Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(82)

“God, I hope so,” Thomas Bowman said fervently. “Nothing would delight me more than to see Waring and those two bumbling idiots being forced to return to Stony Cross Manor with Swift.”

The carriage slowed and came to an abrupt halt, the rain pounding like fists against the lacquered exterior.

“What’s this?” Bowman lifted the curtain to peer outside the window, but could see nothing except blackness and water pouring down the glass.

“Damn it,” Marcus said.

A panicked thumping at the door, and it was wrenched open. The driver’s white face appeared. With his black top hat and cloak blending into the gloom, he looked like a disembodied head. “Milord,” he gasped, “there’s been an accident ahead—ye must come see—”

Marcus sprang out of the carriage, a shock of cold rain striking him with stunning force. He yanked the carriage lantern from its holder and followed the driver to a creek crossing just ahead.

“Christ,” Marcus whispered.

The carriage carrying Waring and Matthew had stopped on a simple wooden beam bridge, one side of which had twisted away from the bank and was now angled diagonally across the creek. The force of the raging current had collapsed part of the bridge, leaving the carriage’s back wheels half-submerged in the water while the team of horses struggled in vain to pull it out. Swaying back and forth in the water like a child’s toy, the bridge threatened to detach from the other bank.

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.