Two stalwart horses and their riders came tearing over the ridge, down the narrow trail, and along the bank of the river. The lead rider turned over his shoulder and called out to the rider behind him, “Are you ready to stand for the drinks? Because you are about to lose.”

He turned to the front again, but he was too late. He was struck by a low hanging branch and tumbled backward. The second rider pulled up, jumped off his horse, and went over to his friend who lay unconscious—his leg twisted at an odd angle.

“Felton, Felton… Oh, my God… Felton,” he said, shaking his friend by the shoulders trying to revive him.

Evan, the second rider, ran over to the bank of the river and cupped his hands, scooping up water and trying to run back with it to his friend, but he could not hold it as it dribbled away.

He kneeled down and patted Felton’s face with his wet palms. “Felton, old boy, wake up.”

Felton groaned, his eyes flickering. “I fell…”

“You certainly did, but do not move. It looks like you have broken your leg, and you have a nasty slash across your face where the branch hit you.”

“A real cock-up, eh?” Felton said in a weak, scratchy voice.

“I do not think I should try to move you. Let me ride into the village to get help.”

Felton tried to sit up on his elbows but he was shot through with a stab of pain and he fell back, passing out again.

“Damn it to hell!” Evan said, rising up. He went to his horse, after securing Felton’s horse, threw himself onto the saddle and raced toward the village.

Louisa Turner often took long walks in the morning where she could think and dream. Not that she could not do the same at home, but she loved the sound of the flowing water, the music of the birds, and the gentle cooling summer breeze when the weather was fair.

This morning was fresh as there had been a shower overnight and the air smelled of wet leaves and that sweet smell that enlivens the air after a rain.

Louisa was from the West Sussex village of Petworth. She was the eldest child, at nineteen, of the cotton merchant, Arthur Turner and his wife Martha—a decent and well respected local middle-class family.

As Louisa walked along the riverbank, she carried herself with an elegant grace that most of the village girls did not possess. She was taller than her family, with dark curly hair, expressive sparkling eyes, and a self-assured patrician air that set her apart from her more mundane peers.

Louisa saw a horseman approaching at a fast pace. She stepped aside to let him pass and, although he looked at her, he did not stop, say hello, or give her anything but a curt nod.

Most strange, she thought. Could he be fleeing the law, late for an appointment, or pretending he is in a race? Those thoughts set her chuckling, but not for long for she stooped over, picked a stem of grass, and absentmindedly tied it into a bow.

She was coming up to a bend in the river, beyond which was her favorite rock for sitting. It was situated at the river’s edge and had a most pleasant view in the shade. She often took a break there before starting back home.

As she rounded the bend, she was surprised to see someone stretched out on the ground not far from her rock. Her first thought was that he had been struck by the racing horseman who did not stop to help.

She immediately ran over and kneeled beside the man who appeared to be unconscious.

“Sir, sir, can you hear me?” Louisa asked, as she lightly patted the young man’s face.

The man turned his head from side to side as he regained consciousness. His eyes flickered open and he looked up at her with a surprised expression.

“Evan, what has happened to Evan?” he asked, as if from far away.

“I saw a horseman racing by earlier. Might that be your friend?” She took a handkerchief from her pocket and began dabbing his brow which was covered with sweat, dirt, and leaves. “Are you in a lot of pain?” she asked. “It looks to me like you have hurt your leg.”

“I think it is broken. Do you fix legs, by any chance?”

She laughed. “I am afraid I do not. So sorry, but are you thirsty? Might I fetch you some water from the river?”

“Yes, that would be lovely. Are you to carry it in your hands, for that was not so successful for my friend?”

“Not so, I carry a flask when I walk for just such occasions.”

“So, you meet fallen strangers on your walks regularly?”

“Not so regularly but I, too, often need a drink when I am out on a summer’s day.”

“Then I would welcome your assistance, for I am dry.”

“I shall be but a moment.”

She returned shortly with the water and put her hand under the young man’s head to raise it up so he could drink. He seemed to be regaining his faculties.

“Thank you, Miss…?”

“Louisa Turner of Petworth and you are, sir?”

“Felton Windham, at your service, or, I would be if I could move.”

“Windham? Windham? Are you of the Burlington Abbey Windhams?”

“None other.” Felton said. “Son of the Duke. Can you believe that?

“The Marquess of Harwood?”

“That is I, but do not let me scare you off. Stay with me for a few moments until my friend returns.”

Louisa made herself as comfortable as she could while kneeling on the ground. She studied the man before her.

Felton Windham, the Marquess of Harwood—the son of the Duke and Duchess of Stapleton—was a young man of twenty. When he did not have lacerations across his face and no broken leg, he cut quite a handsome figure in the county of West Sussex where he lived with his family at Burlington Abbey. He stood tall at well over six feet. He wore his dark, nearly coal black, hair long and tied loosely away from his handsome face. He had dark eyes and an open gracious smile—always ready with a quick laugh and a cheery greeting. His athletic build was honed by his constant riding, his love of pugilism, and the long runs and walks he took on the grounds of the family estate.

“But what happened to you?”

“Stupid riding accident. Broken leg and a scratch on the head.”

“More than just scratches it looks like to me.”

“I cannot see myself. Is it really that bad?”

“I have no mirror. So, I shall be your mirror.”

“Very well,” he said, with as much of a smile as he could muster.

“Now then, there is this large red welt going from here to here.” She drew a line in front of his face from the top of his forehead, across his nose, and down his left cheek. “Then, here is a gash that goes across part of this other cheek, and there are at least three or four abrasions that are starting to scab over.” She squinted. “Are you in great pain?”

“I have certainly been better, but your charming face is already healing my wounds. Ow-w-w,” he said wincing.

“Take care.”

“And what do you do, Miss Louisa Turner?”

“I spend my time being an obedient daughter… for the time being. However, I should like to teach, eventually. I have a good education and would like to put it to good use.”

“What ages?”

“Young ones, I think.”

“Might you be a governess?”

“No, I would prefer a proper school room full of rambunctious ruffians.”

“How brave.”

She made a gruff face. “I can be very severe. I will take no nonsense.”

“Then I am happy you were not my governess for you would have me with a dunce cap in the corner most afternoons.”

He was looking at her with the sweetest smile even though he looked a mess.

“Miss Louisa, might you consider going for a ride with me some afternoon?”

“Not if it involves broken legs and scratches.”

“No, no… I promise. It shall be very sedate and it may even involve a picnic and tea at Burlington Abbey afterward.”

“I think it might be some time before you can contemplate that,” Louisa said, standing, as a wagon and the rider who had passed her came toward them.

“But you will consider it?”

“Possibly.”

“And how might I find you for an invitation when I am up and about again?”

“The Rookery, Pelham Way.”

“I know that place, and your father is Arthur Turner?”

“He is, and now you must excuse me. Help is coming for you and you will no longer need my assistance. Good day, My Lord.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Turner.”

Louisa turned toward home and passed the rider and wagon as they approached.

Evan spurred his horse forward, and jumped off, and ran to his friend.

Evan Beaumont was slightly older than Felton but they had been friends since childhood. Since Felton was an only child, it had been decided that there should be another child in the Burlington classroom while Felton was being instructed by the governess. The Beaumonts were a neighboring aristocratic family and they offered to let Evan be tutored along with Felton. As a consequence, the two boys became fast friends.

Felton was dark, but Evan was fair, and while he was of slighter build than his friend, he was also wiry and quick on his feet, making him a natural sparring partner for Felton in the boxing ring.

“Felton, you rogue, who was that charming young woman?” he asked as he brushed the leaves and dirt off his friend’s jacket.

“A young lady from the village. She stopped to help me after you ran off leaving me all alone.”

“I needed to get help.”

“And have you?”

At that moment the wagon drew up.

“I have borrowed a wagon and a few lads to help me take you home. I have sent for a surgeon to do whatever they do to set your leg, and I have sent a messenger to inform your parents of your accident, but you lost your bet and you owe me that drink.”

“You are such a good friend,” Felton said, patting his friend’s cheek. “But I really do not feel very well. I…” and he passed out again.

“Help me get him on the wagon, but be careful of his leg,” Evan said to the two men from the wagon who had come forward. “There will be a crown each and a pint when we are done.”