Cordelia Whitlock shook her head as she turned down the bend in the path. What a rude man, that Robert Carrington! And all of that nonsense over a bench! And all she'd wanted was to practice her writing in peace, away from the prying (but well-meaning) eyes of her grandmother. In such a hurry Cordelia was to get home, she scampered down the stone stairs only staring down at them so she didn't trip, hardly paying attention to if there was anyone on the path- and it was due to this lack of awareness that she found herself walking directly into someone only a few moments later. The collision caused her to drop her notebook and the men Mr. Carrington had granted her a few minutes ago (which was alright considering the latter, as she had no intention of keeping an item given by such an inconsiderate fellow) and Cordelia silently cursed at herself. Now she would be considered the rude one, as well as being further delayed from getting back to Cedarworth Manor, the place she now called home. Carefully stooping to pick up the notebook as best she could (which had to be at a slower pace than any other folk due to her dead hand) with her left hand, Cordelia promptly apologized to the person (who she'd noticed as a man from a quick glance):

"Terribly sorry, sir, I did not mean to interrupt your stride."

Gareth was getting used to watching his back. Though most people loved his writing, some people took offense at him writing the truth. But he didn't expect someone to try and knock him down the 199 steps! He fell back and tumbled down a few steps before he was stopped by the railing. "Owwww," he said. He was sore, but more annoyed than injured. The young man looked up to see a young lady with a notebook. An unlikely assassin.

Cordelia winced as he looked up from where he'd crash-landed on the railing. "Really- I didn't mean to-" She sighed and clutched the notebook tighter, subtly kicking the pen (still on the ground) off the stairs and letting it tumble down the hill. Going more carefully down the stairs this time, she tucked her notebook under her right elbow and offered her left hand for him to take. If he looked closely, he could see that her right hand was likely her dominant hand, but it was flopped over, limp, appearing rather... useless. "Cordelia Whitlock," she said and helped him up if he accepted the offer, "I am sorry about knocking you over."

Having convinced himself that she was indeed not an assassin, Gareth got up without her help. Whitlock? Was the one of those young folk who had moved into Cedarworth Manor? Gareth kept a close eye on the wealthy. The poorer lot of Whitby loved to read about and romanticize about the life they could never have. What they loved even more was when those who lived the life they could never have, screwed up, like in the case of the Carringtons. "Gareth Scott, never mind that, miss Whitlock." He brushed the dirt off his coat. "You must have been in such a rush," he said, casually.

Cordelia nodded and bit her tongue to keep herself from apologizing yet again. "Yes, I was leaving behind a VERY RUDE MR. CARRINGTON!" This last part she turned and shouted up the steps, causing two ravens nearby to squawk and hop a few feet further from her. Shaking her head (Cordelia's temper was not one to easily fade), she gave a sharp sigh and explained to Mr. Scott, "I was practicing writing with my left hand when Mr. Carrington, at the moment a stranger, approached me and, when my hair ribbon flew away, he 'caught' it and then promptly let it go! When I had retrieved the ribbon from a pricker bush, I found he'd taken my seat on a bench. It was only when he learned of my last name and my relation to Eve Whitlock- she is my dear grandmother -that his rudeness turned into 'polite' behavior." Cordelia pursed her lips tightly together, still quite indignant from that unsavory encounter. "And so I am going home, where I might write in peace."

Gareth's brows furrowed when she shouted. That wasn't very lady like. Interesting. Maybe the rumours were true, that she and her brother had grown up in the gutter, and had now come into a life of wealth. Well, it probably wasn't quite the gutter, but most people loved a good rags to riches story.

"So sorry to hear about such an awful encounter, Miss Whitlock," he said compassionately. "Though one cannot be surprised that one would treat ye better if they heard of your... grandmother? She is well known after all."

Cordelia nodded. "It's been strange, really, being recognized so much," she admitted. "My parents weren't exactly poor, but they weren't nearly as wealthy as my grandmother, and our name really meant nothing to anyone of importance in London. Now that we're in Whitby, everything's changed- some for the better and some not." Cordelia sighed. She should probably be getting home, but these damn steps were just so steep, and so many, and since she was carrying her notebook in her only working hand, she wouldn't be able to grab the railguard if she fell. With a huff of annoyance that blew a strand of hair off her cheek, she realized her situation, having been too frustrated at Mr. Carrington to discern it before, and she tried to remember some of the high-society manners her grandmother was trying to teach her. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to help me out a moment?" No, that was certainly not the sort of thing Eve Whitlock would say. "I'm a little unsure about making down all these stairs with only one hand." Ah, even worse, now she'd just revealed something about herself that was sure to raise curiosity- yet another thing her grandmother wouldn't have even thought to mention. Stifling a sigh, she added, giving up on the whole courtesy thing, "Look- I'm not very good at this whole high-society manners thing, would you just give me a hand down the stairs?"

Wow, she was really handing it to him on a silver plate. Perfect. Perhaps he could get her to talk about the old lady an unveil something vile. But he would have to keep the conversation going, and he really had no reason to talk to a lady of her class.

Except, another silver plate was handed to him. He gave her a smile. "Why of course, Miss. Are you injured? Here, let me take that notebook and then you can hold on to my arm." He held out his elbow.

Cordelia finally smiled at Mr. Scott for the first time since she knocked into him and let him take the notebook as she, in turn, took his arm with her able hand. "Thank you," she said as they started down the steps, "your manners would be worthwhile for a certain someone whose last name begins with a 'c' and ends with an 'n' and rhymes with 'smarrington' to learn." She shook her head and determined to put Mr. Carrington's rudeness out of her mind henceforth after that one last jibe. "Not quite injured," she admitted, truly glad for his help and civility, "handicapped with, ironically considering the term, my right hand. It's been useless for..." She thought for a moment then determined the length of time as her smile faded, remembering that night, "a little over two months."

She really seemed to hate that Carrington. Great! Perhaps it would turn into a family feud between two of the wealthiest families in Whitby. His readers would love that. Perhaps he could find a way to drag the McPadraics in. But Gareth didn't say anything of course. He just smiled politely at the snide remark.

"Goodness," he said when she explained what was wrong with her hand. "What happened to it? If I am not to bold to ask, of course." He knew he had to be careful. Though Gareth was of modest origins, he had gone to a good school, and he knew all the fine manners of 'polite society'. Though writing for the newspaper was definitely not what his parents had intended for him with that, it had served him well in that job.