Chapter St Albans
St Albans
At this point, my intrepidity should not be open to question, so I find myself somewhat chagrined (truly chagrined if I am honest), to say that I was caught unprepared in a cliché like you would find in a dreadful gothic novel.
To be plain, I do not assert I was trapped in a mouldy old castle, high on a cliff in a dark forest being chased by ghosts—though I doubt I would have been particularly discomposed by such.
I was not a young, attractive, virtuous, and passive damsel in distress, though I will leave it to others to discern if I can boast any of those attributes.
I was not hunted down by some terrible rake or villain (having dispatched all those I encountered).
I did not find myself in an exotic location, although the event did occur on the way to visit the Roman ruins and cathedral in St Albans.
I did not drown, fall from a horse, lose my memory, or get myself killed in a duel.
(I probably should admit, if I engaged in a duel, I would have no qualms about cheating—I never lose).
I was not subject to any of those particular fallacies that you might find in one of our less believable stories.
Instead, I was caught in the only cliché that actually makes sense.
You see, most of our travel occurs in large wooden contraptions of dubious construction, pulled by two or more large and unpredictable animals, driven by a man who cannot find an occupation that does not involve large unpredictable animals dragging wooden boxes.
As you have probably surmised, I experienced the dubious pleasure of a freak carriage accident—though why they are called ‘freak’ is quite beyond me since I am always slightly surprised when a carriage arrives at its destination without mishap.
Naturally, I could not have your ordinary sort of accident—the sort where I am scraped, bruised, and inconvenienced (or more likely killed, only to return as a tormented ghost). No, not me! I had to have the entire experience.
I would describe the event for you with my customary detail and verbosity except for one slight problem.
My ear had been driving me batty for some time (carriages are notoriously noisy), so I was feeling about half-touched and was fiddling with my earplug when I heard a noise loud enough to startle anyone, even without preternatural hearing.
Of course, I did the only appropriate thing—bashed my head against the side of the carriage and knocked myself out cold.
I am inordinately frustrated that I cannot describe the ensuing chaos.
I can still remember every second of Mr Wickham’s descent down the stairs at Lucas Lodge, and despite leaving out a considerable number of details about Mr Collins’ untimely demise, they are all still as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday.
Simply thinking of his name makes me wrinkle my nose in remembrance of his breath and… ah… other odours.
In the case of my accident, I was like the proverbial three wise monkeys, as I neither saw, nor heard, nor spoke evil.
Instead, I found myself after what I am told was a quarter-hour, laid out on the cold, hard ground, gazing up past a sea of red into the two bluest eyes I had ever seen (yes, yes, I know—yet another cliché.
About half the people in England have blue eyes, so I have no notion why it is special).
A slight change of focus left me gazing back down at red, and for the first time in my life, I understood the appeal of a uniform to ladies. Good Lord was he attractive!
To be clear, you should pay close attention to my use of adjectives, because as you should know by now, I am incredibly careful in my use of language.
If I wished to describe the man in objective terms, like someone who had not just knocked themselves senseless, I might have asserted that he was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman.
All that would be objectively true, but upon my word, I had never been struck dumb before.
I admit that my habits lean more towards action than speech, but I think I may lay reasonable claim to the use of the English language on the rare occasions when I find it more efficacious than violence.
The Red Adonis spoke, and his voice was pure honey, though not in the usual way.
By pure honey, I refer to a failed experiment of my youth wherein I attempted to use said substance as an earplug (an experiment we need never mention again).
But back to my main point before the unfortunate digression, when I say voice like honey, I actually mean NOTHING!
Nothing at all! Nada! Not a sound! I WAS STONE DEAF!
For the first time in my life, someone was speaking, not just within a dozen yards but A FOOT IN FRONT OF MY FACE, and I could not hear him.
It pains me to admit the next part, but an incomplete story is worse than none at all.
You would feel cheated while I felt guilt, so I shall reluctantly admit right here and now that the blooded warrior I had become through so many adventures PANICKED!
! I am not speaking of an ordinary panic, but I mean the type of panic where I screamed my head off right in the poor man’s face.
Said face was actually quite close since, as I eventually deduced, I had my head lying on his lap, and as it transpired, I was colouring his pantaloons to match his coat through the simple expedient of bleeding all over them from a bloody, though not particularly dangerous, head wound.
Apparently, army men were trained to address such contingencies expeditiously, though I do not like to picture the specific training involved, because he resolved the screaming problem by kissing me, and I must tell you it was certainly efficacious…
eventually. It seemed to require a lot more time and effort than a man could really afford on the battlefield, but who am I to complain.
He eventually released my lips, and asked, “Miss, are you well?”
Right there, I could see something was amiss!
It sounded as if… as if… Lord Love a Duck—I was half-deaf!
By that, I mean deaf as a post, but only in my right ear.
My left seemed to work fine, which gave me the most disconcerting thought: Is this how other people hear?
How do they survive in the world on such meagre rations?
He continued speaking, while I no doubt continued looking dicked in the nob, but I just listened in awe and wonder.
I could hear him, and I could hear another man call him ‘Colonel’ when reporting the coachman was reviving and seemed not terribly injured.
I could hear him issuing orders to a couple of other men, in a soft voice accustomed to obedience.
It was astonishing! It was amazing! It was wonderful!
Best of all, the men went away and spoke amongst themselves whilst sorting through the detritus of my big, unreliable, wooden box on wheels, apparently preparing to clear the road, and I heard nothing!
After many years of practically being able to hear people think, I could for the first time, contemplate what I thought!
Naturally, once I had leave to consider my own thoughts, there seemed no better use for said thoughts than kissing the foolish man again, so I did just that.
He had no objection, and his men had enough sense of self-preservation to leave us in peace.
While I doubt they knew the dangers of my ire (yet) they were at least conscious that interrupting a well-armed superior officer engaged in obviously important soldierly duties was unlikely to advance their own health, comfort, or careers.
That, I suppose, is another valuable lesson army training gives, and I thought it useful.
We eventually were obliged to desist, and he asked almost shyly, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
I stared in wonder, and finally replied somewhat shyly, “I did not an hour ago.”
“And now?”
“I am entirely converted to the romantic way of thinking. You may suppose the knock on the head left me addled, and I can assure you that my mind is slightly bewildered at the moment, so I shall rely on your judgement. Are we compromised or in love? Can people choose?”
He laughed loud and long, slapping his chest in glee.
“I have not had a single choice in my life since I saw you lying on the road. I feared if I found you seriously harmed, I might have run mad. Are we in love? Who knows? I have a cousin who quite stupidly insulted the love of his life at their first meeting and took months and months to resolve it. I, on the other hand, proved my superior manliness by achieving said goal with a single glance.”
He gazed into my eyes, and I very much liked the fact that I could not hear his breathing or the…
ah… other noises the human body makes all the time.
I could listen only to his words, and I could look only at his smile, and I just knew, with far more certainty than I even had at the start of this tale, that I could kiss those lips anytime the mood struck me, for the rest of my life.
As it turned out, the mood struck me instantly and remained for some time.
At long last, he said, “I suppose we should have that head tended. I am on my way to meet my cousin, who is visiting his in-laws about five miles from here. How far is your home? I have urgent business with your father.”
“Are you planning to propose?” I asked surprisingly impertinently (more Lizzy’s forte).
The foolish man kissed me again, and I began to understand what Lizzy was feeling at Pemberley. I had always thought myself both too rational and too aware of the darker nature of the opposite sex to believe I would either be offered or accept such feelings. Little did I know how foolish I was!
“That will suffice,” I said, and truly meant it.
As you must know by now, I had a far better understanding of how words can lie than your average murderer.
I needed sweet deeds, not words, and to be honest, considering the fact that Jane, Lizzy, and Kitty all took at least three months of suffering to come to the point, I vastly preferred our system.
“You are in luck. My father is but five miles away, so likely quite close to your cousin. You may take me home, speak to my father, go seek your cousin, and be back for dinner.”
“An excellent plan, my love. Let us proceed.”
With that, I was subjected to the ambiguous thrill of being hoisted onto a warhorse and proceeding along the road without a word to the colonel’s men.
I thought I probably should actually learn his name but reading from the wedding register seemed soon enough.
I had no idea if being in love made one addled, though I had to admit the theory had considerable merit.
Up on my horse I fell easily into the dreamless comfort of the smug with one overriding feeling:
? I am safe!
To be candid, I supplemented it with another:
? MY TURN! It’s about time!!