Chapter 2

An Uncle's Remorse

Galahad gazed into this nephew's pale face, as the bits of sun that biffed through the clouds crossed it. He ran a hand over his own face, and sighed. It certainly hadn't been his fault that Georgie had played dirty. After all, they were only acquaintances. What Galahad wondered was how Freddie had raised the pluck to be able to race with Georgie without flinching.

A groaning sound raised itself from the covers, as Freddie's eyes fluttered open. He pursed his lips, and un-pursed them when he saw his uncle leaning over him. "W-ell call me whoopsy, uncle Gally!" He exclaimed, turning pink with pleasure. "I was wondering if you'd be alright, flagging us down." Freddie gave him a sheepish smile. He ran a hand across a few scrapes on his forehead and winced. "I hope that's the worst of it."

Galahad grimaced. "I'm afraid not old man. The doctor's coming to give you a checkup. And I wouldn't move much if I were you. We think you have a few broken ribs you see." Galahad tried his best to sound as cheerful as he could. He couldn't help thinking that Freddie would probably have been lying on the floor, writhing in pain if he hadn't been there.

Freddie blanched. He glanced down at the torn bits and pieces of his green vest and stared at the splashes of mud all along the knees of his tan trousers. "Well this is a sticky wicket! I don't see how wearing a vest helps with improving my condition. And as for these trousers…" He paused, and winced painfully. He had to admit that moving wasn't the best option. "They're going to need a good sudsing." He finished, giving his uncle a desperate glance.

"Care for a small one?" Galahad replied, eyeing Freddie hopefully. He needed to escape, so that he could tell Connie that her nephew was alive and well. In most respects that is. He looked up, as his brother Clarence entered the room. "Ah, Clarence! Come to the sick room to visit the invalid have you?" He asked cheerfully, eagerly giving up his seat for his brother.

Lord Emsworth continued to mutter at the carpet, only nodding at his brother in slight recognition. "Did you actually mention giving Freddie a small one?" He asked suspiciously. He glanced over at his son, and fondly ruffled his hair. This picture reminded him so well of the many times his wife had lain in bed, ill. She was never a strong woman, but she had escaped the pain of a few broken ribs. He had always thought that Freddie looked more like his Dame than his Sire. And now that he was a captive in bed, drowning in pillows, it proved to be more and more the case.

"I could stomach one." Freddie confessed, blushing. "Just a bit of stiffener. It would do some good I think, and…"

His father held up a hand. "Well then my boy, name your poison? Port perhaps?" He asked, giving his son a paternal glance. He turned to give Galahad a stern look. He couldn't believe his own brother's carelessness with human life. Especially his own nephew's. He took his son's order, but didn't care to ask Galahad for his. He was starting to disapprove more and more of the man.

Then Doctor Gerald Bingley entered the room, black bag under his arm, puffing. The Christmas season was usually a busy season for doctors, but he hadn't expected to be brought to patch up some broken ribs. Still, he wasn't surprised. Mr. Threepwood was known for his injudicious actions. But to his surprise, he was able to attend to his patient, without much of the troublesomeness that he often came in contact with. He was even invited to drink a glass of port once he was finished.

But he was disapproving of the young man's choice of dress. A vest, sleeve garters and a soft bosomed shirt didn't seem to him to be the best of choices, especially when you are expecting a doctor to call, and set everything right. Something softer, and easier to remove, would have been a better choice. But, fashion brings pain, as he had always heard his sister Rosemary reply to his wonderings as to whether she could stand some of her own clothing choices. Still, he had to be settle for Mr. Threepwood's explanations. It almost seemed as if he were being left to fend for himself completely.

Freddie stared up at the three men that leaned over him. He bit his bottom lip, as Dr. Bingley tightened the bandages and let out a small gasp. In all those years of living dangerously, especially with the fact that he encountered men who could very well implant a phonograph into him (and he knew they could do it, too) didn't seem to compare to this. But this was different. He had been being silly, and reckless for no reason that he could see, but to amuse himself. And why should he be worrying about that at every second of the day? He shook his head, but tried to remain cheerful as his father proposed a toast.

"To Frederick's quick healing, and to the Christmas season!" Lord Emsworth proposed, holding his glass up high, and gazing thirstily at the burgundy port. They answered is toast with calls of "Here, here!" and "Cheers!" He smiled at the men who sat, stood, or lounged around him. Even with this tragedy, there was no reason to be gloomy at Christmas. And now, he was even willing to forgive Galahad for his carelessness.

Galahad, however was thinking differently. He hated the fact that people were blaming him for Freddie's infirmity. But it couldn't be helped. He almost wanted to ask forgiveness, but at the same time, he was too proud to do so. If only he could make it up some other way. Perhaps, he could bring in Miss Pauline Petite, one of Freddie's sweet-hearts. He didn't know. But what he did know, was that his nephew needed cheering up, and if anyone was going to do it, it should be the accused.