Babe by Joan Smith Page A

her.
    A week after the affair, Clivedon decided she had reformed sufficiently to be let out in her phaeton. To insure she did not take up any seedy foreign friends with her, he occupied the passenger’s seat himself.
    “Let us see how you handle the ribbons,” he said. “I seem to remember seeing you bolt down Oxford Street out of control last month.”
    “They are not so biddable a team as I would like,” she admitted. “I had them of Bradbury, and I think he was happy to be rid of them.”
    “Don’t tell me this is the leather-mouthed set of grays Bradbury has been trying to be rid of forever! Barbara, I didn’t take you for such a greenhead. What did you pay for them?”
    “Four hundred.”
    “He offered them to me at three. He saw you coming.”
    They were a flashy team, high-steppers, and not noticeably bad-natured, but difficult for a lady to control. “We'll avoid heavy traffic today,” he told her. “If you can learn to handle them on the quiet roads, you may try them in the city later.”
    “I have driven them in the city before.”
    “I know. I happen to be acquainted with one of the gentlemen who had the poor luck to be sideswiped by you.”
    “It was as much his fault as mine. He wouldn’t give way to let me pass.”
    “And you couldn’t hold them back. I see how it was.”
    As this was exactly how it had been, she ignored the comment and concentrated all her efforts to keeping them back to a trot, till they were on the Chelsea Road. They went along with no mishap for a few miles, which emboldened her to let them out. An easy canter soon stepped up to an outright gallop, at which time Clivedon suggested she rein in. “I’m trying to,” she said, becoming frightened.
    “Pull harder. Watch out for that gig pulling out ahead, there to your left.”
    She had already seen it, and was yanking desperately at the reins, which had the unwanted effect of inciting her team to greater speed. It was apparent to Clivedon as quickly as to herself that she had lost any semblance of control over them. They were flying down the road at a breakneck speed. It was less clear to the driver of the gig, who felt he had the right of way, and pulled into the main road before them, expecting her to hold back.
    Clivedon lurched wildly against her, in an effort to get the reins out of her fingers. She very nearly fell off the seat of her high-perch carriage, only managing to hang on by her fingertips. The added confusion of trying to lend her a hand left Clivedon only half his attention for controlling the team. The right rein fell from him entirely, and the unchecked horse galloped smartly into the ditch, pulling its mate with it, barely avoiding an accident with the rear end of the gig. The driver of the other vehicle looked over his shoulder, but, seeing the occupants to be unharmed, he proceeded on his way, with no more than a breath of relief and a quiet imprecation on the manners of the smarts and swells, who thought they owned the road.
    There was a tense moment while they both waited for the sickening snap of broken wood or the creak of leather giving way, the whinnying of a horse in agony, or the shooting of a pain in their own bodies. They experienced only one of these omens of disaster. There was a shattering sound as the front axle snapped. Their own physical reaction was no more than a heart pumping tumultuously, and a sudden lurch as the carriage tipped. The runaway horses had pulled the carriage’s front end off the built-up portion of the road, to tip at a precarious angle towards the ditch, with the axle broken, while one wheel spun futilely in the air, a foot off the ground below.
    With Clivedon’s arm still steadying her, Barbara wilted in shock and fright against his shoulder, shivering. He put his other arm around her, badly shaken himself. “Are you all right?” he asked.
    Her head sank on his chest to gain her breath. In a moment she looked up, laughing nervously. “I couldn’t have made a