A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh

by Carolyn Miller

  “What will we do?”

  She could feel him stiffen before his arm slowly dropped from around her. “I will need to ascertain whether we can squeeze through, or whether we shall have to do something else.”

  Something else? “What does that mean?”

  By the faint light glowing from the lantern, she could see him as he stripped off his coat. “It may become necessary to dig our way out.”

  “How on earth can we do that?”

  “We, or rather I, will need to remove the rocks one by one. But”—he grunted, picking up a stone from the pile—“I won’t know, until I can check, so please be patient.” He tossed the stone to the side. “You may want to pray for your grandmother’s maid.”

  “Of course.” She bit her lip. “Do you think Emma is safe?”

  “I trust so. The Ballards are with her, and Tom will get help,” he said. But the note of worry in his voice gave wings to her concern.

  Oh, dear God! What would happen if poor Emma had been struck? What if she was hurt? What if she was dead? Panic swelled within, making her breathing labored, forcing her to ever more shallow breaths.

  “Caroline, we should pray.”

  But how? She didn’t know any of the customary prayers, like those used by the minister in services. Would God even deign to listen to someone who scarcely believed in Him? What was she supposed to say?

  “Heavenly Father,” he began, “thank You for Your protection, and for keeping us safe thus far. We ask You to release us from this coil and bring us to safety. In the name of Your Son, Jesus. Amen.”

  Somehow his soothing tones brought a measure of peace, and she echoed his “Amen” weakly.

  But what did these words even mean? If God was in heaven, how could He help on earth? But wouldn’t He want to help someone like Emma? After all, she was so good. Beatrice, well, God may want to help her, too, but she didn’t seem quite so worthy of heavenly assistance.

  Mr. Kirby moved to another large rock and started to push. It refused to move. It was wedged tight. He groaned, muttered something under his breath.

  “What is it?”

  “The rock is too heavy. I cannot move it.”

  “What? You mean we are stuck here?”

  “Not yet. I’ll try another.”

  The lamplight showed that the dust was settling, so she pulled her wrap away from her mouth. The air smelled damp and musty. Still, she dragged in long drafts.

  Caroline watched as Mr. Kirby tried valiantly to shift another large stone, his back curving with the effort. He was talking to himself, muttering things that sounded like “… all things … strengtheneth me!” Yet despite his strenuous efforts, nothing budged.

  She moved beside him. “Perhaps I can help.”

  His look of surprise was chased by one of appreciation. But despite her best efforts, the rock refused to shift.

  Mr. Kirby slumped back with a gasp. “It won’t move.”

  Hope sagged. “We are trapped.”

  “For the moment.”

  Trapped. They were trapped! She tasted fear, swallowed panic. Felt her chest tighten as the terror soared again. “Beatrice! Mr. Ballard! Help us!”

  The scream echoed through the small chamber, ringing through her ears, resounding in her heart. A violent trembling shook her body, dread making her next shriek louder, higher. “Help! Help!”

  Mr. Kirby drew near, holding her upper arms, gently stroking them as she might soothe Mittens in a thunderstorm. “Miss Hatherleigh, please, I need you to be brave.”

  “I am being brave,” she gasped.

  “Of course, but I mean really brave. We may well be here for a while before we are rescued, and it won’t do us any good if you start panicking. You will exhaust yourself.”

  “But it might happen again! What if the ceiling collapses? What if you are struck on the head? What if you collapse and die and I am stuck here all alone?”

  “Then one day you might find your bones picked over by a mad scientist who will visit this site with a young lady who will exclaim over the smoothness of the bones.”

  She stared at him, jaw sagging. “You are making light of this?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “I … I cannot believe you!”

  “What is the alternative? We spend the next few hours crying and panicking? How will that help anything?”

  Gradually his response—or lack of one—stole into her senses. Perhaps he was right. After all, panicking wasn’t going to help anyone. “You … you are not very sympathetic,” she finally managed.

  “I tend to be more pragmatic, it’s true,” he said. “But surely you would prefer that to someone who is panicking worse than you?”

  He demonstrated, giving a series of short gasps, fanning his face as if he were an overheated young lady at a ballroom.

  Her gaze narrowed. “Now you are making sport of me.”

  “Not at all,” he averred. “I am merely enjoying you.”

  His words, uttered as they were in that surprisingly serious tone, made her forget their predicament for a few moments, touching her deep within. Did he truly enjoy her company? Even when she was startled into panic? The thought made her pull her spine in, and determine to be braver than she felt. “I am not used to cave-ins.”

  “And here I was thinking you experienced them on a weekly basis.”

  A chuckle broke past her indignation. “You are quite abominable.”

  “I know,” he said humbly. “It would seem that I am past hope, though perhaps not past praying for.” He returned to the rocks, lifting and shifting the smaller ones aside. “Tell me, my dear Miss Hatherleigh, would you do me the honor of praying for me?”

  “I …” What was she supposed to say? Why did his words leave her feeling off-kilter? “Oh, very well.”

  “Thank you.” He glanced over his shoulder, smile glinting. “I believe there are some who might think me so reprehensible that I would require very regular prayers. At least on a daily basis.”

  “A daily basis?”

  “Perhaps even an hourly basis. I am sure your grandmother would be one of those thinking I might require precisely that.”

  His words were enough to make her wonder again about what exactly had transpired between him and Grandmama earlier. Whatever it was had been enough to win her approval, although she imagined Grandmama would never have envisaged something of this nature to occur.

  Swallowing a sigh, she moved alongside him once more, determined to show him she was braver than he supposed, and tugged at the rocks to release a smaller one. Wryness twisted her lips. These gloves would be fit for nothing save the bin once this ordeal was over.

  Now that her initial panic had abated, the cavern’s dimness, lit only by the lamp, held a companionable feel, his grunts of exertion and her stifled sighs breaking down any remaining barriers between them, leading her to ask the questions she had wondered over for several hours now. “You must have had quite the conversation with my grandmother.”

  “She was not nearly as formidable as I had supposed. Whether that remains the case after this misadventure, however …”

  “You cannot be blamed. You did not know that this would happen.”

  “Ah, but I promised her you would be safe.”

  “And so I am,” she insisted. “And with you here, I cannot be lonely.”

  “No, indeed,” he said thoughtfully. “Neither one of us will be quite alone.”

  The intent look in his eyes only intensified, leaving her further disconcerted. Did he mean to suggest that being alone together like this might lead to far-reaching permanent consequences? She knew what society would say must happen when a young lady was found to have been alone with a young man.

  She swallowed, and glanced away. “Should we try to cry for help again?”

  “If it makes you feel better. I’m sure Tom has sought help by now.”

  “Then why can’t I hear anyone?”

  They stood, listening carefully to the entry chamber.
Nothing, not even the sound of breathing. Oh, dear God—was Beatrice dead? She gasped.

  “What is it, Miss Hatherleigh?”

  “Do—do you think Beatrice is alive?”

  His gaze softened, and he reached out a hand to clasp her elbow. “We heard her groans before, so we trust God she still is.”

  The element of doubt in his voice pricked tears. She tried to sniff them away. “But if she is dead, then it is my fault and Grandmama will never forgive me.”

  “I rather think she will never forgive me,” he said, with no small degree of dryness. “Miss Hatherleigh, do not worry about this. Worry certainly won’t change anything. And please know I will do all I can to protect you.”

  She dragged in a deep breath, working to keep the fear at bay. Mr. Kirby might not precisely accord with her mother’s idea of a gentleman, but he certainly possessed something of the gallant about him. “You are right, of course. Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.” He added in an undertone, “On my side at least.”

  He blamed himself for this? “But you could not have known.”

  “I confess that I was excited about the find, but I should have more thoroughly ascertained the safety before allowing you to come with me.”

  “Do not blame yourself. I do not.”

  “Well, that is something at least. I appreciate your graciousness, Miss Hatherleigh.”

  Graciousness certainly wasn’t a word she had heard applied to her character before, but she found she quite liked it. It was a quality to aspire to. Very well. In the spirit of her newly adopted quality of character she said as graciously as she knew, “Do not trouble yourself, sir.”

  His lips curved, as if amused. “Ah, but I’m afraid that in order to gain our escape I cannot afford to be untroubled.” He gestured to the rocks. “I’m afraid these will not shift by themselves.”

  “I can help you—”

  “Thank you, but I would feel more comfortable if you did not strain yourself anymore.”

  “Why? Do you think there will be another rockfall?”

  “I hope not.” He grasped the lantern and swung it in a wide arc, peering most intently at the rockfall, where some rocks remained precariously poised. “I trust you will be safe over here,” he said, gesturing to a small ledge. “It would appear to be safeguarded against further falls, at least from overhead.”

  She shivered.

  He drew close again. “Are you cold?”

  Caroline denied it, but soon her chattering teeth gave evidence to the contrary.

  “Come.” He drew her into the broad expanse of his chest, and rubbed her back in gentle soothing circles.

  Her breath suspended, then slowly released in a long silent sigh as her shoulders relaxed. Though it was hard to truly relax in his embrace, conscious as she was of the intimacy, at the closeness she had never before experienced with any man—even her own father was not given to embraces! She knew such things would be considered most improper, that if it were made known the scandal would ensure her reputation irretrievably lost, but somehow her body refused to move, her bones feeling like liquid, her limbs betraying her sensibilities by puddling into mush. She should move, but the strength evident in his arms gave rise to such feelings of safety and protection, and foolish notions that he would cherish her all his days. She slowly inhaled, drawing in his scent of moss and leather, a scent that stirred awareness deep within, feelings coursing through her she had never known before. Oh, she never wanted to leave …

  “I hope you don’t think my actions too familiar,” he murmured against her hair, “but I know sometimes Emma appreciates such things when she is chilled.”

  Chagrin filled her. He only comforted her because he thought her cold? Oh, how she had misread things!

  But then, as she noticed the thump of his heart in her ear increase, and his scent start to tantalize her senses, and the way his hand’s gentle pat slowed to something more … something more caressing, she thought perhaps she had not misread things after all.

  His hold tightened, then he pulled away suddenly, leaving her with a strange mix of feeling bereft, feeling shameless, and yet further guilt at feeling unsatisfied. What kind of wanton young woman was she? This was certainly not how a daughter of Aynsley behaved—Mama would have a fit!

  After a moment waiting for the embarrassment to subside from her cheeks, she peeked at him. Despite the dim light she could see his look of discomfiture, which renewed her mortification. Was his offering comfort and warmth so terrible? Or was she terrible for enjoying it so much?

  Heart still aflutter, she stripped off the remnants of her gloves, working to clear the tremble from her voice. “So, what do we do now?”

  “I … I don’t know. I will continue shifting rocks, but I fear it will take quite some time.”

  “Is there an alternative route?” She gestured to the back of the cavern. “Have you ever explored beyond this main room?”

  “Well, no. Once I saw the bones in this section I had no wish but to see what else this room contained. When I saw that this was the only deposit here I had no interest in seeing if the cave held anything more.” He lifted the lamp, his face illuminated. “Looks like now might be the time to do so.”

  “Indeed,” she said drily, then, conscious just how much she sounded like Mama, chased it with a small smile.

  His features eased a mite. “I am so dreadfully sorry for causing this trouble.”

  “I came of my own free will.”

  “I just hope—” He stopped, swallowed. “I will see if I can find another way. I confess I do not much like my chances.”

  “You wish me to stay here? Alone? What if there is another rockfall?”

  His worried face smoothed. “If you stay near this ledge then you should be safe.” He moved as if to go.

  “But what about the lantern—oh, I see.”

  He gave a somewhat rueful looking smile. “I’m afraid it will be much faster to ascertain if there is an alternative exit with the use of a lantern than without. But please, do not fear, I expect I shan’t be long.” His lips pushed up. “If it is any comfort, I will sing so you know exactly where I am.”

  He sang as well? What could this man not do? “Very well.”

  Seconds later, a baritone voice filled the space, the words of the hymn sung on Sunday providing a modicum of reassurance as the speck of light moved away.

  She stifled the fears, working to let the words comfort.

  “Give to our God immortal praise, Mercy and truth are all His ways, Wonders of grace to God belong, Repeat His mercies in your song.”

  Was it sacrilegious to think such circumstances not exactly proof of God’s mercy? But perhaps it was God’s mercy that they had not died. And that Emma was—hopefully—safe outside. And that if Caroline had to be trapped with anyone in a cave, it might as well be with a scientist of undergroundology. Especially this particular intriguing undergroundologist …

  Caroline peered through the darkness at the speck of light as the singing ceased. “Mr. Kirby?”

  No response.

  “Mr. Kirby?” she called again, louder this time.

  There came the distant sound of rocks being moved, of pebbles scattering. Then the light disappeared to her straining eyes. He had gone? He had gone!

  She was alone.

  Darkness pressed in, the comfort of the earlier song dissipating like morning mist. Her chest grew tight, her skin grew clammy. He had abandoned her!

  Suddenly the singing resumed, a sound that jolted her heart.

  “He sent His Son with power to save, From guilt and darkness and the grave, Wonders of grace to God belong, Repeat His mercies in your song.”

  Her heart clutched at the words. How she wanted to believe that God would save them from this darkness, from this grave! Mr. Kirby seemed to believe it. When he sang, his words held nothing of the polite warble that she was used to hearing from the congregants on Sundays. Instead, his singing conveyed heartfelt, passio
nate conviction.

  Moments later the light reappeared, then grew larger, as the form of Mr. Kirby drew near in the darkness.

  “Miss Hatherleigh,” he called. “I apologize for alarming you.”

  “You … you have returned,” she finally managed, hand on her pounding heart. “That is enough.”

  He drew nearer. “I am sorry for causing you concern.”

  At the sight of his softened expression her chest tightened then released. Really, she was being most nonsensical to imagine he thought of her in any way. And she was being even more nonsensical to want him to! She pressed down the foolish inner protests at such a denial and said, in a voice she hoped was not too unsteady, “Did you find anything?”

  He grimaced, then said, “I have not found an alternative exit, I’m afraid.”

  “But you found something,” she pressed. “The light disappeared, and you stopped singing.”

  “Did I? How foolish of me.”

  “What did you discover?”

  He paused for a long moment, long enough for her to grow uneasy. “I’m afraid I discovered something that I do not think you will be best pleased to hear.”

  “What is it?”

  “It appears this cave is not just something that holds clues to an ancient past, but …”

  “But what? What is it you have found?”

  He swallowed, then looked gravely into her eyes. “It appears it is also used by some of the local free traders.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HE WATCHED THE moment that sank in, that she realized he talked about—

  “Smugglers?” Her hand crept to her mouth. “Do you mean to say smugglers are here? No! Oh no.”

  As she started to tremble violently he grasped her upper shoulders. “No, no. Miss Hatherleigh, we are the only ones here now, I assure you. But there appears to be evidence that certain others have felt this to be an effective hiding spot, and they have left certain evidence behind.”

  “What sort of evidence?” she asked, eyes wide.

  He could not permit her to see the barrels and crates bound with ropes. It was enough she now knew. If—no, when—the smugglers learned of his and Miss Hatherleigh’s sojourn in the cave, they would naturally suspect them to have discovered the free traders’ secrets. Gideon’s only hope of securing her safety was to ensure she did not see the evidence, so she could truthfully deny all knowledge of such things.