Relinquishing my grip on the bag I pull my elbow back, digging it sharply into my assailant’s stomach. I hear a groan as my wrist is released and I swing around to face him. It’s a man, who is now bent over, winded, his arm wrapped protectively over his stomach. He foolishly lifts his face, and I have a brief impression of the kind of boyishly golden good looks typically afforded to Classical statues before I spring into action.
Drawing on the information I have gleaned from reading several of Father’s well-thumbed books on pugilism, I curl my hand into a fist, careful to keep my thumb outside and across the bottom of my fingers and deliver a blow to his nose which sends him staggering backwards with an incoherent cry, landing with a thud on the floor.
Pain sings through my hand and my heart is hammering as I swing back to find my bag lying, abandoned, on the ground and the thief gone. I snatch it up. Adrenaline thunders through my veins as I turn to face my assailant again, clutching the bag in front of me like a shield, poised to run or to fight if I have to.
“Stop, stop, for God’s sake!” he shouts, getting to his feet and holding his hands out in front of him in a sign of surrender. His nose is bleeding rather freely down the front of his white shirt.
I pause, thrown by his accent. He is, I realize, English.
“Who are you?” I demand, and I’m thrilled that my voice is only slightly shaky.
The young man straightens, scowling. “I’m Ben,” he says acidly. “And I can only assume that you are Beatrice.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“If you lean forward and pinch your nose it will slow down the bleeding,” I say.
Ben glares up at me over the top of my handkerchief. “Yes, thank you,” he growls, batting me away. “I don’t think any more of your advice is needed.” He is slumped on a bench in the waiting room. After the initial confusion, our various onlookers have departed, leaving me alone with Ben – the person who, it transpires, my uncle has sent to collect me.
“I’m only trying to help,” I reply.
“I think it’s a little late for that,” he snaps. “Perhaps if you hadn’t punched me in the face in the first place…”
“I have apologized for that,” I say, “several times, in fact.” I try not to roll my eyes. He’s been hamming up the very minor injuries that he sustained for quite some time. “No, don’t sit up straight yet,” I say firmly as he moves. “You need to give the blood time to clot.”
Now that the heat of the moment is over, I can see that Ben is younger than I first thought, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. He is handsome – tall and broad-shouldered with curly golden hair that flops over his forehead and, beneath the handkerchief, a perfectly symmetrical face. Symmetry is, as I understand it, very important when it comes to beauty. The young man in front of me is very symmetrical and very beautiful – and I rather suspect that he knows it.
“Anyway,” I continue, smoothing down my skirt, “it was more than a little bit your own fault, you know. What did you expect me to do when you appeared, looming over me and grabbing at me like that?”
This earns me another dark look and Ben whips the handkerchief away from his face, clambering to his feet. I eye his nose critically and observe that the bleeding has stopped.
“I was not looming,” Ben says with exaggerated patience. “I was trying to rescue you.”
“Rescue me?” I try to keep a straight face. “I see. Did you think that I needed rescuing?”
“Yes, well.” He grimaces, lifting a hand to his nose. “I didn’t realize you were going to turn into a bloody madwoman, did I?”
I decide it’s best not to pay attention to this fit of the sullens, but instead to concentrate on the matter at hand. I take a step closer to him.
“What are you doing?” He leaps back, alarmed; the backs of his legs hit the bench and it clatters against the wall behind him.
“Nothing to worry about,” I say soothingly. “I just need to feel your nose.”
“Feel my nose?” His outrage is so comical that I can’t stop the laughter from bubbling out, which only makes him look even more thunderous.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll just check it isn’t broken. You’re probably concerned about your face.” I tilt my head on one side. “It is very pretty.”
His mouth drops open at this, and he makes a spluttering noise as though he can’t find the words he wants. Taking advantage of his confusion, I reach up and take hold of his nose.
We stand there for a moment, as I check his perfect face for damage, and as I do so I can’t help thinking how odd this is. All my life, I’ve only ever had polite, dull conversations with boys my age – and if I ever try to be anything other than polite and dull, the response is usually blind terror, as with Cuthbert. But Ben has talked back to me. It hasn’t exactly been friendly talk, but in a strange way that’s what makes it so enjoyable.
He clears his throat and I realize my hands are still on his face.
“Not even broken,” I say, stepping back. “You remain symmetrical.”
“There’s no need to sound so disappointed.”
“I’ve never really punched someone like that before,” I explain. “I learned it from a book, you see, rather than from any practical experience.” I glance down at my fingers. “Honestly, I hoped I’d be capable of doing a bit more damage.”
“Believe me, the damage was more than sufficient.” He shoots me another dark look.
“I’m sure it hurts less than my hand does,” I say. “And you don’t see me making a fuss.”
Ben’s eyes dart to my bruised knuckles and, for a second, I think he’s going to show concern for my own injuries. Then, to my surprise, he smirks. “Serves you right.”
He reaches down and picks up the bag that has caused so many problems and slings it over his shoulder.
“Come on then,” he says. “Let’s get you delivered to Leo in one piece. He was most concerned about you; said he didn’t want you left waiting alone. Said you were a well-bred and sheltered young lady.” He snorts. “And I’m the King of England.” He looks at me, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I’d even go so far as to say you were quite enjoying yourself.”
“I certainly enjoyed the part where your feet went up over your head before you hit the platform,” I say sweetly.
Ben shakes his head. “You caught me by surprise,” he mutters, and then turns on his heel.
I follow him outside to a battered car that looks like it’s held together with nothing but rust and hope. Ben throws my bag on to the back seat and I slide into the passenger side. He starts the car and we shudder away from the station and out into the night.
In the darkness around us, barely anything is visible; the weak arcs of light from the car headlamps achieve little except to attract every moth within a one-mile radius. The sky is still overcast and only a few of the more robust stars are on display, while the moon drifts in and out of sight as the breeze moves the clouds across its reassuringly familiar face. It’s funny that after all this travel the same moon hangs suspended in the sky – as though that, too, should somehow be different. The roof of the car is down and the air slipping past me is cool, carrying a sharp smell of pine needles.