CHAPTER TWO
By the time she and Burns reached the scene of the accident Laura was glad of the clumsy boots and her hooded cloak.
The main storm had passed over, but some thunder could still be heard from the east, and the lantern with which Burns had seen fit to provide himself showed pools of water gleaming in the low spots on the path that gave on to the lane.
Water dripping from the spreading chestnut tree on the lawn sprinkled them liberally as they passed through the gates.
The scene that greeted their eyes in the lane was distressing enough in truth, although Farmer Judson and his son had succeeded in freeing the horses from the vehicle and had them in hand, soothing their nervous movements while trying to inspect them for injuries.
An elegant equipage was lying on its side, partly in the hedge, its one intact wheel canted at an eccentric angle above the ground.
Laura’s eyes moved over the wreckage, lighting on a sprawled dark heap a few feet from the carriage.
“Bring the lantern here, Burns. Is he alive, Mr. Judson?” she called, hurrying to the man’s side.
“Don’t know, Miss Marsh. We had to go to the horses afore they trampled ’im. Half mad wi’ fear, they was. I sent t’lad to you soon’s we unhitched ’em. He ain’t moved none, nor yet made a sound the whole time.”
“He’s breathing, thank heavens,” Laura reported a moment later, taking her fingers away from the victim’s face and straightening up again.
She surveyed the unconscious man untidily sprawled on his back, arms outflung.
“I cannot tell if there are any broken bones, but his heavy coat might have afforded some protection. It’s soaked now.
As wet as he is, he really cannot remain here waiting for the doctor.
Did you witness the accident, Mr. Judson? ”
“No, ma’am. Jem and me was coming from the village, caught in the storm. We heard an almighty crack is all. I cal’late the wheel must have hit that old tree root in the dark and rain; drivin’ too fast, I’ll go bail, like all they young bloods today in those outlandish contraptions.”
“It’s a bang-up racing curricle,” Jem volunteered. “Squire’s son up at the Grange drives one too.”
“Well, nobody won’t be drivin’ this one tonight, nor tomorrow neither,” his sire retorted with grim relish. “Half splintered, it is, from what I can see.”
“Are the horses all right, Mr. Judson,” Laura asked anxiously. “Can Jem lead them into the barn, so that you may help Burns carry the driver into the house, if I light the path for you?”
“One has a gash on the right foreleg where t’other kicked ’im, but they’ll do. Go along wi’ ’em, Jem.”
“I’ll see to them later, Jem, if you will saddle the cob and go for Dr. Beckworth once they’re in the barn,” Laura said to the boy holding the cheek straps of the now-quiescent horses.
“He has a bump on his head the size of a lemon,” announced Burns, who was sliding his hands under the injured man’s shoulders as the burly farmer came up to assist him.
“Perhaps if you were to remove that sodden coat it will be easier to carry him,” Laura suggested.
While this was being done, she picked up the driver’s beaver hat that had become dislodged by the fall and, glancing around, retrieved a small valise from underneath the vehicle.
Frowning from the discarded coat to the lantern standing where Burns had put it, she decided the only way to bring everything at once was to wear the hat while throwing the heavy coat over her shoulder, leaving her hands free for valise and lantern.
Thus burdened, she went ahead, cautioning the men to hold the victim as steady as possible as she held the lantern so it shone on the path behind her to guide the bearers.
The awkward procession arrived at the house without incident, though all three were breathing heavily by the time they entered the bedchamber indicated by Mrs. Marsh who met them at the door and led the way upstairs, carrying a lamp.
The men deposited the driver on the bed, from which Mrs. Marsh hastily pulled the coverlet.
Laura had left the lantern in the downstairs hall.
Now she set down the valise by the bed and addressed the butler.
“If there is no nightshirt in here, we’ll send Sukie to the attics to fetch one of my father’s from the big trunk.
Ah, there is one. Good. You get him out of his clothes, Burns, while I take Mr. Judson down to the kitchen for some hot food.
The fire in here feels wonderful, Mama. Perhaps we might spread this wet coat between the two chairs to dry near the fireplace. ”
“Is he badly hurt?” Mrs. Marsh asked as she relieved her daughter of the driving coat and beaver hat.
“Except for a big lump on his head, we don’t know yet. Jem Judson was to ride for the doctor after he got the horses safely into the barn. I am going out to attend to them now.”
“I can bait the horses for you, Miss Marsh.”
“Thank you, Mr. Judson, but I must find some ointment that will help that gashed leg in any case, and you should dry off a bit and have something to eat before setting out again.”
“I will bring Mr. Judson to the kitchen, Laura, while you attend to the horses and Burns gets the patient ready for Dr. Beckworth,” Mrs. Marsh said, and with that the members of the rescue party dispersed to their several activities.
Inescapable pain. Assaulting him … pressing down on his head.
Don’t move … don’t breathe … must concentrate!
Accident! The wheel came off, that was it.
Was he dead? Did this pain mean he was still alive?
Must move … can’t lie on the road in the rain all night.
His mother would be frantic that she had lost John’s son too.
Jack gathered his muscles, willing himself to move, then bit back a groan as the pain intensified.
“Are you awake, sir?”
At the soft words, Jack’s eyelids that he’d been unable to lift a moment ago flew open. A lovely face bent toward him, gleaming golden in a supernatural light. An angel, he decided. So he was dead after all! He sighed and closed his eyes again.
“Light … hurts.”
“I am sorry. There, I’ve moved the lamp away from the bed. Is that better?”
He understood the words but couldn’t seem to summon the strength required to acknowledge them.
“Can you hear me, sir? How do you feel now? Does your head still ache?”
The voice was louder now, persistent, even insistent. He preferred the face to the voice. A supreme effort of will forced open his eyes. The face was still lovely but no longer seemed angelic in the dim light. Impersonal, that was what it was.
“Everything aches,” he muttered. “What bed?”
“You are at Wellstead Farm, just outside of Tuddwell village. The accident happened almost at our front gate,” the young woman replied.
“The … horses?”
“Happily, there was only one minor injury. Mayhap one of the horses kicked the other in their fright when the carriage overturned, for there is a graze on one foreleg. I have fomented the wound and dressed it with spermaceti ointment. And the doctor assures me that your own injuries, though no doubt painful, are likewise minimal, sir, though you do have a concussion and must remain very still for a few days. Is there anyone we should notify about the accident in the morning? What is your name?”
Concentration appeared to be beyond his powers, though he comprehended that he and the horses had all escaped serious injury. He must be profoundly relieved and grateful, but his eyes refused to stay open. There was something he must do — Mama!
“Can you hear me, sir? What is your name?”
That cool insistent voice again, close to his ear, scattering his thoughts. Must tell Mama…
“I’m John … John’s son…” His voice sounded strange. The words were wrong. He frowned and fought the pain. “No, must tell … I must —”
“Lie still, Mr. Johnson. I promise you everything will be better in a little while. Just sleep now.”
Hands on his upper arms pressed him back. Pain screamed in his head and right shoulder, then darkness overtook him again.
How did he get to Newmarket? Surely he had set out for Hertfordshire, so how came he to be attending a race meeting?
It was a big field, and the rangy chestnut that carried his money was among the leaders; in fact, he was the leader by a length.
Jack was thinking that he would treat his friends to a bang-up meal with his winnings when the chestnut stumbled.
A big black was about to overtake him when the chestnut kicked him.
In rapid succession he kicked a grey and a roan coming up fast on either side.
There were horses down all over the course.
Never had he seen anything to equal the ensuing pandemonium as the jockeys struck the horses and each other with their whips.
Before his wondering eyes the scene shifted to the stables, where winged angels in white robes groomed horses and dressed their wounds.
Obviously he was dreaming — he must be dreaming — but he could not banish the images and awaken.
One of the angel-grooms walked the chestnut out into the stable yard — no, it seemed to be a graveyard!
The angel led the limping horse up to a woman kneeling before a gravestone, her arms full of flowers.
She turned her head. It was his mother! Whose grave was it?
Jack could not get close enough to read the inscription.
He tried to call out, to tell his mother the grave was not his, but he could not speak.
Knowing that he was dreaming, why could he not end it and wake up? How much strength could that require? Jack concentrated on moving and heaved himself up off the pillows, setting his head pounding worse than before. He gritted his teeth on the pain, aware of perspiration on his forehead.
“Do not try to rise, sir. The doctor said you must stay as flat as possible for the next few days.”