Leading the horse back to the cart, she felt better that it followed, but her heart ached, and her head, too. A hundred questions invaded at once. Could a single horse pull the smashed phaeton back up the hill? If they made it to the road, would they find help at the coaching inn?
Only one way to find out. Ester had to get Bex to the inn and then beg.
One sniffled breath filled her lungs with the sweaty-lather scent of horse. Gagging, she tossed her sketchbook onto the seat and she tugged the beast in place and threaded the rein hooks as best as she recalled, from observing Theodosia with her gig.
Ester should’ve paid better attention. So much she’d taken for granted.
With a prayer in her heart, she yanked on the horse’s bridle.
The animal neighed.
She looked at the damaged phaeton. Bex still hadn’t shifted or turned.
“Please, horse. He needs us.”
Her eyes began to water, but the building tears turned to hope when the horse took a step. With a little more coaxing, the horse took another one, then trailed behind her.
Relief swept through her, but there was still much to do. The gig had to be freed from the bushes. “Come on, horse. Bex’s counting on us.”
The wheels screeched, and the noise clawed through her, but the carriage moved.
Forty agonizing steps with the horse neighing every inch of the way rattled a shaken Ester, but the phaeton finally pulled onto the road. A big sigh left her lips, her heart skipping a beat or two. “Bex, we made it this far. You’re going to be saved. Please know I’m here. I haven’t left you.”
He still hadn’t moved or said anything. She missed the sound of his voice, even if it was teasing her. “Bex, you said it was only a mile or two to the last inn before Scotland. I’ll get you help there.”
The wind picked up, and it cooled her brow. Stumbling over a rock, she kept her balance. Her slippers would be so worn, but maybe that would be a good thing. Not looking like Ester Croome, a runaway bride from a wealthy family, but a poor Blackamoor servant would get them more help. That was the role she’d play next.
She took her shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it like a turban about her head. “Ester Croome, the exotic servant to the great actor.” The innkeeper would like this role. It was far more plausible than a bashful Blackamoor bride to the great actor Arthur Bex.
“Horse, when we get to the inn, I don’t like falsehoods, but I’ll have to play the part of Mr. Bex’s maid. Then they’ll help him.” She looked back at her fiancé. Her throat clogged. He still hadn’t moved.
“Bex, know you are worth this price. Don’t be mad at my choices when you awaken.”
After walking for an eternity, her tired bones rattled into life when she saw a big limestone building with a few carriages outside. It might not be the inn he talked of, but it would definitely be the place she’d go to ask for assistance.
Ester stiffened her spine and drew back her shoulders. She would suffer whatever indignities necessary to save Bex. He was worthy. He had to live long enough to know it.
Chapter Thirteen
An Inn and a Miss
Arthur opened one eye, then the other. Whitewashed walls greeted him, not endless stretches of dirt and gravel roads like the strange dream that repeated in his ringing skull. The haunting notion of losing something, something special and beautiful, churned inside.
The world seemed fuzzy, and he was lost. He fought to put an arm under his head, but it was wrapped in place. Was he chained, like the shadows that lurked in his head, the memories he’d never forget?
Pained from flexing his arm, he found it bandaged, not shackled in irons. Perspiration crossed his brow, but the screams of the lost—those stayed in his soul. Fighting to be free, he sat up with a grunt.
“Sir. You’re awake.” A boy of six or seven, the same age as Arthur when he had first boarded his uncle’s ship, theZhonda, sat at the end of the bed.
The little fellow jumped, causing his rumpled blond locks to flutter. “Let me go tell.”
Tell?Arthur’s pulse raced. “Who are you? And tell who?”
“I’m Timothy,” the lad said. “My papa, the innkeeper, and my grandpapa Smythe. He doctored you. Your maid told me to tell her when you awaken, too. She promised me a farthing to let her know.”
Maid?
That’s when Bex knew he was still dreaming. His cut of the benefit nights at the theater were huge financial boons sometimes, but he was too frugal to hire a servant. He closed his eyes again. “Yes, tell the world, Bexeley is dreaming.”
