Scandal in Spring (32 page)

There was no way to reach the stranded carriage. The bridge had broken away on the side closest to them, and it would be suicidal to try and cross the current.

"My God, no," he heard Thomas Bowman exclaim in horror.

They could only watch helplessly as the driver of Waring's carriage fought to save the team, frantically unbuckling straps from carriage shafts.

At the same time, the uppermost door of the sinking carriage was pushed open, and a figure began to crawl out with obvious difficulty.

"Is it Swift?" Bowman demanded, going as close to the bank as he dared. "Swift!" But his bellow was swallowed in the crash of the storm and the roar of the current, and the angry creaks of the disintegrating bridge.

Then everything seemed to happen at once. The horses stumbled off the bridge to the safety of the bank. Movement on the bridge, a dark figure or two, and with a chilling, almost majestic slowness the heavy carriage eased into the water. It half-sank, retaining marginal buoyancy for a few moments…but then the carriage lanterns were extinguished, and the vehicle drifted sideways as the raging current swept it downstream.

* * *

Daisy had slept only fitfully, unable to stop her racing thoughts. She had woken repeatedly in the night, wondering what would happen to Matthew. She was afraid for his well-being. Only the knowledge that Westcliff was with him— or at least close by— kept her reasonably calm.

She kept reliving the moments in the parlor when Matthew had finally revealed the secrets of his past. How vulnerable and alone he had looked. What a burden he had carried all these years…and what courage and imagination it had taken for him to reinvent himself.

Daisy knew she wasn't going to be able to wait in Hampshire for very long. She wanted desperately to see Matthew, to reassure him, to defend him against the world if necessary.

Earlier in the evening Mercedes had asked Daisy if the revelations about Matthew had affected her decision to marry him.

"Yes," Daisy had replied. "It's made me even more determined than before."

Lillian had joined the conversation, admitting that she was far more predisposed to like Matthew Swift after what they had learned about him. "Although," she had added, "it would be rather nice to know what your future married name is going to be."

"Oh, what's in a name?" Daisy had quoted, pulling a piece of paper from a lap desk and fidgeting with it.

"What are you doing?" Lillian had asked. "Don't say you're going to write a letter
now
?"

"I don't know what to do," Daisy had admitted. "I think I should send word to Annabelle and Evie."

"They'll find out soon enough from Westcliff," Lillian said. "And they won't be one bit surprised."

"Why do you say that?"

"With your fondness for stories with dramatic twists and characters with mysterious pasts, it's a foregone conclusion you wouldn't have a quiet, ordinary courtship."

"Be that as it may," Daisy had replied wryly, "a quiet, ordinary courtship sounds
very
appealing at the moment."

After a restless sleep, Daisy awakened in the morning as someone entered the room. At first she assumed it was the maid come to light the grate, but it was too early. Daybreak had not yet arrived, and the rain had slowed to a sullen drizzle.

It was her sister.

"Good morning," Daisy croaked, sitting up and stretching. "Why are you up so early? Is the baby fretful?"

"No, she's resting." Lillian's voice was husky. Wearing a heavy velvet robe, her hair in a loose braid, she came to the bed with a steaming cup of tea in hand. "Here, take this."

Daisy frowned and obeyed, watching as Lillian levered herself onto the edge of the mattress. This was not the usual pattern of things.

Something had happened.

"What is it?" she asked, a feeling of dread crawling down her spine.

Lillian nodded toward the tea cup. "It can wait until you're a bit more awake."

It was too soon for any news to have come from London, Daisy reflected. This couldn't have anything to do with Matthew. Maybe their mother had taken ill. Maybe something dreadful had happened in the village.

After downing a few swallows of tea, Daisy leaned over to set the cup on the bedside table. She returned her attention to her sister. "This is as awake as I'm going to get today," she said. "Tell me now."

Clearing her throat roughly, Lillian spoke in a thick voice. "Westcliff and Father are back."

"What?" Daisy stared at her in bewilderment. "Why aren't they in London with Matthew?"

"He's not in London either."

"Then they're all back?"

Lillian gave a stiff little shake of her head. "No. I'm sorry. I'm explaining badly. I…I'll just be blunt. Not long after Westcliff and Father left Stony Cross, their carriage had to stop because of an accident ahead at the bridge. You know that creaky old bridge you have to cross to stay on the main road?"

"The one that spans the little creek?"

"Yes. Well, the creek isn't little right now. Thanks to the storm, it's a big rushing river. And apparently the bridge was weakened by the current, and when Mr. Waring's carriage tried to cross, it collapsed."

Daisy froze in confusion.
The bridge collapsed.
She repeated the words to herself, but they seemed as impossible to interpret as some ancient forgotten language. With an effort, she gathered her wits. "Was everyone saved?" she heard herself ask.

"Everyone but Matthew." Lillian's voice shook. "He was trapped in the carriage as it was swept downstream."

"He's all right," Daisy said automatically, her heart beginning to thrash like a caged wild animal. "He can swim. He probably ended up downstream on one of the banks— someone has to look for him— "

"They're searching everywhere," Lillian said. "Westcliff is organizing a full-scale effort. He spent most of the night searching and returned a little while ago. The carriage broke into pieces as it went downstream. No sign of Matthew. But Daisy, one of the constables admitted to Westcliff…" She stopped and her brown eyes sparkled with furious tears. "…admitted…" She continued with effort. "…that Matthew's hands were tied."

Daisy's legs moved beneath the bedclothes, her knees bending, drawing up tight. Her body wanted to occupy as little physical space as possible, shrinking away from this new revelation.

"But why?" she whispered. "There was no reason."

Lillian's determined jaw quivered as she tried to regain control over her emotions. "Given Matthew's history, they said there was a risk of escape. But I think Waring insisted on it out of spite."

Daisy felt lightheaded from the thunder of her own pulse. She was frightened, and yet at the same time part of her had become bizarrely detached. Briefly she summoned an image of Matthew, struggling in dark water, his hands bound and thrashing—

"No,"
she said, pressing her palms against the violent throb of her temples. It felt as if nails were being driven into her skull. She couldn't breathe well. "He had no chance, did he?"

Lillian shook her head and looked away. Drops of water fell from her face to the counterpane.

How strange, Daisy thought, that she wasn't crying too. Hot pressure built behind her eyes, deep in her head, making her skull ache. But it seemed her tears were waiting for some thought or word that would trigger their release.

Daisy continued to hold her pounding temples, nearly blind from the pain in her head as she asked, "Are you crying for Matthew?"

"Yes." Lillian pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her robe and blew her nose roughly. "But mostly for you." She leaned close enough to wrap her arms around Daisy, as if she could protect her from all harm. "I love you, Daisy."

"I love you, too," Daisy said in a muffled voice, hurting and dry-eyed, and gasping for breath.

* * *

The search continued all that day and the next night, but all the ordinary rituals, the times for sleeping and working and eating, had lost their meaning. Only one incident managed to reach through the numb weight that pressed at Daisy from all sides, and that was when Westcliff had refused to let her come help in the search.

"You'll be of no use to anyone," Westcliff had told her, too exhausted and bedeviled to exercise his usual tact. "It's dangerous and difficult out there with the water so high. At best you'll be a distraction. At worst, you'll get hurt."

Daisy had known he was right, but that didn't stop a flare of outrage. The feeling, startling in its force, threatened to disintegrate her control, and so she had hurriedly withdrawn back into herself.

Matthew's body might never be found. That was too cruel to bear, the fate of having to reconcile herself to that. Somehow a disappearance was even worse than a death— it was as if he had never existed at all, leaving nothing to mourn over. She had never understood before why some people needed to see the body of a loved one after they had died. Now she did. It was the only way to end this waking nightmare and perhaps find the release of tears and pain.

"I keep thinking I should know if he were dead," she told Lillian as she sat on the floor next to the parlor hearth. An old shawl was wrapped around her, comforting in its time-worn softness. Despite the heat of the fire, the layers of her clothing, the mug of brandied tea in her hands, Daisy couldn't seem to get warm. "I should feel it. But I can't feel anything, it's as if I've been frozen alive. I want to hide somewhere. I don't want to bear this. I don't want to strong."

"You don't have to be," Lillian said quietly.

"Yes I do. Because the only other choice is to let myself break into a million pieces."

"I'll hold you together. Every single piece."

A paper-thin smile touched Daisy's lips as she stared into her sister's concerned face. "Lillian," she whispered. "What would I do without you?"

"You'll never have to find out."

It was only the prodding of her mother and sister that induced Daisy to take a few bites of supper. She drank a full glass of wine, hoping it would distract her from the endless circling of her mind.

"Westcliff and Father should be back soon," Lillian said tensely. "They've had no rest and likely nothing to eat."

"Let's go to the parlor," Mercedes suggested. "We can distract ourselves with cards, or perhaps you might read aloud from one of Daisy's favorite books."

Daisy gave her an apologetic glance. "I'm sorry, I can't. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to be alone upstairs."

After she had washed and changed into her nightclothes, Daisy glanced at the bed. Even though she was tipsy and weary, her mind rejected the notion of sleep.

The house was quiet as she went to the Marsden parlor, her bare feet touching shadows that crossed the carpeted floor like dark vines. A single lamp sent a yellow glow through the parlor, light catching in faceted crystals that hung from the shade and sending scattered dots of white over the flower-papered walls. A pile of printed flotsam and jetsam had been left by the settee: periodicals, novels, a thin volume of humorous poetry she had read aloud to Matthew, watching for the elusive smiles on his face.

How was it that everything had changed so quickly? How could life so cavalierly pick someone up and set them on a new and violently unwanted path?

Daisy sat on the carpet beside the pile and began to sort through it slowly…one pile to be brought to the library, another to be taken to the villagers on visiting day. But perhaps it wasn't wise to attempt this after so much wine. Instead of forming two neat piles, the reading materials ended up scattered around her like so many abandoned dreams.

Crossing her legs, Daisy leaned against the side of the settee and rested her head on the upholstered edge. Her fingers encountered the cloth covering on one of the books. She glanced at it with half-closed eyes. A book had always been a door to another world…a world much more interesting and fantastical than reality. But she had finally discovered that life could be even more wonderful than a fantasy.

And that love could fill the real world with magic.

Matthew was everything she had ever wanted. And she'd had so little time with him.

The mantel clock rationed quiet little
ticks
with miserly slowness. As Daisy leaned against the settee half-drowsing, she heard the door creak. Her sluggish gaze followed the sound.

A man had entered the room.

He paused just inside the doorway, contemplating the sight of her on the floor with all the discarded books around her.

Daisy's eyes lifted jerkily to his face. She froze with longing and fear and terrible yearning.

It was Matthew, dressed in rough, unfamiliar clothing, his vital presence seeming to fill the room.

Afraid the vision would disappear, Daisy was as still as death. Her eyes stung and watered but she kept them open, willing him to stay.

He approached her with great care. Sinking to his haunches, he contemplated her with immeasurable tenderness and concern. One of his big hands moved, shoving aside some of the books until the space between their bodies was clear. "It's me, love," he said softly. "Everything's all right."

Daisy managed to whisper through dry lips. "If you're a ghost…I hope you haunt me forever."

Matthew sat on the floor and reached for her cold hands. "Would a ghost use the door?" he asked gently, bringing her fingers to his scratched, battered face.

The touch of his skin against her palms sent a dance of painful awareness through her. With relief Daisy finally felt the numbness thaw, her emotions unlocking, and she tried to cover her eyes. Her chest seemed to break open with sobs, the sounds raw and unrestrained.

Matthew took her hand away and pulled her firmly against him, murmuring quietly. As Daisy continued to cry he held her more tightly, seeming to understand that she needed the hard, almost hurtful pressure of his body.

"Please be real," she gasped. "Please don't be a dream."

"I'm real," Matthew said huskily. "Don't cry so hard, there's no— oh, Daisy, love— " He gripped her head in his hands and pressed comforting words against her lips while she struggled to get even closer to him. He eased her to the floor, using the reassuring weight of his body to subdue her.