Chapter 32
Georgia watched the countryside roll by into gathering darkness.
The tall hedges hemmed in the road. Birds flitted from the thick cover of blackthorn and buckthorn, bouncing through the air ahead of the carriage.
The air was cooling, becoming fresh after the day's heat.
She sat forward, stomach clenched and fingers drumming on the carriage door.
Are you there, Elias? Am I to finally say goodbye to my brother?
Tears pricked at her eyes, a sense of dawning loss opened within her.
She realized that while she had told herself that Elias must be dead, the hope had never truly died.
Now, finally, it had. Grief threatened to sweep over her like a flooding river.
She clung to the solid wood of the carriage, holding on for just a while longer.
Until I must finally let go, but not until I am safe in Keaton's arms.
It suddenly occurred to her that it felt as if they had been driving for a long time. She frowned. Surely it could not take this long to circumnavigate the northern half of London.
“Where are we, driver?” she called out.
No response.
She lowered the window and looked up. The man wore a long overcoat with the collar turned up. A tall hat was planted on his head, and a scarf was wrapped around the lower half of his face.
“Driver?” Georgia called up again, half leaning out of the window, “Where are we?”
His eyes never left the road ahead, but he lashed the reins, spurring the team of horses to greater effort.
The carriage lurched and bounced along. Suddenly, it was careening around a bend, feeling as though it was lifting off two of its wheels briefly.
Georgia was flung back into the carriage with a yelp.
She landed on the floor with a thump, the back of her hand knocking against the opposite door.
“Driver!” she chided, pulling herself to her feet with difficulty.
Looking out, she saw the hedges fall away. The road led across a heath, tall grass interspersed with clumps of trees. It flew across the shadowed landscape, bouncing dangerously on its leather straps. Georgia clung to the door tenaciously.
Something was very wrong here.
On the horizon, a lone house was visible, dark and silent, glowering over the country around it. Was that their destination? If so, why was the driver taking the road so recklessly? What was his hurry?
“Stop! I am the Duchess of Westvale, and I demand that you stop!”
The carriage came to a halt so suddenly that Georgia was thrown forward, wrenched from her grasp with the ferocity of the halt. The seat opposite her thudded into her stomach, driving the breath from her. The crown of her head hit the wood above the bench, and white light obliterated everything.
Her body fell limply to the floor.
“I see the lodge in the distance, Your Grace,” Thorne exclaimed over the beating hooves, “I would say we are three miles away as the crow flies, but longer by road.”
“Why?” Keaton demanded.
“The road bends to the south around the heath. The route through that is treacherous, badly maintained, and full of bogs and unexpected bodies of water. Many carriages have come off the road on this land and sunk without trace.”
“Go across the heath,” Keaton ordered.
“But, Your Grace...” the investigator began.
“The heath!” he roared.
Thorne relayed the order, instructing the driver to take care.
Keaton felt the quality of the road change.
The rumble of the carriage wheels deepened, and the ride became one of painful jolts and teeth-breaking clenching of the jaws.
The carriage swayed from side to side as the route came across one of many sudden bends in the road.
“I'll be damned!” Thorne exclaimed, “I see fresh tracks on the road ahead. There's been rain here and there are wheel tracks coming out of a number of the puddles. They haven't had a chance to dry yet.”
“It is them,” he muttered.
“As you say, Your Grace.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, enduring the bruising conditions. Keaton thought of Georgia somewhere ahead, alone and vulnerable.
What was Edric’s plan here? An accident, perhaps? A carriage crashing on a dangerous road. It would absolve Edric of any responsibility and remove Georgia from his path to the Dukedom.
Will I be next? Are his inhibitions against harming Westvale too strong to raise a hand against me directly?
The answer was the attack that had led to his sight being lost. Edric had wanted his young nephew out of the way.
If they reached Georgia too late, Keaton would return to kill his uncle.
There was not a shred of doubt about it in his mind.
There was a yawning emptiness within him at the thought that he might in fact already be too late, outwitted by Edric.
Somewhere deep within that emptiness, though, anger and the desire for revenge smoldered.
It was an ember now, but it was flaring brighter and brighter.
He took away my sight. He claims my blindness makes me too weak to be Duke, but he took it away in the first place!
Suddenly, he felt a strong arm thrust across his chest.
“Stop!” Thorne was shouting.
The carriage slewed to one side, and Thorne's heavy form thudded into Keaton, crushing him but holding him in place as the vehicle came to a halt.
“Another carriage in the road,” Thorne said breathlessly, “unhitched from its horses and being pushed off the road. There is a sizable mere behind it. By heaven, he's pushing it in!”
Thorne hauled Keaton to his feet, and Keaton felt the door opening, felt the cool twilight air spilling in.
“Hold there! Stop what you're doing!” Thorne cried out.
Keaton leaped to the road, crouched there, trying to find anything with which to orient himself. The sound of wheels sluicing through mud and sodden grass came to him. Boots scraping through soil and stones, crunching. Grunts of effort. A man pushing. Keaton came out of his crouch as Thorne cursed.
“Your Grace, get down! Pistol!” Thorne roared, and Keaton dove. There came the crack of a pistol shot, and the air filled with the sharp tang of gunpowder.
Keaton's hands bore the brunt of his fall, absorbing his weight and then pushing him back up.
Another shot rang out, from behind Keaton this time.
Someone in front of him screamed once. Then thudded to the ground.
The sound of rolling reached him, as of a heavy vehicle gathering momentum.
He stumbled over something, a foot perhaps, kept his balance, sprinting into the unknown, focused on the growing sound of rolling. It was getting faster.
The ground beneath Keaton's feet was sloping downwards, the slope becoming increasingly exaggerated.
There was a splash.
Keaton felt water spattering onto his face as his shoes splashed through the liminal space between heath and mere. Then the water was around his knees, then his waist.
He dove forward, frigid water embracing him.
Moments later, his hand came into contact with solid wood. But it was moving past him, as though retaining momentum and continuing to roll along the sloping bottom of the mere.
His fingers caught at the edge of a window, and he was carried along, the pressure of the water growing along with the burning in his chest. He hauled himself through the window and felt inside.
Floating fabric met his questing fingers. Then flowing hair. He gathered Georgia into his embrace and kicked at the door behind him. The lock snapped, and the door exploded outward, one hinge snapping away with the force exerted.
Keaton swam outward and upward.
His head was spinning, exhaustion making his limbs leaden.
But he would not let go of the dead weight he carried.
Even if her weight dragged him down, dragged them both down.
He would sink with her rather than surrender her to the depths.
He kicked and stroked with his free arm, the urge to breathe in becoming unbearable, irresistible.
Still, the water clung to him—still the air above remained locked away, out of reach.
His lips peeled apart from clenched teeth. Bubbles escaped. The last of his air. Then his hand broke the surface.
A moment later, his head burst into the air and he was gasping it down. He hauled Georgia up with the last of his strength and swam for the shore, dragging her up onto the grass. Her chest was still, and there was no pulse at her throat.
Keaton pressed down on her chest, feeling water flow out of her mouth. Again, he pressed, squeezing the mere out of her.
“Georgia! Breathe!”
Pinching her nose, he pressed his mouth to hers and blew.
Georgia suddenly coughed. Keaton heard a ragged intake of breath. Then another cough.
“K-Keaton?” Georgia gasped.
“I'm here, my love,” Keaton breathed, laughter breaking through, drawn out of him by relieved joy.
“I can't see you!” she screamed, her words bright with terror.
Keaton's hands danced over her wide, unseeing eyes. Then he felt the bump atop her head, a hen's egg swelling.
Oh Lord, no! Not her! Not both of us!
“Blink, Georgia. You’ve had a bump. Blink. Your eyes will clear, I promise!” he said, desperately.
He put his hand over her eyes, felt her eyelashes brushing his palms. He prayed, closing his own eyes, sending fervent pleas to the Almighty. Georgia pulled his hand away. He stroked her cheek and felt her lips turning upward in a smile. Relief made him sag, turning his muscles to water.
“I-I see you,” she whispered.
Keaton kissed her.