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The hostess smiled, bidding them farewell, and the guests all made their rounds in the drawing room, gentlemen shaking hands, ladies bussing one another’s cheeks in the French style. Matilda listened as Seth chatted with ease to both lawyer and countess – indeed his innate composure caused others to seek his company.
They all drifted to the hallway, where a butler and maid stood readied with their outdoor attire, assisting with flapping greatcoats and the many-buttoned pelisses.
Seth straightened Matilda’s bonnet ribbons and she handed him his ebony cane.
The butler held open the door with the grave solemnity of an undertaker, and no wonder, as Matilda scrunched her nose from the top step.
For a fine drizzle greeted them, not that this year had brought much else. Leaden grey clouds pulled mocking faces overhead and she clutched Seth’s arm tight, the four steps slick with moisture. In the street, hawkers still yelled their wares but now from beneath makeshift cloth-covered stands, while the monotonous clatter of hammers from the building with no roof continued in earnest, the labourers bawling and whistling loud.
Seth tipped his hat low and tugged his collar high as they descended to the pavement, and the groom brought their carriage to a halt across the road.
“A daisy fer the pretty lady, Sir?”
They turned to a woebegone flower girl, her straw bonnet sagging in tandem with her fulsome bucket of unsold daisies.
“I believe,” said Seth with a wink, “that this lady deserves more than one.” And he turned to rummage for coin.
Matilda smiled, thoughts shifting with the gusting wet wind.
Within their hostess’s drawing room, as Seth had reached that sonnet’s end, such a feeling of contentment had swathed Matilda. She had felt…part of him, had basked in his subtle confidence and magnificent bearing.
For all his lowly fighting background, he was a true gentleman.
A gentleman who had commanded all those present with his recitation, and yet…yet his sparkling gaze had never strayed from her as he’d delivered Shakespeare’s timeless words of life and love.
That gaze had seeped into her very bones, her heart pounding with that same life, could not mista–
“Miss Griffin! No!”
She glanced in the direction of the loud yell, but the clang of hammers and thunder of hooves disorientated her, and she spun to… Wild eyes of an immense chestnut horse. Frothed lather spraying and muscular breast rippling so close. The rider swung sideways, thrust out a fist and she screame–
Sheer bulk barrelled into her, tumbling her to the cobbles, the scream still upon her lips.
Shoulders stung as she lay, striving for air, a hefty weight pinning her and she fought to open her gritted eyes.
Through misted, crooked glasses, she found Seth lying atop, his lids closed then lifting with a hiss of breath, a broad palm cushioning the back of her head, their legs enmeshed.
“W-what happened?”
He slumped for a moment. “I heard Kian’s shout. Saw a rider gallop from the side street heading straight for you, all so fast. You were daydreaming.”
“I never daydream,” she countered, hauling breath to her lungs. “I couldn’t hear anything… The hammers…”
“Hell, Matilda, you could have–” A trembling hand caressed her cheek. “I–”
Boots and hems surrounded them, the salon guests gasping their concern. Outstretched hands aided Seth to his feet, the abrupt lack of his warmth shivering Matilda’s bones. Then she too was hauled from the grimy cobbles by their wool-clad fingers and leather-gloved palms, the guests now tutting of reckless horsemanship and how the cloaked fellow had not even bothered to stop.
Mr Keats placed a steadying hand to her elbow, staring intently into her eyes as a shudder took her, violent and swift.
“Have you pain, Miss Griffin? Can you see me clearly?”
“I-I can see you, Mr Keats. It’s my back that hurts.”
“Hmm. Can you describe the pain?”
Placing a palm to her forehead, she endeavoured to concentrate but an odd light-headedness had taken hold, wilting her limbs and muddling her thoughts. “It’s a…a dulled pain.”
Mr Keats nodded but stayed his hand as she brushed her muddied skirts with fingers that refused to cease their tremor.
