Eliza,” said Sir Miles. “You’ve come, have you? A hearty welcome, but what would a little miss like you know of broken bones?”
“I may teach at a girls’ seminary, sir,” she answered, “but we are no strangers to such injuries, having a few very tomboyish pupils. And our doctor Mr. Beckford entreated us never to move the patient if we could help it, for ten to one moving her would only add to the damage.”
“Well, well, if you say so,” he relented. “Ponsonby will be along shortly, and he knows a fair bit of doctoring, too. Gently, there!” The others left off at once, sparing the victim further mishap. Though from the looks exchanged, Eliza suspected the unconscious man had already experienced his share of rough handling.
“We could hardly leave him where he lay, miss,” spoke up one of them, a bluff, ruddy-faced fellow who was the only one wearing a black coat rather than scarlet. “The hounds were running fast, and the fox took a line through the bushes—”
“You know the spot, Eliza,” took up Sir Miles eagerly. “A ten-minute walk to the northeast. There’s a bank with a rail at the top of it, after which it drops far down into the field. Makeless has taken that rail a dozen times and knew just the trick of it, but after we were over, I stopped to watch the others. It was your fault, Marvin. Thornton might have managed it, even on a borrowed horse, if he turned and rode hard at the jump, but when he saw you pressing on him, he had to make the attempt when he was too close. Sure enough, his horse caught a foot against the bar, and over they tumbled. Then you come along on Hautboy and come right down on them. What a tangle! It’s a mercy you weren’t carried out on a door yourself.”
This was the clergyman Mr. Marvin, then, and scarcely were makeshift introductions performed than the door opened to admit the hunt’s attending surgeon.
Tossing aside his hat and peeling off his gloves, Mr. Ponsonby took one look at Mr. Thornton and called for scissors. “He will have to be cut out of that handsome coat. Have you a spare shirt he can wear, Sir Miles? And better bring some brandy, in case he regains consciousness.” When his orders were obeyed, the ladies retreated modestly to the far side of the room, leaving the surgeon to make his examination. Only once did the patient give a faint groan.
“Let’s hope he remains insensible,” said Ponsonby. “I’ll have to reset the collarbone, and he’s cracked two ribs, but the ankle is only sprained. The worst of it looks to be the mighty blow he took to the forehead. The eyes are still in there, but time will tell if he’ll ever be able to see out of ’em again, what with the swelling and the blood. And when he comes to himself, he may not even know his own name.” The surgeon passed a hand over his pate. “Here—pass me my bag and I’ll bandage his head before we try anything. On no account is he to use his eyes for at least a few weeks, if there’s been trauma to the optic nerves. You hear that, Sir Miles? Have the servants shut the curtains in here. Candlelight and firelight only.”
“Certainly,” agreed the baronet, pointing at the hovering footmen who scrambled to obey. “But shouldn’t you be giving these instructions to the Crest and Comb, Ponsonby? Looks like this Thornton will be staying there a long time.”
“The Crest and Comb?” snapped the surgeon, swabbing Thornton’s wounds. “The man is not returning to the inn. He is not going anywhere for some weeks. I’m sorry to tell you, Sir Miles, but this Thornton must not be moved. When I’m done with him we will transfer him gingerly to the sofa, and there he must stay until I give him leave.”
“In my drawing room?” the baronet blustered. “But we use this room! Cannot we remove him upstairs, at the very least? ”
“Not upstairs, not one foot!” insisted Ponsonby. “Haven’t you a partition or—or some sort of screen, Lady Arden? If you do, you may hide him behind it and still use the room when he is not sleeping. He hasn’t lost his hearing, I imagine, and he might appreciate the company after a time.”
United in dismay, Sir Miles and his lady gawped at each other. To be saddled with an invalid for weeks on end, in their very own drawing room? One who might turn out to be blind and possibly not right in the head?
Again it was Eliza who interposed. She had silently been assisting the footmen with the curtains and directing them where they might place Lady Arden’s prized calamander lacquer screen. “Mr. Ponsonby, do you suppose when the poor man’s bones have recovered somewhat, he might be moved at that time?”
“Possibly, possibly. It depends, frankly, on the extent of damage to his brains and eyes. I will look in on him regularly, to be sure, and a nurse can be sent up from the village, but for now here he is, and here he must remain.”
“Very well,” she said after a pause, seeing the Ardens still dumbfounded. “Leave your instructions with us. And we will send someone to the Crest and Comb to fetch his belongings and his manservant.”
Mr. Ponsonby regarded her with dawning respect. “Exactly, Miss—”
“Blinker,” she supplied. “Miss Blinker. I will be here at Ardenmere through Epiphany Day.”
“Miss Blinker.” He bowed his head and finished tying off Thornton’s bandages. “And now, Marvin, Sir Miles—if you would each take hold of one of his arms, in case he wakens and tries to move—let me see about this collarbone.”