Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [39]
“I did not know you were such a cynic, Becket.”
“Merely an observer of the world.”
There was a sudden huge bang and the carriage in which they were sitting tumbled over on one side.
The shattered gas lamps plunged the carriage into darkness, but there was still the ominous hiss of gas.
“Climb on my back, Becket, and open the door up there,” shouted Harry. “One spark and this place will be in flames. Where are you, man?”
“Here, sir.”
“Right! Up on my back, fast!”
Becket struggled until he got a firm hold on Harry’s coat and hauled himself up.
He struggled and managed to jerk the window down by its leather strap, and leaned out.
“Out you go!” shouted Harry.
“But, sir. How will you get out?”
“Get on with it, man.”
Becket crawled down the side of the train. The air was full of wails, shrieks and cries.
Harry gave a great leap and grasped hold of the edge of the window. With a superhuman effort he pulled himself out and slithered down to join Becket just as a great fireball exploded near the engine. Flames began to engulf the train.
“To the end of the train,” panted Harry. “We may be able to pull some people out.”
They ran down the train away from the fire. They struggled up to doors and got them open, dragging men, women and children out, shouting to them to run clear of the train.
At last, the wooden carriages, combined with gaslight, went up one after the other in explosions of flame.
Harry and Becket struggled clear and watched in horror as the flaming train lying on its side began to slide down the embankment. With a great crashing roar, it tumbled down onto the houses beneath.
Harry sat down and buried his face in his hands. His leg, injured in the Boer War, was throbbing but he hardly felt the pain.
And then the rain began to pour down, streaking their sooty faces with white lines, running down like tears.
Still they sat there, master and servant, numb with shock.
At last Harry struggled to his feet and helped Becket up. The air was full of the sound of the bells of fire engines. And then there was silence.
They walked to where the head of the train had been. It had collided full on with the up train, and despite the rain, the up train was burning from end to end.
Rose, dressed as Columbine, descended the stairs. “How pretty you look!” exclaimed Lady Polly.
“Thank you. Where is Captain Cathcart?”
“Nowhere, as usual,” snapped her mother. “We will need to go without him.”
The earl and countess were attired in eighteenth-century dress.
Rose’s heart sank. She knew she looked well in her costume and had been looking forward to seeing Harry admire it.
She felt a ball of hurt somewhere in her stomach. He did not care for her, not even a little bit. He had snubbed her again. How the débutantes would titter and gossip behind their fans when she arrived alone.
As they were about to leave, Peter called. “I wanted to show you my costume,” he said, swinging a black coat from his shoulders. Despite her hurt, Rose began to laugh. He was dressed as harlequin.
“As my fiancé has not put in an appearance and we match, I would be honoured if you would escort me.”
“Delighted and honoured,” said Peter.
The earl and countess exchanged little smiles. Peter was eligible and very suitable. The captain was not. Surely Rose would break the engagement now.
SIX
For talk six times with the same single lady,
And you may get the wedding dresses ready.
—LORD BYRON
A stonemason who had been rescued from a third-class carriage along with his wife and two children had demanded at the time to know the name of his rescuer. Harry had simply smiled and run off to try to rescue someone else. But Becket had shouted back, “Captain Harry Cathcart.”
One of the stonemason’s sons had a broken arm. Reporters haunting the nearby hospitals began to hear of some hero who had gone from carriage to carriage rescuing people. They came upon the stonemason as he was leaving the hospital with his family, his son