Charming Miss Atherton

Four

"Love for me was like falling off a horse. I fell, got bruised, and lost my will to hop back into the saddle." -Bridget Atherton in a letter to Lady Helen explaining her disinterest in finding herself a husband, London 1811.

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Bridget's eyes fluttered open. It took her less than five seconds to know that the dimly lit bed-chamber was not a place she had stayed before. Not only was the room too small, the tiny window set into the west wall scarcely allowed proper light into the room. The iron bed where Bridget had been laid had rusted spots on its head and footboards. The green paisley printed chair adjacent to the bed was faded and worn from age. Bridget tugged at the sheets upon finding herself half-dressed. Her arms were a mottled mixture of blues, purples, yellows, and peach. Clearly, the trees had given her quite a walloping. Red scratch marks of varying sizes were all over her exposed skin. The abrasions had been tended to with a sticky ointment which smelled positively awful - much like the compost bin, her family kept in the back of the house. Bridget wrinkled her nose and swallowed convulsively. She tried to think of something other than the smell. Bridget studied the room, looking for clues to explain where she was. She fumbled with the sheets, determined to unearth clues on foot. Suddenly, a faint knock was heard at the door.

A young lady with mousy brown hair and matching large eyes poked her head into the room. "Miss - are you awake? I heard you stir," she whispered cautiously.

"I am awake. Do come in," Bridget replied in a soft, encouraging voice.

The small woman rushed to Bridget's bedside to straighten the patchwork quilt that covered the bed. "Oh miss, you should not be out of bed," she chastised gently leading Bridget back to the bed. "Here let me help you get settled. There. There. Tis much better."

She folded the blankets under Bridget's arms. As she bent over Bridget, the stench of the ointment wafted from her skin and into Bridget's nose. Bridget smiled graciously as the woman fussed to make her more comfortable. The woman had a knack for idle chatter and was pleased to be of use to the young mistress in answering all her questions.

"Doctor said that you need plenty of rest. I am glad to see you have finally come to," she started.

Bridget rubbed her temple. "Pray tell me how long I have been asleep? Whose home do I reside in? Where are my clothes?"

"Forgive me, miss, of my manners - I should have introduced myself earlier. My name is Betsey. I am employed by Mr. Harold Parbaker. He runs the local inn here in Reigate. You have been asleep for nearly six hours. Your dress prevented the doctor from tending you, so we relieved you of it. It was determined that you might be more comfortable in your chemise. We have strict orders to see to your every comfort."

"I must thank the person responsible for my care," Bridget said with a yawn just as Betsey revealed a half-amused -half confused smile.

"I wager no thanks be necessary given the two of you was traveling together," Betsey said as she poured water over her hands in the washbowl and then patted them dry on her apron.

Bridget stared in her lap, her brows knitted together. "I do not remember."

"Good lord you must have given your head a good bump. . .It's no wonder the doctor declared you ought not to travel for a fortnight."

A fortnight. Good heavens.

Bridget sighed, sinking back into her pillows to fight the dizziness of her thoughts. A fortnight was a long time to be trapped in this little room. She hoped her wounds were superficial and that the doctor might be persuaded to allow her to continue on to London. She rubbed her forehead and winced when her fingertips reached the tender mound on her brow. She must have hit her head very hard. She could not recall falling. Perhaps she bonked it on the side of the coach? It hardly seemed likely. Still, she had collided with something.