On the ride back, the couples were chatting happily as the horses carried them back up the cliff road. Even Margaret and James, the groom, were on comfortable terms. The wind was picking up again and a storm roiled on the distant horizon over the sea. Mr. Jameson was now “Charles,” and all their little company was on a first name basis. Shariara didn’t even mind the diminutive, “Ellie,” when they called her name. Sarvazad, though, always called her by “Shariara” or by “my rose,” eliciting a rather indulgent smile from Cora.
A startled fox scurried across the path of Shariara’s horse, and it reared suddenly. Sarvazad snatched her from the now wild horse’s saddle. The frightened animal bucked and stomped backwards, causing Charles’ horse to rear. He held his seat and backed his horse a step. Margaret’s ill-humored Percheron took exception and sank its teeth into the horse’s rump and kicked its leg. The horse reared again, trying to turn and it and Charles tumbled down the embankment, and slid down the shallow cliff face along the road. Cora screamed and Shariara’s horse raced away past them, back down and around the road out of sight, as Sarvazad dismounted and set her on her feet. At the same time, his hound looked to him and he motioned him with a command after Shariara’s horse; the hound obediently tore after the beast. Sarvazad, helping Cora from her horse in passing, raced down the embankment, behind James. Charles waved the groom on to his horse.
Looking up as Sarvazad slid down to the wide ledge where he lay, Charles said, “Demme, Vaz. My leg is surely broken.” He looked down where the groom bent over his stricken horse. James met his eyes with a sad shake of his head. Charles nodded his acknowledgment as the groom went back to his own mount for the pistol. “Help me, Vaz.”
“My friend, you will only injure yourself further,” he gently admonished. But, he helped Charles down the embankment anyway, taking as much of his weight as he could manage on their precarious path.
Shariara, looking on in concern with Cora, turned to the maid, “Margaret, ride Miss Cora’s horse back up to the house and fetch help.”
“Yes, miss,” she said, bustling up onto the horse’s back and holding tightly about the neck. “Right away, miss.” She set the horse galloping as she settled in the saddle, laying across its mane.
“Pestilent creature!” Cora exclaimed as she slapped the Percheron on the rump and sent it cantering after Margaret, knowing it would follow her back to its stable stall.
Sarvazad helped Charles settle next to his horse’s head. The animal was wild-eyed but unable to do more than lift its chestnut head. Charles spoke soothingly to him as the groom brought the pistol. “Vaz,” he said in the same soothing sing-song voice he was using with the horse, “I can’t do it. I cannot put this loyal fellow down.”
“I understand, my friend.” He took the loaded pistol from the groom and told him, “Go back up and attend the ladies.”
Shariara watched Sarvazad until view of him was obscured by the road’s edge as James led her and Cora to shelter at the side of the cliff face. A sharp retort rang out, echoing off the rock wall and Cora dropped her face into her hands, shuddering. Shariara consoled her until Sarvazad’s and Charles’ heads rose above the road’s edge.
When Cora saw Charles, an amazing change came over her. She bustled about efficiently, laying out their picnic mat for him to lie upon. She spread the tablecloth over him for a blanket, then sank down beside him so he might rest his head in her lap. Shariara sat next to them. Cora helped Charles, by now ashen from the pain, to drink the wine left in their packet. Sarvazad sat himself at his friend’s feet, eyeing his twisted leg in concern. In this tableau, the physician, arriving in his dilapidated phaeton, found them.
Mrs. McIlroy soon arrived in her ornate barouche. As they were settling Charles as comfortably as possible, the wolfhound, which Sarvazad only ever called, “Dog,” returned. With the reins in his mouth, he was leading Shariara’s skittish mare back up from the beach. With a hard stare, Mrs. McIlroy said, “What a singular animal.” Charles, by now having imbibed a substantial quantity of wine, found this endlessly amusing.
Sarvazad helped the ladies into the barouche as Mrs. McIlroy said with barely concealed satisfaction, “The doctor has said you must remain with us at the hall for at least a fortnight, Mr. Jameson. You shall have the late Mr. McIlroy’s apartments.” Charles smiled weakly and mumbled a bubbly sort of thanks and sank against the cushions. Mrs. McIlroy took the seat next to Shariara, leaving Cora to settle next to Charles. The dowager settled back as she said, off-handedly to Sarvazad, “And you must remain to bear him company, Lieutenant. I cede our guesthouse for your use as long as need be.” He shot Shariara a meaningful smile as he closed the carriage door. He, thankfully, could not see how deeply she blushed.
[The story continues here: https://steemit.com/writing/@momzillanc/the-dance-plays-on-a-perfect-timeless-idyll]
[The previous section: https://steemit.com/writing/@momzillanc/the-dance-plays-on-a-seaside-picnic]
Pencil sketch of Elsbeth cum Shariara, 02 January 2020, by D. Denise Dianaty
This is a serialized edition on Steemit of my book, The Dance Plays On… – a paranormal romance novelette ebook: A a delicately sad tale of transcendent love, a perfect kiss, and haunting, beautiful tragedy – published in Amazon KDP 31 March 2016, by D. Denise Dianaty. Cover art created by D. Denise Dianaty. Cover art created by D. Denise Dianaty
You may purchase your copy here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01DPSBJDK/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_U_x_7g9cEb73SFVGY via
