Cosette looked at the other three occupants.
“That dinna sound good,” said a short, somewhat rotund, Scottish gentleman with red hair and a beard. He glanced out the window, but Cosette knew there was likely little to be seen in the dark.
“Damned English roads,” the other man muttered, his brogue not quite as defined. He had dark hair and rather striking blue eyes. Cosette thought he was probably Irish.
The gap-toothed woman tried to ease over the situation. “I’m sure it’s only a slight delay.”
About that time the coachman wrenched open the door. “Ev’rybody out. We snapped a wheel. I need all able bodies t’ help lift th’ coach so we can get it sent t’ th’ local village fer repairs.”
The two men instantly looked at the other woman in the coach, where she only shrugged. “I didn’t say I was always right.”
They grumbled something else rather derogatory toward the English, before they stepped to the ground. The woman and Cosette followed suit. As they exited the coach, it was to hear the sound of thunder in the distance, and to see a flash of lightning in the night sky.
“Isn’t that great?” the Irishman noted. “Not only are we going to be traveling all night, but now we’re going to be drowned rats.”
“Aye,” the Scotsman agreed. “We’ll be lucky to make it to Stilton to the Bell or Angel Inn by daybreak.”
Cosette did her best to ignore their grumbling as she silently took her place on the left side of the coach. She didn’t care to be stranded either, spending the night out here with a trio of strangers, but she was going to make the best of it.
When they were all lined up in a row along the side, the coachman joined them, and then nodded toward his companion who was ready to remove the busted, left front wheel. “On th’ count ‘o three,” he said. “One . . . two . . . three!”
A chorus of groans came from the passengers as they lifted the coach high enough for the other man to work. Cosette prayed that it wouldn’t take long for the wheel to be removed, for already her muscles were beginning to ache under the strain. A clap of thunder rumbled nearby, followed by a brilliant flash of lightning. A gust of wind ripped through the valley, causing some of Cosette’s dark hair to escape from the simple bun at the back of her neck to whip across her face.
“It won’t be long now,” the Irishman noted dryly.
Cosette didn’t dare reply; afraid that she would lose the tenuous grip she had on the edge of the coach. With each second that ticked by, her strength was waning. When she heard the sound of an approaching carriage, the only thing she could think of was that salvation had arrived. Another set of hands would be just enough to ease the weight causing her fingers to go numb.
It wasn’t until the first drops of rain began to fall, and an alarming shriek of, “It’s a highwayman!” did full pandemonium begin to ensue.
