They passed through Weavering Street and followed the road into town. Around them, men wielded scythes in lush golden fields, finishing up the harvest. Margaret tipped her face to the mild sunshine and breathed in the crisp autumn air. Behind her, Jester took in the passing countryside, tongue lolling, eyes at blissful half-mast in the brisk breeze.
Several minutes later, they rumbled into Maidstone and turned down Bank Street. In front of the ladies’ shop, Margaret alighted.
Mr. Upchurch looked down from his bench. “How long do you need?”
“Not long. Perhaps... twenty or thirty minutes?”
He nodded. “I shall collect you here in half an hour’s time.”
She stepped inside the modiste’s. From the shop window, she wistfully watched Nathaniel tip his hat to an elderly matron and return the wave of a passing lad as he drove off toward the bank.
Margaret made quick work of selecting the face powder and new rouge Miss Upchurch wanted. Helen had asked her to purchase the items rather than prepare them in the stillroom. She didn’t want the servants speculating about her sudden interest in cosmetics.
Half an hour later, Mr. Upchurch halted the cart in front of the shop as arranged. She hopped up on the tailboard, reminding herself that a servant would not expect her master to assist her.
He glanced back to make sure she was settled, then told his horse to walk on.
She noticed he turned down an unfamiliar street—taking a different route home. A few minutes later, the road curved to follow a narrow mill leat. Accelerating around the bend, the cart wheel hit a deep hole, and Margaret suddenly felt herself thrust off the tailboard. For one second, a midair weightlessness tingled through her stomach. She gave a little shriek and landed in a bone-rattling thud on the hard road.
Jester barked a warning.
Vaguely she heard Mr. Upchurch call a “Whoa” to the horse some distance ahead. Blood roared in her ears and pain shot from hip to leg. She drew in a ragged breath as stars danced before her eyes.
Jester bounded over and licked her cheek.
Nathaniel jogged to her side. “Are you all right?” Alarm rang in his voice—more than the slight accident called for.
She looked up at him from her unladylike sprawl, gathering her skirts and parcels and trying to sit up.
“Wait. Be still. Jester, down.” He frowned in concern. “Is anything broken, do you think?”
“I...” Mentally she surveyed her body. Hip throbbing. Palm burning. Head spinning. Though the latter might be caused by Nathaniel Upchurch’s nearness.
“I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, that’s all,” she murmured. “I’m fine, really.” She tried in vain to push herself to her feet.
Bending low, he took her hand and with his other cupped her elbow and pulled her gently to her feet. Her leg tingled numbly and threatened to buckle.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, steadying her. “Your ankle?”
“Just strained, I think. I’m fine.” She had actually landed on her hip and bum, but wasn’t about to specify that part of her anatomy.
She hobbled a step toward the cart, and suddenly his arm dipped beneath her legs and the other behind her back and she found herself swept up into his arms.
“Put your hands around my neck.”
She felt her face flush, certain she was too heavy, self-conscious at having her side pressed flush to his body, his arm under her knees.
His mouth tightened and his neck beneath his cravat tensed—whether from bearing her weight or concern, she was afraid to hazard.
Reaching the cart, he set her on the tailboard. Jester barked his approval and hopped up behind her.
“Perhaps we ought to have the surgeon or at least the apothecary take a look at that ankle.”
“No, sir. Really, I’m fine.”
He lifted a hand toward her dangling limb. “The left one I believe... May I?”
She felt her mouth form an O, but no sound came.
