Chapter 1 #2
The carriage leaned at an angle that made it easier for Elizabeth to slide down, basket clutched to her chest. Once she was safely on the ground, she tucked the basket under her arm and carried it a safe distance away.
Placing it behind a bush, she ran back to the carriage, making the same journey down to the lady’s side.
The woman’s chest was still. Elizabeth put a hand to her mouth.
Feeling no air, she sighed heavily. Gone.
Wiping tears from her cheeks, she observed the scene.
The poor lady was very young—not more than two or three years older than Jane.
Her face looked…peaceful. Glancing around, she noted a valise on its side.
Elizabeth grabbed the handle and looked around for anything else that might reveal the lady’s identity.
She saw nothing—not even a necklace or jewelry. And the carriage had no markings.
There is nothing more I can do, she reasoned. Elizabeth climbed out with the valise and hurried to the baby’s side. She pulled back the linens to reveal a tuft of golden hair. The child inside was very little. She remembered what Lydia had looked like when she was born. Is this babe so young?
Unsure what else she could do, Elizabeth gathered the basket on one arm.
It was large and cumbersome, but with some juggling, she managed to carry the valise in the other hand.
The image of the lady, broken and silent, invaded her consciousness.
She knew without a doubt that she would never forget the sight.
Glancing back over her shoulder at the wreckage, she turned her steps towards Longbourn. Papa will know what to do.
He watched the girl traipse off into the woods, the infant-laden basket balanced on one arm, a battered valise in the other.
She moved quickly despite the burden, driven by duty, perhaps, or simply fear.
He did not know her name, only that she had arrived with a wide-eyed resolve and a hesitance that suggested she had never handled a situation like this before.
But what lady had? Still, she had done what was needed.
That was more than he could say for himself.
He had been careful—painstaking, really—to retrieve his possessions from the wrecked coach before fleeing.
His knapsack, light but essential. The jewels, of course.
He had taken them from the lady’s limp body, not bothering to pretend sorrow.
He told himself they were owed to him, a payment of sorts.
A bridal price for a wedding that would never come.
His companion’s injuries were fatal, though she still breathed—crushed ribs, a bloodied face, skin already cooling.
He had lingered only long enough to be sure she would not recover.
He had not the heart to close her eyes, which fluttered slightly as she moaned, but neither did he stay long enough to see them dim.
Without his future bride, the entire scheme was in shambles. The infant had been born a fortnight too early, arriving into the world unblessed by either priest or law. Illegitimate. Baseborn and useless.
And with the mother now gone, so too were his prospects.
Had they only reached Gretna Green, had they crossed the border and whispered their vows before some drunken blacksmith, all she possessed would have been his.
Her dowry. Her inheritance. The favour of her influential, powerful family.
But the crash had stolen everything. Her life. His claim. Their future.
Her mother would give no quarter. She was a woman of iron and salt, the kind who viewed sentiment as weakness and scandal as war. She would never accept the child born in secret, nor the man who had gambled on marrying her daughter before the truth could reach her ears.
He could almost hear her shrieking voice already: “My bloodline is ruined!”
He shuddered involuntarily and rubbed his arm. It ached with a deep, grinding pain, and he suspected a fracture. Yet even this injury—this raw reminder of mortality—could not distract him from the truth: he was alone, nearly penniless, and on the run.
Turning away from the wreckage, he adjusted the strap on his shoulder and pocketed the stones—diamonds mostly, with a few emeralds he would sell discreetly, one at a time. The boy—his son—was better off gone. A burden. A complication. One he could no longer afford to shoulder.
He told himself that the child would be cared for.
The girl who had carried him away looked young—eighteen, perhaps?
—but not poor. Her clothes were modest but clean.
A lady’s maid, maybe, or a tradesman’s daughter.
Someone with a roof and bread, and a name untainted by scandal. That was more than he could offer.
Still, when he closed his eyes, he saw her again.
The way her skirts clung to her calves as she climbed through the coach wreckage, heedless of propriety.
The way her dark curls slipped from her bonnet as she bent over the baby.
She had not screamed, nor had she fainted.
She had acted. Brave and capable and...almost noble.
He wondered briefly what her family would make of the child. Would they raise him kindly? Would they lie and call him a cousin, a foundling, a pity case? And would the boy ask one day where he came from?
Would he know his father had watched from the shadows and walked away? Ridiculous sentiments.
A sound—a snap of reins, the thunder of hooves—broke his thoughts. Riders approached. Locals, perhaps. They would come across the wreckage soon enough.
He slipped into the shadows just as a group of riders approached the remains of his shattered future. Without a backwards glance, he melted into the trees, footsteps light despite the pain. He was good at disappearing. Vanishing for a time and then reappearing as a reinvented man.
And the child—his son—was behind him, fading like smoke in a forest that never remembered names. Good riddance.