Don’t.Don’t look at it.
She looked at her tea.
The fair was held on the village green, which was larger than its name suggested and considerably more packed than the August morning warranted. Stalls ran the length of it, with several ribbons and pies and carved wooden things and a man with a trained bird that Eleanor would have found fascinating and Thomas would have run towards.
Violet was in Mrs. Plum’s arms for the first ten minutes, then in Isadora’s when the crowds thickened, then in James’s when Isadora needed both hands for an unfortunate transaction involving a ribbon stall and a length of blue satin that Letitia would have approved of.
“Blue,” James observed, looking at the purchase.
“For Violet,” she explained.
“Violet already has?—”
“It’s for her hair,” she cut in. “When it grows.”
He accepted that without further question, which she appreciated.
The green was uneven, which was the nature of village greens in August, with the grass worn thin in some places and slightly treacherous in others where the rain had done something to the ground underneath.
They had been navigating it reasonably well until James was redirected by the pieman, who was indeed extraordinary, and then by a small boy who had apparently recognized the Duke and found this very exciting and positioned himself directly in James’s path.
James skirted around the boy, his boots finding the soft ground.
Isadora heard the crack and grunt before she saw it.
“James—”
He had caught himself against the nearest stall post, his hand gripping it tight. His weight shifted entirely off his right leg, and his face contorted with the effort to mask his pain.
“I’m fine,” he gritted out.
“You are not fine. You grunted.”
“It was nothing.”
“You’re holding on to that post as though it’s the only thing between you and the ground.” Isadora couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice.
“I am simply—” He moved his right foot experimentally, and his sharp intake of breath told her everything his words did not. “It’s my ankle.”
“I can see it.” She was already at his side.
Mrs. Plum had materialized on the other side with Violet held safely in her arms.
A small crowd of concerned villagers began to assemble with the sympathetic interest of people who found the situation dramatic and were ready to help.
“Can you walk?” Isadora asked.
“Yes.” James moved his foot again, grunting.
“The carriage,” she ordered. “Now.”
“It’s nothing?—”
“James. The carriage, or so help me God, I will throw you over my shoulder.”
He looked at her, and she looked back unflinchingly.
He went to the carriage.
