“Yes, Nora?”
“I understand you are traveling to London this afternoon?”
“I am.”
“I wonder if you might do something for me. I don’t want to presume, but—”
“What is it, Nora?” His lips tightened a bit, perhaps anticipating an unreasonable request.
“I was hoping you could post this letter for me. From London.”
“I could post it from Maidstone on my way. . . .”
“From London, if you please.” She hurried to add, “It is bound for London, you see, and will arrive all the quicker.”
“Ah.” He held out his hand. “You do know, Nora, that whoever receives this letter will have to pay the postage.”
“I know, sir.” She placed the letter into his waiting palm.
He glanced down at the direction, brows furrowed, and for a moment she feared he recognized the name. Then his dark expression lifted. Had he perhaps expected a letter to a young man, and did not relish being party to some illicit communication?
He said, “I trust Miss Emily Lathrop will find the postage no hardship?”
“No hardship, sir.”
“Very well, Nora.”
Relief washed over her. She smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
Nathaniel stepped from his room, hat and gloves in hand, and Jester at his heel. He needed to go into town to take care of a brief errand. In the corridor, he saw Helen in her bedroom doorway, speaking in low tones to Margaret, who wore bonnet and shawl. He wondered idly where she had been. He skirted the women to avoid interrupting their conversation.
Helen called him back. “Nathaniel, are you driving into Maidstone?”
He turned. “Yes.”
“Good. Would you mind taking Nora to the modiste’s on Bank Street?”
Nathaniel considered. He had already asked for the dogcart to be brought around, so a passenger would be no problem. He enjoyed driving the small sporting carriage, harnessed to a sturdy Cleveland bay. And Jester could ride along as well, which the dog seemed to relish. Best of all, while he was in the bank, no one would be tempted to steal a carriage with a wolfhound sitting watch.
He said, “If you like. I am headed to the county bank very near there.”
“Are you?” Helen’s wide eyes were all innocence. “How convenient, then.”
Nathaniel slanted her a narrow glance. Was his sister up to something?
Feeling self-conscious, Margaret followed Mr. Upchurch downstairs and outside, remaining several paces behind him. A small carriage with two tall wheels waited on the drive, harnessed to a single horse.
Nathaniel said to the groom, “The housemaid is going along on an errand for Miss Upchurch.”
Clive lowered the tailboard and gave her a boost up while Nathaniel climbed onto the front bench and took the reins. Jester leapt in behind Nathaniel’s seat, and off they went. How strange it felt to be riding on the back of a vehicle driven by Nathaniel Upchurch.
They passed through Weavering Street and followed the road into town. Around them, men wielded scythes in lush golden fields, finishing up the harvest. Margaret tipped her face to the mild sunshine and breathed in the crisp autumn air. Behind her, Jester took in the passing countryside, tongue lolling, eyes at blissful half-mast in the brisk breeze.
Several minutes later, they rumbled into Maidstone and turned down Bank Street. In front of the ladies’ shop, Margaret alighted.
Mr. Upchurch looked down from his bench. “How long do you need?”
“Not long. Perhaps . . . twenty or thirty minutes?”
He nodded. “I shall collect you here in half an hour’s time.”
She stepped inside the modiste’s. From the shop window, she wistfully watched Nathaniel tip his hat to an elderly matron and return the wave of a passing lad as he drove off toward the bank.
Margaret made quick work of selecting the face powder and new rouge Miss Upchurch wanted. Helen had asked her to purchase the items rather than prepare them in the stillroom. She didn’t want the servants speculating about her sudden interest in cosmetics.
Half an hour later, Mr. Upchurch halted the cart in front of the shop as arranged. She hopped up on the tailboard, reminding herself that a servant would not expect her master to assist her.
He glanced back to make sure she was settled, then told his horse to walk on.
She noticed he turned down an unfamiliar street—taking a different route home. A few minutes later, the road curved to follow a narrow mill leat. Accelerating around the bend, the cart wheel hit a deep hole, and Margaret suddenly felt herself thrust off the tailboard. For one second, a midair weightlessness tingled through her stomach. She gave a little shriek and landed in a bone-rattling thud on the hard road.
Jester barked a warning.
Vaguely she heard Mr. Upchurch call a “Whoa” to the horse some distance ahead. Blood roared in her ears and pain shot from hip to leg. She drew in a ragged breath as stars danced before her eyes.
Jester bounded over and licked her cheek.
Nathaniel jogged to her side. “Are you all right?” Alarm rang in his voice—more than the slight accident called for.
She looked up at him from her unladylike sprawl, gathering her skirts and parcels and trying to sit up.
“Wait. Be still. Jester, down.” He frowned in concern. “Is anything broken, do you think?”
“I . . .” Mentally she surveyed her body. Hip throbbing. Palm burning. Head spinning. Though the latter might be caused by Nathaniel Upchurch’s nearness.
“I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, that’s all,” she murmured. “I’m fine, really.” She tried in vain to push herself to her feet.
Bending low, he took her hand and with his other cupped her elbow and pulled her gently to her feet. Her leg tingled numbly and threatened to buckle.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, steadying her. “Your ankle?”
“Just strained, I think. I’m fine.” She had actually landed on her hip and bum, but wasn’t about to specify that part of her anatomy.
She hobbled a step toward the cart, and suddenly his arm dipped beneath her legs and the other behind her back and she found herself swept up into his arms.
“Put your hands around my neck.”
She felt her face flush, certain she was too heavy, self-conscious at having her side pressed flush to his body, his arm under her knees.
His mouth tightened and his neck beneath his cravat tensed—whether from bearing her weight or concern, she was afraid to hazard.
Reaching the cart, he set her on the tailboard. Jester barked his approval and hopped up behind her.
“Perhaps we ought to have the surgeon or at least the apothecary take a look at that ankle.”
“No, sir. Really, I’m fine.”
He lifted a hand toward her dangling limb. “The left one I believe . . . May I?”
She felt her mouth form an O, but no sound came.
He cupped the heel of her slipper and lifted it gently. His other hand grasped the toe, gingerly rotating her ankle. “Does that hurt?”
She swallowed and shook her head. Actually, it felt heavenly.
His gloved hand worked its way up her stocking-swathed ankle in a series of tentative squeezes. “All right?”
She nodded.
“Let’s see your hands.”
She held them forth for inspection like a grotty waif. Both were dirty, but she’d scraped the left one as well, trying to stop her fall.
Mr. Upchurch withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket. “Stay here.”
He strode to the lazily flowing mill leat, dipped the handkerchief into the water and returned, squeezing it out as he neared. Again he held her left palm, and with his other hand dabbed at the dirt and scrape. The cool water felt wonderful on her raw, burning skin.
She felt like a child and yet like a cherished woman at the same time. Foolish girl, she told herself. He is only being kind.
He wiped the dirt from her other palm, then looked into her face. “You, em . . .” He cleared his throat. “You might want to, em, tidy your hair. Your . . . cap is a bit askew.”
Dread rippled through her. Oh no. Had her wig slipped? Was any blond hair showing? He appeared self-conscious at pointing it out but not shocked or suspicious.
“Thank you,” she murmured, reaching up to pull down her cap, and hopefully her wig with it.
He turned his back as she did so, stepped a few feet away, and sank to his haunches, studying a series of gouges in the road large enough to bury a cat.
“I attended a commissioners’ meeting, where repairs to this road were approved and funds allocated. Progress is not what it should be. I shall have to speak to the town council.” He rose. “Nora, do sit up front for the rest of the trip. I don’t want to see you knocked off again.”
Her nerves pulsed a warning—too close. “That’s all right, sir. I don’t mind.”
“Please. I insist.” He gestured toward the front bench, high over the cart’s tall wheels.
Uncomfortable at the thought, she said, “Sir. Um. I don’t know that I should be sitting up there. That is, when we reach Fairbourne Hall. I . . . think I would rather walk the rest of the way.”
“But your ankle.”
“It’s fine, sir, truly. Please.”
He gave her a knowing look. “It would not go well for you belowstairs if you were seen riding beside Mr. Upchurch. Is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“I see. Very well. But do take care with that ankle.”