on for all she was worth, her face buried in the flying mane and her skirts dragging as the icy stream tugged at them.
Vaguely she heard Paul shouting her name, and then, more distantly, a frightened scream from Betty, but she could do or say nothing. The horse was almost across, its muscles rippling with the effort. And then it was out, galloping along the road beneath the overhanging branches of silver birch, its fear and panic carrying it toward some woods which spread across the road ahead.
The still of the woods seemed to calm the terrified creature and at last it stopped. The rain still fell heavily and the trees dripped. Sarah took a long, long breath of relief, secretly pleased that she had not disgraced herself in front of Paul Ransome. The tired horse had stopped by a holly tree which was aflame with berries and Sarah looked at the tree wistfully, memories of her childhood stirring. There had been a holly tree at Longwicke, a tree just like this one, the same height and shape.... She glanced back along the road wondering where the others were. The wind swept through the woods and the moisture from the trees fell loudly to the ground beneath.
At last she heard someone coming and saw Paul riding the Turk for all he was worth. He reined in, the Turk’s black coat foaming and steaming, and she saw that he no longer wore his cloak. “Are you all right?” He was breathing heavily.
“Yes, thank you.”
He lowered his gaze uneasily and something told her that all was far from well. “Miss Stratford, I’m afraid that there’s been a dreadful accident.”
“Accident?” Her hand crept to her throat and she stared at him. What had happened?
He leaned forward to put his hand over hers. “It’s your maid. I’m afraid that the stream proved too much for Armand’s horse. It lost its footing and he was too late to steady it. They were swept downstream. I followed as best I could, keeping as near as possible, but when I found her she was dead. Drowned.... I couldn’t find any trace of Armand or the horse; they must have been swept a good way downstream.” He looked at her anxiously.
A whimper escaped her. Betty? No, it could not be true. He was lying! Frantically she kicked the heaving sides of the tired coach horse, driving it back along the track through the downpour. She heard him calling her but she closed her ears to him. She must go to Betty.
Hob’s Brook filled the air with its rushing and on the far bank stood the coach, a dismal sight in the murky light of the late afternoon. The lamps burned, two small flickering flames to brighten the gloom. The coachmen were sitting inside and hastened to get out when they heard the hoofbeats returning along the track. In despair Sarah stared downstream as the splashing brook forced its way through the bending reeds and fresh green mossy banks. She turned the horse’s head along the near bank, tears running down her cheeks as her gaze searched the far bank. She did not see the Turk come up swiftly behind her, did not see Paul rein in and follow her slowly.
Then she saw the sad little shape on the moss, carefully placed beneath a gorse bush, covered with Paul’s cloak. The coach horse stopped of its own accord, bending its head to snatch at the springy moorland grass with its yellow teeth. Sarah could only stare across the torrent at that bundle beneath the gorse bush. Oh, Betty, Betty, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. She closed her aching eyes. Her shoulders shook with cold and grief, and her teeth began to chatter.
Paul dismounted and lifted her from the coach horse. Her fingers dug into his sleeve. “It was all my fault, my fault. If I’d not insisted on crossing she would still be alive.”
He turned her away from the stream so that he stood between her and the maid’s body. “You mustn’t blame yourself. It was an accident.” He lifted her onto his horse and mounted behind her. The Turk moved lightly away and after a moment the coach horse
Vaguely she heard Paul shouting her name, and then, more distantly, a frightened scream from Betty, but she could do or say nothing. The horse was almost across, its muscles rippling with the effort. And then it was out, galloping along the road beneath the overhanging branches of silver birch, its fear and panic carrying it toward some woods which spread across the road ahead.
The still of the woods seemed to calm the terrified creature and at last it stopped. The rain still fell heavily and the trees dripped. Sarah took a long, long breath of relief, secretly pleased that she had not disgraced herself in front of Paul Ransome. The tired horse had stopped by a holly tree which was aflame with berries and Sarah looked at the tree wistfully, memories of her childhood stirring. There had been a holly tree at Longwicke, a tree just like this one, the same height and shape.... She glanced back along the road wondering where the others were. The wind swept through the woods and the moisture from the trees fell loudly to the ground beneath.
At last she heard someone coming and saw Paul riding the Turk for all he was worth. He reined in, the Turk’s black coat foaming and steaming, and she saw that he no longer wore his cloak. “Are you all right?” He was breathing heavily.
“Yes, thank you.”
He lowered his gaze uneasily and something told her that all was far from well. “Miss Stratford, I’m afraid that there’s been a dreadful accident.”
“Accident?” Her hand crept to her throat and she stared at him. What had happened?
He leaned forward to put his hand over hers. “It’s your maid. I’m afraid that the stream proved too much for Armand’s horse. It lost its footing and he was too late to steady it. They were swept downstream. I followed as best I could, keeping as near as possible, but when I found her she was dead. Drowned.... I couldn’t find any trace of Armand or the horse; they must have been swept a good way downstream.” He looked at her anxiously.
A whimper escaped her. Betty? No, it could not be true. He was lying! Frantically she kicked the heaving sides of the tired coach horse, driving it back along the track through the downpour. She heard him calling her but she closed her ears to him. She must go to Betty.
Hob’s Brook filled the air with its rushing and on the far bank stood the coach, a dismal sight in the murky light of the late afternoon. The lamps burned, two small flickering flames to brighten the gloom. The coachmen were sitting inside and hastened to get out when they heard the hoofbeats returning along the track. In despair Sarah stared downstream as the splashing brook forced its way through the bending reeds and fresh green mossy banks. She turned the horse’s head along the near bank, tears running down her cheeks as her gaze searched the far bank. She did not see the Turk come up swiftly behind her, did not see Paul rein in and follow her slowly.
Then she saw the sad little shape on the moss, carefully placed beneath a gorse bush, covered with Paul’s cloak. The coach horse stopped of its own accord, bending its head to snatch at the springy moorland grass with its yellow teeth. Sarah could only stare across the torrent at that bundle beneath the gorse bush. Oh, Betty, Betty, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. She closed her aching eyes. Her shoulders shook with cold and grief, and her teeth began to chatter.
Paul dismounted and lifted her from the coach horse. Her fingers dug into his sleeve. “It was all my fault, my fault. If I’d not insisted on crossing she would still be alive.”
He turned her away from the stream so that he stood between her and the maid’s body. “You mustn’t blame yourself. It was an accident.” He lifted her onto his horse and mounted behind her. The Turk moved lightly away and after a moment the coach horse
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