(his voice deep and commanding) to the postillion, drawing up beside our disabled carriage. “My cousin and I could not help but see your predicament. I hope no one is injured?”
“They are not, sir,” responded the postillion.
The young man had a long, oval face; dark eyes flashed beneath arched brows; his nose was perfectly straight; his lips were full and well shaped above a determined chin. His complexion was clear and a shade or two darker than my own, suggesting that he had recently spent time in sunnier, foreign climes, or spent a great deal of time out of doors. His hunter green coat and dark brown breeches were so perfectly tailored as to shew off his fine figure to great advantage; and contrary to fashion, he sported no wig or powder; rather his hair, which fell in a haphazard manner to just below his ears, was as sleek and silky as the mane of his magnificent horse, and in precisely the same shade of deep auburn.
Nimbly dismounting, and unheedful of the mud (his tall, sturdy boots giving him some protection), the young man walked around the vehicle, and bent to study the half-submerged wheels. “From what I can determine, the wheels are not broken, but only stuck in this quagmire. I have already sent a servant to fetch two dray-horses. They should be here momentarily, and can pull you out.”
“Why thank ye, Mr. Taylor, sir. We’d be most grateful, for surely otherwise we’ll be stuck here till nightfall and beyond.”
The young man appeared very surprised at being addressed by name. He looked at the side of our chaise as if seeking proof of its owner, but the coat of arms was obscured by splattered mud. Returning his glance to the servant, he paused, and said, “Are you Thomas Knight’s man, of Godmersham Park?”
“I am, sir, and I am honoured that you should recall it; for it has been a good two years I believe since I last saw ye, and even then I was never formally made known to you.” Removing his hat, and bowing respectfully, the postillion added: “May I further say: welcome back to England, Mr. Taylor, sir.”
“Thank you.”
I darted Cassandra a look of surprise. From this exchange, and the age of the young gentleman, I deduced him to be the son of the afore-mentioned Reverend Edward Taylor, who owned the nearby manor house.
While his companion sat silently upon his steed, young Mr. Taylor asked, “What is your name, sir?”
“Sam, sir.”
“Where are you going, Sam? Are Mr. and Mrs. Knight within the coach?”
“They are not, sir. I am taking Mr. Knight’s house guests to Goodnestone for a visit, sir.”
“Ah! I see. How many passengers are on board?”
“Three, sir. Two young ladies, sisters as they are, and a lad.”
“Well, let us get them out. Even with our dray-horses, it will be a piece of work to pull this chaise from the mire, and harder still with three people weighing it down.”
Sam pulled down the steps and threw open the chaise door. “You’d best all step down.”
Charles moved dexterously to the opening and hesitated, frowning. I perceived the difficulty: the chaise was positioned at such an angle that the doorway partly faced the sky, and the steps led more to the side than down, complicating one’s descent; moreover, the road was deep in mud.
“I have got you,” said Mr. Taylor; without further ado, he picked up my little brother and carried him to the safety of the road-side.
Cassandra was next.
“Take my hand, miss,” said the postillion.
Mr. Taylor’s as yet nameless companion (whom I believe he had called his cousin) leapt from his horse and crossed to the carriage’s open door, silently offering his own assistance—an action no doubt prompted, I deduced, by my sister’s beauty.
Both men held out their gloved hands to Cassandra and helped her out, although so awkwardly as to result in her landing in a deep pocket of mud, which engulfed her feet to the ankles.
“Oh!” cried she in dismay, raising her skirts as she was assisted
“They are not, sir,” responded the postillion.
The young man had a long, oval face; dark eyes flashed beneath arched brows; his nose was perfectly straight; his lips were full and well shaped above a determined chin. His complexion was clear and a shade or two darker than my own, suggesting that he had recently spent time in sunnier, foreign climes, or spent a great deal of time out of doors. His hunter green coat and dark brown breeches were so perfectly tailored as to shew off his fine figure to great advantage; and contrary to fashion, he sported no wig or powder; rather his hair, which fell in a haphazard manner to just below his ears, was as sleek and silky as the mane of his magnificent horse, and in precisely the same shade of deep auburn.
Nimbly dismounting, and unheedful of the mud (his tall, sturdy boots giving him some protection), the young man walked around the vehicle, and bent to study the half-submerged wheels. “From what I can determine, the wheels are not broken, but only stuck in this quagmire. I have already sent a servant to fetch two dray-horses. They should be here momentarily, and can pull you out.”
“Why thank ye, Mr. Taylor, sir. We’d be most grateful, for surely otherwise we’ll be stuck here till nightfall and beyond.”
The young man appeared very surprised at being addressed by name. He looked at the side of our chaise as if seeking proof of its owner, but the coat of arms was obscured by splattered mud. Returning his glance to the servant, he paused, and said, “Are you Thomas Knight’s man, of Godmersham Park?”
“I am, sir, and I am honoured that you should recall it; for it has been a good two years I believe since I last saw ye, and even then I was never formally made known to you.” Removing his hat, and bowing respectfully, the postillion added: “May I further say: welcome back to England, Mr. Taylor, sir.”
“Thank you.”
I darted Cassandra a look of surprise. From this exchange, and the age of the young gentleman, I deduced him to be the son of the afore-mentioned Reverend Edward Taylor, who owned the nearby manor house.
While his companion sat silently upon his steed, young Mr. Taylor asked, “What is your name, sir?”
“Sam, sir.”
“Where are you going, Sam? Are Mr. and Mrs. Knight within the coach?”
“They are not, sir. I am taking Mr. Knight’s house guests to Goodnestone for a visit, sir.”
“Ah! I see. How many passengers are on board?”
“Three, sir. Two young ladies, sisters as they are, and a lad.”
“Well, let us get them out. Even with our dray-horses, it will be a piece of work to pull this chaise from the mire, and harder still with three people weighing it down.”
Sam pulled down the steps and threw open the chaise door. “You’d best all step down.”
Charles moved dexterously to the opening and hesitated, frowning. I perceived the difficulty: the chaise was positioned at such an angle that the doorway partly faced the sky, and the steps led more to the side than down, complicating one’s descent; moreover, the road was deep in mud.
“I have got you,” said Mr. Taylor; without further ado, he picked up my little brother and carried him to the safety of the road-side.
Cassandra was next.
“Take my hand, miss,” said the postillion.
Mr. Taylor’s as yet nameless companion (whom I believe he had called his cousin) leapt from his horse and crossed to the carriage’s open door, silently offering his own assistance—an action no doubt prompted, I deduced, by my sister’s beauty.
Both men held out their gloved hands to Cassandra and helped her out, although so awkwardly as to result in her landing in a deep pocket of mud, which engulfed her feet to the ankles.
“Oh!” cried she in dismay, raising her skirts as she was assisted
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