Diligence
Éponine poured water into the washbasin and dipped a fresh handkerchief in.
"I hope you got the number of that omnibus." The clerk's voice filtered to the back room from his station behind the desk.
"No," Éponine said, "unfortunately not."
"Pity. Can I assist you in any way? Shall I fetch a doctor?"
"No, thank you, Monsieur," Enjolras answered. "The injuries are minor—" Enjolras' sentence was chopped by a hiss of pain when Éponine pressed the handkerchief to the gash on his right palm; courtesy of Montparnasse's lingre.
When they had been running back to the office and Enjolras had her by the hand, Éponine had assumed the moisture she felt in his grip was perspiration until Enjolras had let go and she saw the blood.
Éponine bade Enjolras to continue holding the handkerchief to the wound as she pulled a small leather case from his portmanteau. Joly, for the maintenance of their old injuries and any others they would most likely accrue on their journey, packed a small kit of general medical supplies: muslin, scissors, lint and a small vial of laudanum with written instructions on its administration.
Éponine rubbed a cake of soap onto a new handkerchief and cleaned the wound. Then she pulled from the case a strip of muslin. After cutting an eight-inch slit on one end of the strip she proceeded to wrap the uncut end around Enjolras' palm.
"My condolences, Madame, on the death of your mother." Enjolras said, as he watched her work.
Éponine shrugged, feigning indifference as her sister had done. "We were not very close."
"My mother and I do not share the closest relationship, either . . ."
Éponine paused in her wrapping and blinked at him in surprise. Here was another unexpected moment of vulnerability and freely offered insight into his life.
Enjolras' gaze flicked up to hers for a moment before settling back on his hand.
Éponine stared at him a moment more before mentally shaking herself and going back to work. When she reached the end of the muslin she used the separated pieces to tie a bow, securing the bandage in place.
Enjolras raised his hand and inspected the bandage with an appreciative nod. "Well done."
"Thank you, Monsieur. Joly showed me how once, when you were ill."
Éponine pulled out another handkerchief from her portmanteau.
"Now, let's see about this cut on your forehead . . ."
Enjolras stepped back. "It is quite alright, Madame, I will do it."
"There is no mirror, Monsieur, how will you see where the injuries are?"
Enjolras wanted to say that she could direct him, but then even he knew that bordered on ridiculous.
"Very well," he sighed. Éponine raised the handkerchief to his face but Enjolras moved away again. Éponine was about to protest when she saw that he had actually moved to sit down in the rush-bottomed chair next to the washstand, to better accommodate her.
Éponine inwardly smiled and gently wiped the blood from his forehead. She combed her fingers through his hair to reach the small cut just above his right temple. Enjolras tensed. Éponine paused.
"Am I hurting you?"
"No," his voice was sounding odd again. His gaze flicked up at her.
"Are you hurt at all?" He asked, anxiously scanning her person.
"A little bruised, but nothing more."
They lapsed into silence as Éponine continued wiping the blood from his hair, gingerly pulling at the curls with the handkerchief. Under her ministrations Enjolras eventually began to relax.
He was so tired.
His eyes grew heavy. He sighed and leaned into her touch. Éponine almost jumped. She stood and gazed in surprise at the sight of him so completely unguarded. Was it intentional? Did he trust her that much, or was he so tired that it was involuntarily done? Éponine was sure it was the latter, although a small part of her hoped it was the former. She continued to gaze at him, absently running her fingers through his hair now. There was something of the boy in his tranquil, dozing face. Éponine's heart melted in sympathy.
Poor man . . . he's so exhausted.
On impulse Éponine bent down and kissed Enjolras' injured brow.
Enjolras started violently, nearly bumping her nose. His head snapped up, his eyes were wide and dark as they latched onto hers.
"Why did you do that?" He demanded sharply.
Éponine stepped back.
"It's . . . just something Maman always used to do whenever we'd get hurt." She quickly busied herself with the repacking of the portmanteau so he would not see the tears pricking at her eyes.
Maman's dead.
The reality hit her like a punch to the stomach, leaving her shaky and breathless.
Enjolras rose from the chair. "Forgive my reaction. I was startled."
Éponine forced herself to accept the explanation and not entertain the niggling feelings of rejection that rose alongside the pain. "You were asleep, it is only natural," she managed to murmur, not looking up.
"There will be plenty of time to sleep on the diligence. I regret to inform you that I only purchased tickets for interieur seats. The imperiale would be much more preferable this time of year. I thought it prudent that we not be on display for all unwanted parties of Paris to see. But, once we get far enough from the city, if they become free, I will exchange them."
Éponine nodded and pressed the back of her hand to her nose to relieve the itch starting there as it threatened to stream. "I am not done, Monsieur, your bottom lip is split." She pulled out another handkerchief. But, Enjolras quickly turned over the handkerchief that had been used on his palm and pressed it to his bottom lip.
"There?" He asked.
Éponine nodded, a small frown creasing her forehead. She returned to her attention to the portmanteau.
Maman is dead.
Enjolras noted her trembling figure and far away look. "Madame . . ."
No response.
"Madame Enjolras." Enjolras felt odd saying that and not be addressing his mother.
Éponine jumped and looked up.
"I can cancel the tickets and we can stay a little longer if need be."
"What for?" She asked hoarsely.
"To attend your mother's funeral."
Éponine leapt to her feet. "And see her body dumped in an unmarked pauper's grave? No!" She closed her eyes as she fought against the tears that rose behind them. "No, Monsiuer," she repeated evenly, turning away from him. "I appreciate the offer, all the same . . . but I couldn't bear it . . ." Éponine pressed her injured hand to her mouth to stem the sob threatening to rip free. She swallowed hard, forcing it down. She would not cry in front of him.
Éponine did not realize Enjolras had come up behind her until she felt his hand shyly brush against her palm. Without turning she gripped it.
The clerk poked his head around the corner. "The diligence just pulled in."
Éponine inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. If the clerk had not interrupted when he did she would have broken down, and to see Enjolras uncomfortable in the presence of her unadulterated grief would have been another prick to add to the pain.
. . . . . .
Enjolras paced about, watching the porters as they strapped the luggage to the top of the diligence, keeping a careful eye on his own bags as they did so. Éponine and Enjolras had divided his money among the two portmanteaux and themselves. Éponine had sewn some of the bills into the lining of the portmanteaux; Enjolras kept a large amount in his wallet and Éponine had the smallest portion tucked into the busk pocket of her stays.
Once the porters had finished they clambered down and allowed the passengers on. Those with interieur seats waited for those who had seats in the imperiale and the coupeé to alight first.
"Won't the carriage overturn with so much weight on top?" Éponine asked Enjolras, nervously eyeing the towering pile of baggage secured under the tarpaulin.
"No, the wheels are so far apart and the body of the carriage is wide, thus distributing the weight sufficiently well."
The interieur passengers began to board. Enjolras held out his hand to support Éponine as she ascended the coach ladder. She took his proffered hand and met his gaze. His expression was unreadable.
Here we go.