Allday said, `Down here, sir!' He staggered up the slope, a man in his arms. One of the man's legs jerked at an unnatural angle, obviously broken.
'Easy, man!' Browne knelt beside him. `Stunned, poor devil.'
Allday said, 'Looks like he was trying to crawl away. To get help, most probably.'
They all stared at each other, and Bolitho snapped, 'Look in the coach. Here, pull me up!'
With some difficulty they dragged the door open and upwards like a gunport, the other being buried in the mud.
Bolitho said, `It's a woman. On her own.' He gripped the side of the door until the splintered wood pierced his skin.
It had not happened. He was still asleep and this was one more cruel twist to torture him.
He felt Allday beside him. 'You all right, sir?'
'Look inside.' He could barely control his voice.
Allday thrust his leg through the door and gingerly eased himself inside. Out of the bitter wind and wet the interior seemed almost warm.
He reached out and touched the body, then started with alarm as her head lolled slowly towards him.
'Oh, my God!'
Bolitho said, `Help me inside.'
He did not even feel his bandaged thigh jar against the door. All he could see and feel was the woman's body, her velvet cloak flung to her feet by the impact. The same long chestnut hair, almost the same face, feature by feature. She would even be about Cheney's age, he thought despairingly.
Hardly daring to breathe, he cradled her shoulders in his arm, and after another hesitation he thrust his hand under her breast. Nothing. He licked his lips, sensing Allday's strength, willing her to live.
There it was, a slight beat under his fingers.
Allday said hoarsely, 'Nothing broken, I'd say, sir. Nasty bruise on her temple.' With surprising gentleness he brushed some hair from her face. `I'd not believe it if you'd not been here, an' that's no lie.'
Bolitho held her carefully, feeling her low breathing, the warmth of her body growing against his own.
He heard Browne calling from the road. `What is happening, sir?'
Poor Browne, he could probably see nothing from his place beside the injured coachman.
And what was happening? Bolitho wondered helplessly. A girl who looked so like Cheney, but was not. A twist of fate which had brought them together on the empty road, but not for long.
Allday said, `We'd best get her to our carriage, sir.' He was watching Bolitho worriedly. 'Reckon she'd have died in this cold, but for us.'
Bolitho climbed out of the coach, his mind confused. Even the setting was as he had always imagined it. The coach smashed and overturned. Cheney carrying their unborn child, trapped inside. The coachman had been killed, but Ferguson, Bolitho's one-armed steward, had been with her. Ferguson had somehow carried her two miles to find help, but to no avail. Bolitho had gone over it so often. If these strangers,had been actors they could not have recreated it more truly, more savagely.
Browne said, `I've fashioned a splint for his leg. He's a bit stunned.' He looked vaguely through the sleet, his cocked hat shining like glass. 'Lord Swinburne has an estate near here.' He shouted at the coachman, 'Do you know it?'
The coachman nodded, probably unwilling to become further involved. `Yes, sir.'
It was then Browne sensed that something else was happening. He watched Allday carry the limp body to the carriage and turned to ask Bolitho about her. But he was already climbing into the carriage, his face a mask of concentration.
Allday came back again and looked at the injured coachm
Browne whispered fiercely, 'What is it, man?'
Allday regarded him more calmly than he felt. 'Mr Browne, sir, if you want to assist, I suggest you help search the other coach for baggage. There'll be thieves aplenty here soon. Like crows round a gibbet. Then, if you would, you can tie that stray horse on behind us. I'm not much of a hand with horses.'
As Browne obediently started for the coach Allday added, 'He will tell you if he wants to, sir. No disrespect to you, an' none taken, I hope.'
He said it so bluntly that Browne knew he meant that he could go to hell if he chose to.
Then something he had heard seemed to rouse his mind like a voice.
'She's like his dead wife, is that it?'
Allday sighed. 'That's the strength of it, sir. I knew her well. I couldn't believe my eyes just now.' He stared at the other carriage, its outline blurred in the steady sleet. 'As if he doesn't have enough on his mind.'
He said it with such bitterness that Browne decided to leave it there.
Later, as the carriage turned warily on to another road, the freed horse trotting obediently behind, Browne watched Bolitho as he and Allday protected the woman against any sudden lurch.
Pale from shock, and yet her skin held more than a hint of sunlight. She had obviously been abroad, and quite recently, he thought. Browne put her age at about thirty. She was lovely, there was no other description. A gentle mouth, which even the pain and shock could not spoil.
And her hair, he had never known such a fine rich colour.
One of her hands fell from beneath her cloak, and Browne saw Bolitho reach out to lift it back again. Watched him falter in a manner he had not seen before. Perhaps it was the ring on her finger. Someone else's, which was only to be expected, he thought. He saw the sadness in Bolitho's eyes and felt strangely moved. In fantasy such things should never happen. Browne often had dreams of his own. Of the perfect girl riding towards him. Taking so long that the pain was only endurable because of the perfect ending which would some day be his.
The ring had prevented even a dream for Bolitho.
Allday said, 'We're passing a lodge, sir.' He cocked his head to listen as the coachman shouted something to the gatekeeper.
To himself he added bitterly, 'I wish to God we'd done what Captain Herrick asked and stayed aboard for another night. Then he'd never have known about her.'
The coach came to a halt and female voices seemed to flood into it.
'Lawd bless us, sea officers, no less! Lend a hand there! You, tell Andy to saddle up and ride for the doctor!'
Browne said, 'Lucky I remembered this place, sir.'
But Bolitho did not hear him, he was already following the others towards the entrance of the big house.
Lord Swinburne seemed far too small a man to command so much authority and in such a magnificent house.
He stood with his buttocks dangerously dose to a roaring fire and looked from Bolitho to Browne with the searching intelligence of a winter robin.
`Damn me, what a story, sir. And it's good to have you with us, er, Bolitho. King's officers are rare out here. The army and the fleet have taken all the young men away. How my steward manages to run things I dare not ask!'
A servant girl entered the tall double doors and curtsied.
'Beg pardon, m'lord,-but the doctor has arrived.'
'Damn yer eyes, girl, show him to the room! Tell him I've something to warm his tripes when he's done!'
The girl curtsied again, giggled and fled.
Swinburne chuckled. 'You're off to London y'say, sir? Well, why not stay with us tonight? My head groom says this will blow over soon. You'll be a damn sight more comfortable here than in some flea-infested inn, I daresay!' He was enjoying his unexpected visitors.
Bolitho stretched his leg and felt the heat from the fire easing away the throbbing pain.
Swinburne said with sudden gravity, 'Good to know we have some young men to command our-fleets. God knows, we're going to need 'em. I hear that Nelson is back from the Mediterranean and already with the Channel Fleet. There are big events in the making, I'd say.'
Bolitho took a glass from another servant. The wine was dear and cool. Made on the estate from some ancient receipt, most likely. The way they did it in Cornwall, and all such counties which had to live off their own resources.
