“Look after her,” he called to Mrs Chambers, who clucked reassuringly and offered him a kind smile. It ought to have reassured him, appeased his concerns, but all he could see was the bruise on Emily’s face.
While undoubtedly she should take some responsibility for their predicament—if she had not interfered, he might have been happily married and ensconced with an agreeable woman by now—he had caused the accident.
Her welfare entirely depended on him. And if these kind people saw through their lie, if she were more hurt than she appeared, then—
The door opened once more, and the same thin man from downstairs entered the room. “Right, my lad,” Mr Chambers said with a friendly grin. “Let’s get you out of them wet clothes before you catch your death. The missus said you needed ’em cutting free.”
“Regrettably,” Oliver said.
“Shame to ruin these clothes, but best to get you out of them.” He held up a bottle of what appeared to be whisky. “Here, let’s get this down you first. Warm you up and make the experience a mite less unpleasant.”
Only a mite—but that was enough for Oliver to grab the bottle and upend it in his mouth. Burning liquid sloshed down his throat. He swallowed several mouthfuls before Mr Chambers motioned for it back. Reluctantly, Oliver did as instructed.
“Don’t want you to have too much, or you’ll feel it tomorrow morning.”
“Of the two evils, sir, I rather suspect that is the lesser,” Oliver said.
“Oh, call me Gregory,” Mr Chambers said cheerfully. “We don’t stand on ceremony much around here.”
“Then please call me Oliver.”
“Right you are, Oliver. Now”—he dragged a chair to the centre of the room—“I recommend you sit on this. Never mind the cushion—what is wet will dry, that’s what I say. And I don’t want you fainting on me.”
Feeling more than a little faint, Oliver sank on the chair as instructed.
“Don’t mind me,” Gregory said as he began plucking at the knot of the string. “Might as well preserve this blanket as well as possible. Your wife fashioned this for you?”
“Yes. Emily.”
“Nice name, Emily.” Oblivious to Oliver’s flinch, Gregory tossed the blanket aside and began cutting through the coat, the greased material evidently a challenge. Agony seared through Oliver, and he gritted his teeth, doing his best to ignore the blackness on either side of his vision.
The whisky had set the room spinning, but didn’t feel as though it had numbed all that much of the pain.
“Another drink,” he gasped.
Gregory brought the bottle to Oliver’s lips and tipped. Oliver eagerly gulped another few mouthfuls, only coming up for breath when the older man drew the bottle away. “That’s enough for now, my lad. You’ll want more when Old Tom comes to set the limb.”
Yes, by the sounds of it, he very much would.
Gregory returned to his sawing. “Been married long?” he asked, as though they were in a drawing room over tea rather than in this bare, pitiful room with Oliver’s broken arm swinging sickly within the confines of his clothes.
“Not long,” he managed.
“Ah. Thought you had the look of newlyweds. Well, if you want my advice”—Oliver most certainly did not; the last thing he wanted right now was a well-meaning lecture about how best to conduct a marriage—“then you’ll take each day as it comes. Listen to her. She might have her nagging complaints, but sometimes she’s right, and you’ve got to respect it. A happy wife makes for a happy life.”
Gregory finally tugged Oliver’s coat free, and Oliver decided the best course of action was to pass out from the pain.
Emily paced the confines of the small hallway, glancing at the closed door before pacing resolutely away again. She’d eaten, changed into a thick dress that was far warmer than any she owned, and now all she had to do was wait for the stable hand to set Oliver’s arm.
The silence from inside the small bedroom had her irrationally certain that he had passed away, thus taking with him her best chance of returning home promptly. She felt sick and dizzy with worry.
“You’ll wear a hole in the carpet,” Mrs Chambers said with a trace of pity. “Here, come and sit with me. You’ll feel better for it. All that traipsing through the snow.”
Emily had given a highly abridged account of how they had come to be stranded, including their reasons for travelling in such appalling conditions. Her story had not involved a runaway wedding, but it had involved them being married only a week or so. Partly because she didn’t want to stray too far from the truth, and partly because she did not think she could accurately portray the role of well-established wife.
At that moment, the door opened and the stable hand—a pleasant-faced man named Thomas and referred to as Old Tom—emerged. “He’s out,” he said to both Emily and Mrs Chambers. “Passed out when Mr Chambers tried cutting his coat away from his arm. Nasty inflamed, it was, but it should be sorted now. A blessing he weren’t conscious for it, if you ask me.” He dipped his head in what appeared to be an uncomfortable nod, then headed for the stairs. A moment later, Mr Chambers emerged.
“I imagine he’ll wake in the morning with a bad head,” he said, and gave an apologetic smile to Emily. “My apologies, ma’am.”
