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“This is most peculiar,” remarked Alice, feeling the horse between her knees.
With a kick of his heels, the horse set off at a canter. Ignoring the main path, Edmund, just like the messenger, opted to head for the open fields. Immediately it was necessary to climb and he chose a path that wound up the hillside, up higher and higher into the treeless Peaks.
Alice’s bonnet, a snug fit about her face, protected her from the remaining spits of rain. The journey was hard on both horse and riders. The wind, as they moved out of the shelter of valley, buffeted them. She kept her face down, staring at the mane of the horse. Edmund kept the reins in his own hands.
Now and again, the great black stallion snorted and tossed his head up and down, as if in protest. His brisk canter slowed to a trot, and as they reached the steepest inclines, he stomped with a slow gait. An increasingly frustrated Alice envisaged her mother, lying feverish in a bed, her father standing forlornly by and no sign of their only child. The time dragged as the ground gave out beneath the horse’s hooves, causing them to sink deeper into the peat.
It was as they reached the top of the Peaks that it became apparent the horse had gone lame. Edmund dismounted and examined the horse’s legs. “A shoe has come loose. We must go to the coaching inn and hope they can provide a replacement.”
Alice groaned in frustration. On foot, Edmund led the horse towards the inn, which lay less than half a mile away and slightly off their chosen path. As they met the turnpike, they spied a mail coach, its wheel gone and lying on its side. The coachman standing by, shook his head and kicked the damaged wheel. The passengers gone, no doubt by foot to the comfort of the inn.
“This turnpike is a disgrace,” said Edmund angrily, shouting over his shoulder. “It is hard enough in summer, by winter when covered in snow, it is impossible.”
Alice leant forward over the horse’s mane. “Will the inn have a spare horse?”
“I don’t know. I pray they do.”
Edmund’s purse became the deciding factor. While Alice took a bowl of broth, standing by the blazing fire with the passengers of the abandoned coach, Edmund convinced the innkeeper to release a horse to him and a bag of coins exchanged hands.
The steed— more accustomed to pulling wagons and coaches than having people on his back—wasn’t the fastest mount, but he was strong. The horse’s broad shoulders forced Alice’s legs apart even wider than the last mount, but she didn’t complain.
Descending the winding paths, the horse’s gait rocked and slipped as he struggled with his footing. She clung to his thick mane of coarse white hair. Edmund reassured the horse with a masterful voice, tempering him with quiet words and encouraging him when he stumbled. Eventually, they reached a sturdier path and picked up speed. Now it was evening, the hidden sun quickly lowering in the sky and the gloominess grew worse. Alice’s heart sunk with it. She feared they were too late. Before them lay Macclesfield and her parents’ house.
* * *
Edmund had to hold his wife upright. Her legs could barely function. Supporting her weight as she dismounted, he led her into Dodsworth House. The borrowed horse, once fed and watered, would be returned to the coaching inn and with luck his own newly shod horse returned by first light.
For a man accustomed to arduous marches, the ride had been gruelling. Riding two abreast on a horse over such a terrain had meant pushing both horses to their limits. He hoped his beloved stallion would forgive him in time.
Alice, her body shivering, hovered in the doorway. She had told Edmund as they approached the house that she feared they were too late.
Henry Aubrey greeted the couple in his hallway. “Ned,” he said sombrely. “I am very grateful for your endeavours to reach here so quickly. Alice, your mother remains very ill. The doctor has been twice to bleed her, but I fear it is too late for her.”
“No,” She put her hand to mouth and shook her head vigorously. “Now that I am here, she will revive, I’m sure of it.”
Henry said nothing about her strange attire, probably guessing at the nature of his daughter’s dramatic ride over the Peaks. He offered Edmund and his wife refreshments, but Alice dismissed them, flying up the stairs to her mother’s room.
Edmund followed, having shaken off the mud from his boots. The room where his mother-in-law lay was basking in heat—a fire had been lit. On the bed lay Jane Aubrey. Her face deathly white and clammy, her grey hair knotted with sweat and her lips mumbling incomprehensively. Now and again, her body would twitch and flail about in distress.
“Oh, Mama,” sobbed Alice. He helped Alice to a seat by the bed and watched as his wife held her mother’s hand tight in her own and wept.
It was how the night began and progressed. Alice refused to leave her mother’s side. Drinks were brought and he encouraged Alice to sip upon them for fear she might lose her own strength. She nursed her mother competently once the tears had dried up. Wiping away the sweat with a cold cloth and talking softly to Jane, Alice spoke of childhood adventures and other recollections.
Not once did Jane’s eyes open to acknowledge the presence of her much-loved daughter. Edmund, observing from a window seat, feared Jane would never open them again.
When Henry joined them, sitting himself by the fire, Edmund suggested they put it out.
“Out?” blurted Henry.
“She burns up. It is too hot in here.”
Henry’s forehead furrowed with wrinkled lines of confusion. “But the fever must be drawn out
.”
“I have seen men with festering wounds who have survived because they were kept cool, not hot.” Edmund turned to face Alice. “It was the advice given to Caroline by the doctor who saved Frederick. She used quinine too and I believe the distillation of willow bark boiled in wine is good for fevers too.”
Alice straightened up. “We have a willow in the garden, do we not, Papa?”
