A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh

by Carolyn Miller

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “OH, MR. KIRBY! Mr. Kirby!” Caroline dropped to her knees, frantically tearing at the rocks that had smashed into his body. His bleeding body. His immobile body.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Mr. Kirby? Oh, dear God! Dear God, what do I do?”

  She sank to her knees and leaned close over his face, lifting a dirt encrusted finger to trace his cheek. He did not move. His head bore the gaping wound of a rock smashed into his skull, the blood now trickling past his scalp down his forehead. She pulled at the lace fichu covering her neck and padded it to cover his wound. Blood seeped through her fingers.

  “Mr. Kirby! Oh, please do not die!”

  Breath came in short bursts. Panic clawed through her throat, expanding within her chest. What if he did die? What would people think about her? About them? Her reputation, her future prospects would all be gone! What if she never saw daylight again?

  She shook her head, willing her breathing to steady. How could she care for such things? Nothing mattered other than Mr. Kirby’s life.

  “Please, Mr. Kirby,” she begged. “Please live.”

  Breath caught on a sob. She pressed on the wound with one hand, used the other to swipe away her tears. Knew her face to now be smeared with dirt and blood.

  “God, help us, please.”

  Her words, uttered like a prayer, filled her ears. Suddenly asking someone unseen for help did not appear so very unreasonable, when she could scarcely see herself. Was prayer so very foolish after all? Was belief? Surely if it made people feel better it could not be all bad.

  Her thoughts rolled on. Was God actually interested in her, enough to show her His mercy, as Mr. Kirby had sung about earlier? Would He save them from darkness and the grave? Was it foolish to hope He might bestow another miracle, like the one concerning her grandmother’s permission that she’d been so flippant about earlier? Did He care? Or did God consider her to be more like a slave, a mere pawn in His game, much like her own parents tended to consider her, a tool for their own purposes?

  Beneath her hand came a faint stirring. The faint glow of the lantern sputtered. She could see Mr. Kirby’s eyelids flutter, the long dark lashes caressing his cheeks lift, to reveal pain-tinged gray eyes.

  The lantern flickered out.

  She shrieked. Panic rose again. “Oh, dear God, please save us!”

  Her words echoed in the darkness. Then …

  “M-miss … ?”

  The raspy voice pulled her thoughts to focus. “Mr. Kirby! You’re awake.”

  Silence, save for some faint sounds beyond the rock.

  “Mr. Kirby. Mr. Kirby!”

  Nothing.

  Then, “Miss Hatherleigh.” His voice was thin, weak. “Ah, my head.”

  He groaned, and there came a sound of shifting pebbles as if he was trying to move. She felt his arm slowly lift. “No, please do not move. You were struck by a rock, and I’m afraid you have bled quite badly.”

  “You … you are uninjured?”

  “I am quite well.” Apart from the sting of ragged fingernails, and the ache in her arms, and the panic that still swelled within, kept only at bay by her feeble prayers.

  “So … glad.” He sagged once more; she could feel his head loll to one side.

  “Mr. Kirby!”

  He gave no response, so she shifted her position and gently hoisted his head into her lap. Pressed a finger under his nose and felt the faintest hush of breath. “Dear God, don’t let him die. Please, I’ll do anything.”

  The words echoed around the chamber, striking deep within. Would she do anything? Truly?

  Her words from earlier mocked her. If—God forbid!—something happened to poor Mr. Kirby, would she really do anything to protect Emma, as she’d recklessly promised? Would she stand up to society’s scorn, the conjecture of her friends, her family? Would she be prepared to forgo her reputation in the attempt to keep her friend safe?

  The thoughts spun within. Would she truly? Or were her words mere spoken air, holding nothing of substance, nothing to rely on?

  Was her prayer much the same? Would she really do anything God required of her in order for Mr. Kirby to live? Truly?

  She glanced down, dared to trace a finger down one rough cheek, to smooth his matted hair. Her heart escalated, her senses growing tight, as if waiting for something most momentous. Would she?

  “Dear God,” she finally managed, “I promise to do anything You want if You would only keep Mr. Kirby and poor Emma safe.”

  She exhaled, feeling a weight of pressure within, ears straining, heart waiting for any kind of response. Surely it could not be that much more absurd to believe that someone invisible might wish to speak with her?

  Trust Me.

  Caroline jumped. Fear prickled her heart. Mr. Kirby had not moved, his breathing steady as if he remained asleep. Nobody else was here. Were they?

  Trust Me.

  That same neck-tingling sensation washed over her again. Who was speaking? Or had nobody spoken, and this was God’s way of letting her know He heard her prayer?

  And what did trusting in God really mean? Was it enough to hope that God would somehow magically sort things out, like a benevolent grandfather might fix a child’s broken toy? Or did trusting God mean something deeper, something like what Mr. Kirby had sung about earlier, remembering God’s mercies even in the face of certain death? Is that what gave Emma peace? Did such peace originate in those words she’d read weeks ago in Romans, that belief in Jesus Christ’s death and resurrection was enough, that even if things did not go as she might wish, she still had a sure and certain hope for eternity?

  New sensations stirred within, forcing her thoughts deeper than before. The Kirbys appeared to regard God as not just a judge but as someone who desired relationship with people, someone who treated people more as friends than slaves. Did God really want to be friends with her?

  She stilled, her soul reaching out in desperation. “God?”

  Trust Me, that small voice whispered once again.

  She blinked in the darkness. Was she mad to think the God who created the universe would actually speak to her? “Help me understand.”

  Breath shakily released as the thoughts, the emotions, of past months drew into new focus.

  Suddenly she could see how her adherence to propriety had proved a form of slavery as much as the servants’ blind obedience to Emma’s husband, something that allowed pride, allowed sin, to perpetuate. She was no better than Lord Pratt, perhaps even worse, for she had been so quick to try to hide her shortcomings with a smile and good deeds.

  But she was not good. The words from her Bible reading weeks ago sprang to mind again. So often she had not shown love; she had not been kind. She knew her heart had been poisoned by self-interest, by pride. Nausea washed within, followed by cramping shame. Oh, what measure of sinner was she to have so blindly followed her father’s decree, denying God’s existence? To have carelessly followed social rules and disregarded matters of eternity?

  “God, forgive me.” Tears leaked, as a kind of hopelessness loomed within. Oh, how she needed Him, needed His help. “God, forgive me.”

  A wrenching sob drew from her chest, followed by another, then another. She was helpless against it, her heart cramping with the pain of knowing herself to be so full of guilt. How full of pride she had been! How full of lies, saying one thing and doing another, pretending to admire then being as quick to judge as gossipy Lady Heathcote or Lady Dalrymple. She was no better. She liked being the first with gossip, regardless of how it might affect the subject of which she talked. She liked the feeling of power it gave her, to know things others didn’t, to share information for no other purpose than to appear more important than those who did not yet know.

  “God, forgive me,” she cried, tasting the salt of her tears.

  Would He forgive her? She had denied His very existence for years. But somehow in this dark and hopeless place, she could no longer believe He did not exist. Lik
e Mr. Kirby said, surely the world had to have been created by someone, the glories and patterns of nature could not be denied. Surely life, even her own life meager as it was, could not exist in a void, and be purposeless. She shook her head. Why had she never thought on this before?

  Oh, how wretched was she.

  Oh, how she needed hope.

  Oh, how she needed forgiveness.

  “God, forgive me.” A tidal wave of emotion rolled over her, so embarrassing in its magnitude that a tiny part of her was glad Mr. Kirby remained oblivious.

  When it finally subsided, and her tears dried to occasional sniffs, she exhaled once more, and sat in the silence, tear-spent and exhausted.

  The verses from Romans whispered within. “The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

  A gift, from God, to her. To refuse such a gift would be foolishness, unthinkable.

  “Lord God,” she finally dared whisper into the darkness, “I admit I do not know very much at all about this, but I am willing—no, wanting—to trust You. I know I am not good enough, but I believe that Jesus Christ’s death paid for my sin, and that You will forgive me. Please help me trust You, help me to understand what You want me to do. And please, please help us get out of here, and help poor Mr. Kirby …”

  Her eyes filled once more, but this time, instead of fear, she felt a sense, deep, deep down, that Someone was in control, and an ease within that felt a little like peace. “And, Lord, please help Emma in her awful situation, and Beatrice.” She remembered proper prayers from church. “Amen,” she said in a voice ending with a squeak.

  She exhaled once more, rubbed her aching forehead, closed her eyes, and slept.

  The faintest of sounds dragged him from his slumber. Where—?

  He couldn’t see. He couldn’t see! Had he been blinded?

  He shifted. Groaned at the ache pummeling his head. Nausea rose. Slowly subsided. What had happened?

  Eventually the swimming in his head receded to something less intense, allowing him to realize his body lay somewhere hard. Realize his head was cradled somewhere soft. That a hand lay on his chest. Whose? He moved to grasp it, felt its smoothness. From somewhere close drifted the slightest scent of lily of the valley.

  Where had he smelled that sweet scent? It had been but recently, in a moment filled with both trepidation and fulfillment. A moment of danger, of closeness …

  Remembrance struck with awful clarity. “Miss Hatherleigh?”

  A stirring came above him. He shifted a little more, felt a corresponding movement, the hand on his chest slide away.

  The noises from afar grew louder, a kind of tapping, like one imagined mining pixies might make. His lips twisted. Such fanciful notions meant this had to be a bad dream, did it not?

  He closed his eyes, only to open them again seconds later when something like a soft shout invaded his ears. So, he hadn’t been mistaken. This wasn’t a strange dream. He set himself to listen, could almost make out vague words.

  “Miss Hatherleigh?” he tried again. Heaven help them, but if that was the sound of rescuers, she would be mortified to know they had been found in such a compromising position. And heaven help him, but Gideon could barely move.

  “Careful!” a male voice, an Irish-accented voice, called. Kenmore was here?

  There was a sound of crashing stone, a sound that caused him to wince and the softness in which he lay to jerk. “Miss Hatherleigh!” he tried again.

  She released a slow sigh, which was immediately followed by far-off muffled curses, then a light pierced the darkness of the chamber through the tiny gap.

  “Gideon? Miss Hatherleigh? Are you in there?”

  It was Aidan’s voice. Relief, deep and profound, swept over him. “We’re here!” he called feebly.

  “Did you hear that?” Aidan said. “It sounded like someone responded.”

  Gideon cleared his voice. “We’re in here!” he cried more loudly. Pain pierced his temple.

  There came a corresponding sound of relief, then Aidan’s voice assuring them they would soon be released. “Is Miss Hatherleigh there with you?”

  Gideon peered up at the face washed with dirt and tears. His heart wrenched. He was a scoundrel to have his misadventure cause her so much grief. But at least they weren’t to be entombed forever. “Miss Hatherleigh,” he said urgently. She had to wake up, she had to move before it was discovered that he lay with her in such a way. “Caroline!”

  She blinked sleepily at him, her brow creasing. “What?” she squinted. “Did you manage to make the lantern work again?”

  “No, no.” He pointed feebly at the blocked cave entrance. “We are being rescued.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. Winced at the arrowing pain.

  “Oh, thank God,” she breathed, her face lighting with a dirt-smudged smile.

  She gazed at him, with such a soft look in her eyes that the sounds around him faded. They seemed to share a tender bond, something new, forged through this experience perhaps, unless it was something infinitesimally deeper, more profound.

  He neither knew nor cared what the reason might be, only that her words had triggered an assurance that this young lady did not blame him for what had occurred, and that perhaps in her he had finally found the young lady with whom he might be able to share all his adventures. God? The check in his spirit had vanished. Did this mean—?

  “Gideon?” There came the sound of more tapping, another rush of falling rock, then Aidan’s voice again. “Gideon? Miss Hatherleigh? Are you both well?”

  Gideon glanced at his companion. She nodded, her smile as balm to his heart. “She is well,” he called again.

  “And you?”

  There came another sound of muffled oaths as rocks crashed again, allowing for more light to be shone into the cavern.

  “I’m a little headsore,” Gideon admitted.

  There came a scrabbling sound, then a “Be careful, sir!” before the light was obscured for a moment. Gideon peered up.

  Aidan’s face peered down. “I see them!”

  “Thank God!” came the muffled exclamations.

  “Hello, Gideon,” said Aidan. “Good evening, Miss Hatherleigh,” he said with a grin.

  “Is it evening?” she said faintly.

  “I’m afraid so. You must forgive our tardiness, but it seems Sidmouth rock has no great desire to move.”

  “We must beg to differ,” Gideon said wryly. “Seems it moves quite quickly on occasion.”

  Aidan chuckled. “Yes, well, be assured we are doing our best to get you out as fast as we can. I’m hopeful it will be even faster when I remove myself from this position, but I had to see for myself exactly where you were to ensure you are not hurt by our excavations.” He frowned. “Miss Hatherleigh, are you able to move at all?”

  “Yes,” she said in a weak voice.

  “Then would it be too much to ask if you could possibly assist my unfortunate friend over to that ledge over there? I believe it would be safer that way.”

  “I will try.”

  Gideon’s head was gingerly removed from her lap with a whispered, “I’m sorry. I am sure it aches so.”

  He tried to reassure her, but the truth was his head felt like it had been cracked in two.

  She scrambled to her feet, her skirts covered in dirt and mud. “Here, give me your hand.”

  At her gentle tug, it felt as though his head might explode. He gritted his teeth as she gingerly wrapped an arm around his shoulders and helped him to his feet. “I feel like such a fool.”

  “Stop it. You are injured. I’m so glad I can at least help you.”

  He stumbled to the ledge, the movement causing nausea to ripple through him again. He groaned, the action triggering a paroxysm within, then to his horror, had no recourse but to cast up his accounts.

  Mortification rushed through him as he wiped his mouth. Dear God, please let none of that have splashed on Miss Hatherleigh! But wh
en he finally ventured to glance at her she seemed to regard him with something akin to pity, rather than revulsion.

  “Kirby? Are you quite all right in there?”

  “Never better,” he managed to call, before apologizing to his companion. “I am so sorry.”

  She smiled gently at him. “Please don’t even think about it. You’ve received such a nasty bump on the head I’m surprised you’re even conscious.” The faint light showed the sheen of her tears, as she added in a wavering voice, “I thank God you were not killed.”

  His throat constricted. Those were tears for him? He hated—though a tiny part of him that he despised, loved—to know his welfare mattered to her so.

  “Kirby? You are not disgracing yourself in there I hope?” Aidan called.

  Gideon winced at his friend’s unfortunate choice of words. Would that the other men with him did not misconstrue such things to cause Miss Hatherleigh embarrassment.

  “Mr. Kirby has received a very nasty knock on the head,” she called.

  “Not from your hand, I trust?” said the irrepressible Irish viscount.

  There came a barrage of guffaws from beyond the stones, drowning out Miss Hatherleigh’s gasp and his own low mutterings, which was swiftly followed by another “look out!” and the crash of tumbling stones.

  More light now revealed that a space had been created, a tunnel large enough for a slender man to crawl within. The light was briefly obliterated then grew brighter as the viscount’s form somehow scrabbled through.

  Aidan’s muffled oath as he saw the state of them gave notice of the severity of his injury. “Dear God!” He wrapped Miss Hatherleigh in a one-armed hug, before dropping to his knees to grip Gideon’s hands. “I’m ever so glad to see you again, my friend.”

  “The feeling is mutual. Although your presence is a surprise.”

  “I headed here from London as soon as your letter arrived.” His grin swiftly faded, replaced by a frown as he peered at Gideon’s head. “I don’t like the look of that at all, not that Miss Hatherleigh hasn’t done a splendid job at keeping your blood in.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” she murmured.

  “You’ve done wonderfully well,” he assured her, before turning back to Gideon. “I want to help her get out before high tide arrives.” He grimaced. “It is past our ankles already.”