Mr. Greengage came in a few moments later with his own parcel and two large stone hot water bottles wrapped in burlap. He tucked one on either side of her, and sat next to the one in the middle of the seat. He drew his own traveling rug over them both.
"Pardon the liberty in sitting next to you, but we need to make the best of this bad circumstance. I've not seen snow like this since I was a child."
She thanked him graciously, and hugged the warmth of the bottle on her own side.
He was not menacing in any way, but for the first time she questioned the wisdom of having set off on this journey so hastily, without so much as a serving maid for company.
"How much farther until our next rest?"
"Another fifteen miles to go before our overnight stop, if I'm not mistaken."
Her ebony brows knit in consternation. It sounded awafully far all of a sudden. "Let's hope the storm eases soon."
The driver whipped up the horses and headed out onto the main road. Soon they were plunging along the icy thoroughfare as fast as he could drive the team. Some patches were muddy and boggy, others frozen solid and slick with ice.
Arabella clung to the leather strap next to her head and tried not to panic. The coachmen were experienced, and did this sort of thing all the time. All would be well, she was sure.
Arabella was warm enough, but even she, who counted herself a good traveler, was starting to feel queasy at all the erratic lurchings of the vehicle.
The wind began to howl, and the sky to turn almost as dark as night, though it was only about three in the afternoon.
"Well, it is the winter solstice," Mr. Greengage reminded her as they clung onto their straps to keep their seats, when she commented on the sudden darkness. "The shortest day of the year."
"Do you think we'll stop soon?" she called above the incessant rattle of the coach and howl of the wind.
"Not until about four o'clock. The next village is some distance away, seven miles at a guess."
"Perhaps the driver will decide to stop there for the night rather than try to press on."
He shrugged one shoulder. "It might be for the best. Then again, the storm could dissipate as suddenly as it began."
He peered out for a moment, then released the shade once more, plunging them into almost total darkness.
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.