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Hannah’s head began to nod again.

The coach stopped at the Pigeons at Brentford, and the passengers alighted to take breakfast. A silly argument broke out between the coachman and the captain. The captain said Brentford was a fine town and the coachman said it was a filthy place. The captain said it was noted for the best post-horses. ‘Ho, is that so?’ sneered the coachman. ‘Well, let me tell you, sir, there war two posting-horses here what got so tired of the vile paving-stones what adorns this here town that they tried for to commit suicide by drowning themselves in the Grand Canal. And would ha’ done it, too, pore things, had not a clergyman come along and told them it was wicked and that the horses’ hell was paved wi’ broken glass.’ The captain, who should have known that very few could out-talk a coachman, fell into a brooding silence.

The snow was falling thicker now. The talk among the passengers, however, was not of the snow but of the perils of Hounslow Heath, which lay in front of them. The captain, full of Nantes brandy and bluster, said he would down any highwaymen who tried to stop them and cursed Hannah under his breath when she said sharply that he had not been too ready to down the last one. Hannah had taken a dislike to the captain.

At the town of Hounslow, they were advised by the landlord of the George not to go forward, as the Bath Flying Machine up to town had been snowed up beyond Colnbrook, and that he had beds aired and ready for them. The coachman, full of valour, called for more brandy and joined the captain in the bar.

Inspired by a large quantity of brandy, the coachman now thought himself to be Jehu, son of Nimshi, and the Fly left Hounslow behind it at a good round six miles an hour.

The first thing to be seen on the notorious Hounslow Heath was the Salisbury coach in a terrific snow-drift; or rather, the coachman’s hat, two horses’ heads, the roof of the coach, and two passengers standing on their luggage, bawling, ‘Help!’ The coachman of the Exeter Fly seemed to regard this disaster as a mere landmark and drove on.

The snow was falling thicker and faster. The horses went slower and slower. The coachman tried fanning them, towelling them and chopping them – which, translated, meant hitting them hard, harder, and hardest. The six horses slowed to a walk and could only be made to go ahead by oaths and curses. The coach took nearly three hours to cover the seven miles from Hounslow to the Bush at Staines. In the language of the day, the passengers all gave themselves up for gone. But as they drew up outside the Bush at Staines, the sun broke through the clouds and the snow ceased to fall.

The landlord counselled rest and dinner, and the passengers, who had never before in their lives come so near to the experience of travelling in a hollowed-out iceberg, were inclined to take his advice. But success, stimulant and a lull in the snowstorm had made the coachman daring. ‘I be an Englishman,’ he growled, ‘and I be inning at Bagshot this here night, and any yellow-bellies can stay behind.’ Hannah looked to the aristocrat for support, but he was standing over by the window, detached from the group.

The party left the inn for the courtyard and voted on whether to go or stay. They stood outside the coach, beating their arms and stamping their feet as they made their votes. Only Hannah slipped away to arrange rescue for the Salisbury coach, the landlord of the Bush saying he would set out with his men himself, delighted at the possibility of guests now that it seemed as if the Exeter Fly meant to go on.

Emboldened by yet more brandy, the captain took the opportunity to show off to his wife and the party by saying, b’Gad, he, too, was an Englishman and would face any peril that the journey could offer. The others were reluctant to be left behind, and so the passengers boarded the coach again, and, to faint hurrahs from the half-frozen post-boys, they set out on the road. At Egham, one mile and three furlongs on, it began to snow again.

The coachman pulled up at the Catherine Wheel for another glass of fortifier and then the coach set out once more.

Now the snow was falling as it should fall at Christmastime, when men are snug in parlours in front of blazing fires and not out braving the blasts in a Flying Machine. The coachman, foreseeing the worst, since at every moment the snowfall was becoming heavier, tried to churn his horses into a canter as the gloom of a winter’s afternoon settled on Bagshot Heath. The guard beside him fingered his carbine delicately and stared anxiously about for highwaymen, but the coachman said no highwayman would be stupid enough to be out of doors in such weather. The guard said that it was due to the coachman’s stupidity that they were all out of doors themselves, to which the coachman replied that the guard always had been a milksop, to which the guard, mad with passion, screamed at the coachman: ‘I ’ates you like pison!’ and fired his carbine in the air.

Captain Seaton, the effects of the brandy he had drunk beginning to fade, had been seeing a highwayman behind every bush.

At the sound of the shot from the roof, he wrenched open the door of the coach and jumped into a snow-drift. At the same time, the coachman drove into a rut a yard deep and the coach stuck fast.

The coachman doubled-thonged his wheelers, who dragged the coach out to the side of the road … and the whole coach slowly overturned into a gravel pit.

Chaos reigned inside the coach. Everyone was lying on top of everyone else in a jumble of arms and legs. The door above them opened, showing them the coachman’s ruddy face and the sky behind him. ‘Better come out o’ there,’ he said and disappeared.

He was replaced by the aristocrat, who lifted Hannah out, then Mrs Seaton, the youth, the lawyer, and then finally, with a great heaving, Mrs Bradley.

‘You are a Trojan, sir,’ said Hannah to their rescuer. ‘I am Miss Hannah Pym.’

He smiled and swept off his hat. ‘And I, Miss Pym, am Harley. Lord Ranger Harley.’

Behind Miss Pym, the youth gave a slight moan and fainted dead away.

‘Puny little fellow,’ said Lord Harley with contempt. ‘Move aside, Miss Pym, and I will rub some snow on his face.’

In a flash, Hannah remembered her dream about Mrs Clarence. Something made her say urgently, ‘No, leave him to me.’

Lord Harley strode off and cut the traces and led one of the wheelers free, mounted it and rode off in search of help. All the other horses were, amazingly, unharmed.

While Hannah knelt down beside the fallen youth, the other passengers and the coachman and guard stood around in half-frozen attitudes, including Captain Seaton, who was cursing and mumbling and swearing blind he had seen a highwayman.

Hannah loosened Edward’s clothing and discovered that her budding suspicions had been right. ‘Edward’ was in fact not a beautiful young man but a beautiful young woman. But something prompted Hannah to help this girl keep up her disguise. She held a bottle of smelling-salts under the girl’s nose and watched those violet eyes flutter open. Then the eyes became wider with fear. ‘Hush,’ said Hannah, ‘do not say anything. Help is on the way.’ She raised the girl to her feet and kept close beside her.

The coachman was now sitting on a mound of snow drinking brandy, occasionally putting his flask down and moving his arms as if driving phantom horses. The guard had replaced his carbine with a blunderbuss. A sudden movement in the snow made him shout, ‘Highwayman!’, and point his blunderbuss. And the curious shepherd who had approached from behind a bush to view the stranded party turned too late to flee and got his backside peppered with shot. Hannah was reluctant to leave the girl, but something had to be done for the poor man. Mrs Bradley, revived from her dismal frozen torpor by the sight of the accident, bustled after Hannah carrying her basket and rummaging in it for all sorts of medicines to relieve pain. The shepherd was given brandy by the guard and then the ladies placed the afflicted man next to the coachman.