Page 4 of To Wed an Heiress
She watched them until they were out of sight, then lay back down on the ground. Her head was pounding and must be bleeding again.
A few minutes later Mr. McAdams came to stand at her side.
“The carriage is done for, I’m afraid, Miss Rutherford. Mr. Caitheart said he has a carriage we could borrow, miss.”
“Is that his name?”
Mr. McAdams nodded. The coachman was a large man, but then she had never seen a coachman who didn’t have a burly shape. They needed muscles to control the strong-willed horses that pulled carriages. If Mr. McAdams was fond of his dinner, that seemed a small sin when compared to the ones he could have possessed.
The sin of pride, for example.
She turned her head slightly. To her left was the monster Mr. Caitheart had been riding. It didn’t look remotely like a dragon now, only a crumpled bit of wood with fluttery fabric in two places. A dragonfly, that’s what it reminded her of—a wounded dragonfly resting on the ground before it healed itself. Or perished.
She’d been a fool to come to Scotland, even if it had been a compassionate errand. She’d made the whole situation worse by bringing Ruthie with her. Not that she would’ve left New York without the other woman. First of all, she had her reputation to consider. Secondly, Ruthie was her only true friend. Yet now she had something else on her conscience, Ruthie’s well-being.
Mr. McAdams had already unfastened the horses from the ruined carriage. He went to them now, sliding his hands over their flanks, examining each leg with care. Mercy did the same for herself as discreetly as she could. She was wearing a dark blue traveling dress and the crinolines beneath her skirt were a great deal more comfortable than trying to wear a hoop inside the carriage.
She sat up after having determined that there was nothing wrong with her arms—unlike poor Ruthie. Nor did she seem to have any injury of her legs or feet. Her head still ached, however, but that was all.
A half hour passed and it didn’t seem as if Mr. Caitheart was going to come back anytime soon. Nor was Mr. McAdams interested in anything but his horses.
Very well, it was up to her to find out how Ruthie was faring. Mercy had come to Scotland to demonstrate her independence and she would begin right now.
She stood, feeling a little bit wobbly. After a minute or two the scenery didn’t tilt. Grabbing her skirts, she made her way over the grass, taking care to avoid the tall purple flowers that looked spiky and almost dangerous. She had never seen a thistle up close before, but she knew what they were. There were carvings of thistles and other Scottish plants on the mantelpieces in their summer home. A way of her father honoring her mother’s heritage, though her mother had never visited Scotland.
Her grandmother was a different story. She might have lived in North Carolina for forty years, but you wouldn’t know it to hear her speak. Nor, from the stories she told, had she ever lost her longing for Scotland.
Mercy went first to the carriage where Mr. McAdams had retrieved all their belongings and placed them to the side of the road. After finding her reticule and the valise she’d guarded ever since New York, she made her way to the coachman’s side.
“Are your horses all right, Mr. McAdams?”
“They seem to be, miss. Scared more than anything.”
She reached out and rubbed a nose close to her. She’d never excelled at riding, although they had horses at their summer home, but she’d always liked being around them.
“I’m going to go check on Ruthie,” she said. “Mr. Caitheart doesn’t seem to be returning anytime soon. I just want to make sure she’s all right.”
He nodded.
She hesitated before leaving. Whether it made any sense or not she felt responsible for Mr. McAdams’s carriage. If he hadn’t been taking them to her grandmother, he would never have encountered an idiot like Mr. Caitheart.
The crumpled vehicle looked as if it had been squashed like a bug, with only the wheels intact.
Mr. Caitheart had not offered an apology for his actions. Nor had he seemed to possess the least concern that he’d disrupted their lives.
A few large rocks were arranged together on the side of the road. She wasn’t sure if it was natural or something built by man, but she went and sat on the largest rock, dug into her reticule, and pulled out one of her calling cards. She wrote instructions on the back, then returned to the coachman.
“Take that to this company in Inverness,” she said. “It’s one of my father’s shipping companies. They’ll see to it that your carriage is replaced.”
She would pay her father back for the carriage out of her own money.
Mr. McAdams took the card, looked at her, then the card, then her again.
“Thank you, miss.”
“I am sorry about all this, Mr. McAdams.”
“Whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye,” he said.
