A Dream Rides By

  They were racing up the ladders, would be with him in a trice, hauling him to safety. The time had come. God bless, my darling. He shut his eyes and let his fingers slip.

  It was strange. He couldn’t feel any pain. He could hear hushed, indistinct voices all about him. And then the shattered tone of an angel.

  ‘Oh, Barney,’ she breathed, too shocked to weep. ‘Please . . .’

  He opened his eyes, and there she was. Blurred and wavering. Her beautiful face taut and stricken. Perhaps she loved him just a little. And he felt the peace enter his soul.

  ‘Let me go, Ling,’ he mouthed, and closed his eyes.

  Floating. Hearing her howl of sorrow. His heart slowed and joyfully he felt the life . . . slowly . . . pulse away . . .

  Epilogue

  ‘With Captain Bradley’s compliments, Mrs Franfield, Doctor.’ Mr Starke, the first mate, smiled as he handed a glass of rich, ruby wine each to the couple standing in the bow of the fine, old sailing ship. ‘A lovely evening, is it not? Calm as a mill pond. But it’ll slow our passage to Bordeaux. A fine choice for a honeymoon, if you don’t mind my saying so. Oh, and dinner will be ready in half an hour, if that lad of yours doesn’t distract the cook too much,’ he added with a good-natured grin. ‘Taken a right shine to each other, they have.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Starke,’ the doctor replied, and nodded with a smile that reached his kind, green-blue eyes.

  Doctor Franfield seemed a quiet but happy man, Mr Starke thought, but who wouldn’t be, just married to that lovely young woman? There had been a wistfulness about Mrs Franfield when they had boarded the Emily that morning. Captain Adam Bradley had come to master his favourite ship especially in their honour, and he had explained in a compassionate voice that the poor woman had been tragically widowed three years before. So Mr Starke understood that she must feel strange being married to another man, no matter how much she loved him. But Mr Starke had noted with satisfaction that the fresh sea air had already put some colour in her cheeks. Nothing like sea air to rejuvenate the heart and give one strength to begin a new life.

  She had been leaning back against her new husband and he had held his arms wrapped about her as if he were pumping his own life force into her. Mind you, he was a little on the thin side was Dr Franfield, in Mr Starke’s opinion, and he looked as if he’d been in the wars in the past. There was a nasty scar across his forehead and one of his eyes dragged very slightly at the outer corner. But he was a tall, attractive man for all that, in his early thirties, Mr Starke fancied, and matched his handsome bride.

  Mr Starke touched his cap as he turned away. He would tell the cook that the couple both needed fattening up.

  Elliott and Heather Franfield gazed at each other over the rims of their wine glasses. It had been a long, hard, sad road, the complex tangle of fate trapping them in a web of grief and despair. But now it was over. Time, the great master, had healed. The intense harmony of their love had conquered, and at last they were free. To begin the journey of the rest of their lives together.

  ‘Mama! Mama!’

  They turned in unison as the little boy appeared on the deck with the flustered cook hot on his heels.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Franfield, Doctor Franfield,’ the cook called. ‘Couldn’t stop him. Real live one he is!’

  ‘Don’t worry!’ Elliott replied, waving back. He took the wine glass Ling thrust towards him as she crouched down, and the child scampered into her outstretched arms. Just then, the ship crested a wave and, losing their balance, mother and son rolled on to the deck, laughing deliriously. The boy righted himself first, jumping up and down as he held his arms up to the man who held a full glass in each hand.

  ‘Papa! Papa!’

  Elliott placed the glasses where he hoped they would be safe, and swung the child into his arms. He shifted him on to one hip, then helped his bride to her feet with his free hand. They stood together then, the boy between them, staring out as the setting sun spread its scarlet fingers over the flat sea.

  ‘Artie,’ Heather whispered. She smiled lovingly into her son’s brooding mahogany eyes, and the man who her son already looked upon as his father affectionately ruffled the boy’s ebony hair.

  Author’s Note

  The Princetown Steam Railway ran from August 1883 to March 1956, covering one of the most spectacular routes in Britain. Now, the disused line provides a glorious route for walkers over one of the most dramatic areas of Dartmoor.

  I have given the six real-life characters marooned on the train in the 1891 blizzard their proper names, but imagined their personalities from newspaper reports of the time. Likewise, Farmer Hilson and his wife; Stationmaster Higman; and William Duke, proprietor of the quarry at Merrivale. I do not believe I have done them any injustice, but my story is not meant to convey an accurate account of these characters.

  The abandoned quarry at Foggintor is a magnificent if eerie sight, and the foundations of the cottages where Ling and my other characters lived are clearly visible. The entire site can be extremely dangerous, so please take the greatest care if visiting as you do so at your own risk.