through the mud to the firmer bank immediately adjacent. In the process, she lost one of her slippers, which the postillion adroitly rescued from the mire and held aloft as if a dead thing. “Oh, Jane, do be careful; I am afraid I have ruined my shoes.”
While Cassandra’s rescuers quietly apologised at the road-side, and made what efforts they could to wipe her shoes clean on the grass before she put them on again, I attempted to determine my best means of exit; but before I could proceed, Mr. Taylor walked back to the open doorway of the chaise and stopped before me. With an accent and inflection on the final appellation so flawless as to resemble (at least in my imagination) a native Italian speaker, he said, “May I help you down,
signorina
?”
I froze; I could not avert my gaze; Mr. Taylor’s handsome countenance was but a foot or two from mine, and his arrival, like a knight in shining armour, had been so unexpected, his eyes were so dark and sparkling, and the overall effect was so appealing, that for the space of a breath, I forgot where I was or that any action was required of me.
“Miss? Are you quite well?”
I nodded.
“May I help you descend?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”
“I ought to carry you. Otherwise, you will ruin your shoes, as did your sister.”
“Carry me?” A picture formed in my mind, as I envisioned his proposal: my arms were wrapped around his neck, and my face was against his silken hair, as he swept me into his arms and brought me to the embankment. The notion caused my heart to beat with more rapidity than usual and a warmth to rise to my cheeks. Such familiarity would be
most
inappropriate—an action reserved for only the most dire of circumstances—which this decidedly was not. “I think,” replied I quickly, “I had rather climb down myself.”
He looked dubious. “Well then, if you want to avoid the mud, I only see one option. You must climb out past the back wheel and over the rear platform. From there I can jump you down to the bank.”
I stared at him in quiet disbelief. “A daring proposal, sir, and one which I imagine
you
could execute with ease. But it will be rather difficult to accomplish, wearing a gown.”
“I imagine you can find a way,
mademoiselle
. But it is up to you, and whether or not you wish to sacrifice your shoes.”
I paused, considering. His suggestion involved some risk, as the vehicle lay at a very marked pitch; but it
was
admittedly preferable to walking through the mire. Moreover, his tone, and the look on his countenance, seemed to me akin to the throwing of a gauntlet. “Very well. I shall try it.”
“Jane!” cried Cassandra from the embankment where she waited with Charles and the other gentleman. “Do not attempt it. You might fall.”
“I will not fall,” answered I, with more confidence than I truly felt.
Not wanting to soil my new gloves, I removed them and stowed them in my reticule; then, holding up my skirts, I placed my hands on either side of the carriage door, and propelled myself up and out. It was a precarious business; by supporting myself on the large, very muddy wheel, I managed to scramble onto the rear platform and over the trunks, but so precipitous was it, that I nearly slid off. Throughout my exertion, Mr. Taylor stood close by (I suppose to catch me if required); but with the greatest of efforts I was able to right myself, and from there to jump down as directed, onto the bank into his waiting hands.
I was vaguely sensible of a cheer (from Charles) and applause from Mr. Taylor’s cousin; but these sounds melted away, so overpowered was I by the circumstance in which, for an instant, I found myself. My hands were pressed against the soft wool of Mr. Taylor’s coat, and his large hands were firmly clasping my upper arms as he looked down at me. There was a fluttering in my heart and stomach such as I had never before felt or imagined, and my cheeks burned—from fear or exertion,
While Cassandra’s rescuers quietly apologised at the road-side, and made what efforts they could to wipe her shoes clean on the grass before she put them on again, I attempted to determine my best means of exit; but before I could proceed, Mr. Taylor walked back to the open doorway of the chaise and stopped before me. With an accent and inflection on the final appellation so flawless as to resemble (at least in my imagination) a native Italian speaker, he said, “May I help you down,
signorina
?”
I froze; I could not avert my gaze; Mr. Taylor’s handsome countenance was but a foot or two from mine, and his arrival, like a knight in shining armour, had been so unexpected, his eyes were so dark and sparkling, and the overall effect was so appealing, that for the space of a breath, I forgot where I was or that any action was required of me.
“Miss? Are you quite well?”
I nodded.
“May I help you descend?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”
“I ought to carry you. Otherwise, you will ruin your shoes, as did your sister.”
“Carry me?” A picture formed in my mind, as I envisioned his proposal: my arms were wrapped around his neck, and my face was against his silken hair, as he swept me into his arms and brought me to the embankment. The notion caused my heart to beat with more rapidity than usual and a warmth to rise to my cheeks. Such familiarity would be
most
inappropriate—an action reserved for only the most dire of circumstances—which this decidedly was not. “I think,” replied I quickly, “I had rather climb down myself.”
He looked dubious. “Well then, if you want to avoid the mud, I only see one option. You must climb out past the back wheel and over the rear platform. From there I can jump you down to the bank.”
I stared at him in quiet disbelief. “A daring proposal, sir, and one which I imagine
you
could execute with ease. But it will be rather difficult to accomplish, wearing a gown.”
“I imagine you can find a way,
mademoiselle
. But it is up to you, and whether or not you wish to sacrifice your shoes.”
I paused, considering. His suggestion involved some risk, as the vehicle lay at a very marked pitch; but it
was
admittedly preferable to walking through the mire. Moreover, his tone, and the look on his countenance, seemed to me akin to the throwing of a gauntlet. “Very well. I shall try it.”
“Jane!” cried Cassandra from the embankment where she waited with Charles and the other gentleman. “Do not attempt it. You might fall.”
“I will not fall,” answered I, with more confidence than I truly felt.
Not wanting to soil my new gloves, I removed them and stowed them in my reticule; then, holding up my skirts, I placed my hands on either side of the carriage door, and propelled myself up and out. It was a precarious business; by supporting myself on the large, very muddy wheel, I managed to scramble onto the rear platform and over the trunks, but so precipitous was it, that I nearly slid off. Throughout my exertion, Mr. Taylor stood close by (I suppose to catch me if required); but with the greatest of efforts I was able to right myself, and from there to jump down as directed, onto the bank into his waiting hands.
I was vaguely sensible of a cheer (from Charles) and applause from Mr. Taylor’s cousin; but these sounds melted away, so overpowered was I by the circumstance in which, for an instant, I found myself. My hands were pressed against the soft wool of Mr. Taylor’s coat, and his large hands were firmly clasping my upper arms as he looked down at me. There was a fluttering in my heart and stomach such as I had never before felt or imagined, and my cheeks burned—from fear or exertion,
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