A Lady's Fate

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Mary!"

Helena's scream was so piercing, and so feral, that for a moment she did not recognise the shrill sound which had burst forth from her lungs as her own.

Chest still heaving from the exertion of their ride, Helena hopped unceremoniously down from atop her horse before scrambling over to where Mary lay limply beside her mare, blood trickling steadily from a gash on the side of her head. Her face was ghostly pale, and when Helena knelt beside her, calling her name once again, Mary showed no sign of movement.

She was as pale and stiff as a china doll; nothing remotely lifelike about her features.

Suddenly, Helena caught sight of the most beautiful sight in all the world - the barely distinguishable rise and fall of Mary's chest as she sucked in one laboured breath after another. Some small mercy it may be, but Helena grasped upon it firmly with both hands. She was alive; that was all that mattered. As long as Helena talked Mr Roach into handing back George as quickly as possible, all would be well...

George!

So utterly transfixed had Helena been, helplessly watching Mary lose her grip and slide from her rearing mare, that she had not until now registered the crunching sound which has caused the horse to spook.

Turning her head now in the direction the sound had come from, Helena's heart stopped at the sight which met her eyes.

The left wheels of her father's phaeton were spinning gently to a stop in the air; the carriage having overturned onto its side. Although the hood had slid down slightly, it was impossible to see inside without standing directly in front of the vehicle - and Helena was almost reluctant to look, for fear of what she might find.

Just then, though, the unmistakable wail of an infant pierced the air. Although slightly muffled, Helena could not fail to hear little George's cry for help - and in that moment, maternal instinct surpassed any fear she might have been feeling. In two swift strides, she was standing before the felled phaeton, desperately trying to locate George from his cries.

Helena first noticed Mr Roach, who lay perfectly still, body sprawled against the leather of the hood against which he had been jerked. He, too, appeared unconscious - but Helena would only pay him heed once she had ascertained whether or not George was harmed.

The infant, it transpired, had been placed inside a wicker basket from the kitchens - as if he were of no greater importance than the contents of a picnic! thought Helena indignantly - but mercifully, the plethora of blankets in which Mr Roach had swaddled George had prevented the child from being flung about when the carriage overturned. Plucking him from within the folds of material and examining him frantically for any sign of injury, Helena miraculously found him to be largely unharmed, but for a slight graze upon his forehead. It would need to be treated by a doctor, and the poor boy was likely suffering from shock - but he would recover in no time.

If only the same could be said of Mary!

Returning George to his basket, Helena hurried to Mary's side and dropped to her knees beside her, ignoring the wet mud seeping through her cotton gown.

If only she knew what to do! Never before had Helena felt so completely, utterly useless. Mary had come to Helena's aid countless times over the past few months - yet now, the one time it was Mary in need of assistance, Helena could offer none. She was a lady; bred to be pretty and polite, quietly sitting to one side unless called upon to speak or entertain. People often spoke of her as being 'accomplished' - but not one of her accomplishments, she realised, were of any use in a crisis.