Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men. Andrew Taylor

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ could not run away. A dead horse on top of oneself is a powerful argument against motion of any sort.”

      “Then we must be thankful that Providence afforded you its protection. Even in the form of a dead horse.” She pointed to the crest of a low hill we were ascending. “When we reach the top, we shall see the ruins below.”

      The boys appeared on the skyline as they reached the brow of the declivity. Whooping like a pair of savages, they ran down the far side.

      Mrs Frant and I reached the summit. The ground sloped down to a little valley, on the floor of which were the remains of several stone walls. Some way beyond these scanty signs of habitation was a line of palings, which marked part of the demesne’s northern boundary. The grey roofs of a substantial cottage were visible on the other side of the fencing.

      “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs Frant, pressing her hand into her side. “They might kill themselves!”

      She ran down the hill. The boys were swarming like monkeys up the tallest of the few remaining walls of the ruin, which at its highest point was no more than eight feet above the ground.

      “Charlie!” she cried. “Be careful!”

      Charlie ignored her. Edgar, less accustomed to Mrs Frant’s nervous disposition, paused in his climb and looked over his shoulder.

      Her foot caught on a tuft of grass and she stumbled.

      “Mrs Frant!” I cried.

      She regained her balance, and ran on.

      From the ruins came the sound of a shout. I tore my eyes away from her. Charlie was sitting astride the wall at its topmost point, bellowing with the full strength of his lungs. His words were inaudible, but his agitation was unmistakable. An instant later, I saw Edgar, a crumpled figure on the ground below.

      I thundered like a cavalry charge down the slope to the ruins, passing Mrs Frant on the way. In a moment I was bending over Edgar. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. A procession of potential calamities flocked through my mind, ranging from the loss of my position to the boy’s death.

      Charlie landed beside me with a thud. “Is he breathing, sir? Will he live?”

      “Of course he will live,” I snapped, fear bringing anger in its train.

      I took Edgar’s wrist. “There is a pulse. A strong one.”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ