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“Depends if he gets up.” And indeed, the poor man was dragged to the corner, gin splashed on his face and down his throat, slaps delivered to his cheeks. “But Dusty’s the local boy, so…”
Disgruntled yells boomed, and the enthusiasts upon the seated grandstand all stood as one in outrage, fists shaking and…
Matilda drew breath as she noted the entire construction wobble, tip and then–
“Seth, the stand!” she cried, kneeling up.
The scaffold gave way, slipping as though built upon reeds, tumbling bodies, one upon another. Cries and grunts.
“Bloody hell,” Seth bellowed, clambering down before aiding her own descent to the grass. “Wait in the carriage, Matilda, and don’t move. Scream if anyone comes near. Jackson is just there. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Not inclined to argue, she yanked the door and scrambled inside, noticed Chloe being bundled within Mr Jackson’s carriage before he gave them a nod, and then Seth and Mr Finlay sprinted to the fallen bodies.
From the window, she was surprised to see a few of the stand’s occupants rising to their feet, dusting off jackets and…chortling.
As she settled back into the squabs, Matilda pondered the disparity between this world and that of the Ton. Here everyone pitched in when misfortune struck, rushing to another’s aid. In society, a mere unintended faux pas could see you shunned and gossiped about with malice, the stylish events a perpetual competition, be it for the latest decor, cuisine or duke.
She knew that not all the Ton were so heartless, that many good people existed, but within such a stifled world, some lost sight of what remained important. The steps to a dance became more worthy than kindness, the right ribbons more essential than charity, a titled marriage more vital than love…
The carriage door flew open.
“Is everyone safe, Se–”
“Hullo, Cousin.” And Astwood seated himself opposite, crossing his legs and slapping the dust from his yellow pantaloons.
