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Breathing deeply to clear his head, Danny bent over, bracing his hands on his aching knees.

“It’s the carriage, sir. Uncle John told ‘er it weren’t safe on them roads, but she kept orderin’ ‘im to go faster. We slid out on that turn by the river, the one by the big willows. Toppled right onto its side and slid down the bank, it did… I was sure it was goin’ to go right on down to the bottom of the river, but it caught a tree branch so’s it’s only half sunk. John Burns is dead, sir…”

The boy gulped air, desperately trying to block out the image of his uncle’s lifeless eyes.

“The parson, ‘e got out on ‘is own, but I can’t get the mistress out. I tried but she screamed bloody murder, she did. Ordered me to come back for ‘elp, I swear she did. I… I think she’s ‘urt real bad, Mr. Murray.” He held out his hands which were still marked with Lady Catherine’s blood. “I tried, but I didn’t know what else to do. She ordered me and I came for ‘elp just as fast as I could, I swear I did.” Danny’s knees began to give way as his own shock finally caught up to him.

Murray squeezed his shoulder, saying only, “You did well, lad,” before turning to bark out a series of orders.

In minutes, the pony cart and a wagon were being hitched and piled with ropes and blankets while a boy was sent running for the de Bourgh’s doctor in Hunsford.

Rather than rely on that gentleman’s capacity to be found, the stableman called for old Ruthie, a local midwife and healer whom those in the village and below stairs at Rosings trusted far more than Dr. Humphries.

Once the rescue party was assembled, Murray swung up to take the reins and was surprised when Danny scrambled up to sit beside him. “You’ll need me to show you where it is,” said the boy simply. Rather than argue, the stable master merely nodded and clucked to the team.

Even at a smart pace, it took ten minutes to reach the overturned carriage.

Upon hearing the wagon, Mr. Collins leapt up and began jabbering incomprehensibly, spooking the horses and nearly causing a second accident.

When he began demanding that they all kneel down and pray together, Murray decided that the man had lost whatever sense he had ever possessed.

While Ruthie guided the deranged parson to the wagon and wrapped him in a blanket, Murray turned to assess the overturned carriage. Nimble after a lifetime around horses, he clambered atop the vehicle and peered down into the interior. “My Lady?”

“Murray!?! What took you so long?!? Get me out of here immediately !” Although Lady Catherine’s words were precisely what one would expect from the woman, her voice was barely above a whisper and her face formed a pasty white oval against the darkness.

“Yes ma’am.” Murray turned back and called over to several of the men, “Bill, Ed—get the ropes and tie one to each axle, then out to the trunks of those big willows. Nice and tight, mind you—and check each other’s knots—it won’t ‘elp anyone if we get the mistress ‘alf out, only to ‘ave the whole bleeding outfit slide off into the drink, and us in it.”

After jumping down, Murray moved to stand by Ruthie where she was covering the dead driver with a blanket.

“She’s real pale-like but she’s awake… and she can still talk a bit.

” The pair exchanged a look, having spent any number of evenings at the local public house, chuckling over the mistress and her attitudes.

“She’s layin’ in the water and there’s a stump pokin’ up by ‘er side—I reckon that’s where she’s bleedin’ from.”

Ruthie nodded grimly; she had seen men crushed by overturned wagons enough times to know just how fragile the human body could be.

“Well, we need to get ‘er out, quick as you can, to get ‘er warm and see to the bleedin’, but be gentle as you can and don’t jostle ‘er more that you ‘ave to.

.. if ‘er ribs or insides got ‘urt, it’ll be made worse the more she moves.”

“Should we wait for the doc?”

Ruth’s expression tightened, having little respect for the small man who made his living prescribing tonics for the Rosings ladies, but she answered as neutrally as she could.

“Nay—if we don’t get ‘er out of that water, she’ll die quick for sure.

Can you and ‘enry get down in there? Maybe slip a blanket under ‘er like a sling, so someone on the top could pull ‘er out?”

“Not likely—‘enry’s too big—me and ‘im’d end up stepping on ‘er for certain.”

“Sir?”

Murray and Ruth turned to look at the slim, gangly youth standing on the bank, still in his new footman’s uniform though it was now covered with mud and blood. “Danny? You and I would fit, for sure, but are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Yes, sir,” Danny answered quietly, and went to climb up the carriage wheels for the second time that day.

“Well then. Let’s get to it, lads.” After checking that his men had done their best to secure the carriage, Murray followed Danny up and Ruthie silently handed him a horse blanket.

“Henry—when I give the word, you and Ed climb up ‘ere and we’ll ‘and ‘er up to you. Be careful, mind you—don’t go shaking the carriage or we’ll all end up drowned.” With a final nod at Ruthie, Murray shifted to dangle his legs into the carriage and then eased his way inside, Danny following close behind.

Working quickly and ignoring the mistresses’ mumbled orders, the two managed to ease the blanket around her. They lifted her as gently as possible and only paused a moment when she moaned in pain; it was a mercy to all when the lady finally fainted dead away.

Shaken but seeing no alternative, Murray nodded to the boy and then braced himself raise Lady Catherine up until those above could catch hold of the blanket.

Once Henry and Eddy had lowered her down to the men waiting below, Ruthie hustled them up the bank and soon Lady Catherine was laid out on the trunk of the pony cart.

“She’s still breathin’, but this cut in ‘er side is real bad.” The old midwife pressed a clean bandage to the wound and continued her examination. “Some broken ribs, too, I’d say.”

Looking up to see all the men gathered in a semicircle around her, Ruthie snapped, “’elp me put the blankets around ‘er—she’s cold as ice but I daren’t take ‘er wet clothes off ‘ere. Murray—get us back to the ‘ouse as quick as you can, but don’t you bounce ‘er around or you’ll ‘ear it from me!”

After a moment of startled befuddlement, the men broke apart to do her bidding. At the last moment, Mr. Collins launched himself into the cart, stepping on Ruthie’s ankles as he clambered across her .

Murray drove carefully and quickly back to Rosings and pulled the cart right up in front of the house where the normally stone-faced butler rushed out to the carriage. The mistress was still unconscious and the curate continued to flutter about making useless proclamations.

“Mr. Collins, please sir, you must get out. Sir, you must get out of the way.” Ruthie muttered a mild curse and then turned to Smith who had lasted more than a decade butling at Rosings Park by letting nothing upset his rocklike composure.

He nodded slightly and then gestured to the largest footman; that man merely reached over and, taking hold of Collins by the collar, half-dragged and half-lifted the ungainly cleric out into the sleet.

“Praise be to God,” muttered Ruthie. “Have you got a board to carry ‘er on?

We need to get ‘er up to ‘er bed as quick as we can, but we don’t want to jostle ‘er about any more than necessary.” Once the makeshift stretcher had been brought and the mistress eased onto it with a blanket wrapped to hold her on, Ruthie led the strange procession into the house, Mr. Collins still trailing in its wake.

Those left outside stood silently for a time until Murray finally shook himself. He turned and clapped Danny on the shoulder; “Well, we’ve done what we could. Come along to the tack room, Danny boy. You look like you could use a nip of whisky in your tea. Lord knows you’ve earned it today.”

Once Lady Catherine had been carried up to her apartment, Ruthie shooed the men out while the maids bustled around to build the fire up and gently ease the mistress out of her wet clothing. They had just gotten down to her chemise when a commotion was heard in the hall and the door thrown open.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?

Get your hands off her, you hedge-doctoring witch!

Out! Get out—this is Lady Catherine de Bourgh, not some peasant kicked in the head by a cow!

!!” Dr. Reginald Humphrey was a rotund little man with small eyes and soft hands.

He had been the de Bourgh’s personal physician for nearly two decades; a man with the minimum of education and no particular interest in furthering his knowledge, but a mean comprehension of how to maintain his comfortable position.

As long as he kept Lady Catherine’s trust, he had enjoyed years of pecuniary advantage for the small bother of watching over her sickly daughter.

Sighing, Ruthie shut her eyes for an instant but obediently made her way out of the room, saying a quick prayer for the mistress as she did. In the hallway, however, she found that Mr. Collins was not yet done causing difficulties.

The cleric had followed the group upstairs, although thankfully an alert footman had prevented him from actually entering Lady Catherine’s bedchamber.

Since then, several servants had attempted to convince the curate to go home, but he had stubbornly refused, declaring to all and sundry that his presence was necessary to her ladyship’s well-being, both physical and spiritual.

Someone had sent for Mrs. Collins, but even she was having difficulty convincing her husband to be sensible.

Rosings Park was a modern house, but Lady Catherine saw no reason to waste money heating rooms that were not used regularly by herself or her daughter.

The hallway where Mr. Collins had planted himself had a distinct chill and Ruthie could already see that the man’s color was poor and getting worse.

Sighing again, the old midwife did her best to look imposing.

“Mr. Collins; Lady Catherine is being seen to by ‘er physician and won’t require your presence for the rest of the day. You should return to your own ‘ome and see to your appearance. Really, sir, what are you thinking? You can’t possibly attend her Ladyship while soaked to the skin, covered in mud and reeking of the river!”

After a moment of stunned silence, Mr. Collins dissolved into a flurry of apologies and began urging his wife to hurry so that they might depart. Ruthie dared a sly wink at the parson’s wife but received only a strained smile of thanks in return.

The following week was not an easy one for Mrs. Collins.

Not only did she have an infant for which to care, but also an increasingly ill husband.

When that gentleman had returned home, he had been urged out of his wet clothes and it quickly became obvious that, in addition to a chill, he had suffered some blows around the abdomen when the carriage rolled.

Once the shock began to wear off, he could not take a breath without suffering a great deal of pain.

Charlotte immediately sent for the apothecary and, after a bit of poking and prodding, that gentleman diagnosed Mr. Collins with four broken ribs. He bound them and prescribed a powder for the pain, but went away with a worried look on his face.

The chill settled in the curate’s chest and for six days and nights, Mr. Collins coughed and wheezed.

Charlotte remained at his bedside while the fever made him delirious, bathing her husband’s face with cool water and soothing him as she would a child.

In this miserable, helpless state, he won more affection from his wife than he ever had while lucid.

On the afternoon of the seventh day, Charlotte finished feeding her son and returned to her husband’s bed to find him asleep. Though his breathing was still labored, he was not thrashing about as he had during the night and she was sorely tempted to venture out for a bit of air and news.

Quickly calling the maid, she instructed the girl to sit with the master.

“I’m just going to pop across the lane and pay a quick call at Rosings to ask after Lady Catherine.

Baby Collins should nap for at least another hour and I’ll be back by then.

If Mr. Collins wakes or worsens, send for me immediately. ”

Millie nodded agreeably, perfectly happy to be spared from the scullery to sit and watch over the sick man while doing some mending.

However brief, Charlotte enjoyed the short walk from the parsonage to the big house immensely, feeling as if it had been a year since she had last felt sunlight on her face.

When she arrived at Rosings, the butler showed her to the drawing room just as usual, except that neither Lady Catherine nor her daughter were present to acknowledge her.

“If you will wait here just a minute, ma’am,” intoned Mr. Smith as calmly as ever, but Charlotte thought that she caught a glimmer of anxiety in his eye.

After nearly ten minutes, the butler returned and asked the parson’s wife to come with him.

As she followed him through the house, Mrs. Collins noticed that the servants seemed even hushed than usual.

Even so, she was surprised to be shown into Mrs. Jenkinson’s private parlor, where she found Miss de Bourgh’s companion waiting quite alone.

The two women greeted each other rather warily, having never met outside the presence of at least one of the de Bourgh ladies.

Once a tea tray had been delivered and the servants shut out behind closed doors, Mrs. Jenkinson held her cup in both hands for a moment, as if drawing strength from its warmth.

When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet that it was almost a whisper.

“I’m so very glad that you’ve come, Mrs. Collins, for I find I’m quite out of my depth. ”