Papa said, "Go back to the house, Tom, and fetch some help. You'd better run. We don't want any more accidents today."
But Tom didn't seem to hear him. Gnawing his lip, he was staring at me.
"Tom?" Papa spoke again.
Tom came to with a start. "Is she badly hurt?" he asked anxiously.
"I don't think so," said Papa. "But will you hurry?"
With a last glance at me, Tom sped off.
Grace appeared, leading Lady, who was still panting. "Is she all right?" she called out, tethering Lady to a tree.
She knelt beside me. "Lou, I'm sorry. Lady has never done that before. Do you know why she bolted?"
I hesitated. It was Tom's fault, but I didn't want to sneak on him.
"No. I don't know what happened."
A groom arrived and took charge of Chevalier and Midnight. Papa picked me up and carried me back to the house, while Grace and the groom followed behind with the horses.
Mamma came out to meet us with Aunt Phyllis. When she saw me, she went white. "Oh, Louisa, what have you done?"
She gave Papa an anxious glance and he said, "She's all right, Amelia. Nothing serious."
Aunt Phyllis said, "Well, young lady. I hear you've been practising jumping. Next time you must remember to stay with the pony."
This made me smile but Mamma wailed, "Next time! There will be no next time, it's too dangerous. I've said so all along." She seized Papa's arm. "Edward, I told you—"
"Hush, Amelia." Papa gently disengaged his arm. "Louisa is not badly hurt, but she needs attending to."
"I'll help you, then."
Mamma gave me a wobbly smile, but I said, "I want Aunt Phyllis, and Grace."
Mamma's smile vanished, her face crumpling.
I felt a bit guilty, but she'd make too much fuss.
Papa carried me upstairs and sat me on my bed. While he fetched his bag that always travelled with him, and Grace poured some water into the basin, my aunt helped me out of the riding habit. When she took off the jacket, I winced and tears sprang into my eyes.
Aunt Phyllis smoothed my hair. "There, darling. It will be all right."
Papa returned. He examined my wrist. It was puffy and swollen. Papa was trying to be gentle but his slightest touch caused me pain.
"I think it's fractured," he said. Then seeing the puzzled look on my face, he said, "It means your wrist bone is broken. But because you are young, your bones are pliable. I may be able to push it back into place."
I blinked at the thought of it.
Papa said, "It will hurt. Are you ready?"
I could feel my heart thumping but I nodded. Heroes had to be brave.
Grace sat on the bed beside me. "Here, Lou, hold on to my hand with your other hand. Hold as tight as you like."
Papa sat on my other side and put his hands on my wrist. I made myself keep my eyes open because I wanted to see what he did. He pushed hard with both his thumbs. The pain shot, red-hot, up my arm. I shut my eyes and cried out, clutching tight to Grace's hand as if I meant to squeeze it in two.
"It's all right," Papa said. "It's done." I opened my eyes. I couldn't see anything for tears.
"Can you let go now, Lou?"
Grace's face swam into view. I released her hand, which had turned white, and she rubbed the circulation back into it, with a wry smile.
Papa took a bottle of pink lotion from his bag and wiped some on the swelling. It was cool and smelled of peppermint. Then Aunt Phyllis held a splint against my wrist, while Papa wrapped a bandage tightly round it. Finally he made a sling so my wrist was resting against my chest.
"That's my brave girl." He kissed my forehead. "Now you must lie down and rest. You've had a bad shock." He nodded at the others.
I raised my head. "Papa, will I be able to ride again?"
He exchanged a look with Aunt Phyllis, who laughed. "I expect so. Although it will take a while for your wrist to mend. Now try to rest." They went out, Grace going last and giving me a little wave at the door.
I relaxed.
My wrist was very sore but I didn't care. If Papa said I might ride, then Mamma could be ignored.
I thought about Lady with her soft grey nose and sensitive mouth and imagined I was on her back soaring over hedge after hedge, while Grace applauded.
Our exercise takes place in what Weeks calls the "airing ' court." After the stifling atmosphere of the gallery, it's cold and raw outside and I pull the threadbare cloak I've been given more tightly round me and stand for a moment, breathing in the fresh air.
I feel guilty about Miss Gorman—I should have given up the scissors sooner. But it's no good thinking about it ... I must think of myself and how I can get out of here. If I don't see Mr. Sneed soon, and explain this dreadful mistake, I might have to try something else.
I set off along the gravel path, my eyes darting about, scanning everything, looking for ways to escape. The airing court is square with high walls. Too high to climb over.
I walk on, passing shuffling figures. An old woman comes to a standstill and calls out, "Oh, help me, do. My legs are turned to glass. They are breaking."