stallion reluctantly agreed, breathing heavily and snorting as he did so.
The wagon lay on its side in the road, its driver a jumble of brown dress, white shawl, and petticoats sprawled beside it. Appalled at what he’d done, Charles rode to the wagon, dismounted, and knelt by what turned out to be a young woman in some distress. She had pushed herself to a sitting position and was holding her left arm tenderly in her lap, her bonnet badly askew.
“Are you hurt?” Charles asked stupidly.
The girl looked at him with eyes narrowed in anger and pain. “Thou wilt please see to Maggie,” she said sharply, jerking her head toward the gray mare. The horse lay kicking on her side, prevented from rising by the harness and shafts of the overturned wagon. Charles rose and heaved the cart onto its wheels, then took the mare by her bridle and helped her stand. She was scraped on one side and seemed to be favoring her right foreleg. He stroked the mare’s muzzle to reassure her, then ran his hand down her leg, feeling for a break. The stallion also meandered over to see if anything interesting might be happening and introduced himself by giving Maggie a playful nip on her mane. Charles led his horse across the road and tied his reins firmly to a bush.
“Your mare is a little bruised. I don’t think anything’s broken,” he said, returning to the girl. “How about you?”
She raised her head and glared at him with moist eyes. “Thou hast broken my arm.” She clutched her forearm against her chest and lowered her head, rocking back and forth. Charles studied her for a moment while he tried to decide what to do. She was a severe-looking young woman, he decided, with pinched features, about seventeen or eighteen. She wore a simple brown dress without collar, ribbons, or lace, now muddied and torn on the side where she fell, a similarly dirtied woolen shawl, and a bonnet that had slipped over toward one side of her head. She had on brightly polished black leather shoes over white stockings. She was no crofter or herdsman’s daughter, he thought; her dress and shoes were too finely made. But the drab clothing and absence of any finery seemed to rule out her father being some sort of merchant or landowner.
“I’m very sorry. It was entirely my fault,” he said, trying to get her to look at him.
Her head shot up. “Yes, it wert thy fault. Thou wert very, very reckless, racing along like that. Thou couldst have murdered someone.”
“All right,” Charles said evenly. “Let me see your arm.”
“Don’t thou touch me,” she said fiercely, but fresh tears came to her eyes. “It pains me terribly. I think it’s broken.”
“Let me see,” Charles insisted. He brushed some dirt off her shoulder. “Come on. It’s not going to do you any good to sit there holding it until it becomes really painful.”
Reluctantly she relaxed her hold on the injured limb and moved it a small way from her body.
“This may hurt a little,” he said, running his hand as gently as he could over the sleeve covering her arm. He’d done this or watched it done dozens of times on board ship, where broken and cracked bones were commonplace. She nodded wordlessly and fixed her eyes on him so intently that he felt self-conscious as he worked his way from her wrist along her arm. When he was halfway to the elbow, she gave a sharp cry and he relaxed his grip.
He’d felt the place where the bone, the smaller of the two in the forearm, was broken and partially displaced. “I’m going to sit you on the back of your wagon,” he said soberly. “There’s no point doing what we’re going to have to do down here in the dirt.”
“Is it really broken?” she said tensely. “I heard something go snap when I fell.”
“Yes, it’s broken,” Charles said. He put one arm behind her shoulders and the other under her knees and lifted her off the ground, setting her upright with her legs hanging over the back of the wagon bed.
“What art thou
The wagon lay on its side in the road, its driver a jumble of brown dress, white shawl, and petticoats sprawled beside it. Appalled at what he’d done, Charles rode to the wagon, dismounted, and knelt by what turned out to be a young woman in some distress. She had pushed herself to a sitting position and was holding her left arm tenderly in her lap, her bonnet badly askew.
“Are you hurt?” Charles asked stupidly.
The girl looked at him with eyes narrowed in anger and pain. “Thou wilt please see to Maggie,” she said sharply, jerking her head toward the gray mare. The horse lay kicking on her side, prevented from rising by the harness and shafts of the overturned wagon. Charles rose and heaved the cart onto its wheels, then took the mare by her bridle and helped her stand. She was scraped on one side and seemed to be favoring her right foreleg. He stroked the mare’s muzzle to reassure her, then ran his hand down her leg, feeling for a break. The stallion also meandered over to see if anything interesting might be happening and introduced himself by giving Maggie a playful nip on her mane. Charles led his horse across the road and tied his reins firmly to a bush.
“Your mare is a little bruised. I don’t think anything’s broken,” he said, returning to the girl. “How about you?”
She raised her head and glared at him with moist eyes. “Thou hast broken my arm.” She clutched her forearm against her chest and lowered her head, rocking back and forth. Charles studied her for a moment while he tried to decide what to do. She was a severe-looking young woman, he decided, with pinched features, about seventeen or eighteen. She wore a simple brown dress without collar, ribbons, or lace, now muddied and torn on the side where she fell, a similarly dirtied woolen shawl, and a bonnet that had slipped over toward one side of her head. She had on brightly polished black leather shoes over white stockings. She was no crofter or herdsman’s daughter, he thought; her dress and shoes were too finely made. But the drab clothing and absence of any finery seemed to rule out her father being some sort of merchant or landowner.
“I’m very sorry. It was entirely my fault,” he said, trying to get her to look at him.
Her head shot up. “Yes, it wert thy fault. Thou wert very, very reckless, racing along like that. Thou couldst have murdered someone.”
“All right,” Charles said evenly. “Let me see your arm.”
“Don’t thou touch me,” she said fiercely, but fresh tears came to her eyes. “It pains me terribly. I think it’s broken.”
“Let me see,” Charles insisted. He brushed some dirt off her shoulder. “Come on. It’s not going to do you any good to sit there holding it until it becomes really painful.”
Reluctantly she relaxed her hold on the injured limb and moved it a small way from her body.
“This may hurt a little,” he said, running his hand as gently as he could over the sleeve covering her arm. He’d done this or watched it done dozens of times on board ship, where broken and cracked bones were commonplace. She nodded wordlessly and fixed her eyes on him so intently that he felt self-conscious as he worked his way from her wrist along her arm. When he was halfway to the elbow, she gave a sharp cry and he relaxed his grip.
He’d felt the place where the bone, the smaller of the two in the forearm, was broken and partially displaced. “I’m going to sit you on the back of your wagon,” he said soberly. “There’s no point doing what we’re going to have to do down here in the dirt.”
“Is it really broken?” she said tensely. “I heard something go snap when I fell.”
“Yes, it’s broken,” Charles said. He put one arm behind her shoulders and the other under her knees and lifted her off the ground, setting her upright with her legs hanging over the back of the wagon bed.
“What art thou
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