“We don’t have any rope.”
Sophronia dangled the long ribbon from Pillover’s pocket. Dimity firmed up her mouth, grabbed it, nodded her head sharply, and went to work.
Sophronia shut the cab door and climbed back up onto the driver’s box.
The coachman was blinking blearily and clutching his head.
“Hold on, sir,” suggested Sophronia. “It’s about to get a mite bumpy.”
“What? Who are you?” was all he managed to say before the young lady in the blue dress grabbed up the reins of his horses and whipped them into a fast trot.
They dashed back toward the pile of clothing and luggage in the middle of the roadway. Mademoiselle Geraldine now stood a short distance away from the head flywayman, wailing tragically over one of the hatboxes. The other two men had vanished.
Seeing the carriage charging toward him, the flywayman took aim and fired.
The bullet whined over Sophronia’s head. She thought dark insults at the man; slander she’d learned from Roger, the stable lad.
The coachman, after a yell of horror, hunkered down. Luckily, he did not try to wrest the reins away from Sophronia. He probably thought he was in the midst of a bad dream.
She slurred the carriage around, bringing it up alongside the headmistress and pulling back on the reins at the same time. On cue, the cab door banged open and four little hands scrabbled for purchase on the black lace of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s fabulous dress. They yanked. Something tore. Mademoiselle Geraldine squealed and fell forward and into the carriage. Her legs dangled.
The flywayman dropped his gun and dove for Mademoiselle Geraldine. The headmistress dropped her pathetic act and kicked frantically, eventually losing her shoes, but also the flywayman’s grip. He fell to the road, clutching to his chest a pair of black satin slippers.
Sophronia turned to face forward, flashing the whip. The horses hardly needed the encouragement, as they were already terrified by the gunfire and the erratic driving methods of their new coachgirl. They sprang into a gallop.
HOW NOT TO MAKE INTRODUCTIONS
The coachman finally regained his senses, realizing this was not some nightmare. There really was a fourteen-year-old girl with mousy hair and a serious expression driving his carriage. He yanked the reins away from Sophronia and pulled the horses up short. They hung their heads, sides heaving.
“Well, then,” said Sophronia to the coachman, sticking her nose in the air. She jumped down. A series of cries and wails emanated from inside the carriage. She opened the door to find Pillover sitting and reading his book, while his sister lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.
The boy gestured with his chin at Dimity. “She was shot.” He sounded remarkably unconcerned for a brother with any degree of affection for his sibling.
“Good lord!” Sophronia jumped in to see to her new friend’s health. The bullet had grazed Dimity’s shoulder. It had ripped her dress and left a partly burned gash behind, but didn’t look all that bad.
Sophronia checked to make certain Dimity had no other injuries. Then she sat back on her heels. “Is that all? I’ve had worse scrapes from drinking tea. Why has she come over all crumpled?”
Pillover rolled his eyes. “Faints at the sight of blood, our Dimity. Always has. Weak nerves, father says. It doesn’t even have to be her blood.”
Sophronia snorted.
“Exactly. And the smelling salts were in her suitcase. Which is now some distance behind us. Leave her be. She’ll come ’round eventually.”
Sophronia turned her attention to the source of the wails. “What’s wrong with her, then?” Is Mademoiselle Geraldine also injured? The headmistress was curled into a ball, hands covering her face, whimpering.
Pillover was as disgusted with the headmistress as he was with his sister. “She’s been like that ever since we pulled her inside. Nothing damaged except her brain, so far as I can determine.”
Sophronia looked closer and caught the headmistress watching them slyly from behind her hands. She was shamming. But why? So she doesn’t have to explain anything? Such a peculiar woman.
It was then that Sophronia noticed that Pillover was also looking unwell behind his sneer.
She turned her full attention on the boy. “And are you quite all right, Mr. Pillover?”
“I’m not a very good traveler at the best of times, Miss Sophronia. You might have taken that last half mile a little smoother.”
Sophronia tried to hide a smile. “I might. But what pleasure would there be in that?”
“Oh, wonderful,” said Pillover. “You’re one of those kinds of girls.”
Sophronia narrowed her eyes. “You could ride on the box next to the coachman. Fresh air would do you a world of good.”
Pillover looked most offended. “Outside, like a peasant? I think not.”
Sophronia shrugged. “Suited me.”
Pillover gave her a look that suggested that her valiant rescue was no excuse and that she was, in fact, now quite low-class in his eyes.
Sophronia returned her attention to the whimpering headmistress. “What are we going to do about her?” And then, more directly, “You’re not fooling anyone, you realize?”
Pillover evidently had been fooled. “She’s shamming? Well, there’s nothing we can do about her. The coachman knows where to go. He can get us to Bunson’s. Someone there will know what to do.”
Sophronia nodded and stuck her head out the carriage window. “Coachman?”