Miss Wonderful (51 page)

It
happened so sudden that no one was ready. Jackson needed a moment to
finish and button himself up, and Caleb, who was quicker off the
mark, tripped over a root and went down, head foremost. He got up in
time to see Oldridge disappear behind a rise.

Caleb
ran after him, cursing under his breath, because Jackson was
shouting, fool that he was. He should save his breath to catch the
sneaking rascal. They'd hear Jackson's roaring down in the valley,
sure, or at least the dogs would, and set to barking, and wake
everyone.

Long
minutes later, muscles and lungs burning, Caleb finally closed in on
the runaway. He was slowing down and stumbling. Not enough wind in
him to outrun a man more than ten years younger, Caleb thought
smugly. He stretched his long legs and ran, leaping over rocks and
fallen branches. In a last burst of speed, he jumped, and tackled
Oldridge, and brought him down hard. Then Caleb dragged him up, and
while the wicked old reprobate was gasping for breath, drew his knife
and laid .it against his neck.

"Your
nursemaid ain't here now," Caleb said, gasping, too. "It's
time for your accident."

He
pulled the man with him, the knife at his neck, while he looked for a
likely place..

Ah,
yes. There. A good long tumble onto a pile of broken rocks.

ALISTAIR
had paused to look up at the sky, which was swiftly clouding again.
If he hadn't stopped, he might not have heard the shout and realized
it was connected to the subsequent cawing and screeching of irate
fowl. The birds were soaring up from the trees, complaining about the
intruder who'd disturbed their peace.

If
he hadn't heard the shout, he would have guessed a dog or cat had
wandered into their midst.

He
turned his horse in that direction, though there was no path visible
in the rapidly dwindling moonlight. The horses had been picking their
way along an old, rutted packhorse road, as they followed the signs
of recent passage: the grooves a pair of wheels had made in the dirt,
the marks of feet and hooves, and fresh droppings.

Here,
in the swiftly dimming moonlight, Alistair distinguished nothing like
a trail or path. But the uneasiness he'd carried for all these long
hours deepened into anxiety, and he urged his tired animal to more
speed.

Yet
by the time he and Mirabel reached the patch of woodland, the birds
had settled again, and all was silent.

They
halted and listened. They were well ahead of the others and heard no
voices, only the wind sighing through bare branches and whispering
among the pines.

And
then a scream broke the quiet, a man's scream, short and terrible,
and near at hand.

They
dismounted and ran toward the sound.

THE
warning shout stopped Alistair in his tracks.

"Have
a care, have a care." Mr. Oldridge's breathless voice came from
nearby.

"Papa!"

Mirabel
would have rushed toward the sound, but Alistair held her back. "The
sound is coming from below," he said. "Wait here."

He
walked forward cautiously, straining to see the ground ahead. Thick
clouds were swallowing the moon and releasing a cold drizzle.

"Here,
here," Mr. Oldridge called. "An air shaft. Have a care, I
beg."

Alistair
got down on hands and knees and crept toward the voice. He paused
when he saw the hole, a ragged shape, only a shade darker than the
surrounding darkness. He drew as near as he dared and peered down. He
could see nothing.

"Mr.
Oldridge," he said. "Are you all right?"

"Yes,
yes, certainly."

"We'll
fetch a rope and have you out in a trice."

"I
fear it is more complicated than that."

Mirabel
crept up beside Alistair. "Papa, are you injured? Is anything
broken?"

"I
think not, but it is difficult to be sure. Caleb Finch fell on top of
me. He is… dead."

Nausea
welled up. Alistair took a deep breath, let it out.' He remembered.
The mud. The cold, stiffening body keeping him down. The stench. He
thrust the memory away.

"In
that case, I'll come down to you, sir," he said.

"Alistair."

He
could not read Mirabel's face in the darkness, but he heard the fear
in her voice. "If you both are trapped there," she said
softly, "how shall I get you out?"

"We
won't be trapped," Alistair said. "I must go down."
More audibly he said, "Mr. Oldridge, can you tell me anything
more? It is difficult to see."

"I
saw the telltale depression in the ground, and hesi-tated,"
Oldridge said. "Then Finch caught me, and when I tried to warn
him, he thought it was a trick. It is one of the old air shafts. The
hill is honeycombed with them. This one has succumbed to age,
weather, and gravity and—in short, it is caving in. We seem to
be resting upon a heap of debris that partially blocks the hole."

"You
are not at the bottom, then," Alistair said.

"Oh,
no. We are wedged over the opening." He wasn't sure how deep the
shaft was, he added. Given its position on the hillside, he estimated
at least another twenty feet to the bottom.

"I
am not sure it would be wise for me to attempt to break through to
get to the bottom," Oldridge said.

"No,
most unwise," Alistair said. The shaft must lead to an old mine
tunnel, but that was more than likely blocked with debris or flooded.
Which meant that if the lump of debris supporting them gave way, the
two men would fall to the bottom with it. If the fall didn't kill the
one still alive, he'd be buried alive or drowned.

"I
think it would be best to send for help," Mr. Oldridge said. "I
am quite prepared to wait."

And
if the rain increased, and became one of the sudden torrents, like
the one Alistair had experienced weeks ago? The walls of the shaft
could give way, to bury Mr. Oldridge alive or send him to the bottom.
They would never be able to extricate him in time.

It
had to be now, and Alistair must do it.

"We'll
need a good length of rope," he told Mirabel.

ALISTAIR
tied the rope around the nearest sturdy tree and dropped the other
end into the hole.

The
rain was building steadily.

He
climbed down, fingers tight on the rope. It was slippery. If his grip
failed, he'd crash through the unstable pile of debris and fall to
the bottom, taking Oldridge and the corpse with him.

With
every move, clumps of dirt and rock gave way.

The
rain beat on his head and spattered mud in his face. As he went
lower, he became aware of the smell that wasn't wet earth. It was all
too familiar. Blood. And excrement. The smell of sudden, violent
death. A very different matter from a quiet passing in bed.

He
wanted to retch, but he wouldn't let himself. If he gave way to
sickness or panic, the woman he loved would lose her father and her
future husband at once. Even now she might be carrying his child.

The
thought of the child—his child—steadied his nerves and
took him down to the uncertain pile of debris where the two men were
wedged. He could hear one's breathing. His eyes grew accustomed to
the darkness, and he made out the shape of Mr. Oldridge's genial
face.

"Can
you reach my hand?" he asked, bending down toward Oldridge. He
heard a shuffling sound, then dirt and gravel clattering to the
bottom. Was that a distant splash he heard? In the rain, it was hard
to tell.

"I
must get him off first," Oldridge said.

"Let
me see if I can help," Alistair said.

He
inched down nearer. Still holding onto the rope, he felt with his
free hand until he found an ungiving limb. "I've got him,"
Alistair said. "Which way do we move him?"

"To
my left."

"Together
now, then, on three, but gently, gently. One. Two. Three."

He
tugged and Oldridge pushed, and they shifted the corpse to one side.
Another clump of earth gave way.

"We'd
better make haste," Alistair said, glad the beating rain drowned
out the pounding of his heart. "Take my hand."

Oldridge
grasped his hand.

"Can
you climb onto my shoulders?" Alistair said. The ground was
sliding away from under his feet. He edged back from the crumbling
dirt. "You'd better do it now," he told Oldridge.

For
any other man, even a much younger one, this would have been next to
impossible: The hole was cramped, its sides unstable, the ground
beneath their feet threatening to give way any minute. Oldridge was
far from young, probably bruised and stiff, and that might be the
least of his troubles. But years of clambering over the Peak's hills
and dales and negotiating slippery paths had kept him strong and
nimble. Though he moved more stiffly than usual, the botanist managed
to climb onto Alistair's shoulders.

Alistair
carefully straightened. "Can you reach?" he gasped.

"Ah,
yes."

At
the top of the hole, the blackness lightened to dark grey. He saw
Oldridge's head mere inches now from the top. Then Mirabel's face.
She lay on her stomach, her hand outstretched.

"Come,
Papa," she said.

With
her help, Oldridge shimmied and heaved himself up and over the edge.

Alistair
then turned to deal with the corpse. But as he bent toward it, the
body slumped and the dirt—turning to mud—beneath
Alistair's feet shifted and slid away. He edged back, tightly
clutching the rope, and listened to the rattling dirt and rocks
falling into the darkness below.

"Alistair,"
Mirabel called. "Please."

"I
can't leave him—it—here."

He
reached again for Finch, but as he moved, the mud beneath the corpse
sagged, and the body slid out of reach. Another piece of the shaky
ledge gave way.

The
rain fell faster and heavier, beating on Alistair's head. Mud and
pebbles rained down, too, from the disintegrating rim of the hole.

The
rope was wet, his hands numb. Merely standing still, putting little
weight upon it, he could barely hold on, and the ground beneath his
feet was crumbling away. If he tried to climb, and put his full
weight on the rope, he'd lose his hold and fall. If he tried to climb
the crumbling shaft wall, it would collapse on him.

He
looked up at the face he could barely see. He didn't need to see it.
He had her memorized, carved into his heart. "I love you,"
he said.

MIRABEL
understood what was happening, why he said the three words.

The
hole was caving in, and he was going to be buried alive.

She
was vaguely aware of a voice, some distance behind her. An unfamiliar
voice, talking to her father. She couldn't make out the words, didn't
care. All her consciousness was riveted upon the man below. Her heart
was pounding in her ears. She had to get down there somehow. She had
to help him. She couldn't lose him. She wouldn't.

Then
Papa called out, "It's all right, my dear. We've run the rope
through the stirrup leather. The horse will pull him out. I'll guide
the animal. You assist Mr. Carsington."

"The
rope's wet," Alistair told her. "I can't pull myself up,
and the shaft wall is likely to give way if I try to get a toehold."

"No,
don't try it, sir," came the stranger's voice. Its owner lay
down on his stomach next to Mirabel. "Just leave it to us to
pull you up."

They
let down more rope, and the man told Alistair to loop it about his
waist, then round his hand.

"We're
going to tow you," the man said.

Mirabel
couldn't speak. She could scarcely breathe. She didn't think, but
blindly did as she was told.

It
was slow, and twice he slid back, but with the stranger's help, they
got Alistair up. A mere six lifetimes later, his ice-cold hand was
grasping hers.

Another
minute and they'd pulled him out and over the edge. He was wet and
filthy, and probably in unimaginable pain, but he was safe, and she
dared to breathe again.