He tucked the hot water bottle between them even closer to her side, and adjusted his slipping traveling rug. "I can't tell. Can't read the milestones, the snow is drifting so badly."
"Let's see if we can light the lamps inside, at least."
They endured the jolting for some time longer, Mr. Greengage fumbling with his tinderbox as the violent motion made him all thumbs, until Arabella heard a sharp peal of what sounded to be thunder.
But it was like none she had ever witnessed before, seeming to boom in the very carriage itself and echo all around it.
The horses began to neigh fiercely in their panic. The coach juddered almost to a halt for a brief minute, before suddenly speeding forward even faster than before.
"They've bolted!" Mr. Greengage gasped.
He moved to open the window on his side to see if he could help in some way, barely able to keep his feet as he was jounced along.
The carriage careened to the left and then right as the terrified horses galloped forward at a breakneck pace.
Arabella reached out an arm to halt Mr. Greengage's flight headfirst, but it was too late. The leather strap he was clinging to snapped, throwing him forward heavily.
He groaned, but before he could steady himself, he was flung backwards into his seat once more as the momentum of the carriage was again suspended.
The huge rut stopped them almost in their tracks, until the horses continued to pull against the barrier and the wheel at last gave way with a loud report like a gunshot. The coach was dragged forward on the left-hand axle until the tracers broke and both horses stampeded off.
Arabella could do little to protect herself other than roll into a tight ball out of the way of the hurtling missles coming straight for her as the coach flipped onto its side, footwarmers, stone bottles and the prone body of Mr. Greengage flying down upon her side of the coach with a crash.
"Oh, God, please help us, please," was her last conscious thought as the coach continued to slither along the icy road.
CHAPTER TWO
The road down from London had never been an easy one, but Dr. Blake Sanderson's servants had made him as comfortable as possible for his trip to Bath, with an ample supply of lap rugs, hot water bottles and footwarmers.
He had spent the night at a relatively pleasant inn, and was looking forward to staying with a former comrade from the Army that night. Only a few more miles to go, and all would be well, he thought, looking out at the sudden swirl of snow that danced outside his windows.
He rubbed the back of his aching neck, his fingers tangling in his lightly wavy ebony hair. He wondered again at his decision to leave Town to visit Michael Avenel for Christmas. There was so much to do in his practice already.
Even worse, now that his old college friend Peter Davison had placed upon Blake the onerous responsibility of being guardian to his young moppet of a sister, Arabella, his time would hardly be his own.
Blake sighed heavily and snuggled under one of the plaid rugs as a chill seemed to settle over him. He let the rocking motions of the coach soothe him, lull him into a reverie. He might be irritated with Peter's presumption, but it was hardly fair to blame him or the child for Peter being sent to India at such short notice.
Blake had barely had time to help Peter pack and kit him out with medicines and provisions for the six-month voyage before it had been time for Blake's carriage to take him to the London docks.
As for visiting Michael, it was the least Blake could do. His oldest friend was still despondent after being paralyzed during the final battle at Toulouse in April. In Michael's last letter it had sounded like he could do with some cheering up. There was no sense in them both being alone for the holidays. After all, it wasn't as if Blake had planned to spend them with anyone.
Peter had said he and the solicitors had taken care of all the arrangements, and that little Arabella wouldn't be coming to Blake's home in London until January.
Blake thought of traveling further past Michael's house, down into Somerset to see her, but had told himself not to be so officious. She had a nanny and house full of servants to look after her.
He would go see Michael, and perhaps some of their other so-called Rakehell friends, all relatively recently married. At least none of their set of friends here in England would be as alone for Christmas as Peter would be on board ship.
Blake hated to leave the clinic, but he had just taken on another of their radical group, Antony Herriot, to assist there. He was several years younger and only newly fully qualified, but he was intelligent, eager, and sensible. Sooner or later, Blake would have to learn to delegate and trust him.
Sarah Deveril, another staunch Radical, and the primary organizer for the charitable clinic, had also been successful in encouraging some of the more liberal Society matrons to give a hand over the Christmas season. They would be donating time, food, clothes, and medicines. The clinic really could do without Blake for a week.
At the thought of Sarah, he once again felt mild shock as well as delight. It had been wonderful if surprising news about her recent marriage to another of the Rakehells in August, with the baby due in February. Well, she was in love. She had fallen head over heels for a man who had not even known his own last name, whom she had termed her cousin Alexander for the sake of avoiding scandal, and lived with until she had found out some hints as to his true identity.
Blake had been stunned at their story, but pleased all the same. He'd known Alexander at Oxford. He had been a French émigré, a solid, principled man. He'd suffered a great deal as a result of his loss of memory and injuries, and had obviously been through hell during the war, in which he had acted as a translator and spy for the British forces.
Alexander, the rightful Earl of Ferncliffe, still wasn't one hundred percent well, with definite gaps in his memory. Blake wondered how Sarah was going to manage a new baby in addition to everything else. But the couple adored each other and were inseparable. Love would find a way. Their road had been fraught with pitfalls, but he envied them both their joy.
He sighed deeply. Another dashing Rakehell happily married. Another of his friends about to have a child. Blake stared through the window, his mood now as gloomy as the winter weather outside.
He felt as though he were in a sort of limbo. That he had been ever since his fiancée Rosalie had broken off their engagement and married Robert Stanton almost eight years ago.
Stanton was a decent man, and really had not known of Rosalie's previous commitment. Blake blamed her, heartless coquette that she was, with an eye only for what she could get from a man, not give.
At the time, Stanton had been in line for a peerage. Therefore Stanton had been a far better bet as a spouse than a mere medical man like Blake. But it had been heart-rending to see Rosalie's cold smile of triumph when she had walked out the door only a few days before they were supposed to have wed.
Blake had been so stunned and devastated that he had not known what to do with himself. The one time he had ever dared to trust love, and he had got it all so wrong.
His father's example should have taught him. Women were frail, fickle, not to be trusted….
But Rosalie had seemed so genuine. He ought to be glad he hadn't married her, and been forced to live through the hell Stanton had been subjected to ever since their wedding day. Blake had had a lucky escape from Rosalie in the long run…
Yet it still hurt, no matter what Blake had done to assuage the pain. He knew he was deemed good–looking by many women, but he'd always been devout, and above all careful. Respectful of women, and determined to avoid scandal.
Two years after Rosalie's betrayal, he had been almost desperate for passionate oblivion when he'd met drab widow Leonore Ross.
Eager to relieve himself of his virginity by that stage, he had accepted her worldly arrangement and hospitality, but little else. Blake had never suffered under any illusion that they cared about each other.
Leonore was plain, comfortable, witty, a great observer of p
eople. She had listened with seeming sympathy to the idealistic young doctor rant on about the plight of the poor.
Then there had been the war, and he had gone off to serve gladly, occasionally getting home for a few days' leave from his endless duties.
He smiled grimly. He could count on his finger the number of times he had succumbed to temptation, and still had a few to spare. Even when he had, they had spent far more time talking than….
But he had not seen Leonore in months now. He had been so busy.
No, that was not true either, he admitted, gazing out the window at the streaks of ragged lightning. He shivered at the violent boom of thunder overhead that followed the flash.
Blake shifted in his seat to try to anchor himself more firmly in the rocking coach. He felt a surge of impatience with himself for letting things drag on as they had. He knew he ought to go see Leonore once more to tell her it was truly over. That there was no point in her hoping he might one day return. That he refused to continue what he never should have started in the first place.
It had been unworthy of him, and she ought to have prized her own virtue more highly. He would give her some gifts and the deed to her house so she would never want for anything. Anything except a loving husband, that is, but that was impossible for him, and they both knew it.
Blake loathed rakes, hated himself for his needs. Sometimes he wondered if he ought not to just find himself a quiet young spinster from a respectable religious family, and give her a good home. Give himself an outlet for his longings for care and companionship. Even though he was incapable of loving again, surely that didn't have to condemn him to loneliness for the rest of his life?
The trouble was one of trust. He had never met a woman who had ever inspired him with absolute confidence in her veracity. And where women were dishonest, men were worse: dishonest, and seducers.
He sighed, and gathered up his writing implements once more to resume his work. His breath was like a ghost on the wind in the drafty carriage as the demonic winter storm raged outside.
There was no point in longing for wedded bliss given his sorry past. Love was a rare gift for the fortunate, or the foolish. He was neither. Still, how he wished…
He pulled himself up short at that thought. "Romantic nonsense," he grumbled aloud.
It had no doubt prompted by Peter's hare-brained notion to thrust his step-sister upon Blake. It had simply filled his head with vauge longings for a family, domesticity.
Peter was a good sort, but he must have been desperate to choose a confirmed bachelor like him to tend to the little girl he recalled as being a dark-haired, wide-eyed child as pretty as a porcelain doll.
Blake laughed bitterly as he flicked through the quick letter to the Times he was working on, all about the need for public sanitation, trying to lose himself in the work which always proved such a solace despite its grimness at times.
He was in the middle of crossing out a couple of words in his letter when he heard a shout from John the driver.
"Trouble up ahead, sir! Whoa! Whoa!"
He dropped his lap desk and quill on the seat and tugged the window sash. "What sort of trouble?" he called.
Then he saw it for himself. A large coach, the London mail one judging from its size, had tumbled right over on its side in the middle of the road.
CHAPTER THREE
"Oh, Lord," Blake groaned as he stared at the sight of the wrecked coach amid the swirling snow.
He dragged on his coat and scarf at once, and reached for his medical bag.
He leapt out of his carriage and ran over to the coach. He managed to climb up on top and peer in.
There were only two passengers, a man and a woman. He had no idea how badly injured they were. He called to them, but received no reply.
He climbed down again and rushed back to his carriage for supplies. "John, you're going to have to leave me here. Ride like the clappers to the next village to get some help," he called up to him as he fastened up his coat and swathed himself in his scarf against the snow.
Then he began searching the vehicle to see what would be of use in this crisis.
"Aye, sir." John, a tall rangy brown-haired man with a gap-toothed smile, got down off the box and wrapped himself up anew. He unharnessed one of the horses and tied it to a nearby hedgerow, covering it with some burlap sacking against the raging snow storm.
He disengaged the other, climbed up on its back, and rode off as fast as he dared considering the slippery conditions underfoot, leaving Blake with the carriage full of luggage, traveling rugs, footwarmers and hot water bottles.
Blake grabbed a couple of the rugs and bottles, and his bag of instruments. He ran to see what he could do for the unfortunates still inside. He hoisted the items on top and hauled himself aboard as well.
He peeped in once more at the husband and wife, as he assumed them to be. The man looked about his own age. The woman was jet-haired and pale-skinned so far as he could tell from a glimpse of her brow, but her face was obscured by her shawl, which had flopped upwards as the coach had landed upon its side.
As he sat atop the vehicle and began to lower his supplies down carefully, the woman gave a little groan and tried to move out from under the huge weight squeezing the breath from her lungs.
"Can you hear me, Madam?" he asked.
"Yes, I can."
"Is your companion breathing?"
She moved one hand. "Yes."
"Can you get free?"
"I can try." She wiggled and groaned.
"Where does it hurt?" he asked promptly.
"My side."
"Does it give you pain when you breathe?"
"Only if I take a deep breath," she said weakly.
"I know it must hurt, Madam, but I think your ribs are only bruised. Maybe cracked. I hope not broken."
She continued to try to wriggle out, but her efforts were futile.
Blake finished lowering down the rugs, bottles and his medical bag. "When I come inside, I'll free you as soon as I can. I need to check how badly off he is first."
Her voice was a thready whisper. "I know. We shouldn't really move him. But at this point I have to say that it's freezing, so we can't stay here."
Blake nodded. "That's right. If your injuries don't get the better of you, the cold will."
"Have you found the others?" she asked in a worried tone.
"Not yet. I just arrived. Dr. Sanderson is the name. I stopped to see how badly off the two of you were first. How many more were with you?"
"Just the driver and postillion. They'll be lying up the road somewhere out in the snow."
"I can't leave you to be crushed. Just try to stay calm while I get more supplies and check him. I'll be back in a moment, I promise."
"All right," she wheezed, attempting to breathe a bit more deeply.
Blake retrieved the rest of the rugs and water bottles from his vehicle. He looked at the footwarmers, but they were much too heavy and precarious to manage. He would treat the injured in the coach, leave them in relative warmth, and then head into the storm to find the others.
Time was pressing. It seemed only a few minutes since he had come across the wreck, yet every moment counted in a swirling storm such as this.
He lowered all the items into the overturned coach, and at last eased himself down carefully. "We're going to check him first, then get you out of there. What's your name?"
"Belle," Arabella replied, using her former nanny's nickname for her, which she favored herself rather than her given name.
"All right, Belle. Can you tell me what happened to him just before he got injured?" he asked in a soothing tone.
"The horses bolted and he was thrown forward. I hung on, but the strap he was clinging to snapped. We hit a huge rut and he flew backwards. Then we flipped over. Everything went flying, and the horses kept dragging us until the harness gave way. I think I lost consciousness for a moment. I'm not sure how long we've been here."
Blake worked with hi
s usual quick clinical detachment, running his hands down his patient from head to toe. "He's alive. Badly bruised head. Shoulder dislocated, broken arm, broken leg. I have no idea about the head injury at this point, but I need to move you. I'm going to lift him. You try to wriggle out from under on the count of three. All set? One, two, three."
He raised the injured man around the waist, heaving him about a foot off the ground.
At last Arabella could breathe easily as she felt the huge burden lifted from her. She got to her feet, standing in what had once been the window of the coach, but was now only a patch of partly melted and glass-encrusted snow.
She stood in the corner with the huge doctor towering over her until Blake said, "Take one of the traveling rugs, fold it into four lengthwise, and lay it flat along the side of the carriage there."
The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2 Page 63
