Jamie kept his head down and fervently hoped Christian would hear his own words. In case he hadn’t, Jamie glanced around—at the fire, at the big armchair beside it, at the chessboard moved to one side. “But you’re here—why can’t I stay with you?” Finally, he glanced up and met Christian’s eyes. “I won’t make any noise.”
His lips set, Christian stared at him. Then he stated, “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to the lake myself, and you’re going to come with me. We’ll stick to the south side, and you can get back on the ice there. Do you have your skates?”
Jamie ducked his head and mumbled, “I left them with Grandmama.”
“Good. We’ll fetch them, and you can go out where it’s easiest and less crowded, then once you’re comfortable, you can join the other children.”
And, thought Jamie, having reached the lake, with luck you’ll join the others on the shore.
Then it would be up to him, George, and Lottie to steer Miss Eugenia to wherever his lordship was.
Jamie knew well enough to pretend to be deeply reluctant, to figuratively drag his heels, but having determined on his path, Christian was ruthless in chivvying him along. After striding into the hall and returning shrugging on his greatcoat and with a thick scarf flapping about his neck, Christian tugged on his gloves, seized his cane from where it stood against the side of his chair, and bundled Jamie back out onto the terrace.
From there, they strode across the gardens, through the stable yard, and onto the bridle path leading through the woods to the lake.
As they walked, Christian continued to hear his own words ringing in his brain. It might take a bit of courage, but hiding away from the challenge will do you no good at all. Jamie might be hiding from skating, but he? He’d been hiding from life.
He couldn’t justify doing so any longer. After the re-enactment of the nativity and his appearance among the villagers—and the response of the boys, or rather, lack of it, to his disfigured face—what was he hiding from?
Now he’d posed the question, he honestly didn’t know.
“There’ll be cakes and pies afterward,” he said, whether to himself or to Jamie he wasn’t sure.
The bridle path, along which he often rode, was reasonably well surfaced, wide, and clear of obstacles. Even with him being extra wary because of his injured leg, in less than ten minutes, they could see the lake glimmering through the trees. For the latter half of its length, the bridle path followed the rise that ran above the valley. Consequently, the end of the path lay most of the way up the slope above the lake.
As he and Jamie emerged from the woods, Christian halted to take in the sight below—the wide expanse of the lake, the ice reflecting the winter sky and so appearing a silvery gray-blue, the small figures of the village skaters sweeping, waltzing, and whirling over the surface—and the faint shushing sound made by the skates that rose in the still air in between outbursts of laughter and calls.
He was about to start walking down the slope when a flurry of movement farther up the lake caught his eye. He paused, eyes narrowing to bring the figures, even smaller due to the distance, into sharper focus…
“Good lord.” He stared.
“What?” Too short to see over the trees bordering the northern section of the lake, Jamie looked up at him.
“Henry’s four friends.” Christian watched for several seconds more, then swore. “Damn them! The idiots have gone onto the lake at the northern end, at the outlet of the stream. The lake is deepest there, and it’s protected by the trees—the ice is always thinnest in that spot, and those four are clowning about and jumping up and down.” It would take only one of them to leap on one of the others in the center of that area, and they’d crack the surface.
“I don’t think,” Jamie said, “that anyone will care if they fall in and get soaked.” Judiciously, he added, “Assuming, of course, that they can swim.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about.” Christian scanned those on the ice—the younger half of the village spread out across the middle of the lake where it was widest and, in general, safest—and felt a chill touch his soul. “If they crack the ice at the northern end this early in the season, the cracks can spread… I’ve seen it happen before.”
Long, long ago, yet the memory was too vivid to ignore.
Jaw setting, he started down. “Come on—first things first. I’ll have a word with those idiots before we see about getting you on your skates again.”
Jamie gamely kept pace as Christian strode determinedly down the slope, more or less forgetting to use his cane. He was halfway down and almost jogging when an incredibly loud, ear-splitting crack! splintered the moment.
Activity on the ice slowed. People looked around, confused as to where the sound had come from. Christian was already too far down the slope to see into the northern arm of the lake, but he knew where the danger lay, knew where next to look.
Thin jagged lines started appearing on the surface of the ice sheet, crack by small crack extending south from the lake’s northern end, second by second insidiously creeping toward where half the village now stood unsuspecting on the ice.
Christian doubled his pace. Running, he waved his arms and roared, “Everyone off the ice! It’s cracking! Get everyone to shore—now!”
His voice carried clearly in the sudden hush. His tone left no one in any doubt of the threat. For a split second, those on the ice remained frozen…then they leapt to obey.
Christian slowed as he saw the adults on the ice gathering the children and directing the older ones to pick up the youngest and skate quickly for the shore. He could still see the cracks advancing, but it seemed everyone would be off in time.
His gaze scanning the line of skaters reaching the shore, without conscious thought, he searched for one particular head…then he saw Eugenia Fitzgibbon skating slowly in, scanning the retreating backs as she came toward shore.
Ensuring the safe retreat, making sure everyone was there.
Then one little boy—was he Daniel Bilson’s Billy?—called out something and pointed—past Eugenia.
She came to an abrupt, ice-scraping stop and swung around.
Christian had reached the shore by then; he had to stand on his toes to see what she was looking at…
Then he heard her call—and she pushed off and skated out again.
As she leant forward, skating fast, he saw what she was so frantically skating for—a little girl crouched on the ice, right out in the middle of the lake, farther than most of the skaters had gone. The child was hunched, head down, apparently scratching patterns in the surface with a twig.
Why hadn’t the child reacted? Regardless, she hadn’t, and she didn’t seem to hear any of the frantic cries from shore.
Christian looked at the encroaching cracks. Then he looked at the child and Eugenia.
Danny Bilson, a man of about thirty and as heavy as his father, the butcher, grabbed someone’s skates and struggled to put them on; from the murmurs, Christian gathered the girl was his daughter, Annie.
“Don’t!” Christian’s sharp order had Danny looking up; Christian caught his eyes. “You can’t go out there. None of us can.” He looked out at Eugenia Fitzgibbon as she neared the child and slowed. “Any extra weight will only make it more certain the ice will crack through, and they won’t get back.”
Danny Bilson stared at him, then the big man’s shoulders slumped. Together with everyone else, he looked helplessly out at the lake.
Eugenia had halted a foot from the girl. From the direction of Eugenia’s gaze, she’d seen the approaching cracks and recognized the danger. Wisely, she didn’t pick up the little girl, nor did she panic her. But she had to crouch down to get the little girl’s attention. Once she did, she spoke to the girl’s face, then took the girl’s hand.
When Eugenia straightened, the little girl stood with her. She wobbled on her tiny skates, but then steadied. She was small and young—barely five, Christian thought. The second of twins; it was her bro
ther who had raised the alarm.
Slowly, talking to the girl as she drew her along, Eugenia started back to the shore.
A deeper, menacing crack from the lake’s northern arm, followed by a faint slapping sound, told those who knew that the ice sheet was broken through, at least in that spot.
The villagers collectively held their breaths.
The cracks continued to inch across the lake, spreading like a spiderweb.
Christian studied them, then he turned his head. Hendricks and Jiggs were at his back. “Rope,” he said, his voice low, his tone urgent. “As much of it as you can find—as fast as you can, bring it here.”
Reverend Colebatch appeared beside Jiggs. The minister’s face was pale, but composed. He’d held the living there for nearly all of Christian’s life; he knew the danger two of his flock were in. “The vicarage is nearest. The shed at the end of the garden. There’s two long ropes coiled just inside on the left.”
Christian looked at Jiggs. “Fetch them.”
Jiggs was off on the instant. He grabbed Rory Whitesheaf, groom at the Arms, as he went past; Jiggs gabbled his mission, then Rory raced with him up the slope.
Christian returned to watching Eugenia and the child’s slow progress.
He’d been in too many battles to have much faith left, yet along with everyone else there, he prayed.
There was barely a murmur as, stride by slow stride, Eugenia led the little girl closer.
Logic and reason told him the pair wouldn’t make it to shore, that the ice would crack beneath them when they were still over deep water, but along with everyone else, he still hoped…
It happened in a blink. The ice shattered all around the pair, and they fell into the inky blackness of the freezing lake.
A collective agonized gasp rose from those watching.
Then Eugenia’s head bobbed up; she wrestled and struggled, and then she was grimly holding Annie’s head above the freezing water.
“No! Stop!” Christian shouted at Henry and Danny, both of whom had instinctively started forward onto the ice. “You’ll only make it worse.”
Eugenia and the child had only minutes left before they froze too badly to help any rescuer, and lifting a dead weight out of a hole like that would be well-nigh impossible. Not before they were too far gone to be revived.
A pounding rush and a flurry behind him told Christian that Jiggs and Ray had brought the ropes.
Christian turned. He grabbed the end of one rope and tied it about his waist. As he did, he said to the men who were gathering around, “I’m the slightest—the tallest and leanest—of the lot of you. Barring only Jiggs, and I’m stronger than Jiggs. So it’s me who has to go out.” He handed the other end of his rope to Hendricks. “Wait for my signal, then pull me back.”
He seized the end of the second rope and held it out to Henry and Danny Bilson. “Here—I’ll tie the other end about them, and then you can pull them in.”
All protests died. At the very last instant, Christian’s gaze fell on his cane, lying at his feet where he’d dropped it. An image flashed into his mind. He bent and swiped up the cane in one gloved hand.
He didn’t even risk stepping onto the ice—he crawled onto it. On hands and knees, concentrating on what he could feel of the movement of the ice beneath him, as fast as he could, he headed for the hole where Eugenia still doggedly clung to the side and, with her other hand, kept the child’s face, already blue, above the water.
Ten yards from the hole, Christian felt the easing of the ice beneath him, heard the quiet little pops, and went flat on his stomach. As rapidly as possible, he pulled himself along.
When he was a yard from the edge of the hole, Eugenia’s lips set, and with an almighty effort, she hauled the little girl up and free of the water and half flung, half pushed her at Christian.
He caught the girl’s sodden skirts and pulled her to him. He set aside his cane and rapidly tied the second rope securely about the girl’s limp form, then he swiveled and looked back, signaled, and Danny Bilson, aided by Henry and others, rapidly pulled the unconscious child to shore.
Turning back to the hole, Christian grasped his cane and edged forward. Of course, now they had only one rope, but they would manage. He just had to get Eugenia clear of the hole.
He felt the ice crack, and the section beneath his shoulders and chest dipped. For a second, he held his breath, held still. He could feel the edge of the section that had broken free poking upward under his rib cage. When nothing more dramatic happened, he raised his gaze and locked his eyes on Eugenia’s.
Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably, but she clung to his gaze with…hope.
She believed in him. In that moment, he believed in himself.
Moving slowly, he extended the cane. With his arm stretched to its full length, the head of the cane hovered a foot before Eugenia’s face.
“I can’t come closer. The ice will crack if I do. You need to grab the cane and hold on—”
She dragged her arm up. In her current condition, the sodden weight of her sleeve made even that a massive effort. But she was still wearing her fine kid gloves. The leather allowed her to grip the cane tightly.
Christian recaptured her gaze. “Good. Now the other hand.”
She needed to trust him and release her grip on the side of the hole—the only thing keeping her head above water.
“As soon as you get both hands on the cane, I’m going to pull you toward me. I think the ice in front of me will dip, and you’ll be able to slide on your front onto it. Then we can both get pulled back—”
She’d dropped her gaze from his face to the head of the cane, to her left hand wrapped about the silver head. Her breaths were coming short and fast. Whether she’d heard his words, or whether she’d understood without them, she suddenly let go of the ice and locked both hands about the cane.
She went under the surface again.
His own breath stuck in his chest, Christian hauled on the cane. Hand over hand, as quickly as he could while keeping the pull even, he drew her toward him.
Her weight on the other end of the cane didn’t ease; she hung on—desperately clung to life.
And as he’d hoped—as he’d prayed—her head rose above the black water again, closer now, on his side of the hole, and then the ice at the edge of the hole dipped, the edge beneath his ribs rising even as he started to squirm backward as fast as he could.
She slumped onto the ice, her head, her shoulders, almost to her waist. Her eyes were closed, her features tinged blue. Her lips were parted. But still she clung to the cane.
He paused to take rapid stock, then he pulled her closer still until he could lock his hands about hers where they gripped the head of the cane.
“I can’t risk pulling you nearer.” She might not be conscious, yet if she was, she would hear. “Our combined weights might be too much.” He lifted one hand and, without turning to look back, signaled to those on shore. “Just hold on.” He’d started to shiver, too. He clamped his hand about both of hers again and gripped hard as the rope attached to his waist went taut.
He heard shouting; he thought it was Hendricks, the ex-sergeant booming orders, then the rope started to drag him slowly toward the shore. Her legs and feet came out of the hole without catching, then he and she were sliding freely and smoothly over the ice, back to safety.
How many hands were on the rope he couldn’t see, but once free of the hole, they were whisked across the ice as fast as if they’d been skating.
Then his boots hit the bank, and willing hands reached to help them up.
To lift them up and gather them in. Hendricks and Jiggs supported him between them while the major untied the rope. Henry and the footman from the Hall—James—had hold of Eugenia, but she slumped limp and apparently unconscious in their arms.
It was an effort and a wrench to peel his hands from over hers, but once he had, hers slid bonelessly from the cane.
The cane fell to the grass. Instinct
ively, he bent to pick it up. As he straightened, his legs almost went from under him. The cold struck him then; he felt chilled to the marrow and strangely lightheaded.
Jiggs took the cane; someone—he thought it was Hendricks—shoved Christian down to sit on a stool.
Someone wrapped a blanket around his back and shoulders. Someone else thrust a flask of brandy into his hand.
He took a long swig. The brandy burned, but it did the trick. His lightheadedness receded. His faculties returned. After a fashion.
Rory Whitesheaf had rushed back to the Arms, hitched the carthorses to his father’s dray, and in contravention of village regulations but with the wholehearted approval of everyone there, he’d driven the dray over the green, up the rise, and down to the lake.
Henry looked stricken and helpless, then Mrs. Fitts, the Hall’s housekeeper, pushed her way through the crowd. She took one look at Eugenia lying unconscious in Henry’s arms and barked, “You and you!” She pointed at James and Billings, Henry’s groom. “You help Mr. Henry get Miss Eugenia into the back of the dray.”
Mrs. Fitts turned her gaze on Christian, then looked to where his own housekeeper, Mrs. Wright, was bustling up.
“Come on with you now, my lord.” Mrs. Wright tugged at his shoulder. “Best you get in the dray and go to the Hall, too. M’sister will see you warm and dry, and when you come home, I’ll have your dinner ready. Nothing more for you to do other than get warm and dry and that as fast as possible, so off with you now.”
Christian recalled that Mrs. Wright was Mrs. Fitts’s sister.
Apparently now taking their orders from Mrs. Wright, Hendricks and Jiggs got their hands under his arms and hoisted him to his feet. Not that he had any intention of resisting Mrs. Wright’s directive. He wanted to—needed to—see Eugenia to safety. All the way safe—until she was dry and warm and no longer lying like one dead, silent and so pale.
Henry climbed into the dray, and the others lifted Eugenia, now swathed in countless blankets, to him. He settled her on his lap. Christian slowly clambered up and, with Hendricks’s help, slumped down with his back against the dray’s low side.
Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Goose Page 16
