Chapter Three #2
Without waiting for his friend to comply, Adam whisked the covering off the wagon load, leapt down, and made his way to the scene of action. Once there, he gave the blanket a twirl, fanning it over the muddy ground beside the cart and saying with sunny command, “If you please…”
Self-conscious after sprawling over Chauncey’s hind end, Frances kept her gaze lowered, murmuring her thanks and pretending not to see the man’s outstretched hand as she climbed down.
Unfortunately this attempt to recover her dignity was not rewarded, for in taking an unusually long step to avoid his help, her boot did not land squarely.
The blanket shifted underfoot, causing Frances to slide and let out her own screech of surprise.
“Up-a-daisy,” said the man, catching her elbow and steering her to dry land beside her brother.
The next moment he was at the pony’s head, a stream of soothing murmurs and nonsense audible as he bent to win Chauncey’s trust. And the fat little pony, used to Mrs. Dere’s masterful treatment, soon recognized like superiority and placidly submitted to his bridle being taken.
With a glance to ensure the way was clear, Hearne clicked his tongue to urge Chauncey forward, and the pony braced and lunged, pulling for all he was worth.
“Look at that! Come on, Chauncey!” cried Gordon. “That’s it, old boy!”
“You can do it, Chauncey,” Frances urged under her breath, amazed in turn at the pony’s efforts.
There was a minute of tension, in which Frances feared the traces might snap from the strain, and then, with a thick, sucking sound, the cart lurched from its muddy trap.
“Hurrah!” shouted Gordon. He rewarded the pony with a slap to the shoulder and would have administered another to Adam Hearne, had he not caught himself in time.
Frances wanted to shout as well and could not resist jigging a little in excitement, but now that she was brave enough to regard the one who had done the rescuing, the sight of him quite stunned her.
Dark of hair and eye, firm of limb, he might have stepped from the pages of a novel.
He was—why—he was beautiful. And when she thought again of his hand at her elbow and of his persuasive murmurings to Chauncey, an odd little shiver coursed through her.
Why, no wonder the pony responded at once and did exactly what he was bid!
“Thank you for your assistance, sir,” she said lamely, her eyes dropping again to the fingers which still curled under Chauncey’s cheek-band. They were very nice fingers, long and strong. “You must have a gift with animals.”
Another wave of mortification swamped her because had that sounded flirtatious? Not that it mattered. At least, it shouldn’t matter. She had never seen this person before and probably never would again.
Taking a deep breath, Frances prepared to make a second effort, this one a business-like dismissal, but when she raised her head, she found her deliverer not even looking her way.
His sculpted profile was turned to watch a butterfly flitting past, his perfect features marred by a empty half smile.
Releasing the bridle, he pointed at the insect.
“Thank you,” he said. And Frances had no idea whether he was answering her remark or addressing the butterfly.
Gordon’s eyebrows lifted, and he took a step toward the cart, tugging at his sister’s arm. “Well, then, we’ll be moving along,” he announced. “Wouldn’t want to sink into the mire again. Thank you again, sir. This time Frances and I will keep to the roads.”
She could have pinched him for saying her Christian name aloud, but the beautiful man did not seem to notice.
“Rain makes mud,” he happily told no one in particular. “It rained. The blanket covered the mud.” He pointed again, this time at the blanket on the ground.
“So it did,” Gordon replied, pushing Frances ahead of him and climbing in. Passing his sister the reins, he gave her a subtle nudge in the side. She nudged him back.
The Barstows wondered if they would have to ask the strange man to move aside that they might pass, but all on his own he bounded out of the sheepwalk after the butterfly.
His companion, the other gentleman who had yelped in alarm earlier, hunched in the wagon seat.
He nodded at them, but his lips were pressed tightly together, and a wheezing breath escaped him.
Hardly knowing what to make of the pair, Gordon gave Frances another elbow in the side, and she hastily clicked her tongue at Chauncey.
The little pony, proud of his recent heroics, obeyed with alacrity, hitching into motion so that they jounced and jostled forward, only to stick once more in a boggy spot right where the sheepway met the road.
When Frances twisted round, however, to see how deep the wheel had sunk this time, she let fly another shriek of surprise, for there was Mr. Butterfly’s face, inches from her own, his shoulder already applied to the back of the cart.
“Mercy!”
He gave a mighty shove; they jerked free; he pointed at the ground and said, “Mud here too. Because of the rain.”
“Er—yes. So there is. Thank you again.” She gave Chauncey a little slap with the reins, and the jaunty cart rattled away toward the village without further mishap.
Slowly, Hearne made his way back to the wagon, tossing the soiled blanket in the bed and leaning a hand against it to scrape his boots with a stick.
Tilson’s wheezing gained in volume, but his friend said, “Hush. You know how sound carries.”
“I can’t—can’t help it,” gasped John, trying to choke his mirth down nonetheless. “This plan may not work after all.”
“You think I wasn’t convincing?”
“As an idiot? As a simpleton?” Dashing tears from his eyes, he shrugged.
“It works well enough, I suppose, to those unacquainted with you. And I suppose as well that Midge and I will get used to it in time and be able to command ourselves. ‘Mercy’ indeed! I do believe you nearly frightened that poor girl to death when she turned around to find you lying in ambush—” Muffled laughter convulsed him again, and this time he had to draw out his handkerchief to swab himself.
“One thing is certain: the halfwit act quite neutralizes the effect of your looks. At first that young lady stared at you as they all do, but then…if you ever cross paths with her again, she might run in the opposite direction as fast as her feet can carry her!”
Had John Tilson been in any state to notice, he might have seen a frown fleet across Adam Hearne’s noble features, but he was not in a state to notice, and Hearne himself said nothing in reply.
Instead he climbed back up to the seat and, with a low, “Walk on,” they resumed their journey.