Chapter 14
Cecilia’s eyes had not been focused on any particular detail in the scene spread out before her, but some part of her mind had been aware for a while that there was a figure, not terribly far away, serving to add human interest – a man in a long, flapping greatcoat, slowly walking along parallel to the shore.
And then he was gone with shocking suddenness.
He must, she realised, have fallen, and as a second or two ticked by, it became clear that he wasn’t clambering up again and brushing himself off.
Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he had suffered some grave attack of illness, or broken a limb. She picked up her skirts and ran.
Bianca, who had been wandering along, kicking at stones, shells and pieces of driftwood in a brown study, remained frozen in incomprehension for a moment, and then came hurtling after her, not wasting her breath on asking why they were now haring across the beach like a pair of zanies, as Bea would have done.
They were hampered by their gowns, which were emphatically not designed for vigorous exercise, and by the pools of seawater they had to splash through, thoroughly soaking their muslins, but in a few minutes, they reached their destination.
There was a tall man lying immobile, on his back. He must have fallen face down and then managed to roll over, so at least he was not insensible or dead; his coat was wet and sandy, and he was looking up at them through ridiculously long, dark lashes as though he hated them.
Cecilia disregarded his glowering looks and said, panting, ‘Can we help you, sir? Are you ill?’
He was silent for a moment and then said, in a deep voice that might have been pleasant if he hadn’t been practically growling, ‘I thank you for your concern, ladies, but there is not the least need for it, nor for you to run so madly to my aid. I merely tripped and fell; I have done myself no lasting injury. I am a cripple, which occasionally, I forget, and I was not paying sufficient attention to my footing. Please go away and leave me be.’
This was obviously Major Bartrum – his coat was a military one, though Cecilia wasn’t knowledgeable enough to be able to tell the regiment.
She could see why Miss Pallant had described him as disagreeable, if this was how he greeted complete strangers who were only trying to help, and had drenched themselves in the process.
It would do not the least good, she thought, to reveal that they knew his name.
‘Obviously, we can’t leave you be,’ she said reasonably.
‘And you can’t possibly want to lie on the sand getting wet, because you will surely catch cold.
Eventually, the tide will come in and drown you, if you stay there long enough.
If you are indeed uninjured, sir, I am very glad of it.
Can you get up, do you think, if we both help you? ’
‘It is none of your affair if I wish to rest here quietly for a moment,’ he ground out preposterously. Cecilia had the odd sense that he knew he was being perfectly ridiculous, and that annoyed him all the more.
He was almost as dark as Cecilia herself, his glossy hair abundant and wildly disordered, and his beaver hat had come off and rolled, inevitably, into a deep puddle.
She picked it up and shook it, looking at him covertly through her own lashes all the while.
His face was handsome and resolute, possibly too resolute for comfort, but a livid scar ran down it from brow to square chin, its flesh puckered as if it had been roughly sewn on the battlefield or soon after.
It had missed his eye and mouth, but barely, and some part of her brain wondered that their visitor Miss Pallant had not thought to mention it when she’d been talking of him, since she had not appeared to be suffering from an excess of delicacy in any other respect.
Bianca, she thought, would tell her later that he had suffered a sabre cut not long since, and she could see for herself that he was lucky to have preserved his vision, if not his temper.
‘You can’t possibly desire to do anything so silly,’ she told him bluntly.
‘And you must surely see that we can’t go away and leave you here like…
like a stranded turtle. We have only your word for it that you are not hurt; it would be wickedly neglectful of us to desert you so, and we shan’t do it, so you might as well save your breath.
Will you take our hands and let us pull you up, or would it be better if we kneel and you use the support of our shoulders to help you stand? ’
‘Neither!’
‘Well, it will have to be one or the other, since we can’t possibly carry you.
We’d be sure to drop you and do you further harm.
Oh, no, I have it, sir – there are several labourers commencing work on the Hall grounds today.
’ There weren’t, of course, but it was doubtful if he could be confident of that.
‘I shall run and fetch them; they can bring a hurdle for you to lie on and between them, I am sure they will be able to drag you…’ He’d hate that ingenious but undignified idea; she was very glad she’d thought of it.
He sighed like a man provoked past all endurance. ‘Give me your hands,’ he muttered with scant civility. And then a split second later, ‘Please?’
While speaking, he’d struggled into a sitting position, his knees bent, and reached out large, ungloved hands, his very posture grudging as he did so.
It seemed a shockingly intimate thing to Cecilia, to touch the bare skin of a strange man; his hands were warm, a little rough, but she pushed aside the thought and concentrated on what must be done.
She and Bianca planted their booted feet as securely as they could in the sand and braced themselves.
Between them, they had the strength to haul him to his feet, but it was a close-run thing, so tall and heavy was he.
At the last moment, he staggered and almost fell and pulled them on top of him, thus tipping the whole ridiculous scene over into pure farce, but providentially, he managed to regain his balance in the end, to stand looking down at them, scowling sandily.
Cecilia, who was trying very hard not to smile and mostly succeeding, gravely and silently handed him his sodden, ruined hat.
He looked at it and clearly thought better of putting it back on his head; this was fortunate, as she feared that her fragile composure would not have survived the sight of him glowering furiously at her with water trickling down his face and seaweed decorating his ears.
‘Thank you,’ he said grudgingly at last. Clearly, he intended to say nothing more, nor would he introduce himself; ordinary civility was not an option for this man.
Some imp of mischief impelled her to drop him an exaggerated curtsey, all the while aware that Bianca was looking at her as though she had run mad. ‘I am sure it was our pleasure to be of some little assistance, sir,’ she said airily. ‘Do you think you will be able to…?’
‘Yes!’ he barked and pivoted on his heel, wobbling a little, and stomped ungracefully off.
He then realised that he’d forgotten his stick, and was obliged to come back for that.
Cecilia had noticed it a moment earlier and picked it up too, smiling a little as she held it out; there was no limit to her helpfulness today.
He seized it from her hand, nodding stiffly as he did so, then turning away again.
It was not the sort of situation in which a dignified departure was really possible, and the rigid line of his broad back, the very angle at which he held his head, showed that he knew it.
They stood watching him go. He was a wounded man as well as an excessively ill-tempered one; it would have been quite wicked to wish that he might fall over again, because he really might hurt himself another time rather than just injuring his precious masculine dignity.
‘It was a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, I am sure, Major Bartrum,’ she murmured satirically.
‘Men are so peculiar, and so ridiculously proud,’ Bianca put in.
‘I cannot wonder at you mocking him a little with your curtsey. Do you think he disliked us so merely because we witnessed him in such an undignified situation, or was it because he knows who we are – he must, don’t you think, and you mentioned the Hall besides?
– and resented us bitterly for cutting him out of his inheritance from his godmother? Or both?’
‘I have no idea, but I am certain we will find out soon enough!’