Chapter Eight #2
There was a cry in the distance. Others, it seemed, were arriving, but Robert did not look up.
The soft mush he was moving was dense, and a horrifying thought was starting to creep into his mind.
Even if he could find Abigail amongst this almost liquid-like substance, she might well have drowned—suffocated under such pressing conditions.
Could anyone survive such circumstances?
“Over here.” It was a scared voice, nearing where Robert worked. He glanced up to see Mr. Costigan close by. The younger man looked devastated.
“Did you see someone—” He asked as he surveyed Robert.
“Miss Abigail—she’s—” Robert started to say. He had played the idea in his head. Pulling from this sandy-mud lined grave, dragging her loose, being the hero, but the brutal reality was starting to seep into him as he looked down at his dirty hands, empty of Abigail or any sign of her.
Mr. Costigan glanced around the spot, looking only at the surface area. His youthful face looked kind and scared as he sought out some sign that Robert had been looking for what felt like an age already. “She was here when it happened?”
Robert nodded, not trusting himself to speak, failure and fury at battle within himself. “Somewhere near here.” His voice wobbled.
How long had she been down there? Beneath the rocks? How long could she last? Panic at these questions was pulsing through him.
“Close to that rock,” Robert said. “It was near to her form when she vanished.”
The pinkish stone was propped on its side in an arrogant manner, almost as if it were at its leisure, and not like it had possibly been involved in ending a young woman’s life.
Around the rock there was a gap, separating it away from the sandy base, which gave way to a smaller amount of space, a pocket of air and…
His view tightened. Sharpened. Pinpointing something that didn’t belong amongst these rocks.
He could see her hand. Small and dirty, ungloved and unladylike, but one of the most beautiful sights he could ever imagine.
“Help me move it,” Robert said as he stared at the rock, “just to one side. She’s there.” He pointed at the curved gapping surface. “You lean on it, and if she’s there, I’ll snatch her out.”
Mr. Costigan looked decidedly ill, presumably fearful they were about to pull a half-crushed and very dead Miss Abigail out from under the rock.
“She’s not beneath the rock. It’s wedged next to her,” Robert said as he started to push the stones out of the way. “Come on, man, help me. Look, she’s just there.”
Seeing Abigail’s hand sticking out seemed to be enough motivation for Mr. Costigan, because he nodded and set about copying Robert’s movements.
Within minutes, another three men from Lyme Regis had joined them.
They worked in fast silence, no need for communication, fearful that a break would mean something terrible.
Robert resumed his mantra, the repeated use of her name painful against his lips, whipping the inside of his mouth and tongue, because he deserved such punishment for his mistake in leaving her. Was it his anger earlier—what if this was what had led to her death?
One of the men, Mr. Grose, gave a triumphant shout as the culprit of a stone, sliding it away and Robert dived down to grab Abigail.
When his hand touched hers, relief pounded through him, as the others started to pull and yank at the surrounding limestone. Everyone’s movements were frantic as they tried to free Abigail from nature’s rocky grasp.
Grasping at her, Robert bent and pulled at arm and then elbow, easing and pulling her to snatch Abigail up.
Every man held his collective breath as Robert eased his fingers around the collar of her shirt, feeling for Abigail’s pulse—for life to be retained within her.
She rolled as he eased her away and turned her face toward his. Dirt streaked across her brow, and down over her chin. But when their eyes met, there was the faintest uptick of her lips as she saw him. As if she recognized that he was here, and she was safe.
Around them, the sound of cheers and shouts as more men hurried toward them, eager to be heroes and to help. There were jokes, as they set about prising her limbs out of the softer chalk and helping get Abigail out.
“Can she breathe?”
She was alive.
He hugged her close, uncaring of the others nearby.
Her head came to rest against his chest, as everyone else removed the rocks from the lower half of her body.
Unable to stop himself, he clung to her, holding onto her with a desperation that Robert could not explain.
The only remaining shred of his sanity stopped him from kissing her damp forehead and dirtied curls.
She sat up, coughing and gasping, her fingernails digging into his forearm, and the group of surrounding men let out a resounding cheer.
Underneath their celebratory spirit, he could hear Abigail’s rasping, and the shudder of release.
She might not wish or be able to speak, but she understood precisely what was occurring all around her.
“Just as well she was dressed so—” Mr. Costigan said.
“Must have made it easier to run,” came another warm reply. This man seemed inclined to forgive Abigail for her oddities.
They slapped his back and congratulated him and made the occasional remark about him rescuing his sweetheart. Robert thought distantly that this was the sort of thing that would help create inroads with the locals. Except he didn’t care about that. His investigation could go hang.
An air of ease, and relief was spiraling out from the group of them, at the sight of Abigail breathing.
Mr. Costigan agreed that he’d make for the town to find the older Miss Fossey and fetch the doctor at the same time.
A stretcher perhaps as well, could prove useful as everyone said Abigail could not be expected to walk back.
The talk around them ebbed and flowed, as Robert clung more tightly to Abigail.
They hadn’t spoken to each other. It seemed that neither of them wished to.
The panic he’d experienced earlier, of the kind he could not recall ever feeling was starting to ease from his body.
His previous desire to be at the sea was packed up in that instant, and anywhere that was not close to a potential landslide was suddenly overwhelmingly appealing.