Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(83)

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.