Daniel O'Thunder. Ian Weir

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was later than I’d intended. Twilight was creeping across the hills, and with it came a rising wind and dark clouds massing overhead. I pulled my coat more tightly round myself and hurried; you didn’t want to be caught on the cliffs after dark, especially with a storm rising. I had reached the crest of the headland, just where the trail grew narrowest and the rocks plunged most precipitously into the sea below, when I heard the sound of hoofbeats behind me, emerging out of the roar of wind and waves. I looked back, and shouted in alarm, for the rider was already upon me.

      “Look out, you fool!”

      This being the rider’s shout, not mine. A moment later I was raising myself to hands and knees, winded and indignant, having sprawled for safety half a heartbeat before the hooves thundered past. Ahead, the horse was brought skittering to a stop.

      “I say, look where you’re going—you could have killed me!”

      “Then stay out of the damned road!”

      A great grey gelding shied and pranced, and I recognized the rider. It was Bathsheba Scantlebury, in tall black boots and a black riding cloak. She gave a little start as she recognized me in return.

      “Is that the curate?” she exclaimed.

      She brought the horse skittering closer, to be sure.

      “The Revd Mr Beresford—it is you. What the Devil are you doing up here on the cliffs, with a storm coming on?” Her hair was loose, and her colour was high with the wind and the gallop. Cocking her head, she eyed me with jaundiced appraisal. “I’d best not discover you’ve been poaching.”

      “P-poaching?”

      You try getting the word out without a splutter—an accusation like that, when you’re already fair dancing with the indignation of it.

      “This is all Scantlebury land. Lay a hand on a single pheasant, and I don’t care who you are—I’ll have you horsewhipped.”

      “You sulky supercilious bitch,” I cried—or at least, imagined myself crying. Indeed, I imagined stalking forward in seething masculine dudgeon, and saying other things besides, such as: “You’re the one who should be horsewhipped, Miss Scantlebury. I’ve half a mind to turn you over a knee myself—and I see by the wanton gleam in those eyes that you might jolly well like it!”

      But of course I said no such thing, being a man of the cloth.

      “In point of fact I’ve been to see a parishioner,” I said, clutching what tatters of dignity I could lay hands upon. “Not that it’s any particular business of yours. I just walked five miles to comfort the afflicted, and now I’m walking fives miles home again. That’s what a priest does, Miss Scantlebury, because that’s what the Lord expects of him. I am also called to feed the hungry,” I added, “and clothe the naked.”

      Damn. The instant it was out of my mouth.

      One eyebrow arched. “Yes, I can well believe that the naked concern you, Mr Beresford. I suspected as much this morning.”

      I could feel the morning’s humiliation rushing scarlet to my face. And she just looked at me, brazen as Babylon.

      “Come on, then—I won’t leave you out here in a storm. Climb up, and you can ride behind.”

      But a man has his pride. I straightened my back, and met that gaze with actual—yes—froideur.

      “Not if yours, Miss Scantlebury, was the last behind in Cornwall.”

      I admit, an unclerical thing to say. But by the God who made me, it was splendid to say it. Bathsheba’s jaw actually dropped, as she searched for a suitable retort. But whatever it might have been, it was lost in a startled exclamation. Lightning had flickered a few moments before, and now thunder cracked, directly overhead. Her horse, already skittish in the rising wind, reared back; taken unawares, she tumbled.

      “Miss Scantlebury!”

      She was on her back and rolling, and in another instant she must have gone straight over the cliff-edge. But I had already leapt forward, and caught her by the arm to steady her. Bathsheba lay breathless for a moment, stunned by the fall and by the narrow escape—for this had been a near-run thing. We stared down at the jagged rocks and the heaving sea far below.

      “Are you all right?”

      “Take your hands off me!”

      I released her and stepped back, expecting her to stand. Instead she lay where she was, gasping for breath and glaring furiously up at me.

      “I’ve hurt my leg, damn you.”

      “That’s hardly my fault.”

      “I damned you on general principle. I say it again: damn you, and damn that look you’re giving me right now. That’s supposed to be manly concern, is it? And I suppose you think you’re fetching—the young curate, with his soulful eyes. Well, don’t bother, because I know you.”

      I hesitated. “May I . . . ?”

      “No, you may not!”

      But I did. I knelt and asked which leg was hurt, and she lifted the right one an inch or two. It seemed to be her ankle—a surprisingly delicate ankle, at the end of a beautifully formed calf, above which there was of course a knee and—oh dear God. “I don’t think it’s broken,” I hazarded. But clearly it was badly sprained, for the gentlest touch made her gasp, and when I glanced up her eyes had actually filled with tears. For a heart-stopping moment she was a child again, hurt and vulnerable and secretly frightened.

      “What do we do now?” she asked, for clearly we faced a dilemma. Her horse was already gone and galloping homeward, and here we were—a good two miles from the Moyles’ cottage, and at least another three from Porthmullion, with night falling and the storm beginning to rage in earnest.

      “Lean against me,” I urged, helping her up. “Here, we can manage it!”

      But we couldn’t. This was clear enough after the first few hobbling steps, which left just two possibilities. The first was to leg it for home myself, leaving Bathsheba to rot—which I confess I considered. The alternative was an old abandoned shepherd’s hut. It was above us, in a cleft between two hills.

      I pointed. Rain lashed down, and I had to raise my voice against the wind. “It isn’t much, but at least there’s a roof. It’ll keep us dry while we wait out the storm. Look, I’m going to have to carry you, all right?”

      “I swear, I really will have you horsewhipped!”

      Which under the circumstances I interpreted as agreement.

      The uphill path was arduous, and several times I nearly fell. But as I struggled onward—her arms round my neck—I began to see myself as I still do, frequently, to this day: as an actor thrust into a role upon the stage, wholly unprepared and fearing himself unequal to the task, but plucky and determined and finding his light, and discovering resources that he had never dared hope he possessed. I believe I had an image of myself as the hero of one of Mr Boucicault’s melodramas—the one in which he rescues the foul-mouthed slut. But after an eternity of slips and strangled oaths and “Christ, watch where you’re going, you imbecile!”, the old stone hut

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