"Mary!"
Helena's scream was so piercing, and so feral, that for a moment she did not recognise the shrill sound which had burst forth from her lungs as her own.
Chest still heaving from the exertion of their ride, Helena hopped unceremoniously down from atop her horse before scrambling over to where Mary lay limply beside her mare, blood trickling steadily from a gash on the side of her head. Her face was ghostly pale, and when Helena knelt beside her, calling her name once again, Mary showed no sign of movement.
She was as pale and stiff as a china doll; nothing remotely lifelike about her features.
Suddenly, Helena caught sight of the most beautiful sight in all the world - the barely distinguishable rise and fall of Mary's chest as she sucked in one laboured breath after another. Some small mercy it may be, but Helena grasped upon it firmly with both hands. She was alive; that was all that mattered. As long as Helena talked Mr Roach into handing back George as quickly as possible, all would be well...
George!
So utterly transfixed had Helena been, helplessly watching Mary lose her grip and slide from her rearing mare, that she had not until now registered the crunching sound which has caused the horse to spook.
Turning her head now in the direction the sound had come from, Helena's heart stopped at the sight which met her eyes.
The left wheels of her father's phaeton were spinning gently to a stop in the air; the carriage having overturned onto its side. Although the hood had slid down slightly, it was impossible to see inside without standing directly in front of the vehicle - and Helena was almost reluctant to look, for fear of what she might find.
Just then, though, the unmistakable wail of an infant pierced the air. Although slightly muffled, Helena could not fail to hear little George's cry for help - and in that moment, maternal instinct surpassed any fear she might have been feeling. In two swift strides, she was standing before the felled phaeton, desperately trying to locate George from his cries.
Helena first noticed Mr Roach, who lay perfectly still, body sprawled against the leather of the hood against which he had been jerked. He, too, appeared unconscious - but Helena would only pay him heed once she had ascertained whether or not George was harmed.
The infant, it transpired, had been placed inside a wicker basket from the kitchens - as if he were of no greater importance than the contents of a picnic! thought Helena indignantly - but mercifully, the plethora of blankets in which Mr Roach had swaddled George had prevented the child from being flung about when the carriage overturned. Plucking him from within the folds of material and examining him frantically for any sign of injury, Helena miraculously found him to be largely unharmed, but for a slight graze upon his forehead. It would need to be treated by a doctor, and the poor boy was likely suffering from shock - but he would recover in no time.
If only the same could be said of Mary!
Returning George to his basket, Helena hurried to Mary's side and dropped to her knees beside her, ignoring the wet mud seeping through her cotton gown.
If only she knew what to do! Never before had Helena felt so completely, utterly useless. Mary had come to Helena's aid countless times over the past few months - yet now, the one time it was Mary in need of assistance, Helena could offer none. She was a lady; bred to be pretty and polite, quietly sitting to one side unless called upon to speak or entertain. People often spoke of her as being 'accomplished' - but not one of her accomplishments, she realised, were of any use in a crisis.
A rustling sound came from the overturned phaeton, snapping Helena out of her tortured thoughts as she whipped her head in its direction. To her horror, it seemed Mr Roach had regained consciousness - he was blinking blearily, rubbing his head as he extended his limbs gingerly before him to check for injuries.
Helena fleetingly felt guilty for wishing him too injured to stand - but when Mr Roach did stagger to his feet, this guilt was replaced instantly by fear.
"What a fool!" he spat furiously.
The sharpness in his tone caused Helena to flinch - but it was in fact Mary's crumpled form upon whom his gaze was resting.
"Has she no regard for her own life? She might very well have killed us all!"
Helena, still crouching in the mud at Mary's side, attempted to draw herself up to her full height.
"She has greater regard for George's life than her own," declared Helena, "and was willing to perform any act necessary to prevent you from escaping with him to Yorkshire."
Mr Roach rubbed at his neck, wincing as he touched a painful spot.
"I cannot imagine what she hoped to achieve in making such a bold move," he muttered, "for her reckless behaviour has only succeeded in placing herself in a far worse position than I."
His gaze lingered upon the broken figure lying crumpled on the floor without a trace of sympathy in his eyes. Mary was worthless to this man; it was clear from his expression it meant nought to him if she lived, or...
Helena could not even bring herself to imagine the possibility.
"Well, the senseless girl can at least be satisfied in the knowledge that she may have her wish."
Helena frowned, certain she must have misheard Mr Roach's words.
"You may have the boy," he clarified, as if speaking to someone particularly dense. "I have no wish to raise him as my heir if there are to be further attempts on my life made in the process."
Having witnessed the pain and suffering Margaret had endured to bring George into the world and keep him safe and well, it angered Helena to think that Mr Roach could simply toss him aside like a discarded handkerchief. He was just as much responsible for George's wellbeing as Margaret - but it was plain to see that the child would be far better off without any input from this man in his upbringing.
"George was never truly your heir," said Helena boldly.
Mr Roach gave a knowing chuckle, chilling Helena to the bones.
"He would not have remained illegitimate long," he told Helena. "In returning to Yorkshire with the boy, I knew that Margaret would follow. Once at Lanmeth House, I should have made short work of persuading her into marriage. We could then pretend we had been married the entire time, securing the boy's place as heir to Lanmeth House and its surrounding land."
Helena despised Mr Roach's repeated referrals to George as the boy. To him, George would simply have been a helpless pawn in his perpetual struggle for power; an asset to be shipped off and married to an eligible young lady at the first opportunity. The darling child deserved far more than that - he needed a life of love and care, which Margaret would more than willingly provide.
"He is no longer of any interest to me," said Mr Roach unconcernedly. "The price of being plagued by Margaret's halfwit maid is far too great. It is not as if Margaret is the only woman able to bear me a child."
Helena gasped, unsure whether she was most offended by the insult to Margaret, or the fact that Mr Roach dared to speak of such vulgar matters before a lady. Mr Roach himself, however, did not appear to notice Helena's discomfort, preoccupied with glancing down once more at his son in the wicker basket.
"I do believe it is now time for me to take my leave," announced Mr Roach suddenly. "You have the boy, and my word that I shall not trouble Margaret in future; there is nothing else which remains to be discussed."
"No!" yelped Helena desperately, almost unable to believe she was reluctant to have this despicable man leave her company. "You cannot leave! Pray help me - I have not the faintest idea what I must do to aid Mary!"
Mr Roach's eyes widened in disbelief. For a moment, Helena feared he was to become terribly vexed - but, much to her surprise, moments later he erupted into a violent fit of laughter.
"Help you?" he guffawed, incredulous. "That woman attempted to kill me - why on earth should I wish to assist her in any way?"
"I... she..." stuttered Helena helplessly, even as the hopelessness of the situation sunk in. Mr Roach appeared not to even care for his son; he no doubt only felt regretful that the fall from her horse had not killed Mary outright.
With this unpleasant thought firm in her mind, Helena crouched helplessly at the roadside watching Mr Roach begin on foot in the direction of Chester, abandoning the phaeton, his son, and a dying woman without a second thought.
"Good day, Lady Helena," he called over his shoulder.
And then he was gone.
A heavy silence followed Mr Roach's departure, only heightening Helena's sense of aloneness. Despite having both Mary and George beside her, as far as Helena was concerned she might as well have been without company entirely.
Clutching Mary's limp hand to her chest, Helena desperately fought the urge to dissolve into tears. She had to remain calm, for Mary's sake - but the pillars of her strength were crumbling at their very foundations, betraying her human vulnerabilities to the world. For all that Helena attempted to portray a perfectly composed persona, this was what she truly was: weak, weary, and useless.
George began to cry again, the sound echoing up into the surrounding trees - but Helena could not even muster the strength to comfort him. Mary's palm remained encased in her own, as if somehow by simply holding her Helena might help her to recover. Such delirious thoughts were hardly helpful; but they were all Helena was capable of at present.
Time lost meaning entirely as she squatted beside Mary, tears rolling down her face as she willed her friend to wake up. It was truly haunting to see Mary's face without her piercing green gaze; it was her vibrant eyes which gave life to her youthful face. With each passing moment, her face drained further of colour, until it took on the sallow, waxy hue of a half-burnt candle. The rise and fall of her chest became more difficult to detect; by now sharp, infrequent movements, as if each breath cost great effort.
Helena was so transfixed by each one of these agonising details that she did not notice the hooves at first.
Her first, slightly wild thought, was of Mr Roach - perhaps he had experienced a change of heart upon reaching Chester, deciding to turn back and help them after all! Even as she thought it, Helena realised it could not be true - far more likely that it was the return of Mary's mare, which had bolted after rearing and throwing Mary off its back.
Upon raising her gaze, however, Helena could not have been more surprised to behold the figure charging towards them atop a powerful stallion, fire blazing in his eyes.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, skidding to a halt before the overturned carriage, dismounting in a single smooth, graceful movement. His horrified gaze travelled from the phaeton, to the wailing infant in the basket - before stopping dead upon reaching the bruised, bleeding form of Mary lying at the roadside.
"No! No, no, no - oh please, no!" he moaned, dropping instantly beside her and reaching a gentle hand to her head so that he might assess the damage.
When Sir Edmund withdrew his hand, it was tinged red with blood. His expression was completely unreadable, and Helena waited with bated breath for his next words.
"Are you able to carry the child?" he said eventually, tone brisk and emotionless.
Helena considered this a moment, fighting back irritation. What right had he to come galloping along and giving out orders after leaving Mary distraught and broken? Had Sir Edmund not ridden off in anger, none of this would have happened!
But despite her vexation, Helena had no desire to do anything but comply with Sir Edmund's wishes. No matter how foolish he had been, Helena knew he cared deeply about Mary - and at this moment in time, she felt perfectly reassured that he would do everything in his power to help her.
"Yes," she replied hesitantly, with a glance at the wriggling infant in his makeshift cradle. "I shall proceed on foot, if necessary - do not worry about us."
It was in this moment that Helena truly came to realise the extent of Sir Edmund's love for Mary.
Ever the gentleman, Sir Edmund would never, under normal circumstances, entertain the notion of leaving a young lady to walk alone on a deserted road.
But the second Helena had finished speaking, Sir Edmund swept Mary into his arms as if she were weightless. Cradling her to his chest as he mounted his horse, Sir Edmund did not even look back before urging his horse into motion and galloping off into the distance, leaving a cloudy swirl of dust behind.
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A/N: Sir Edmund saw sense and came back for Mary! We'd better hope he wasn't too late D: Clearly he had something he wanted to say to her!
This chapter is dedicated to @louisaseah, who correctly guessed that Sir Edmund would soon be making a return ;)
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts, and don't forget to give the chapter a vote if you enjoyed it!