Chapter Seven #2
Abigail chewed her bottom lip as she followed slowly after him. She followed after him, up the hillside until the pair of them were standing on the slim pathway, overlooking the rocks and pebbles below.
Could there be events, incidents that occurred without her knowledge taking place in town?
She had to admit that it was possible. She took very little interest in what took place amongst a lot of the town.
After all, there was a great deal in Lyme Regis—from the assembly parties to the local gossip about who was marrying whom, and the like—none of it held much sway for her.
So, this had to mean if there was a crime being committed within those circles, perhaps she may well have missed it.
To admit as much did not do a great deal for her confidence, but she resolved to confess as much to Mr. O’Sullivan.
“Sir.” She raised her voice as she neared him.
“I will admit that although I have my doubts about the veracity of what you say, I would not necessarily be the first person to spot such activities.” She tried to sound as droll as she could when she added, “Then again, if it was something akin to murder, even I would notice that.”
“Do not put yourself in such a role, you can defy all rules of this place. You have to be the smartest woman—” he broke off, before continuing in a rush, “you dress as you wish, spend hours outside without a chaperon and yet you would not be aware of the constant—”
“Unless you can tell me specifically of what you speak, I cannot see the purpose in this talk.”
“No, indeed. You would rather continue in this mundane activity than confront the realities that are going on right under your nose.”
“Mundane? Do not insult my work.”
“That was not my intention, but—”
“It might not have been your intention, Mr. O’Sullivan, but it is nonetheless the effect of your words.
You have spoken in riddles. I cannot fathom what you are alluding to, nor grasp anything in fact about your meaning, other than to insult me.
Now you are done, perhaps we can say good day to each other?
” Abigail was proud of her speech. She had managed to convey precisely her meaning and her anger.
It pleased her greatly to see how nonplussed he was by her response.
His blue eyes, icy in their sockets, blinked at her as he seemed to dwell on what she had said.
To her immense surprise, Mr. O’Sullivan took a step closer to her, so near in fact when he spoke, his words were just a whisper, and his breath warmed her cheek.
Abigail’s gaze dropped in shock as she felt the intensity of his regard, so close to her he would be able to simply lower his mouth and kiss her.
“And you would always tell me the truth, Miss Fossey? For instance, can you tell me why someone might call you dangerous?”
His proximity sent a jolt of awareness through her despite how infuriating his question was. A pox on this man and everything he makes me feel even when I am furiously and confusingly angry with him, she thought as she forced herself to look back up into his face.
“Surely you know me well enough to know I would not bother with a lie?” Abigail asked, although strength to confront her desires were still hidden away.
“That is not the answer I had hoped for.” Mr. O’Sullivan watched her for a moment, seeming to turn over what she had said.
Finally, he nodded and made a small, frustrated groan.
“I must return to my hotel. I can no longer tarry here…” He waved his hand in the air, indicating the cliffs, the hidden fossils beneath their feet, and perhaps even Abigail.
He left cutting down the cliffside pathway, then meandered down the hillside until he was on the outcrop of sand.
Minutes ticked by as Abigail tried her best to come to a conclusion on his outburst.
He was being illogical. Temperamental. She would continue about her day, focusing on her work, whilst Mr. O’Sullivan did whatever he needed to regain his composure. It was of a great frustration as it meant she would need to delay her request of him.
It was a sad realization that he was all of these things as she had been meaning to ask if he would kiss her. As a scholar. To satisfy that scientific curiosity within her.
Sucking in her breath and discarding such thoughts, Abigail straightened her back and started to descend down the narrow pathway toward the sea.
It was not the easiest of walks, and Abigail regretted almost immediately setting off without a cane for the balance and support.
The sandstone was slippery and the shale even worse beneath her footfalls.
When she stumbled, landing on her knees, Abigail let out a satisfactory curse.
Beneath her fingers the sandstone clung, wet with yesterday’s rain, a sudden recollection spurred through her mind about similar conditions two years ago, which had led to a landslide.
With hasty but as light a footstep as she could manage, Abigail hurried further along the path, hopeful to back onto the promenade as soon as she could.
Halfway back down toward the sea, she heard what she feared was the starting of a crumbling, wet intake from the cliff, as if the cliffside was materials, liquid, innards, everything inwards—fear shot down Abigail’s spine.
She had witnessed the aftermath of several landslides, heard warning tales about them, and seen bodies be trapped from their overspilling—no one survived being trapped beneath one.
But she had never been caught up in one. Until now, it seemed.
“Hurry,” she said to herself, as her hands slipped and skidded over wet rocks beneath her feet, as she ran down the side of the cliff.
The trouble was there was no way of knowing where the boundary was, the rockface could give way but only ten feet or it could be less.
Then again on occasion pieces of the cliff face the size of her house slid down onto the beach.
She had to get to the sea. Get away from the slippery sandstone. Out. Out. Out.
Distantly, she looked up to see the shape of Mr. O’Sullivan heading back toward Lyme, but to hope that he might turn around and spot what was happening was a ridiculous desire.
Praying he might save her, even more absurd.
He was far too far away to make any difference now.
Besides, what could a mere human do against the might of falling cliff face?
Under her feet, Abigail could feel the ground, the shale too started to shake.
Dust was blooming around her. She ran onward, skipping between the rocks and her feet finding less of the surfaces than she might want.
She just had to be back on the sand—on the beach itself—and then she might run into the water.
It glinted there, a stretching blue oasis—vast and welcoming—but a quarter of a mile away, and without solid ground underfoot Abigail feared it would be the last thing she saw.
The cliff face, the landside itself omitted an ominous, wet sound of suction, as it finally gave way.
It collapsed down and out, loosening all of its sandy stones, rubble and grasses.
Abigail, who was only feet now from the beach’s sand, flung herself forward onto the golden sands, grateful to be off the meandering hillside pathway.
Scrambling upwards as soon as she touched the flat surface, and running away, she stomped against the grains.
Grateful she had worn her father’s clothes today of all days, she continued onwards until her throat grew sore and her eyes streamed with tears.
She begged her body to move quicker, to put as much distance as she could between herself and the landslide.
She raised her arms, and she ran, calling, yelling out toward Mr. O’Sullivan, hoping he might see what was happening, turn back and know.
It was not enough. When the force of the rocks and sandstone crashed into her, it was sudden, painful and immense.
She was flung to one side, and forward, momentum catching her up in its grip, as the weight of sand hurdled toward the water’s edge.
Dragging her toward the point she had aimed, and taking her there far quicker than she wished.
Darkness, all-consuming, stuck to Abigail’s body, her face. Pressing down on her eyes and into her mouth, as Abigail tried to cry out.
Then all went still and then there was nothing.