“No, he found me in a ditch.” I pushed my posture straight with my fists. “I was hurt near Mr. Thornfield. He was unhurt, thank God.”
“You . . . not want his help? Do not like him?”
Answering this question truthfully would have been impossible. “I don’t like anyone at the moment. Save you, I think, depending on what you have there.”
“Poultice.” She lifted one hand. “Bandages,” she added, raising the other.
“Bless you,” I sighed, relief provoking bald sentiment.
“Do not worry,” she answered quietly, casting her eyes down.
Some ten minutes later, Mrs. Kaur had gifted me with medical attention, and spiced tea I enjoyed very much, and a crutch I did not in the least appreciate.
“Ready?” she asked when I had fully dressed with her assistance and regained a bit of my colour.
“As I will ever prove,” I agreed.
I walked step-thunk, step-thunk, step-thunk down the narrow carpeted strip upon the staircase. I was terrified to meet Mr. Thornfield; when I had not been pathetic the night previous, I had been glib, and when I had not been glib, I had been obstreperous, a truly heady concoction of undesirable traits.
Upon my arrival in the dining room, however, I discovered the household preoccupied; where I imagined my disaster of the night previous would be the sole topic, instead I found master and ward glaring daggers at an unknown person—one who beamed at my arrival and half stood, making an awkward bow.
“Augustus Sack!” he exclaimed, offering a pudgy hand. “Mr. Augustus P. Sack, and this can be no one save Miss Jane Stone. Might I be pardoned for expressing my absolute delight that you’ve rallied valiantly enough to join us for a late breakfast?”
Propping my crutch against the chair’s arm, I clasped his clammy fingers. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sack.” I sat, wincing.
“The captive emerges,” Mr. Thornfield drawled. “What can she have been through, this poor prisoner, trapped behind enemy lines after such a daring escape?”
The tone may have been gently needling; but he was up in an instant to fetch me a tasselled footstool, which he deftly slid under the table, where I might take advantage of it.
“Oh, Miss Stone!” Sahjara commiserated. She was clad in sage green with her dark hair hanging loose. “When I imagine what could have happened to you—it’s too dreadful.”
“My dear Young Marvel,” Mr. Thornfield put in, seating himself, “what could have happened was my trampled corpse, followed by a closed-coffin ceremony.”
“Charles, don’t!” Tossing her head, Sahjara added under her breath, “He thinks because he served in campaigns in the Punjab, he has the right to be dramatic.”
“He does indeed, and correctly so!” Mr. Sack spoke in the style of a compliment; it was received in the manner of an insult, however, for Mr. Thornfield’s eyes furiously darted to the pine trees just visible at the top of the windows, and there they remained.
“Well, I feel as terrible about what could have happened to Mr. Thornfield as he does—anyhow, I’m fine, Sahjara.” I lifted my napkin as Mrs. Jas Kaur appeared, placing fried breakfast cakes smelling of rose water upon my plate.
“Miss Stone is undoubtedly fine,” Mr. Thornfield agreed, “or we should be informed otherwise in highly colourful language.”
I promptly redirected attentions. “You arrived this morning, Mr. Sack?”
“You are as observant as you are beautiful, Miss Stone, I state so with absolute conviction.”
Hardly a compliment.
Mr. Augustus Sack was a portly fellow—tan as Mr. Thornfield, but budding pink at the crests of his cheeks, the tips of his ears, and the end of his nose. He wore a dark green jacket with a brown velvet waistcoat, accented by an emerald tie, and if he wished to appear more thoroughly English, I honestly have no notion how he would have gone about working the miracle. His face was a plump oval, beaming relentlessly, and this disturbed me, for Mr. Thornfield looked enraged and Sahjara ill.
“Have you some business with Mr. Thornfield, or may I congratulate you upon a trip devoted to pleasure?”
He chuckled, an oily sound. “I fear it is a private matter. Old friends, you understand, and what with Mr. Thornfield having so recently taken possession of this magnificent estate—I absolutely had to see him, and dear Sahjara as well.”
Mr. Thornfield’s fingers tensed as if a poisonous insect had appeared, one in need of smashing.
“I thought it had been some nine months since,” I observed.
“Correct, as you doubtless always are, Miss Stone. I encountered Thornfield here at my former assistant Mr. John Clements’s funeral four days ago; I was most distressed that he had not sought me out sooner, as I’ve been back in London since August.”
Mr. Thornfield threw down his napkin. “That’s the worst thing about funerals—not only is someone you once liked dead, but there’s an indecorous number of people you don’t like swarming about.”
Augustus Sack only smiled; if a grubworm had smiled, it would have looked similar.