14. Sarah
Sarah
How long did it take to get to Seattle? Morning sunlight surged through my windows.
A telegram would arrive soon, and all my worries would prove unfounded.
I peeked across at George’s window. Still empty.
Had I imagined our conversation in the middle of the night? He was right, I should’ve stopped her.
Plonk. Clink. Plonk. I rushed to my window. Plink. Plonk. George stood on the path between our houses, winding up. Another pebble struck the glass.
I flung the window open. “You’re going to break the glass.”
He scowled. “Backyard. Now.” He stalked toward my back door, hair sticking out in all directions.
I shoved my feet into slippers, flew down the back steps, and burst into the morning.
George prowled around me, so close I could hear his breathing. His boots crunched the gravel like a caged beast, until he stopped to fix me with his glare.
“She. Is. Missing.”
“I know?—”
“Not gone—missing.”
“I…I don’t?—”
“Lost, Sarah. Somewhere over a thousand miles or more.”
A lazy butterfly flitted past.
He restarted his pacing, one hand fisted in his hair. “She went missing from the train.”
I wrapped my arms around my torso. “No?—”
George squared off with me. His eyes weren’t angry—they were terrified. Oh, Pemberley. If he was scared… He shook a paper in my face, fanning me with an unwelcome breeze. “Telegram from Greta,” he said, voice raw. “Delivered moments ago.”
“It can’t be…”
“Into thin air. No clues. Somewhere between Wisconsin and Montana. Vanished.”
“But… but Greta is with her.”
“Not. Anymore.” He held the paper before him like a shield.
Bile rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. “Where is she?” My voice came out an octave too high.
George shook his head, hard.
I clung to his arm, trembling. But it wasn’t the dew soaking my slippers that chilled me through.
George’s jaw set. “First, I’ll tell Father. Then I’ll go after her. Start at one end and have someone—maybe Mr. Muntz—start at the other. Track her. Someone must know something. I’ll… I have to find her.” His voice broke.
He turned his haggard face toward me. “No one can know about this,” he said. “She’ll be ruined if word gets out. Say nothing.”
I stepped back.
“You.” His jaw worked as if chewing gristly meat. “You call yourself a friend.”
“I’m—”
“You could’ve stopped her, but?—”
“I tried!”
“Chose to gallivant around with that blond dunce instead…”
“What?”
“This is your fault.”
His words hit harder than any fist. I wanted to smack him good, right in the gut. Was there punching in Jane Austen? But he spoke true. I’d chosen wrong, and now my only friend was missing.
I glared icicles at him. It didn’t cool the wildfire behind his eyes, though his face softened. Guilt, earned or not, turned me away.
“Sarah, I?—”
I fled inside and slammed the door. The bang echoed through the house, then faded into silence.