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fashion, inch by inch, pausing frequently to set him down and catch our breath. When we finally had him at the door to the carriage, I looked at the height of the step from the ground and nearly cried. My arms shook with fatigue, and we still had to find a way to lift him up.
    I put his shoulders back on the ground and looked grimly at Betsy. She slumped against the carriage.
    “We must do it, Betsy. I don’t know how, but we must.”
    She nodded, and we each took a boot, pushing his feet into the carriage. Then we climbed over him and into the carriage. We pulled and tugged on his legs until we had his hips through the door. I climbed back out and jumped down, sure that if he was still alive, he must be bleeding profusely with all of the pushing and dragging we were doing. I lifted his shoulders and shoved against him while Betsy pulled on his arms. We finally managed to fold him into the space. I shut the door quickly before he could unfold and drop back to the ground.
    “Keep pushing on his wound!” I called through the broken window.
    “How can I? He’s all folded over.”
    “Just try!” I climbed up on the driver’s box, teetering as I realized how high up I was, and grasped the reins. At least I knew how to drive a carriage, thanks to my father’s training. The horses moved restlessly under my unfamiliar touch. “I wish James was driving as much as you do,” I muttered, slapping the reins across their backs.
    We seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. I drove on and on, until my arms and shoulders burned with fatigue. It was not easy to keep four spooked horses under control.
    When I finally saw a light in the distance, it was the loveliest sight I had ever seen. As we drew nearer, I was even more relieved to find the unmistakable marks of an inn. “The Rose and Crown” hung on a rough-hewn wooden sign above the door. I pulled into the yard and climbed down from the carriage, my legs shaking beneath me.
    I hurried to the door, but in my urgency, I opened it with more force than was necessary. It banged loudly against the opposite wall. A tall gentleman standing by the bar looked my way, his attention captured, no doubt, by the noise of my entrance.
    I walked to him as quickly as my weak legs could carry me.
    “I need help in the yard. At once.” I sounded authoritative to the point of rudeness, but I was so anxious about James’s state that I did not care.
    The gentleman raised one eyebrow as his gaze swept over me, from my disheveled hair (where had I left my bonnet?) to my muddy boots. “I am afraid you have mistaken my identity.” His words were clipped, his tone cool. “I believe you will find the innkeeper in the kitchen.”
    I blushed at his disdainful look, and then my nerves, strung so taut with everything that had happened, suddenly snapped. How dare he speak to me like that? Anger flared hard in my chest and pride reared its head. In that moment I felt as strong and haughty as Grandmother.
    I lifted my chin and said, “Pardon me. I was under the impression that I was addressing a gentleman. I can see that I was, as you said, mistaken.”
    I registered briefly the look of shock on his face before turning toward the open doorway behind the bar. “Hello! Innkeeper!” A stout, balding man appeared, wiping his hands on his shirt. “I need help in the yard at once!”
    “Yes, of course,” he said, following me out the door.
    I opened the door to the carriage and there was no need to explain. It was a horrible scene: James bent over on the floor, Betsy looking up, her face chalky pale, the dark stain of blood on both of them. I was appalled, even prepared as I was for the sight.
    I was immediately thankful that this innkeeper was a man of action, as well as large in stature. He reached in, lifted James in his arms, and carried him into the inn. I nearly cried as I watched him do easily what had taken Betsy and me such a long, torturous effort to accomplish.
    Betsy stepped down from the