Page 8 of Twelve Drummers Drumming

“Let me,” he said decidedly in a harsh voice.

He had pushed himself up, leaning and reaching out for his crutch—but Jemima had instinctively reached also, and her fingers brushed past that of the gentleman.

He pulled back with a hiss under his breath. She had felt it, too. Jemima gazed at him, stunned.

“Let me help you,” he said gruffly, as though nothing had occurred between them.

Jemima’s head was in a daze. Had he felt it, too? Surely it was not possible for her to feel that alone. The rabble of the street roared in her ears as her pulse continued to quicken.

But she would not permit him to help her. A stranger, a soldier no less, reach out and touch her? It would be scandalous!

“I do not need your help!” Jemima’s voice was as firm as she could make it, given the circumstances. “But when I do require the help of a soldier who can’t look where he is going, I shall be the first to let you know!”

He laughed. “And much good it will do you! I see no reason to lend a hand now.”

“Lending a hand is not what I require,” Jemima said curtly, rising to her feet.

“And not what I am offering,” snapped the man.

Jemima shivered slightly in the chilly breeze. “A gentleman would have been polite enough to accept my apology, but now you are proven to be no such thing, I have no qualms at all at leaving you here in your own mess.”

The soldier struggled once more to reach his crutch, whilst muttering—under his breath but clearly audible to Jemima, “God save me from women throwing themselves at my feet…”

Jemima’s color heightened. The arrogance of the man! “I attempted to move out of the way, and I did, so do not blame me if you could not take your eyes from me! Do not flatter yourself that I was in any way attempting to capture your attention, I-I have more important things to do than speak to soldiers!”

“Really?” he said bitterly, “With a dress that crimson, I could have mistaken you for an infantryman!”

She stared down at the man, incensed. His hat had fallen off and had become lost somewhere in the crowd—Jemima suspected a pickpocket but could not be sure—and mud had splattered across his crimson jacket. Wild, jet-black hair skimmed over his brow and across his eyes, and he raised a hand to sweep it back so that he could gain a clear look at Jemima.

His frown disappeared slowly, but Jemima did not wait to hear more from him. Brushing as much mud as she could from her gown, she turned on her heels and took a step forward.

“Wait.”

Jemima could not help but pause. There was no anger in the words the soldier had just uttered; instead, there was an element of pleading. The words were spoken softly enough not to be noticeable by the disappointed crowd, who had seemed to expect a physical brawl and had now drifted away to follow the parade.

Jemima had not noticed until now that the men had marched on. The drums were now distant. Strange, though. The sound of a second set of drums were still audible, and she could not comprehend from whence they came.

It was only after taking another steadying breath that she realized it was her own heart not ceasing its tattoo on her rib cage.

Slowly, she turned her head to look over her shoulder. The soldier had managed to reach his crutch and was righting himself. The sight of his face caused her to turn around fully to face him.

He was smiling. The expression utterly transformed his features from a scowling man one would easily pass in a crowd, to a remarkably handsome gentleman.

Soldier. Jemima tried to remind herself that she was a lady and he just a soldier she had knocked into the street. There was no need to be excited. No need to hope for anything more.

“You are a blunt little thing, aren’t you?”

There was no malevolence in his voice, but Jemima could detect a hint of mischievousness—which, she thought, would make a pleasant change from the dullards she had been forced to smile at every social occasion.

“Little?” She replied haughtily. “Has the fall affected your eyes as well as your tongue? I do not think that I would be considered little anywhere.”

She spoke the honest truth; she was taller than all her sisters and her stepmother, an unfortunate trait when one was searching for a husband.

But before the soldier could reply, he reached his crutch and pulled himself to his feet. Jemima was reminded once again that he was remarkably tall himself. Taller by a good two or three inches.

A smile broke out on her face, which seemed to give his smile heart.

“Bluntness is something you have truly committed to, isn’t it?” the soldier said honestly. His left arm was now securely tucked over his crutch as he leaned on it for support.

---