LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Thank God,” murmured Mrs Frant, so close to me that I felt her breath brush my cheek.

      Edgar opened his eyes and stared up at our faces poised above him. “What – what –?”

      “You fell,” I said. “You’re quite safe.”

      He struggled up to a sitting position, but at once gave a cry and fell back.

      “What is it?” said Mrs Frant. “Where does it hurt?”

      “My ankle, ma’am.”

      I probed the injured limb with my fingers, and moved it gently this way and that. “I cannot feel a break. You may have twisted it as you fell, or sprained it.”

      I stood up and helped Mrs Frant to her feet. She drew me a yard or two away from the boys.

      “Are you sure the ankle is not broken, Mr Shield?”

      “I believe not, though I cannot be certain. But I learned something of these matters while helping my father with his patients; he acted the surgeon as well as the apothecary upon occasion. Besides, if the ankle were broken, I think the boy would feel more pain.”

      “So foolish of me. If I had not called out, he –”

      “You must not think that. He might have fallen in any case.”

      “Thank you.” Her fingers squeezed my arm and then released it. “We must get him back to the house.”

      “He should be carried.” I calculated the distance in my mind, and knew I could not comfortably bear Edgar’s weight for the whole of it. “It would be better to fetch help. He should not trust his weight to the ankle until the extent of the injury has been determined. Besides, he would be more comfortable on a hurdle.”

      “Look,” Charlie said. “Someone’s coming.”

      I followed his pointing finger. Beyond the ruins, near the palings, was a woman, her dark cloak flapping about her as she strode towards us. Mrs Frant turned her head to look. She expelled her breath in a sound expressing either pain or perhaps irritation.

      “I believe it is Mrs Johnson,” she said in a quiet, toneless voice.

      We watched in silence as she drew closer. Mrs Johnson was undeniably a fine-looking woman but there was something hawk-like in her countenance that made me wonder whether her husband was less accustomed to leading than to being led.

      “Well!” said she. “The boy took a nasty tumble, Mrs Frant. Is he able to walk if supported? We must get him to the cottage and summon help.”

      I cleared my throat. “I suggest Charlie runs back across the park.”

      “Oh yes,” he cried. “I’ll go like the wind.”

      “That is very kind of you, ma’am,” Mrs Frant said. “But we cannot possibly put you to so much trouble.”

      “It is no trouble whatsoever,” Mrs Johnson replied. “It is no more than common sense.”

      “Then thank you.” There was colour in Mrs Frant’s cheeks, and I knew she was angry, but not why. “Charlie, will you give Cousin Flora my compliments, explain that Edgar has hurt his ankle and that Mrs Johnson has invited us into her cottage, and desire her to send the chaise with Kerridge.”

      Mrs Johnson’s large, brown, slightly protuberant eyes ran down me from head to foot. Without a word, she turned back to Mrs Frant. “Could not this – this gentleman go? Surely he would reach the house sooner than your son?”

      “I think it would not answer. We shall need Mr Shield to carry Edgar.”

      Mrs Johnson glanced back at her own house. “I could send to the village for –”

      “Pray do not trouble yourself, ma’am. If Mr Shield will be so obliging, we shall manage very well as we are. I would not want us to put you to more trouble than we need. By the by, I do not think you have met my son’s tutor. Give me leave to introduce Mr Shield. Mr Shield, Mrs Johnson, our neighbour.”

      We bowed to each other.

      A moment later, Charlie ran off to fetch help. I lifted Edgar on to my back and plodded down the valley to the palings, where a gate led directly into Mrs Johnson’s untidy garden. She led us to the front of the house. It was not a large establishment – indeed, it barely qualified as a gentleman’s residence – and it was evident at a glance that it was in a poor state of repair.

      “Welcome to Grange Cottage,” Mrs Johnson said with a hard, ironical inflection in her voice. “This way, Mr Shield.”

      She flung open the front door and led us into a low, dark hall. A portmanteau and a corded trunk stood at the foot of the stairs.

      “Ruth! Ruth! I want you!”

      Without waiting for a reply Mrs Johnson ushered us into a small parlour lit by a bow-window. A tiny fire burned in the grate.

      “Pray put the boy down on the sofa. You will find a footstool by the bureau. Perhaps you would be so kind as to put more coals on the fire. If we wait for my maid to do it, we shall wait an age.”

      Wincing and murmuring thanks, Edgar sat on the sofa. He was very pale now, the skin almost transparent. Mrs Frant knelt beside him, helped him out of his coat and chafed his hands. The servant came almost at once, despite her mistress’s poor opinion of her, and Mrs Johnson ordered blankets, pillows and sal volatile drops.

      “Perhaps we should send for the surgeon,” I suggested.

      “The nearest is two or three miles beyond Flaxern Parva,” Mrs Johnson said. “The best plan will be to wait until you are back at Monkshill, and then have them send a groom over.”

      “I am sorry we are the cause of so much inconvenience to you,” Mrs Frant said.

      Mrs Johnson did not reply. The silence extended for longer than good manners allowed. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, and a floorboard creaked beneath me. The sound seemed to act as a trigger.

      “Not at all, Mrs Frant,” said Mrs Johnson smoothly. “It is a pleasure to be of service to a neighbour. It is fortunate that you find me still here, in fact – Lady Ruispidge has asked me to stay for a week or so; her carriage will be calling for me this afternoon.”

      There was another, shorter silence.

      “And – and how was Lieutenant Johnson when you last had news of him?” Mrs Frant said.

      “Not in the best of spirits,” Mrs Johnson said harshly. “He does not like the West Indian station, and since the Peace there is little hope of either promotion or prize-money.”

      “I understand many naval officers are now on half-pay, but he is not. So surely the Admiralty must place a high value on his services?”

      “He would like to think so.” Mrs Johnson sat down. “Any employment, he says, is better than none. But the ship is old, and is likely to be sold out of the Service or broken up. So he will have to find another captain in need of a first lieutenant.”

      “I am sure his merits must win him many friends.”

      “I fear your optimism may be misplaced. It is influence, not merit, that counts. Still, we should not grumble. After all, it is a harsh world, is it not, Mrs Frant?”

      Mrs Frant’s colour rose in her cheeks. “There are many who are less fortunate than us, no doubt.”

      “You have given up your house in town, I collect?”

      “Yes.”

      “It was in Russell-square, was it not? It is not a part of London I am familiar with.”

      I looked sharply at Mrs Johnson. She was staring with a curious fixity of expression at Mrs Frant, almost as though daring her to disagree.

      “It is very pleasant,” Mrs Frant said. “It

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