Alex and Eliza: A Love Story(20)

“Whoa!” came the faint voice of the coachman. “Whoa there!”

The carriage lurched to a stop and then slowly, with a splintering sound as of a branch breaking off a tree, the right rear of the compartment sank slowly, heavily down, until it was some three feet lower than the left. Eliza had to grip both sides of the carriage to keep from falling upon Mrs. Jantzen, who was lying on her back, her legs sticking straight up in the air and protruding from the ruffled yardage of her petticoats and bloomers.

“What on earth!” Mrs. Jantzen exclaimed, desperately trying to right herself, but having little more success than a turtle flipped on its shell.

Eliza couldn’t decide which was the more frightening prospect: falling on Mrs. Jantzen, or being shrouded in that terrible perfume, but she wasn’t about to find out. She toed the older lady’s skirts aside as delicately as she could, spread her feet, and braced them against the opposite seat.

“Driver!” she called out. “Driver, there seems to have been some kind of . . . tilt.”

The left-hand door of the carriage flew open, and the bearded face of Mr. Vincent appeared. “Begging your pardon, my ladies,” he called out in his thick Irish brogue. “I’m afraid we’ve broken a wheel. Allow me—”

He reached a meaty hand into the carriage, wrapped it around Eliza’s arm, and pulled her from the skewed compartment with no more effort than if she’d been a weaning puppy. The left side of the carriage was some five feet above the ground, and once free of the narrow door, Eliza had no choice but to jump down.

The road was frozen hard as stone, and sharp, hot pains pierced her feet as she landed. Convinced her daughter was likely to meet eligible bachelors along the trip, Mrs. Schuyler had insisted she wear fancy shoes of thin embroidered cotton—hardly proof against a New Jersey winter. The shoe heels were a full inch tall. Their thin soles gave way almost immediately to the chill of the frozen roadway.

She shook her feet to warm them, looking up just as the coachman lowered himself into the carriage to help Mrs. Jantzen. Eliza had once seen a pair of fighting squirrels chase each other into a pumpkin that had been hollowed out to hold a candle. The pumpkin had shook like a kettle on the boil as the animals tore at each other inside its orange shell, until suddenly the top burst off and one of the squirrels flew into the air and dashed off, leaving the other one poking from the cracked gourd. As the coachman attempted to free Mrs. Jantzen, the tilted carriage vibrated with nearly the same violence as that long-ago pumpkin.

The stranded lady’s yelps and squeaks pierced the otherwise silent afternoon, interrupted by the coachman’s half-desperate requests. “If you would just hold still, m’lady . . . Beg pardon, m’lady, but if you want to be liberated you will have to allow me to place my hand just there . . . Well, I’m sorry, dearie, but I thought that was just swaddling!”

Popping like a bubble, Mrs. Jantzen was fully ejected from the open door and rolled over and off the side of the carriage. Eliza rushed forward to help, only to be thrown aside by the bulk of the older woman’s skirts as she sprawled onto the ground.

“My ankle!” the older lady screamed in pain. “It’s broken!”

The coachman appeared and, despite his ample build, jumped nimbly to the ground. “Forgive me again, m’lady,” he said, unceremoniously hefting her skirt and reaching for her ankle.

“Sir!” Mrs. Jantzen protested. “I must remind you that I am a married woman, and a lady!”

The coachman ignored her. His nimble fingers slipped inside her booted ankle and squeezed tenderly. Mrs. Jantzen winced and pulled away, but he held her in place. “It’s not broken. Probably just a sprain. Best keep the boot on to hold in the swelling. We’re only five miles from Morristown, but this does complicate things.”

“Complicate things! I shall in all likelihood lose my leg!”

Eliza couldn’t resist. “My uncle John is an excellent physician. And I shall be honored to hold your hand while he cuts.”

“Now, now, ladies, let’s not get carried away,” Mr. Vincent said, though he grinned at Eliza out of view of Mrs. Jantzen.

He looked over at the ruined coach wheel. It was thoroughly shattered.

“No fixing that. I’m afraid we’ll have to ride.”

“But there are only two horses!” Mrs. Jantzen protested. “And no saddles! And we ladies in skirts!”

“Aye, there’s that.” He pondered a moment. “This will require some rope.”

A half hour later, Mrs. Jantzen lay awkwardly across one of the horses, tied onto it like a saddlebag and covered in a voluminous fur, so that she looked like a bear carcass being brought in from a hunt.

“This is most indecorous,” she said. “I assure you that you will not be receiving a tip at the end of this journey.”

The coachman ignored her and turned to Eliza.

“Mrs. Jantzen’s ankle is starting to swell up like a puff adder. I’m afraid of proving her right in her fear of amputation if we don’t get to a doctor in short order. I was going to put you on the second horse and lead you, but I really do think we need to ride.”

Although she had wrapped herself in the other fur from the carriage, Eliza had no protection from the winter other than her waistcoat. Her feet, however, were freezing and starting to go numb.

“Of course,” Eliza said. “I would not wish further injury to Mrs. Jantzen. But with no saddle, sir, and me encompassed by all this fabric”—she indicated the expanse of her dress—“I do not think we shall both fit, or that I shall be able to remain astride.”