Things Half in Shadow (34 page)

A second later, the brougham's horses overtook us. The steed closest to our coach barreled directly into the still-open door, wrenching it backward. The door slammed against the side of the coach, swinging back only after the horse passed. But then the brougham also smashed into it, this time tearing it clean off its hinges. The door fell into the street, the brougham rumbling over it.

“He's trying to kill us!” Lucy gasped.

I nodded in fear. “I believe he is.”

“Edward, what should we do?”

“Slow down, let him pass, and hopefully get away from him.”

Only, Thomas did the opposite, mightily lashing the horses until they increased their speed. We were now running side by side with the brougham, a mere six inches between us. We raced down the street that way, neither one slowing, not even when the mud was replaced by the clatter of wood. Out the window, I saw dark sky above and even darker water below.

Somehow, we had been chased onto Spring Garden Street and the wire bridge that spanned the Schuylkill River.

The horses of both vehicles, now unencumbered by street muck, raced over the bridge. First we pulled ahead, then our rival took the lead. Soon we were parallel again, which is when the brougham jerked to the left and slammed into the side of Lucy's coach.

The coach tilted briefly onto its two left wheels before rocking back onto all four. Lucy yelped and pressed herself against my side. I could do little to protect her, especially when the brougham
rammed into us a second time. The only weapon I had was my voice, which shouted at full volume in the faint hope Thomas could hear me.

“Slow down, Thomas! For God's sake, slow down!”

I don't know if he heard me or if common sense at last took control, but Thomas yanked on the reins, slowing our horses considerably. The brougham continued onward, rumbling past us. As it did, I caught another glimpse of the noseless man in the window. He was, quite incredibly, smiling at us. He even waved—a gesture as surprising as it was infuriating.

Thankfully, Thomas brought the horses to a stop while the massive brougham continued to roll across the bridge.

“Are you all right?” I asked Lucy, who gave me a single, uncertain nod. “Good. I'll go check on Thomas.”

Lucy nodded again, this time in gratitude. I slipped out the hole in the coach's side where the door had once been and called up to Thomas.

“How are you doing up there? Are you hurt?”

He gave no answer. Instead, he looked past the panting Cleveland Bays, toward the opposite end of the bridge. Following his gaze, I saw what concerned him.

The brougham had turned around on the other side of the bridge and was coming toward us again. The two steeds pulling it—so black that they looked more like demons than horses—eagerly plunged forward, yanking their burden with astonishing speed.

Now stopped on the bridge, we had little chance of getting out of their way.

“Get these horses going as fast as they can,” I told Thomas.

His response, half drowned out by the crack of his whip, was, “Don't let my sister get hurt!”

As I sprinted toward the coach's door, the bridge began to shimmy beneath my feet, warning me that the brougham was
getting close. Our own coach lurched forward as the Cleveland Bays took off. I had no choice but to leap through the open door, push Lucy onto the floor, and shield her with my own body.

Outside, the sound of hooves got louder, no longer a distant thunder. The whole coach began to shake, the vibration quickening with each passing second.

The impact, when it arrived, was louder and more jarring than I ever imagined it could be. One of the black steeds hit us first, its shoulder sideswiping our coach and sending it rocking. Then came the massive brougham itself. It crashed into the back-left corner of Lucy's coach, ripping away wood and pushing the interior wall inward.

The coach, tilted to the right, skidded across the bridge on two wheels, dragging Lucy's terrified horses with it. It stopped only when it hit one of the swooping wire trusses that kept the bridge in place.

The impact of that collision, while not as strong as the previous one, was enough to throw us against the right wall of the coach. I hit it with my shoulder, pain instantly flaring.

Lucy, through sheer bad luck and poor body placement, sailed right through the unblocked doorway, a scrambling jumble of satin and lace heading over the side of the bridge.

I lunged for her, able to catch only the skirt of her dress as it slithered out the door.

Lucy hung there a moment—feet slipping atop the bridge railing, arms flailing, eyes terrified—as the dark chasm of the Schuylkill gaped beneath her.

“Edward,” she wheezed, “don't let me go.”

“I won't,” I said. “I promise.”

The words were scarcely out of my mouth when the fabric of her dress tore.

A sickening sound, it was followed by another rip.

Then another.

Before I knew it, the section of skirt I was gripping tore away from the rest of the dress, and Lucy, screaming the entire way, plummeted to the water below.

While the bridge wasn't too high off the river, her descent seemed to last a full minute. Terrified, I took in every detail. Her dress catching the air and opening up like a blossom in spring. The features of her wide, fearful face blurring the closer she got to the water. Her cries piercing the night air until they were suddenly and completely cut off. The way the darkened river seemed like a hand reaching up to catch her before pulling her under.

Without thinking, I clambered onto the bridge railing and dove in after her.

Unlike Lucy's drop, mine felt like a shard of a second. I had no time to regret my action, for I was instantly in the water, thrashing about in the chilly river.

Although I was an able swimmer, the river—just south of the waterworks and the dam that fed it—moved too fast for me to navigate smoothly. Then there was the darkness, which only disoriented me further. Tumbling through the water, it was hard to tell the difference between sky, river, and horizon.

I didn't catch sight of Lucy until the current swept me beneath the bridge. The shadow of the span sliced across the river, allowing me to see the moonlit patch of water just ahead. In that faint bit of light, I saw Lucy struggling to stay afloat. She paddled desperately, arms tangled in the sodden mass of her dress. Her pale face bobbed in and out of the water a few times before disappearing altogether.

I quickened my strokes, using the current to my advantage. Soon I was out of the bridge's shadow and diving into the moonlit area where I had spotted Lucy. Visibility was worse under the water—a vast and inky blackness dotted with bubbles, algae, dirt. My eyes stinging, I spun around, desperately looking for some sign of Lucy. When my lungs began to ache, I rose to the surface and took a quick breath before plunging back under once more.

This time, I caught sight of Lucy, not ahead of me or behind me, but
beneath
me. Like an anchor, she had dropped to the river's bottom, unable to rise despite her frantic kicks. Diving downward, I scooped my arms under hers and tried to lift her. I wasn't able to, not with her sodden dress weighing her down.

I let go of Lucy and began to tear at her outfit. Tugging at the seams, I ripped away swaths of fabric. Buttons popped off and spun in the water. Silken strands floated away like kelp. Soon the dress was nothing but shreds and Lucy slipped out of it, finally free.

I swam to the surface, breathing the night air in deep, blessed gulps. Lucy, too winded to swim, wrapped her arms around my chest and rode on my back as I moved toward the riverbank. When the water was shallow enough for me to stand, I scooped Lucy up and carried her to shore.

Once on land, Lucy dropped to her knees, coughing and gasping. Through the ragged gasps, she managed to utter two words. “Can't . . . breathe.”

“What's wrong?” I asked.

Lucy gasped out another word. “Corset.”

She pointed to the lace-trimmed corset that squeezed her waist like a vise. It was so tight that I was surprised she had been able to breathe even out of the water. But her time in the drink had now left her with no breath at all.

I jumped behind her, only to see that the corset tied up the front. With Lucy still gasping helplessly, I scrambled in front of her.

It might come as no great shock when I say that, at that point in my life, I had never touched a corset. Inexperience caused my fingers to fumble with the garment's laces. Making matters worse was the panicked way Lucy stared at me.

“Hurry,” she said, her voice no more than a squeak.

Having no luck loosening the corset the proper way, I grabbed the top of it, just beneath Lucy's bosom, and tried to pry it open. The laces barely budged as Lucy's ribs pressed against the garment,
straining to break free. After two more grunting attempts, I managed to loosen the corset enough so that Lucy could catch her breath.

She inhaled, long and deep. At last able to utter a full sentence, she said, “Get me out of this damned thing.”

We both began to tear at the corset's laces, our hands brushing and fingers entangling. Lucy's breath was hot on my neck as we worked, loosening the garment's laces row by row. With one final flourish, we tore the corset off and tossed it aside.

Thus freed of her constraints, Lucy collapsed against me, her head resting on my shoulder.

“Edward,” she gasped out. “You . . . you saved—”

“Shh,” I said. “Don't talk. Just breathe.”

But Lucy insisted on trying to speak, her mouth opening and closing slightly as she struggled for the right words to say. Finally, she settled on, “Thank you.”

She repeated those words several times, sighing them into my shoulder. I put my arms around her, noticing how she was soaked to the bone and freezing cold. She shivered uncontrollably, giving me no choice but to hold her tighter.

“We need to get you someplace dry and warm,” I gently said. “You're going to catch your death from cold. We both will.”

Lucy moved, but only far enough to face me. Looking into my eyes, she wore an expression I had never seen from her before. Curious and contemplative, it felt as if she were seeing me for the very first time. Her green eyes searched mine, desperately trying to communicate something she was unable—or unwilling—to say aloud.

Eventually, she settled on one last “Thank you.”

Then she closed her eyes and, tilting her head back, lifted her face to mine. Her lips parted ever so slightly, like a rosebud opening up to the sun.

She was about to kiss me, and I wanted her to do so. I had, I realized, longed for it ever since climbing into her coach earlier that
night. I even found myself leaning forward and bowing my head to meet her mouth halfway.

I would have continued, too, had good sense not chosen that moment to return. Violet, quite rightly, suddenly consumed my thoughts. No matter how beautiful Lucy was, I had pledged myself to Miss Willoughby. To kiss another woman—to give in to that temptation—would have been a betrayal on my part. One that would never allow me to forgive myself.

Pulling away from Lucy, I placed both hands on her shoulders and gently nudged her backward.

“We really need to get out of this chill,” I told her.

Lucy's eyes snapped open, and her demeanor changed immediately. Her face, once soft in the moonlight, seemed to harden as her green eyes dimmed. She straightened her spine and backed away from me farther, suddenly conscious that she was now dressed only in a soaked petticoat.

“You're quite right.” Her voice, much like her body, had become rigid and unwavering. “And a true gentleman would have already offered me his coat.”

“Of course,” I said, chagrined that I had failed to do so.

I started to remove my sopping wet coat, which was reluctant to unstick itself from my limbs. I finally wrangled out of it and handed it to Lucy. She wrung out the coat before draping it over her shoulders.

“If I didn't know you better, I'd say you planned this whole thing,” she said, her voice now aiming for levity but falling far short of the mark.

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“Because you're still mad at me for seeing you in a state of undress after barging in on you and your tailor,” she replied. “But rest assured, we are now even. For now we've both seen each other in our underclothes.”

M
y coat did little good to warm Lucy. She huddled, still soaked and shivering, on one side of the coach, while I did the same on the other. Both of us remained silent. It was clear neither of us wanted to speak about my rescue of her or what happened on the riverbank after it.

According to Thomas, the brougham that tried to run us off the bridge departed as soon as Lucy fell into the water. Fearful of its return, he wisely steered the coach off the bridge and onto a dirt path that ran beside the Schuylkill. The coach had received a good amount of damage, but it still had four wheels and two tired but uninjured Cleveland Bays able to pull it.

Instead of returning to Lucy's house or having me dropped off at Locust Street, I gave Thomas the directions to the home of Inspector William Barclay. A crime of sorts had taken place, and we needed to report it to the proper authorities. And although my friendship with Barclay was currently strained, he was the best person to tell.

Barclay answered the door in rumpled bedclothes and wild hair. Lord only knows what went through his mind when he spied me dripping wet on his doorstep. I'm sure he was baffled, as any right-minded person would have been. Yet the only thing he could utter was, “What the devil happened to you?”

“We were almost run down,” I told him.

Lucy pushed out of the coach, urgency overcoming any modesty she might have had about standing in the street in only a damp petticoat and my equally wet coat. “By the very man who had threatened Mrs. Pastor days before her death!”