Without waiting for any agreement, she started down the line. Men and women looked at her curiously, but her innate air of command stood her in good stead. “You. And you.” She tugged the sleeves of two young men who looked strong enough and wore coats that suggested they were solicitors’ clerks. She was looking for men with gentle hands. “Report to the head conductor”—she pointed up the line—“over there.”
She progressed down the lines, dispatching more men to the task of removing those trapped, then with Parker, Dennis, and the other conductors assisting, she formed those left into teams to receive those brought out and carry them farther down the line to where two doctors, who had been traveling in second class, had set up by the side of the train to do the best they could for the injured.
The task proved a trial for everyone involved, especially when they moved into the first carriage.
Watching for signs of collapse in the young men she set to retrieving what were increasingly the dead, Therese switched them for others who had yet to confront the grisly duty.
Flanked by Dennis, who acted as her messenger, and assisted by Parker, who, even more than Therese, had some understanding of injuries, Therese checked each person extracted from the wreckage, telling those who would carry the usually unconscious person to the doctors as much as she could ascertain of their condition. Some, she knew, were more likely to survive than others. She didn’t feel qualified to pass judgment on the dead; she sent them to the doctors to deal with as well.
The minutes dragged by. Gradually, the ranks of those helping to carry the injured and the bodies back along the track dwindled; many had been searching for employers, friends, or family, and once they found them at the makeshift clinic, they didn’t return.
By the time they’d cleared all the bodies they could find from the first-class carriages, only three young men and the conductors remained.
Warily, they approached the locomotive.
They were ten yards away when the head conductor halted and turned to Therese. “Please, ma’am, wait here, if you would.” He glanced at Parker and Dennis. “You and your people. You’ve been of untold help—we would never have managed as well as we have without you. But that boiler’s still hot, and pipes can burst and steam escape at any time.” He gulped, then looked at the other men, who had halted a little farther on. The head conductor straightened. “We’ll go in and find them and bring them out.”
“How many men were in there?” Therese asked.
“Four, ma’am. Two drivers and two stokers.”
Therese nodded. “We’ll wait here.”
Clearly relieved—the thought of a countess coming to harm under his watch was too much for him to bear—the head conductor gathered his men, and the three passengers freely offered their help. In a small band, they warily clambered around the still-hissing engine.
Therese, Parker, and Dennis waited. In the end, of the four men who had been inside the engine car, only one of the stokers, who had been flung clear, had survived. Flanked by Parker and Dennis, Therese followed the somber line of men who carried the wounded and the dead to the doctors.
Once there, Therese stood back for a moment. Her gaze traveled over the many injured laid out along the lower edge of the sloping embankment. The dead had been taken farther down the tracks; she couldn’t see clearly that far away. Most of the lanterns had been brought closer to help cast light on the wounded.
Cold started to seep into her bones, and a sudden bout of weakness swept over her. But she was hale and whole and her people were safe, and there was surely more she could yet do. Stiffening her spine, with Parker and Dennis trailing after her, she walked up to one of the doctors, who was tending a young woman who was clutching what looked to be a broken arm. When the doctor glanced up, Therese asked, “What can we do to help?”
Chapter 14
Devlin drove as quickly as he dared up the Great North Road. The new lamps he’d had fitted to his curricle lived up to their claim of lighting his way well enough to allow him to keep his bays pacing at a halfway decent speed.
Nevertheless, he had to rein in his impatience and battle the urge to trust in the surface of the macadamed highway and whip up his horses. As he kept telling himself, it was simply too dark and therefore too dangerous to risk that.
They’d left the outskirts of London at least half an hour ago. Now that the night had closed in, there was very little other traffic, allowing him to keep the carriage bowling smoothly down the center of the road, while he constantly scanned ahead for any unexpected obstacle, like a farm wagon ambling along.
They were nearing the stretch where the railway line veered to within distant sight of the highway, off to the right, when ahead, across the dark fields to the right, he saw what appeared to be clouds of fog billowing slowly upward, oddly lit by lights from below.
Even as he stared, the lights bobbed and shifted.
Mitchell, behind him, was peering in the same direction, then he stiffened. “My lord, I think that’s the railway line.”
Devlin had come to the same conclusion. With his heart suddenly lodged in his throat, he set his jaw and urged the horses faster. “Look for a turnoff to the right.”
Mitchell knew the road even better than Devlin. “There should be a lane—Hawkshead Lane—coming up ahead. I think it crosses over the railway.”
A few minutes later, Mitchell squinted over Devlin’s shoulder. “There it is.”
A signpost pointed down a lane. Devlin slowed his horses and confirmed that the lane was, indeed, Hawkshead Lane. With his features grimly set, he negotiated the turn, then urged the bays to a rapid trot.
Half a mile along, they saw the first passengers, drooping by the side of the lane.
“They’ll have sent for help from Potters Bar,” Mitchell said. “There’ll be wagons coming, sure enough.”
Devlin’s mind had seized. He couldn’t think beyond finding his wife and children. Straining to see, he tried to make out features and figures amid the clumps of people dotted along the lane, many of whom glanced up at the sound of hooves, then on realizing it was only a curricle, returned to looking searchingly up the lane or talking among themselves.
“There they are!” Mitchell pointed over Devlin’s shoulder.
Looking in the direction Mitchell indicated, Devlin saw the group waiting patiently by the side of the lane. Spencer, Rupert—where was Horry? Then he saw the bundle Nanny was cradling against her bosom, and relief hit him.
Only to evaporate as he realized Therese wasn’t there. Nor was Parker or Dennis.
Devlin slowed his horses and halted the carriage opposite the group. He flung the reins at Mitchell and stepped down while the curricle was still rocking on its springs.
“Papa!” Spencer and Rupert rocketed to him.
Devlin crouched, spread his arms, and gathered them to him. He hugged them hard, then eased back and met eyes that, in the diffuse light from the carriage lamps, seemed tired but excited rather than frightened.
“The engine crashed!” Rupert told him.
Devlin swallowed and managed a nod. “So I supposed.” He looked at Spencer. “Where’s your mama?”
Spencer turned and pointed into the cutting. “She went to help with the wounded down there.”