Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sophia ran toward the sound. Branches caught at her cloak as she left the road, the carriage lamps falling behind until only thin strips of moonlight guided her between the trees.
“Marjorie!” The name escaped before Sophia knew why. Then another frightened cry answered.
“Sophia!”
Her heart stopped. She broke through the last line of trees.
The stream below had become a river. Recent rain had swollen it far beyond its usual banks, turning the quiet water Sophia remembered into a dark, rushing torrent.
Muddy water struck stones and broken branches with frightening force, foaming white beneath the moonlight.
And in the middle of it, upon a narrow strip of raised earth barely wide enough to stand upon, was Marjorie.
Her dress was soaked to the knees. Her hair had fallen loose. She was crying.
“Marjorie!” Sophia scrambled down the muddy bank.
“Sophia!” The relief in the child’s voice nearly broke her heart.
“What are you doing here?”
Marjorie wiped her face with both hands. “I was coming to find you.”
Sophia went still. “What?”
“I thought…” Marjorie swallowed a sob. “I thought if I brought you home, Uncle Benedict would stop being miserable.”
Sophia’s chest tightened painfully. “Oh, darling.”
“I knew the way to Keswick. I thought I knew it.”
“You came alone?”
Marjorie nodded miserably. The water surged between them. Sophia looked quickly along the bank. There was no bridge nearby and no safe crossing. The stream had overflowed around the small rise where Marjorie stood, trapping her upon what had likely been dry ground only hours earlier.
Marjorie’s lower lip trembled. “I am sorry.”
Sophia began removing her cloak. “No more apologies.”
“Sophia—”
“I am coming.”
Marjorie’s eyes widened. “The water is very fast.”
“I can see that.”
Sophia stepped into it. Cold struck like a blow. She gasped. The water reached her ankles, then her knees almost immediately. Her boots slipped against stones hidden beneath the brown current.
“Sophia!”
“Stay where you are.”
The water climbed to her thighs, but Sophia kept moving. Each step became a battle. The current pushed sideways against her skirts, twisting the heavy fabric around her legs.
She fixed her eyes upon Marjorie, not the water and not the distance, but on the child… only the child.
When Sophia finally reached the narrow strip of land, Marjorie threw herself into her arms. Sophia caught her. For one moment, she held the little girl tightly against her chest. Marjorie was shaking violently.
“I thought you were never coming back,” she whispered.
Sophia closed her eyes. “Oh, Marjorie.”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.”
She kissed the child’s wet hair. Then she forced herself to let her go.
“We must go.”
Marjorie looked at the water. “I cannot.”
“Yes, you can.”
“It nearly knocked me over before.”
Sophia crouched until they were eye to eye. “You are going to hold my hand. You will put your feet exactly where I put mine. You will not look at the water.”
Marjorie’s eyes filled again. “What do I look at?”
Sophia held her gaze. “Me.”
The girl nodded. Sophia took both her hands. Slowly, they stepped into the stream. The current struck Sophia harder on the return. She moved sideways, placing herself between Marjorie and the deepest flow.
“One step.”
Marjorie obeyed.
“Good. Again.” Another step. Sophia’s foot slipped. Her heart lurched, but she recovered. Marjorie whimpered.
“I have you.”
She did. That was all that mattered. The bank came closer.
Ten feet. Six. Three.
Sophia pushed the girl forward, and Marjorie managed to find her way toward the bank. She turned around, trembling.
“Sophia!”
“I am right behind you.” Sophia smiled.
She turned toward shore.
One step, she told herself. Then another.
Her boot came down upon nothing. The riverbed dropped away. Sophia gasped. The current caught her instantly. Her feet disappeared beneath her.
“Sophia!”
She reached for a branch of a nearby tree, but she could not grab it. Water struck her side with terrifying force. For one suspended second, she saw Marjorie on the bank, screaming her name, then the current pulled Sophia backward.
Cold water closed over her head and the world vanished.
The night was already fading toward dawn when Benedict, unable to sleep, found himself outside the twins’ bedchamber.
He told himself it was habit. The maid had already checked the fire, the windows, and both girls twice. There was no reason for him to enter.
Still, he opened the door. The room was quiet. One candle burned beside the bed, its flame low within the glass. Amelia slept nearest the fire, one hand curled beneath her cheek. Admiral lay at her feet, his small body rising and falling beneath the coverlet.
Then, Benedict noticed that the other side of the mattress was empty.
For one foolish moment, his mind refused to understand what he saw. He thought Marjorie had slipped beneath the blankets, or curled herself at the foot of the bed. She had once fallen asleep inside the wardrobe while attempting to prove it suitable for exploration.
“Marjorie?” he called out softly, but no answer came.
He crossed the room and pulled back the coverlet. The sheets beneath were cold. Something inside him dropped.
“Ruth!” The sharpness of his voice brought the maid running from a nearby room, hastily tying her skirt.
“Your Grace?”
“Where is Marjorie?” he demanded.
Ruth looked toward the bed. Every trace of sleep vanished from her face.
“She was there when I checked them,” she managed to muster.
“When?”
“Perhaps an hour ago. A little longer… I… I thought they were both asleep.”
Benedict went to the wardrobe. Marjorie’s cloak was gone. So were her walking boots. He checked the washroom, then looked behind the curtains despite knowing she could not possibly be there.
Empty.
The windows remained fastened. So she must have left through the house.
Behind him, Amelia sat upright. “Uncle Benedict?”
He turned to face her. Her hair had fallen across her frightened face. She looked from the empty place beside her to him, and her eyes widened.
“Where is Marjorie?” she asked, her voice on the verge of tears.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I will find her.”
The answer came with more certainty than he felt. He returned to the bedside and crouched before her.
“Did she say anything before you went to sleep?”
Amelia shook her head. Then, she hesitated.
“What?” he urged.
“She was angry,” Amelia confessed.
“At whom?”
“You.”
Under any other circumstances, Benedict might have smiled.
“Why?”
“Because you did not bring Sophia home.”
The room became very still. Amelia gripped the coverlet between both hands.
“She said if you would not fetch Sophia, perhaps she could. She said she knew the way to Keswick,” Amelia whispered. “I thought she was pretending. She says many things she does not mean.”
But not that. Not when it concerned Sophia.
Benedict was already moving. He reached the corridor and pulled the bell rope hard enough that it struck the wall once, twice, then again. Doors opened along the passage. A footman appeared at the far end, still fastening his coat.
“Wake the household,” Benedict ordered. “Every servant. I want lanterns and horses brought round immediately.”
The footman stared at him.
“Now!”
The man ran. Benedict descended the stairs two at a time. His heart struck violently against his ribs, but his mind had become terribly clear.
Marjorie was out there, alone, somewhere upon a dark road after hours of rain. She would have avoided the main entrance. She might have gone through the kitchens or one of the servants’ passages. From there, she could have crossed the western lawn toward the road, toward Keswick, toward Sophia.
Servants began appearing in the entrance hall, bewildered and only half dressed. Mrs. Bell came hurrying from the east passage, carrying a candle.
“What has happened, Your Grace?”
“Marjorie is missing.”
Shock moved through the hall. One of the maids gasped. Mrs. Bell went pale but recovered at once.
“Search the gardens, the outbuildings and every path toward the western boundary,” Benedict ordered. “Send riders along the Keswick road. Two men are to follow the stream. No one searches alone.”
He pointed toward one of the footmen.
“Go to the gatehouse. Find out whether anyone saw her.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He had promised his brother he would keep the girls safe. He had stood beside their beds night after night, checking the curtains and the fires that were already checked, as though vigilance might keep the world from taking them. Tonight, he was too late.
Then, a kitchen maid hurried into the hall. “Your Grace!”
Benedict turned sharply.
“The side door was open,” she revealed breathlessly. “Only a little. I thought one of the footmen had failed to close it.”
Benedict seized the first lantern brought to him and strode toward the open door. Outside, the estate had already erupted into movement. Stable boys ran across the yard. Men called to one another through the darkness. Lanterns scattered across the lawn like sparks.
A groom brought Benedict’s horse. He mounted before the man could secure the final buckle.
“The Keswick road,” he ordered. “Spread along both sides. Search every ditch and every break in the hedges.”
He drove the heels into the horse’s flanks. The road beyond Rivermere was black beneath the trees. Recent rain gleamed in the ruts. Low branches struck at Benedict’s shoulders as he rode, and mud flew beneath the horse’s hooves.
“Marjorie!” he shouted, but only the trees answered.
With every passing second, the silence became more terrible.
Benedict pictured her walking stubbornly through the dark, with her cloak clutched around her and her small boots sinking into the mud.
Marjorie believed courage meant refusing to admit fear.
She might be lost and still continue forward simply because turning back would feel like surrender… exactly as her father would have done.
The thought struck too deeply. Benedict urged the horse faster, and then, somewhere ahead, a child screamed.
Benedict’s blood turned cold as he dragged the horse toward the sound.
Through the trees, he saw carriage lamps and several figures running toward the swollen stream.
He threw himself from the saddle before the horse had fully stopped.
The lantern fell from his hand and rolled across the wet ground.
“Marjorie!”
“Uncle Benedict!”
She was standing on the bank, drenched and sobbing, but alive. Relief struck him so violently that his knees nearly gave way. He could see nothing but her face, but then Marjorie turned toward the water.
“Sophia!” she shouted.
Benedict followed her gaze. Sophia was wrapped up in the current, struggling to stay afloat. Everything in him turned frozen and dark.
Without thinking, Benedict began running.