She looked over her shoulder. It was suddenly, sickeningly obvious that he was right. Only the front part of the carriage was even visible, and that was pointing half at the sky.

“And so who is likely to win the race?” he asked her.

What on earth was she going to do? Her feet were wet, her cloak was matted with snow about the hem, she was being heavily snowed upon, she was cold, and she was miserable. She was also frightened.

And furious.

“And whose fault is all this?” she asked him. “If you had not been springing your horses, we would not now be in a snowbank.”

“Springing the horses.” He looked at her with incredulity mingled with contempt and called over his shoulder. “Peters! I have it on expert authority that you were springing the horses when we overtook this ancient relic. I have told and told you not to spring the horses during a snowstorm. You are dismissed.”

“Give me a moment to finish digging through this drift, guv, and I’ll walk off into the sunset,” the coachman called back. “If someone will just tell me which direction that is.”

“You had better not do it anyway,” the gentleman said. “I would have to drive the carriage myself. You are rehired.”

“I’ll think about it, guv,” the coachman called. “There! That about does it.”

Thomas meanwhile was busy releasing the horses from their useless burden.

“If your carriage had been moving at any speed above an almost imperceptible crawl, ma’am,” the gentleman said, turning his attention back to Frances, “it would not have posed a reckless endangerment to serious, responsible travelers who would really prefer to get somewhere by the end of a day instead of spending eternity on one stretch of road.”