Page 45 of A Winter’s Romance
“ W atch out there, Guv’nor!” Wilf’s voice came shrilly through the freezing night air. “That there’s a sheet o’ ice! You’ll want ter pull back on the nags!”
But it was too late. The big back wheels of the high-perch phaeton swung wildly as they encountered the slippery surface and there was an ominous splintering crack. The vehicle immediately slumped to one side and the cantering horses, feeling the sudden check, reared up wildly.
“Damn and blast it!” The driver, who must have had wrists of iron, wrestled them to a stop.
Even before they were at a standstill, Wilf ran to the front and took hold of the horses’ heads, speaking to them in a language only he and they could understand. Then he darted around and felt their legs.
“No ‘arm done, far as Oi can feel, Guv’nor. Can’t see a bloody thing, o’course.”
“That’s more than can be said for the phaeton,” came a cultured voice from the back of the vehicle. “The left rear wheel’s clean off. And the right looks as if it’s cracked. Damn and blast it,” he said again. “I blame it on the port. The one Aunt Florence left us with after that dreadful lunch. The prosy old fool of a rector must have thought he needed to pay for the multiple glasses he threw down his gullet by expounding on all the Old Testament prophesies foretelling the birth of Christ. And the squire encouraged him! I suppose he thought the longer he was at table, the more he could put away too. I have to admit, it was good port, but dammit, otherwise I would have been away an hour earlier.”
“Yus, an’ if yer weren’t half cut yer might ‘ave bin payin’ more attention to the road an’ all.”
“That’s enough commentary from you!”
The owner of the voice came round and stood beside his diminutive tiger. He was an imposing figure, made even broader and taller by his many-caped coat and the high, curly-brimmed hat on his head.
“Well, not much use standing about in this freezing weather. We’ll have to unhitch the horses and walk into the village. I suppose there is a village somewhere down this godforsaken track. Come on, and bring our traps. We’re going to have to rack up somewhere for the night. Perhaps it’ll be in a manger.” He laughed hollowly.
Leading the horses behind them, they walked in silence for about a mile until Wilf said suddenly, “There’s a light up ahead Guv’nor. Not much of a one, though. Can’t be a very big place. You want to take yer chance in there, or carry on?”
“Don’t know about you, but I haven’t felt my feet for the last half-mile. Let’s see if we can warm up a bit, even if we have to carry on afterwards. At least they should be able to tell us if there’s a wheelwright anywhere around.”
Wilf grunted assent, though he didn’t need to. His master knew he’d follow him through the gates of hell itself. He’d met him one day when the lad had fearlessly jumped on the back of one of a runaway pair harnessed to a curricle. They’d been frightened by a pair of cats who chased each other under the horses’ hooves, fighting over a stolen herring. The groom who was supposed to be watching them had been distracted by a shapely ankle and was looking the other way.
Back then Wilf was even smaller: more than half-starved and dressed in rags. He had no idea how old he was or what his surname might be. He’d been left at the workhouse door as an infant and as soon as he could, he had run away to live in the London streets.
After the daring feat with the runaway horses, he was hired as tiger on the spot and now, several years later, well-fed and liveried, he was his master’s self-appointed protector and guide. He would follow him into Hades, negotiate with Charon over the fare and argue with Satan himself if the conditions were unsuitable for the man he considered his Savior, despite what the Bible (which he couldn’t read, anyway) might say.