The Frost Fair (5 page)

One more look at her aunt's tense face decided her. “Don't look so frightened, Aunt Bel,” she said soothingly. “I've changed my mind about attempting to reach Harrogate tonight. I'll instruct Roodle to stop at the very next inn.”

While Meg did so, Isabel brightened. As soon as Meg leaned back against the seat, her aunt grasped her arm. “Oh, I
am
glad, dearest. My nerves wouldn't have withstood another hour of this ride. Do you think we shall come upon an inn quite soon?”

“At any moment, I'm certain. And I shall demand that they provide my adorable, loving, long-suffering aunt the very best room in the house.”

The prospect of enjoying the warmth of a fireplace, a bed and a comforter to cover her was enough to ease the worried lines from Isabel's forehead. She leaned back against the cushions and let herself relax. When the carriage drew to a sudden halt, she uttered a glad cry and leaned toward the window to see what sort of place the coachman had found. But she saw nothing but blackness. “Meg, where are we? Why—?”

Roodle's face appeared at Meg's window. He explained that a lowhanging branch had brushed against the lantern and that some of the load of snow it bore had fallen inside, dousing the flame. That problem, combined with the fact that the thick snow was obscuring the light from the two small brass lanterns on the corners of the carriage, had cut his visibility entirely. He would have to spend a few minutes in rectifying the situation.

Isabel's anxiety immediately returned. Meg took her hands and tried to reassure her. “It's only a momentary delay, love. We shall be setting off in another—”

A strange sound assaulted her ears, and it was a moment or two before she grasped that she was hearing hoofbeats of approaching horses, their clatter muffled by the snow. The sound was very close. She realized, with horror, that if Roodle had not yet managed to light the lantern, the oncoming vehicle would not see them until almost upon them. She had just time enough to gasp before she heard Roodle shout hoarsely, “‘Ey there! Look out!”

There followed an alarmed cry from a voice just ahead of them in the road. Then, in swift succession, came the neighing of rearing horses, the sound of her aunt's piercing scream and the terrifying crunch of the wheels of the oncoming vehicle brushing against theirs. The coach bodies scraped together with a blood-chilling cracking of wood. Meg felt her carriage wobble, sway crazily to the right, waver hideously on its right wheels and topple over. She felt herself being thrown from her seat to the top of the coach which was now at a ridiculous angle
below
her. She felt the weight of her aunt's body against hers as they both tumbled through the air. Her head struck something solid and then … an enveloping blackness.

Outside, Roodle stood for a moment immobilized. The second carriage had come upon them so quietly through the snow that he'd become aware of them only at the last moment. He'd seen the horses rear up in surprise, the carriage crunch against his own and topple over on its side, pushing his phaeton over and into the ditch. He'd seen the terrified horses of the other carriage break loose from their damaged harness and gallop off into the night. It was only then that he realized he'd been clinging to the reins of his own horses which were still rearing and neighing in fright.

He shook off his momentary paralysis and quickly calmed the beasts. They were as fine a pair of chestnuts as he'd ever seen, and they knew him well. His pats and murmurs were reassuring to them. When they quieted down, he was able to find the lantern and, with trembling fingers, managed to light it. As soon as the light flooded the scene, he heard a lady scream, “Hackett, is that you? Help me!”

There was an immediate stirring in a pile of snow at the side of the road, and a head emerged from the drift. Before Roodle could reach him, an elderly man scrambled to his feet and limped toward the wreckage. “Miss Trixie?” he croaked tremblingly, brushing the snow from a head of thin, white hair.

“Get me out!” the female voice shrieked. “Hackett, you cod's head, get me out of here!”

“I'll save ye, Miss Trixie, I'll save ye,” the old man uttered without conviction, hobbling about the wreck aimlessly, unable to reach up to the door of the tilted vehicle.

Roodle, suddenly aware that he'd not heard a sound from
his
ladies, held the lantern aloft. “Are ye hurt, Miss?” he asked.

The window in the door above him (now more like a skylight than a door) was lowered and a gloved hand waved. “I'm not much hurt,” a voice said from within, “but I want to get out!”

“I'll get ye out in a moment,” Roodle promised, but, worried about
his
passengers, he ran quickly round to the other side. There he found the phaeton almost completely upside-down in the ditch. His heart hammered in terror, for there was no sign of life within. “You, 'Ackett!” he shouted. “Come 'ere an' 'old this lantern fer me.”

The white-haired old man limped over and did as he was bid. Roodle, using the narrow overhang of the phaeton roof as a foothold, climbed up the side of the carriage and managed to reach the door handle. Awkwardly, with great effort, he pulled it open. “'Ere. Shine the light in 'ere,” he ordered the old man below. “Yer ladyship, are ye 'urt?”

There was a blessed stir of movement, and Mrs. Underwood's face appeared in a beam of light. “Is that you, Roodle? I'm afraid s-something dreadful's happened to my M-Meggie. I c-can't seem to rouse her.”

“Are
you
all right, ma'am?” Roodle asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then give me yer 'ands. We'll get ye down.”

“But, Meg …”

“Don't ye worry none. We'll get 'er out o' there an' bring 'er round.”

But it proved so difficult to lower the shaken Mrs. Underwood to the ground (for the weak old Hackett was not able to assist in any way but to hold the lantern) that Roodle didn't see how he could lift out a comatose female. He took the lantern from Hackett, climbed up into the carriage again and looked carefully at his unconscious mistress. She lay wedged in the corner between the carriage roof and the far side. He could see no blood or bruises. He took one of her hands and chaffed it timidly, but she didn't react. With a discouraged sigh, he picked up a fallen lap-robe, threw it over his shoulder and climbed out. He wrapped the shivering Mrs. Underwood in the robe, mounded some snow in a pile near the horses, where the wreckage offered some slight shelter from the wind, and made her sit down.

“Meggie—” the distraught woman asked pathetically.

“We'll 'ave 'er out in a shake,” he answered with more conviction than he felt.

“Hackett!” shouted the female from within the other carriage. “Where are you? Have you forgotten me?”

Roodle picked up the lantern again and walked round to the rear of the wreck. The timid Hackett followed him. “Please help Miss Trixie out,” the old man implored. “She'll have one of her tantrums if you don't.”

“I don't give a tinker's damn fer 'er tantrums,” Roodle muttered shortly. “My lady's layin' in there with maybe a broken neck and—Wait! What's that?”

“I don't hear any—”

“Sssh! It's a 'orse, it is, or my name ain't—”

Before he finished, the horse galloped into view. Roodle almost crowed with relief when he caught sight of the rider. The man was tall and sturdily built. Here, at last, was someone who could offer valuable help.

Hackett, however, was considerably disturbed by the sight of him. “S-Sir G-Geoffrey!” he stammered.

The rider, startled by the sight that greeted his eyes, pulled his horse to and leapt to the ground. “Hackett? What on earth—? Good Lord, what a crack-up!” He turned to Roodle. “Is anyone hurt?”

Before he could answer, there was a sharp cry from the impatient female within the second coach. “Geoffrey! Is that you?
Please
help me out of here!” Her voice had changed from impatient command to a nasal whine.

Sir Geoffrey's brows lifted in surprise. “What's Trixie doing out at this—?” He suddenly tensed. “Is she hurt?” he asked Hackett.

“No, sir,” the old man assured him. “She says she's quite all right.”

“Is there anyone else in the carriage?”

“Oh, no, sir,” the old coachman said hastily.

Sir Geoffrey expelled a relieved breath, but almost immediately his expression became a sneer. “You took her to the Lazenbys, I suppose.”

“Y-Yes, sir,” Hackett said, lowering his eyes guiltily.

“Against my express orders?”

“W-Well, y' see, sir—”

At that moment, a dazed Mrs. Underwood appeared in the circle of light, the lap-robe trailing pitifully behind her. “Where
is
she?” she whispered tearfully. “Where's my Meg? Please tell me she's not …
dead
!”

Sir Geoffrey stared at her, and then turned a pair of alarmed, questioning eyes to Roodle. “Is there someone
else
—
?
”

“Yes, sir,” Roodle said urgently. “I been tryin' t' tell ye. She's layin' in t'other carriage, out cold.”

“Then, quick, man, lead the way.”

“Geoffrey!” the impatient female shrieked from within the wreck. “You're not going to
leave
me here! I'm freezing!”

“Serves you right!” Sir Geoffrey barked and followed Roodle without a backward look.

The first sensation Meg became aware of was of cold. There was a cold wetness on her eyes and cheeks, and cold air seemed to be blowing all around her. Then she was aware of water dripping on her hand. Like tears. Then sounds began to filter into her consciousness—the wind, voices, the neighing of horses …

Then she remembered. The accident! She'd hit her head. She could still feel the throbbing pain of the blow. She realized she was lying outside, on the snow … and, slowly, through the pain, the sound came to her of someone crying. It was her aunt, murmuring in her ear and weeping on her hand. “Aunt Bel …?” she murmured.

She heard her aunt gasp joyfully. “She spoke! Oh, Meggie, my dearest,
do
open your eyes.”

With an effort, she forced her lids open, expecting to see Isabel's tearful face gazing down at her. Instead, she found herself blinking up at the saturnine visage of the man from the Horse With Three Tails Inn!

Quickly she shut her eyes again. It was probably some sort of hallucination, a trick of her injury. Surely it had been Isabel's voice she'd heard a moment ago. Very carefully, she opened her eyes again. The hallucination was still there. “You!” she said with loathing.

The man gave her a mocking smile, and then turned to look at someone on Meg's right. “I think your niece has recovered her wits,” he said drily.

She turned her head. “Aunt Bel! Are you all right?”

Isabel beamed joyfully and leaned down to hug her. “I'm fine, dearest, now that I know you're alive. You've given us the most dreadful fright.”

“Do you think you could try standing, ma'am?” the repulsive gentleman suggested. “I think it's time that we seek shelter from this storm.”

Meg assured them that, except for a small lump at the back of her head, she was really quite well, and they helped her to her feet. As soon as she stood erect, however, she knew that all was
not
well with her—a wrenching pain in her ankle warned her that she'd either sprained or broken it—but she didn't wish to alarm her aunt and so said nothing.

She was startled at the number of people who stood watching her. In addition to her aunt and the ungallant gentleman, there was Roodle, beaming at her in relief, and a stranger with white hair who wore the livery of a coachman. “Ain't we goin' to help Miss Trixie
now
, Sir Geoffrey?” the stranger pleaded.

The ungallant gentleman scowled, turned on his heel and walked round the wreckage. The others followed, Meg gritting her teeth to keep from limping and revealing to the entire company that she was the only one who'd been hurt.

Sir Geoffrey gave Roodle a leg up, and the groom scrambled over the upturned side of the coach and disappeared into the open window of the door. In a moment the head of a pretty young lady appeared, her bonnet askew, her hair in disarray, and her face streaked with tears. Roodle, lifting her from below, assisted her to climb out on the coach. From there she was able to jump down into Sir Geoffrey's waiting arms.

No sooner did the young lady's feet touch the ground than she fell on Sir Geoffrey's neck, weeping. “Oh, Geoffrey,” she sobbed, “it's been so d-dreadful! Thank goodness you came along to rescue m-me.”

Meg watched while the gentleman, frowning irritably, removed the young woman's arms from round his neck. “Are you sure you're not hurt?” he asked coldly.

“Yes.” She hung her head pitifully, her shoulders shaking with sobs. “I was only … th-thrown about a bit.”

“Then stop crying and gather your wits about you. We'll have to help these people make their way to Knight's Haven with us.”

Meg would have liked to slap him. The coldness of his treatment of the poor young woman who was obviously his wife was just another indication that the fellow was a heartless, inhuman beast. And now she would have to take shelter in their home! The prospect filled her with distaste, but there was nothing she could do but accept the man's hospitality. Her head throbbed, her ankle was excruciatingly painful, the carriage was obviously useless, and she was in no condition even to think of making alternate plans.

Sir Geoffrey, after a brief discussion with Roodle, organized the group into action. He explained that his estate, Knight's Haven, was fortunately situated only a short distance from where they now stood. There were three horses available to them: the two chestnut mares still harnessed to Lady Margaret's equipage, and his own stallion. The ladies would ride them, with each of the men leading the horses on foot. Whatever baggage the ladies Underwood carried in their coach would undoubtedly be safe where it was. One of the servants would come for it first thing in the morning.