Chapter Six
Emily came to in aching, ringing silence. Her head throbbed. When she put a hand to her temple, her fingers came away damp. Dim light filtered through the window, which, she thought, gazed up at the sky. Already, snow covered the glass.
She, along with the brick—she suspected the source of the wound on her head—and the blankets were lying against the side of the carriage, which now faced down.
Everything felt too quiet, sound dampened by the falling snow.
Her breath came in juddering fits—the only thing she could hear.
Slowly, moving in a daze, she reassured herself that no other part of her was hurt.
Arms, legs, torso. Only her head ached, sharp stabs of pain every time she moved.
Her thoughts moved fuzzily about her head.
They had crashed. That was it. The carriage had tilted, and they had landed hard, and—
“Emily!” The sound was distant, but it cut through the ringing in her ears, and she moved her head, searching for the source of the voice. The door opened, letting snowflakes drive inside, and a head poked through. “Are you all right?” Mr Beaumont asked a little desperately, his voice tight.
“I—I think so.” She sounded as dreamy as she felt. Surely, any second, she would open her eyes and find herself rattling back along the snowy countryside.
“Give me your hand.” He opened the door wide and extended a hand, his entire demeanour thick with strain.
No, not strain. Pain.
When she didn’t move, he added, “I’ll pull you free.”
She exhaled sharply, forcing away the fuzziness with sheer force of will. This would not get the best of her. All she needed was to approach the situation with a modicum of logic. A few truths were undeniable.
They had been in some form of accident.
The carriage lay on its side, presumably in a ditch.
She had hit her head.
It was snowing.
At least Mr Beaumont appeared to be, if not unhurt, then at least alive. That was something.
She looked up at him, at the way his form was already rapidly being covered by the falling snow. They could not remain here.
“Here,” she said, finding the blankets and handing them to him. “We should think about staying warm. Do you know where we are?”
If he was surprised by the way she took control of the situation, he didn’t show it. “I’m afraid not.”
“Never mind. We’ll have to walk until we find something, unless you think we can right the carriage ourselves.”
“No.” There was a trace of pained irony in his voice. “That, I fear, will prove impossible.”
“As I thought.” She put aside all thoughts of freezing to death. That was simply not an option when she had a sister to get back to. Instead, she gathered the blankets and handed them up to him. “We’ll need these, then. We can put them over the horses. Are they all right?”
“I think so.” He accepted the blankets with one awkward hand, then returned for her. Pistol in one hand, she clambered free with his help. The cold hit her anew, as did the wind. When she jumped down from the upended carriage, her feet sank into several inches of snow.
Mr Beaumont’s face was, for once, utterly grim. And the carriage was ruined—on its side, several splintered pieces of wood jutting into the air. Perhaps, under other circumstances, it might have provided an imperfect shelter, but it would not have protected them against the chill for long.
And then there were the horses to think about.
She turned back to Mr Beaumont, a biting reflection of his driving jumping to her tongue—only to fade in the next second, thanks to the awkward way he held one arm. His lips were pale, and his hair was plastered against his head. Snow coated every part of him.
Her anger dissipated.
“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed.
“Broken arm, I should think.” He grimaced. “Hurts like the devil.” His gaze caught on her head, and he swore under his breath, taking her chin with his good hand and turning her head this way and that. “What happened here?”
“I think one of the bricks hit my head.”
He cursed again, and Emily was faintly surprised the snow didn’t melt around the ferocity of his words. His thumb touched her cheekbone, his touch surprisingly gentle, and he wiped away a trickle of blood. “Can you still see straight?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” She wasn’t sure if she was, but they didn’t have the luxury of collapse; with him in that state, he wouldn’t be able to carry her to safety, or even lift her onto a horse.
“No you’re not,” he said, his voice low and ominous. “Neither of us are. We are in a storm and I have no bloody idea where we are, or if we’re even in Scotland or England.”
Emily shuddered, the cold biting at her elbows and nose. The throbbing in her head hadn’t ceased with the chill; if anything, it was worse.
“Lean on me,” he said, still with that grimness in his voice.
“Let me get you to the horses.” He wrapped a hand around her wrist to lead her to where the horses stood at the front of the carriage.
They were all upright. Oliver had piled the blankets on one, and its pair had a hurt hock by the looks of it.
The other two appeared unhurt but unsaddled and obviously spooked, eyes rolling. Snow settled on their backs.
There was no scenario in which they could ride these horses to safety.
To Emily’s embarrassment, she found the simple contact of his hand around her wrist a source of reassurance. They were in this together.
“The first thing we ought to do is secure your arm,” she said, trying to think.
When her father had broken his arm, the physician had set the bone and tied it to a splint.
There was nothing easily available to set the bone with here, but if she at least pinned the arm to his body, that would keep it still.
Mr Beaumont shook his head. “There’s no—”
“We’ll use a blanket for a sling. It’ll be better than nothing until we can find a doctor.”
“And you will be the one to do it?” he asked sceptically, the sarcasm in his tone belied by the sweat beading on his brow. “Darling, you can hardly stand up straight.”
“Neither can you,” she snapped. “And if we are to traipse through the countryside during a storm, we would be better off doing so in as full health as possible.” Ignoring his irritated huff, she stomped to the blankets and, placing the pistol aside, shook one out.
Impossible to get all the snow free, but she did her best, refolding it with shaking hands.
He winced, and she winced along with him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, tying the two ends around his neck.
“But we need to hold the limb in place.”
He breathed harshly through gritted teeth. “It’s fine.”
She stepped back, admiring her handiwork. “There. That will suffice for the time being, I think. We should get moving.”
“Wait.” With his good hand, Mr Beaumont reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, drew it out and proffered it to her. “Here. For your head.”
She debated arguing, but decided against it, and gingerly pressed the soft cotton against the point of pain on her head. Blood soaked through the material, watered down by the melting snow.
“I will take the gun for now,” he said, picking up the pistol where she had deposited it, and tucking it into an internal coat pocket. “I at least have the capacity to carry it without alarming anyone we encounter.”
Under any other circumstances, she would have been adamantly against Mr Beaumont taking possession of the pistol, but she saw the logic in it. And she didn’t strictly know if it was loaded; it had served its purpose.
“I want it back,” she said.
“Fine. Can you walk?”
“Yes.” She didn’t know if it was true, but there was little else she could do. With her head, and with the lack of saddle or bridle, she fancied riding would prove risky.
Mr Beaumont strode to where the reins still held the horses in place, and drawing a penknife from his pocket, he slashed through their bindings. “Here,” he said, thrusting one set of reins into her hands. “I’ll take the others. Follow me.”
They began their miserable journey. All too soon, her feet felt like blocks of ice, and although Mr Beaumont was walking ahead, striding through the snow and breaking a path, the hem of her skirts soon became damp and encrusted.
Ice bloomed on her lashes, turning them heavy with every blink. The tips of her fingers turned white.
Frostbite had not come to Dalston often, but she knew of it. The blackened extremities, nerves dead. Incurable. How would she provide for Isabella if she did not have her hands? It seemed an impossibility. Yet even her panic felt muted under the frozen weight of the world.
Behind her, the horse she led trudged with patient misery.
After what felt like hours—or perhaps even days—Mr Beaumont came to a stop ahead of her.
“I spy a light,” he yelled, pointing ahead.
Emily squinted, but the snow was too thick to make out much of anything at all.
He abandoned the horses and approached her, his face terribly pale, the tips of his hair white with frost and settled snow.
“A farm?” she asked.
His gaze flicked to her temple, then back down to her face. “Most likely. I don’t know who lives and runs there, but I expect we will have to shelter as husband and wife.”
“Not sister and brother?” she asked, already knowing it was fruitless.
“Such a story won’t hold under close examination.
We look and sound too dissimilar. The inn was one thing because we were two patrons out of many, but someone’s home is a different story.
” He plunged a hand into his pocket once more and pressed something into her hand.
When she uncurled her fingers, it was to see a ring.
She glanced at Oliver, but he was already turning away.
“I can’t wear this,” she said. Her tongue felt too thick. “Oliver. I can’t wear the ring you were going to give my sister.”
“If you want them to welcome us, then you must.”