blocked.
The window was broken, but another limb speared the ground inches beyond it. The pine was suspended overhead, its thick trunk held up by splayed branches.
“John!” he shouted, repeating the call several times. Was the coachman unconscious, or worse? A horse whinnied in fear, so something still lived.
He gave up, concentrating on his injuries. His left arm was broken a handspan above the wrist, but the skin was intact, so it could have been worse. Fighting pain, he wrenched loose a short branch and a piece of the roof, then used his cravat to bind the makeshift splint in place. The bone was not set, but at least jarring would not damage it further.
Jarring was inevitable. He couldn’t stay here.
Scrapes and cuts testified to the violence of flying splinters and glass. Bruises had already formed on hip, shoulder, and head. Wind blew into the carriage, lowering the temperature alarmingly. He shook away the creeping lethargy and concentrated on escaping his prison.
Using another stick, he broke out the remaining window glass. But he could not squeeze past the branch. He tried pulling down more of the roof, but once he worked a hand outside, he discovered a tangle of branches he had no hope of penetrating.
Cold water leaked onto his head.
Kicking at the coach wall did nothing beyond hurting his foot. The interior was too cramped to put any force behind the blows.
The window offered his only escape. Wrapping his coat around the largest glass shard, he attacked the wooden frame, shaving it away strip by strip. Sweat was trickling down his back by the time he reached the carriage wall.
Randolph needed help.
John Coachman needed help.
He needed help.
The reminders circled his brain, prodding him on, forcing action even as cold and shock urged him to rest. When his shard broke, he found another. When slivers sliced through the coat into his hand, he shifted his grip and doggedly continued.
But his progress grew slower. The heat of exertion no longer countered the chill from wind and rain. Determination could not hold pain at bay. By the time the third shard shattered, his voice was hoarse from shouting, his hand was bloody where glass had penetrated the mangled coat, and his body rebelled against cold, shock, and terror with shudders that destroyed his control. His fingers wouldn’t grip. Pain deadened all thought.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back as he tried to gather the strength to continue. Another six inches should allow him to slip past that branch. Only a little more…
Creeping lethargy blanketed his mind until everything went blank.
* * * *
“Yes, Wendell?” Lord Fosdale closed his account book when the butler appeared in the study doorway. Only an emergency would prompt Wendell to interrupt him this late at night.
“A tree is down across the drive, my lord. There is a carriage pinned beneath it.”
Symington!
Fosdale’s heart stalled. Whitfield’s heir should have arrived a fortnight ago, but he had yet to appear – hardly surprising, given the weather this last month. But what would possess the boy to drive through a gale?
“When did the tree fall?” A glance out the window confirmed that this latest storm was gone.
“It could have been as early as noon.”
As much as ten hours ago. He grimaced. And the temperature was falling rapidly. What was he to tell Whitfield if the boy was dead?
“Summon all the male servants,” he ordered, already striding toward the hall. “We will need axes and shovels. A wagon. Plenty of lanterns. And tell Mrs. Hughes to warm the best guest chamber.” He prayed they would need it.
The tree had gone down a mile from the house, just inside the gates. At first glance, the results appeared shockingly fatal. One horse was down, pierced through the heart. Another seemed crushed by a heavy branch, but its eyes blinked in the flickering light.
“Get him out
The window was broken, but another limb speared the ground inches beyond it. The pine was suspended overhead, its thick trunk held up by splayed branches.
“John!” he shouted, repeating the call several times. Was the coachman unconscious, or worse? A horse whinnied in fear, so something still lived.
He gave up, concentrating on his injuries. His left arm was broken a handspan above the wrist, but the skin was intact, so it could have been worse. Fighting pain, he wrenched loose a short branch and a piece of the roof, then used his cravat to bind the makeshift splint in place. The bone was not set, but at least jarring would not damage it further.
Jarring was inevitable. He couldn’t stay here.
Scrapes and cuts testified to the violence of flying splinters and glass. Bruises had already formed on hip, shoulder, and head. Wind blew into the carriage, lowering the temperature alarmingly. He shook away the creeping lethargy and concentrated on escaping his prison.
Using another stick, he broke out the remaining window glass. But he could not squeeze past the branch. He tried pulling down more of the roof, but once he worked a hand outside, he discovered a tangle of branches he had no hope of penetrating.
Cold water leaked onto his head.
Kicking at the coach wall did nothing beyond hurting his foot. The interior was too cramped to put any force behind the blows.
The window offered his only escape. Wrapping his coat around the largest glass shard, he attacked the wooden frame, shaving it away strip by strip. Sweat was trickling down his back by the time he reached the carriage wall.
Randolph needed help.
John Coachman needed help.
He needed help.
The reminders circled his brain, prodding him on, forcing action even as cold and shock urged him to rest. When his shard broke, he found another. When slivers sliced through the coat into his hand, he shifted his grip and doggedly continued.
But his progress grew slower. The heat of exertion no longer countered the chill from wind and rain. Determination could not hold pain at bay. By the time the third shard shattered, his voice was hoarse from shouting, his hand was bloody where glass had penetrated the mangled coat, and his body rebelled against cold, shock, and terror with shudders that destroyed his control. His fingers wouldn’t grip. Pain deadened all thought.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back as he tried to gather the strength to continue. Another six inches should allow him to slip past that branch. Only a little more…
Creeping lethargy blanketed his mind until everything went blank.
* * * *
“Yes, Wendell?” Lord Fosdale closed his account book when the butler appeared in the study doorway. Only an emergency would prompt Wendell to interrupt him this late at night.
“A tree is down across the drive, my lord. There is a carriage pinned beneath it.”
Symington!
Fosdale’s heart stalled. Whitfield’s heir should have arrived a fortnight ago, but he had yet to appear – hardly surprising, given the weather this last month. But what would possess the boy to drive through a gale?
“When did the tree fall?” A glance out the window confirmed that this latest storm was gone.
“It could have been as early as noon.”
As much as ten hours ago. He grimaced. And the temperature was falling rapidly. What was he to tell Whitfield if the boy was dead?
“Summon all the male servants,” he ordered, already striding toward the hall. “We will need axes and shovels. A wagon. Plenty of lanterns. And tell Mrs. Hughes to warm the best guest chamber.” He prayed they would need it.
The tree had gone down a mile from the house, just inside the gates. At first glance, the results appeared shockingly fatal. One horse was down, pierced through the heart. Another seemed crushed by a heavy branch, but its eyes blinked in the flickering light.
“Get him out
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