“John,” she croaked.
His head turned in her direction. The corners of his eyes crinkled in pain.
“You?.?.?. a’right?.?.?. miss?” he wheezed out.
“Fine.” She spit out the frozen mud. “And yourself?”
“Brilliant,” John asserted stubbornly.
With all the strength she could muster, she rushed over to his side. His royal-blue coat was covered in mud. He breathed shallowly, clenching his jaw. It was then that she noticed the unnatural angle of his arm. Her stomach lurched.
You have to be as strong as your namesake, Helen of Troy. John needs you.
“John, why didn’t you say your arm was injured?” she asked softly.
“Nothing you can do about it,” he whimpered.
She brushed a lock of his hair away from his face. His cheeks were warm to the touch as he huffed in pain, concerning her. “I will do everything in my power to see you recovered. I owe you my life.”
Through sheer force of will, Helen kept herself from panicking. Adrenaline coursed through her body.
They were in Hyde Park alone, and John’s arm was broken.
Her eyes swept the periphery. The knoll was deserted. Most of London slept, preferring to keep later, more fashionable Town hours.
She was going to have to leave John alone to find help, but she didn’t want to abandon him in such a state.
Helen could vaguely recall reading one of her papa’s medical books. For once in her life, being a bluestocking might be advantageous. She chanced a second glance to his arm and quickly looked away.
A sweat had broken over John’s brow, and his arm had to be stabilized to keep from further damaging it.
What materials did she have at her disposal? Paper, pencils, and a blanket. All of those items were useless.
The awakening swans fluttered their wings. A curious adult swan approached them, poking its beak at the muddied hem of her petticoat. He honked, disappointed the clothing item wasn’t food.
“The petticoat! Eureka,” Helen whispered.
Without a care for who might see her, she pulled her knees to her chest and placed the edge of the petticoat in her mouth. The thin cotton fabric tore with ease into a long strip.
The sound of running steps approached them. Helen stayed focused on the task at hand. A man kneeled down, panting. He smelled of sandalwood. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the man shrugging off his greatcoat and tailcoat.
“What has happened?” The man spoke with an air of authority.
“Runaway horse. Miss Davenport needs help,” John muttered.
Helen dropped the fabric from her mouth. She shook her head. “I am fine. John is the one who’s been injured.”
She could feel the heavy fabric of a man’s greatcoat being draped around her shoulders, protecting her from the morning chill. The man’s gaze met Helen’s. His brown hair was wild and stuck out in a variety of angles. His cheeks were colored a shade of bright cherry red.
Deep turquoise eyes bored into her with concern. “How may I be of assistance?”
“Dip this in the Serpentine. The cool water will hopefully cool his flushed skin.”
The man nodded. Taking the fabric from her hands, he sprinted over to the river and returned momentarily. He passed her the dampened cloth.
Helen set to work in patting down John’s neck and forehead. The man released the diamond stick pin from his cravat and began to untie it. Helen raised an eyebrow.
“To bind his arm,” he stated matter-of-factly.