“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.”
“She wasn’t hurt?”
Both boys shook their heads, and Devlin finally drew a decent breath.
“None of us were hurt,” Spencer informed him rather proudly. “Mama asked us to be brave and stay here with Nanny and the others, and we did.”
Devlin released them, rose, and ruffled both boys’ hair. “Good men. Now”—he ushered them back to where Nanny, the nursemaids, and Morton waited—“I need you to continue to be brave and wait here, with Horry and the staff, while Mitchell goes and fetches some carriages and I go and find your mama.”
Plainly reassured by his presence and his plan, the boys willingly settled to wait with Nanny.
In a low voice, Morton confirmed what Spencer had told Devlin. “The first and second carriages are a mess, my lord. Luckily, our party was in a compartment in the middle of the third carriage so escaped serious harm. Her ladyship sent us to wait here and turned back to help.” Proud approval tinged his tone. “She was unhurt but shaken, like the rest of us. She took Parker and Dennis with her, my lord.”
Devlin nodded. He wasn’t surprised that Therese had chosen to assist the rescue effort; it was the sort of response the public expected of the aristocracy and, indeed, that they expected of themselves. In times of crisis, leading others was second nature to Therese, as it was for him. She’d seen to the safety of their children and their people, then turned to help others as she could. Much as a part of him didn’t like it, he couldn’t fault her for that.
He swung to Mitchell, who was waiting by the horses’ heads. “Drive back to Potters Bar and make sure the alarm has been raised. Tell them there are”—he glanced around—“about a hundred stranded passengers as well as an unknown number of injured and dead. They need to send wagons as soon as possible—the night’s already chilly, and the temperature’s dropping. Use my title freely. Then hire the largest carriage you can find, with an experienced driver and a good team, and lead the coach back here.”
“Yes, my lord.” Mitchell saluted, climbed into the curricle, swiftly turned it, and drove back the way they’d come.
Devlin spoke briefly with his sons, dropped a kiss on his sleeping daughter’s curls, then leaving them in the safe care of Nanny and Morton, strode quickly along the path that followed the top of the embankment.
Below, he could just make out the dark bulk of the derailed locomotive. It had come off the rails a little before the bridge. The sight of the wrecked carriages, sides buckled and frames twisted, made his stomach clench; his family had survived more or less unscathed, but how many others hadn’t?
Only a few dimmed lanterns had been left to light the damaged portion of the train. In the ghostly light, Devlin saw that the front of the third passenger carriage was somewhat crushed, but the carriages in front had borne the brunt of the impact. From the fourth carriage on, the train appeared largely undamaged.Thank God.
Farther along, toward the rear of the train, unshuttered lanterns blazed, illuminating a scene that had more in common with war than with people journeying in their own country in peacetime.
Devlin went quickly down the embankment and strode into the circle of light. A conductor was struggling to ease a man with a badly broken leg, roughly splinted and bound, down to the ground to sit. Devlin couldn’t walk by; he detoured and, being much stronger than the slight conductor, assisted the wounded man to the ground.
His face pinched with pain, the man lay back with a shaky sigh. “Thank ye, sir.”
Devlin patted the man’s shoulder, straightened, and turned to the conductor, who was regarding him in puzzled fashion. “I’m Alverton. I’ve sent to Potters Bar and asked for wagons to be dispatched as quickly as possible.”
The conductor’s relief was palpable.
Devlin briskly continued, “I’m looking for Lady Alverton. Have you seen her?”
The conductor blinked. “The lady who’s been helping us?”
