the ditch once more, to meet a heartening sight: the blue flashing lights of a police car coming at speed.
The two men in it were large, reassuringly calm, and spoke English. She wanted to fling herself on a broad chest and burst into tears of relief, but it didn’t seem the right moment.
‘My mother and stepfather are in the car,’ she told them, in a voice which shook only slightly. ‘They’re hurt. Is an ambulance coming?’
‘It comes at once. And you, miss? You are not hurt?’ the older of the two officers asked her.
‘No, I’m fine.’ She peered anxiously over the edge of the ditch to where the other officer was bending over her mother. She would have joined him, but the ambulance arrived then and she was urged to stand on one side while the policemen and the paramedics began the task of getting her mother and stepfather out of the car.
They were hefty men, and made short work of breaking down the car door, releasing her mother and lifting her into the ambulance. Getting her stepfather out was more difficult. His leg was broken and he was cut by broken glass, moreover he disputed their actions, shouting and swearing. Sarah was sorry that he was injured, but she hoped that the men would put his uninhibited behaviour down to shock.
It was almost dark now. While they had been busy, Sarah had unloaded their cases from the boot and stood with them, waiting to be told what to do next.
‘You will come with us to the hospital,’ said the older constable. ‘We will take your luggage to the police station and tomorrow you may come and fetch it.’ He waved the ambulance away and opened the car door for her. ‘You have everything, passports, money?’
‘Yes, I’ve put them in one of the cases. Where are we going?’
‘Arnhem.’ He gave her a brief glance. ‘You are OK?’
Sarah said, ‘Yes, thank you.’ She was alive, unhurt, although she was aware of aches and pains and wet and icy feet and legs; she was OK.
The hospital at Arnhem was large and modern, and the Accident Room was heaving with people. The two policemen set her down beside the ambulance, warned her to collect the cases from the police station in the morning and be ready to give a report of the accident, and sped on their way. She watched them go with regret; they had been briskly friendly—warning her stepfather that they would come to the hospital to see him in the morning, patting her on the shoulder in a kindly fashion—and now they had gone, siren sounding, blue lights flashing. Another accident?
Sarah followed the two stretchers into the hospital and presently found herself in a waiting room with a lot of other anxious people. Someone would come and report on her mother and stepfather, she was told by a busy nurse, taking down particulars and thankfully speaking English.
Sarah settled into one of the plastic chairs arranged around the room. Her feet were numb now, and she smelled horrible. A cup of tea, she thought longingly, and a nice warm bath and then bed. She was hungry, too, and she felt guilty about that with her mother and stepfather injured. People came and went. Slowly the room emptied. Surely someone would come for her soon. She closed her eyes on a daydream of endless pots of tea and plates piled high with hot buttered toast and slept.
Mr ter Breukel, consultant orthopaedic surgeon at the hospital, finished his examination of Mr Holt’s leg and bent his massive person over his patient. He studied the ill-tempered face and listened patiently to the diatribe directed at himself, his staff and everyone in general.
When Mr Holt drew breath, he said quietly, ‘You have a broken leg; it will need to be pinned and plated. You have two broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and superficial cuts and bruises. You will be put to bed presently and in the morning I will set the leg. You will need to stay here until it is considered expedient to return you to England.’
Mr Holt said furiously, ‘I demand to be sent to England immediately. How am I to know that you are competent to deal with my injuries? I am a businessman and have some influential friends.’
Mr ter Breukel ignored the rudeness. ‘I will see you in the morning. Your wife will be warded also. She has concussion but is not seriously hurt.’
He waited for Mr Holt to say something, and when he didn’t added, ‘Was there anyone else with you?’
‘My stepdaughter.’ Mr Holt gave him a look of deep dislike. ‘She’s quite capable of taking care of herself.’
‘In the circumstances,’ said Mr ter Breukel, ‘that is most fortunate.’
The Accident Room was emptying, so he could safely leave the minor cases to the two casualty officers on duty, but first he supposed he should find this stepdaughter. Probably with her mother…
Mrs Holt was fully conscious now, and complaining weakly. She had no wish to stay in hospital; she must have a private room, she wanted her own nightclothes, her own toiletries…
Mr ter Breukel bent over the stretcher, lifted a limp hand and took her pulse. It was steady and quite strong. ‘Your daughter?’ he asked quietly. ‘She was with you in the car?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Where is she? Why isn’t she here with me? She knows how bad my nerves are. Someone must fetch her. She must find a good hotel where I can stay for a few days until my husband can return to England.’
‘Mr Holt will have to remain here for some time, Mrs Holt, and I cannot allow you to leave this hospital until you have recovered from a slight concussion.’
‘How tiresome.’ Mrs Holt turned her head away and closed her eyes.
Mr ter Breukel nodded to the porters to wheel her away to the ward and went in search of the third member of the party.
The place was quieter now, and the waiting room was empty save for Sarah. He stood looking at her—such an ordinary girl, dirty and dishevelled, a bruise on one cheek and smelling vilely of the mud clinging to her person. A girl without looks, pale, her hair hanging in untidy damp streamers around a face which could easily pass unnoticed in a crowd. A girl completely lacking in glamour.
He sighed deeply; to fall in love at first sight with this malodorous sleeping girl, with, as far as he could see, no pretentious to beauty or even good looks, was something he had not expected. But falling in love, he had always understood, was unpredictable, and, as far as he was concerned, irrevocable. That they hadn’t exchanged a word, nor spoken, made no difference. He, heartwhole until that minute, and with no intention of marrying until it suited him, had lost that same heart.
But he wasn’t a callow youth; he would have to tread softly, otherwise he might lose her. He went close to her chair and said gently, ‘Miss Holt?’
Sarah opened her eyes and allowed them to travel up a vast expanse of superfine clerical grey cloth, past a richly sombre tie and white linen, until they reached his face.
She said clearly, ‘Not Miss Holt; he’s my stepfather. Beckwith—Sarah Beckwith. That’s a nice tie—Italian silk?’
Mr ter Breukel, aware that she wasn’t quite awake yet, agreed gravely that it was Italian silk. Her eyes, he saw with delight, were quite beautiful, a vivid dark blue, veiled by mousy lashes.
Sarah sat up straight and pushed her hair off her face. ‘I’m sorry, I fell asleep.’ She studied his face, a very trustworthy face, she decided, as well as a handsome one, with its high-bridged
