At that precise moment, there came the sound of pounding hooves, and a voice cutting through the morning mist like the blade of justice itself: “Charlotte Clarissa Tolliver!”
Hetty appeared at the crest of the rise, astride her grey mare, her hair tumbling in wild curls from loosened pins, riding cloak billowing behind her like the wings of divine vengeance. She looked, for all the world, as though she might smite the entire assembly where they stood.
“I believe this is the part wherein we are struck down for our manifold transgressions,” Jasper murmured.
Theo did not look away from the spectacle. “If so, I shall perish without a single regret.”
Hetty reined in hard, the mare stamping and tossing its head, as though it, too, resented being drawn into so sordid a morning’s business. “Charlotte Tolliver!” she bellowed again, her voice ringing across the heath with the force of a thousand governesses. “Cease this nonsense at once!”
Lottie, still clutching the pistol as though it were some great and curious treasure, skidded to a stop. “Oh, good morning, Hetty. You have only missed the opening act!”
“What,” Hetty said, dismounting with astonishing speed, “in the name of all things respectable, do you imagine you are doing? Gallivanting about the countryside with a pistol in hand!”
“I was not going to discharge the pistol! Not at anyone of consequence.”
“Give it to me. At once.”
Hetty strode across the field like the wrath of God, seized the weapon from her sister’s hand, and in that fateful instant, the pistol discharged with a violent crack.
Chapter 16
If you are at all acquainted with the Tollivers, dear reader, you will know that such scenes – pistols discharging in fields and tempers flaring with the force of a summer storm – are regrettably not uncommon in their company. Indeed, the notion that the conclusion of one chapter might proceed quietly and without incident would be nothing short of fanciful.
The pistol’s report tore through the morning stillness with the violence of a thunderclap, ringing out across the heath in a cloud of acrid smoke. A startled pigeon exploded from a nearby tree and took flight in a panicked flurry of wings and then, all was still. For a blessed moment, Hetty dared to believe it had been naught but noise and a fright, no harm done. That is, until she heard Theo let out a short, rather surprised breath.
He glanced down at his side with a puzzled expression, as though trying to recall whether he had dressed improperly that morning. “Well,” he said in that maddeningly calm tone of his, “this is most unfortunate.”
To her absolute horror – and because a Tolliver escapade would scarcely be complete without it – he collapsed.
“Theo!” Hetty’s scream tore free as she dropped the pistol. She gathered up her skirts and sprinted across the field.
“Oh dear God,” Lottie breathed, still standing stock-still in the aftermath. “Did I do that?”
“You most assuredly did!” roared Ben, snatching up the offending pistol from the ground as though it might yet do further damage. “What in the devil were you thinking, you half-witted imbecile?”
Hetty was already upon her knees beside Theo, searching his rapidly paling face for signs of consciousness.
Mr Jasper Deverell – remarkably composed for a man whose closest friend had just been shot at dawn – dropped to the ground opposite her, already tugging aside Theo’s coat to reveal a dark bloom spreading through the fabric at his side. “Side wound,” he pronounced with an air of clinical calm that ought to have been irritating, were it not so oddly comforting. He lifted the blood-stained fabric carefully. “Low, beneath the ribs. Missed the stomach, by the grace of God. Might be clean through, if fortune favours us.”
“Fortune?” Hetty echoed, her voice rising. “He is bleeding like a slaughtered pig in a butcher’s yard!”
Theo opened his eyes and blinked up at her through lashes far too long for a man in such a state. “I daresay I was bleeding just as profusely when I cut myself shaving last week,” he said quietly, “No one wept into their handkerchief over that.”
“Oh, thank Heavens you are alive,” she breathed, though the relief in her voice was swiftly overtaken by fury. “But do not – do not – jest,you absolute fool!” Her voice cracked, and she pressed a hand to his side, heedless of the blood that soaked through her gloves. “You are wounded badly, Theo.”
“I am charming,” he murmured with a lop-sided smile.
“You are a fool.”
“Where, in the name of all that is sacred,” Jasper interjected, looking about, “is the blasted physician?”
“Behind the hedge.” Cousin Horatio, pale as milk, lifted a trembling hand. “I rather believe he swooned the moment the pistol discharged.”
Jasper swore softly and yanked his cravat loose, pressing it firmly against the wound. “We are surrounded by invalids and dramatists. And not one useful in a crisis.”
“I swear,” Hetty whispered, brushing back Theo’s sweat-damp curls, “upon all that is holy and respectable, no member of this family is ever again to be permitted within ten paces of a firearm.”
“I second that motion,” Theo murmured, his voice quiet but still far too composed for a man lying in his own blood. “Also, if someone might write to my tailor… do tell him I have disgraced his finest coat. He shall want to grieve in private.”
