“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 sontoo. 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, herarms 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.”
Firm hands on his upper arms eased him back down. He opened his eyes and found that the owner of the determined hands and voice possessed a pair of beautiful eyes that were inches from his own. He could not determine their colour in the dimness except that they were light and framed by a veritable thicket of long dark lashes. As he stared in fascination, the face receded a bit and became that of the horse-grooming angel of his dreams. He frowned in confusion, wondering if this was still his dream.
“Would you like some water, Mr. Johnson?”
Water sounded wonderful, but she was likely just a part of the dream. She did not seem to know who he was. He made an assenting motion and found he could speak. “Am I dreaming?”
“No,” she replied, lifting a pitcher from a table beside the bed. He turned his head slightly to follow her movements as she poured water into a glass. It certainly seemed quite real. The water made a soft gurgling sound.
“I am going to raise you just enough to swallow,” she explained, catching his glance. “Do not try to assist me.”
An arm eased behind his shoulders as she did just as she had promised, presenting the glass to his lips. He drank gratefully, savouring the refreshment while aware on another level thathis pounding head was resting against her neck and shoulder. A faint, vastly agreeable scent arose from her hair or person, contributing to the aura of peace and contentment surrounding him at the moment. His aching head notwithstanding, Jack would have stayed there forever, suspended in time and space, but his preference was not consulted. The glass was withdrawn and his head was lowered to the pillows again.
