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A fresh voice sounded from the lane. It was the farmer who had passed them, his wagon returning at a pace his horse plainly resented.

"Halloo! Is anyone alive in there?"

"Three of us," Elizabeth called. "One lady has injured her ankle. Please send someone for a surgeon."

"My boy's off already!" the farmer answered. "Keep still, miss. We'll get you out."

Elizabeth could have laughed at the command. Keeping still was the one thing she most wished to do, yet her companions needed her to remain sensible. She tucked the shawl more firmly around Betsey's shoulders and began giving the farmer an account of the carriage's position. Her voice grew steadier as the first shock passed.

The man and his helper took some time to open a space large enough for the women to escape. The groom had been thrown from his perch and lay stunned beside a hedge, a broken arm held awkwardly against his chest. The horses had suffered cuts, and one was lame. No one could find Pike.

Elizabeth emerged last. The farmer offered an arm and led her to the grass, where Mrs. Ashby sat propped against a cloak. The sight of the overturned carriage made Elizabeth's knees weaken. She had known they had suffered an accident; she had not understood how near the heavy vehicle lay to the deeper ditch beyond.

The farmer followed her gaze. "Another yard and it would have gone straight down."

Elizabeth pressed her handkerchief to her brow. She remembered Pike glancing back over his shoulder immediately before the carriage struck the rut. She had seen the movement through the little front window. At the time she had supposed he meant to warn them. Now it occurred to her that he had been watching for something else.

"Did you see the driver leave?" she asked.

"He ran down toward the trees," the farmer answered. "I called after him. Thought he was going for help, but he never came back."

"He knew this road," she said quietly.

"Every man here knows it's treacherous after rain. No decent driver would hurry a team along that bend."

Elizabeth looked toward the broken wheel. "We had asked him to turn back. He said the main road was blocked."

"Blocked? Not when I passed it this morning."

Mrs. Ashby reached for her hand. "Elizabeth, do not begin imagining wickedness before we have a surgeon. You are hurt."

"I know," Elizabeth said. "But I want to remember what he told us."

The surgeon arrived from the nearest village with an assistant. He examined the passengers in a farmhouse parlor where they had been carried, pronounced Mrs. Ashby's ankle severely sprained and possibly fractured, cleaned Elizabeth's cut, and bound her shoulder. She had escaped with bruising, a cut that would require careful dressing, and pain whenever she raised her left arm. The maid was shaken and scratched but otherwise unharmed; the groom needed a splint and prolonged rest.

When the surgeon said Elizabeth would likely recover without lasting harm, she felt so grateful that she nearly cried. Then she looked at the farmhouse clock and remembered the household waiting at Ashcombe Park.

"We must send to Lady Caroline," she said. "And to Lord Matlock in London."

The farmer’s wife assured her that a farmhand had ridden to Ashcombe Park and another messenger was taking a fresh horse toward London, some miles beyond. Lady Caroline sent her housekeeper from the park in a pony-trap with blankets, linen, and two servants as soon as she received the news; they reached the farmhouse before the evening shadows lengthened. Elizabeth asked for paper and wrote a note with her right hand, though her shoulder protested. She told her aunt she was safe, that Mrs. Ashby was receiving care, and that no one should be alarmed by the appearance of a stranger bearing news of an accident before her own letter could arrive.

She did not write about the driver. Not yet. She needed to know precisely what had happened before allowing the thought to take shape in anyone else's mind.

At Matlock House, the first message reached Saye in the early evening, after the rider from Ashcombe Park had taken the London road at a hard but sensible pace, changing horses once. Saye was dining with his father and Richard. Lady Matlock was attending a charitable committee and had not yet returned. Saye read the few hurried lines from Ashcombe Park's steward, stood, and asked the servant to have a carriage made ready.

"What is it?" Richard demanded.

"Elizabeth's carriage has overturned. The women are alive. She is injured but not dangerously, so far as we are told."

Richard went pale beneath his tan. "Where?"

"Near the Surrey road. They are being cared for at a farmhouse. I shall go at once."

The Earl reached for the message. His hands, ordinarily steady, faltered as he unfolded it. For an instant he saw another carriage overturned in Hertfordshire, another young person who had refused to abandon an injured stranger. The thought that Elizabeth might now have needed the help she once gave him left him unable to speak.

"Father," Saye said gently, "we shall bring her home."

"And the driver?" Richard asked. "Does the note say what caused it?"