His face hardened. “I did not know that, did I? Besides, it mattered not—you and your ‘old family friend’ reasoned enough to travel to Wickelston and ask questions.”
She quietly sighed. “After which, the good reverend told you we had been there.”
“The good reverend is a father to me. You would do well to treat him with respect.”
“He has nothing to do with me.”
“He will once we are married.” Radcliffe smiled. “Just as we shall maintain close and loving ties with your family, so we shall with mine.”
Her heart pounded painfully. “Why do you assume I shall play along cheerfully? I am not a willing participant, and my acting skills are not good enough to fool anyone.”
“I suggest you sharpen those skills, my dear, or else I foresee your family succumbing to ‘accidents,’ one at a time.”
“Your accidents leave much to be desired.” The element of scorn in her voice was not forced.
He looked at her sharply. “Explain yourself.”
“Marie Verite’s body was disinterred in Marseilles.”
A muscle worked in his jaw.
“Her autopsy showed bathwater in her lungs, not river water. Did you not read the evening paper? The inquest details were laid bare. I suspect the verdict will come in early tomorrow, because the evidence was damning. A trial is looming in your future. If you hadn’t been so preoccupied with planning the details of my abduction, you might have heard.”
His face turned red enough that she saw it in the passing light of the streetlamps. “She was my wife! They had no right to disinter her or perform an autopsy!” His voice rang in the carriage, and she flinched.
She pressed her advantage, hoping to keep him distracted so that if Michael and the others did manage to track them down, Radcliffe would not notice until it was too late. “I suspect jurisdictional trifles will be sorted in the courts. The French police certainly felt their actions were justified, as she was still officially a French citizen and buried in the family plot on French soil. At your direction.”
She nearly smiled. She found it easier to maintain her calm even as he grew increasingly agitated. As unpredictable as it made his behavior, it was a boon to her wounded pride at having ever been so taken in by his false charm. She’d been fooled, and now she was the one stripping back the layers to reveal the corrosion beneath.
“You walk on thin ice, my dear.” His nostrils flared.
“If you lay a hand on me, Sally will never believe I am happy in your company.”
He smiled. “I know where to strike so that the world is blissfully unaware.”
“I do not believe you have the luxury of taking such a risk. From what I have learned in recent days, your need for money is truly desperate. Your life is forfeit should your debts go unpaid.”
He sucked in a deep breath, looked out the window, and then exhaled. He smiled again, and this time it chilled her. “You shall remain intact for now, my darling, but there will come a day when I am no longer in need of your services.”
“And you will dispatch me with the same efficiency as you did poor Mr. Stern.”
He scoffed. “Poor Mr. Stern is in a far better place. He grew to near manhood in a normal home! With a normal family! And still, he was pathetic.” He shook his head. “Stammering and begging and attempting to exchange his life for a share of the extortion money. As if I would ever participate in a plan that would endanger the man who thought of me as his son.”
The events began playing in Amelie’s head as though she was reading it straight from one of the novels she loved so much. “You confronted Mr. Stern that night, exchanged words. You knew if he told the world your secrets, your life was finished.” She shook her head. “You couldn’t allow him to live; you never planned to. You had to silence him immediately, for if he was willing to taunt you in public, no matter how vague the words, you knew he would cause problems the moment he was free.”
She leaned forward in the seat. “You agreed to share the reverend’s extortion money. Then you forced him into the sarcophagus, stabbed him, and slammed the door shut.”
She was breathless, and her words hung heavy in the silence.
“You should write penny dreadfuls, my dear.”
“Which part is fiction?”
“Oh, it’s all true. I didn’t realize I was gaining such a creative wife.” He smiled and crossed his legs as though they were going for a pleasant Sunday drive.
The carriage stopped, and she looked out the window at a nondescript building with no signage. A single light burned in a window near the entrance. The driver climbed down, met someone at the door, and returned with a parcel. She fought despair as she realized Charlotte had probably not picked up their trail after leaving the rendezvous point for the exchange with Sammy. The police would search the area, but what if they didn’t find Amelie in time?
Radcliffe watched her closely, eyes narrowed, lips curled in a smirk.
She hated to give him the satisfaction of asking, but she had to know. “What is that?”
The driver climbed back to his seat and clicked the horses forward. They rounded a corner and picked up speed.
“What is that?” she repeated.
“A marriage license, procured through private contacts.”
She stared at him, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. She knew Radcliffe planned to marry her, but certainly such a thing couldn’t happen so quickly, unless . . . “Are you taking me to Gretna Green?”
“Gretna Green?” he repeated. “That is much too far away. No, we are going to visit family.”
His words settled around her like a heavy weight. He was taking her to Wickelston, where the reverend would marry them with or without her consent.
“I will not do this.”
“You will do this. Come now, Amelie, do not become hysterical. You know how much is at stake for you if you cause problems. Your family is painfully vulnerable, even with a pair of constables patrolling night and day.”
Remain calm. Remain calm. Think.
“Not to mention the precarious position of Detective Baker’s loved ones, hidden away in their ‘secure’ cottage.”
Her eyes burned with tears she tried desperately to keep at bay. How did he know so much? How was he able to always be one step ahead of them? “You’ll be arrested by morning, you know.”
“Did I not mention our wedding travels? By tomorrow morning, we shall be far, far away. The reverend is generous in his gifts.”
Her vision blurred, and she looked out the window, desperate for a way to save herself. She noted a bridge, but she was so turned around she did not even know which one it was. Her breath came in shallower gasps, and a ringing in her ears had her wondering if she would faint.
She heard a far-off whistle, so distant she might have imagined it. It stilled her mind enough that she again was in the center of the maelstrom, calm while everything else spun. She closed her eyes, prayed for help, and then lunged at the door.
You must fight, my female friends, and never stop. If under attack, you must endeavor to forget all you have learned about proper behavior and claw your way to freedom. Others in your life may have alternate suggestions, but if they do not involve kicking and biting, clawing and hitting, you may safely disregard them.
—Mrs. Thornburg’s Motivational Pamphlet for
Self-Protection Against Nefarious Attack
(A single print run was made, but a few remaining copies may be found in the back of the occasional bookshop or kicked under the shelves at the lending library.)
Amelie wrenched the handle down and leaned out of the moving carriage as it crossed the threshold of the bridge. Her sudden movement caused the carriage to bounce, throwing her shoulders forward even as Radcliffe shouted and lunged for her. He tore the door from her hand, reaching for her wrist and missing
.
Her shoulder hit the cobblestones, but before she could roll free, Radcliffe grabbed her ankle. She was dragged along the ground, stunned, her fingers scrambling for purchase that kept slipping away.
Radcliffe shouted to the driver, who had noticed the mayhem and tried to halt the horses. They were nearly to the middle of the bridge before he managed it, and Amelie seized the moment to jerk her ankle free.
She crawled, then scrambled, tripping on her skirt as she reached the railing. Using it as a guide, she started running into the dense fog rising from the river.
Radcliffe shouted behind her, and she heard the driver cursing. Was nobody around? Would nobody see them?
She drew in as much of the thick air as she could manage and screamed as she ran, her breath coming in gasps. Her coat was torn and snagged on the bridge. She fumbled with the fastenings as she moved, trying to free herself from it.
She had finally pulled her arm from the confines of the tight sleeve when she was struck on the neck from behind. Clinging desperately to the railing atop the sides, she stayed on her feet and turned in time to see Radcliffe’s cane coming down at her again.
“Help!” Her scream echoed down the bridge and along the water. The shout cost her, as she struggled to draw in another decent breath.
She blocked the cane with both arms, protecting her head. He flipped it sideways and shoved it against her shoulders, smashing her back against the hard stones.
She brought up her knee, catching the inside of his thigh, and he grunted, shifting enough that she was able to wrench her arms against the cane and push it back toward him. His face was inches from hers, and he didn’t utter a word. The look in his eyes was feral, and she knew she was staring at her own death.
No! Her screams echoed through her head as her vision blurred. She brought her knee up again, this time causing him enough pain that he bent toward her, and she shoved up against the cane.
Using his shoulders to shove her back, he lifted her from the ground, bending her painfully against the railing.
She sucked in a huge breath and managed to gasp “Stop!” even as he lifted her higher. He pushed with such force that she feared her spine would snap over the edge of the rail. Her arm slipped out from under the cane, and he crushed the hard metal into her chest. The world slowed as he moved his hands from the cane to her throat, his eyes bulging as he squeezed. He shook her by the throat, and her feet dangled in the air.
She scrambled for a grip on the railing. Her hat shifted back on her head as her hair began to slide free from its pins. As her arm flailed in one last desperate attempt to grab hold of something, her fingers brushed a crystal flower.
She clasped the hatpin and pulled it out, clutching it in her fist like a dagger. With her remaining strength, she stabbed it into her attacker, not knowing where it would connect.
Radcliffe gave a harsh shout and, shoving her away from him, threw her into the cold night air. She tumbled back, terrified to see the bridge moving farther away from her.
She stretched her arm, watching her fingers grasp at air, in fractions of moments that lasted an eternity. She thought if she could just reach a little higher, she would catch herself.
With a jarring, blindingly painful crash, she connected with the icy water, gasping one last breath before the river pulled her under.
“Aunt Sally?”
“Yes, Amelie?”
“Where shall I find my true love?”
“You are but seven years old, dearest. You needn’t fuss about it now.”
“Oh, but I am not fussing! I simply want to be sure I shall know him when I see him.”
Michael’s blood ran cold as a terrified scream tore through the night. Riding horseback, he reached the middle of the bridge just as unmistakable sounds of a faint splash echoed from below. “Amelie!”
He dismounted and ran through the fog, seeing the carriage moments before he would have crashed into it. He dodged to the side and collided with Radcliffe, who staggered and fell against him. He grabbed the man’s hair and pulled, shouting, “Where is she?”
Radcliffe turned his head, and Michael saw Amelie’s hatpin protruding from the side of his neck.
Michael dropped the man to the ground and dashed to the side of the bridge. The river appeared through intermittent gaps in the fog, and he saw a white hand break the surface of the water seconds before it went under.
He stripped off his coat and vaulted up and over the side of the bridge, bracing himself for the impact, which was nearly paralyzing in its freezing grip. He kicked back to the surface against the strong current, gulping in air as he scanned the dark waters for any sign of Amelie. He swam a distance, glancing up at the bridge and trying to judge where he had last seen her.
Amelie, please, please fight. Surface just once more . . .
He saw a ripple to his left and lunged for it despite knowing he might have imagined it. He dove beneath the surface, but the water below was an inky, muffled world. He heard only the rushing current and his beating heart.
He forced himself down as far as he could, and his fingers brushed against something. With renewed hope, his lungs burning, he shoved hard against the current one more time and clasped a handful of fabric.
Pulling upward with every last bit of strength, he neared the surface. As he swam, he made contact with an arm. He finally erupted from the water and gasped in a breath. He turned the body over, feeling long strands of hair against his hands, and positioned his arm across Amelie’s body, holding her above the river’s waves.
He began pulling with his other arm and kicking for the shore as he heard shouts from the bridge, and the long, loud blast of a constable’s whistle. Barking dogs sounded from the shore, and he heard Winston’s voice as he ran the length of the bridge to the other side.
He struggled for breath, terrified he was too late, when he heard a splash and saw Winston approaching with long, even strokes. When he reached Michael, he breathed, “Here, let me take her, mate. You just swim, I’ll be right beside you.”
Michael reluctantly lifted his arm, now numb with cold, and took his first look at Amelie’s face, which was pale, her lips blue. He let out a sob, a harsh, gasping sound, and tried to touch her face with fingers that shook and tangled in her hair.
“Swim,” Winston said firmly. “Michael, go. I’ve got her. We must get her to shore.”
With limbs that struggled to obey, he swam again for the shore, breathing raggedly as his feet touched the riverbed. He staggered out of the water and collapsed, registering a flurry of activity as people rushed toward him. Someone placed a blanket around his shoulders, and as Winston dragged Amelie up beside him, he heard Dr. Neville’s gruff voice.
“Turn her on her side, turn her on her side!” The old man approached, cane thumping in the mud and rocks, and bent down next to Michael.
Winston coughed and pulled in a deep breath, and Michael placed his blanket around Amelie as Winston followed the doctor’s instructions. He turned Amelie toward Michael, and Michael leaned down next to her face.
“Please, you must awaken, Amelie.” His voice caught. “Your aunt will be furious with you if you do not awaken—” He grasped her cold fingers, absently registering the setting, the familiar smells, the very same bank where they had pulled Marie Verite from the cold river months before.
“Pound on her back,” Dr. Neville barked at Winston, and as Amelie’s limp form moved with each hit, Michael’s desperation grew.
He clutched her hand tightly, resting his forehead against it.
Winston continued thumping between her shoulder blades, and her body rolled toward him each time in a false animation that was especially cruel.
Tears fell from his eyes and flowed onto her hand. “Dearest, please. Amelie, I love you. You mustn’t leave, I haven’t proposed.” He felt a sob crush his chest, a raging emotion that he hadn’
t felt since he was a young child, hiding alone in his room after his father’s funeral.
Anger and frustration surged, and he finally shouted, “Amelie!”
Winston thumped her back again, and this time she coughed.
Michael looked up, daring to hope as she continued to cough and spurt water. He sat up, pulling her over his legs as she gagged and cleared her lungs.
A collective sigh of relief circled through the group gathered at the water’s edge. Dr. Neville crossed himself and then whistled for a stretcher. Winston scrambled to his feet and ran to help Dr. Neville.
Amelie shuddered and struggled to breathe, still coughing and gagging. He rubbed circles across her back and murmured nonsensical things that would probably embarrass him later. He didn’t care, and as she finally began drawing regular breaths, he allowed himself to believe she might truly be with him.
She pushed back from him with wobbly arms, and in the light of several lanterns, he caught sight of her throat, which was red and bruised. His heart thumped faster. He noticed for the first time her hands were cut, her nails torn. Now that she was warming up, blood began dripping from her fingers and the sides of her hands.
She fell limply against his chest, but she was still breathing. She placed her hand on his arm, barely squeezing, but it was enough.
She whispered something he didn’t hear, and he lowered his head next to her lips. “Now you propose?” she rasped.
He laughed, stunned that he was even capable of it. She coughed again, and when she subsided, he said, “I was waiting for a good moment. I wanted to make a grand gesture, to flood you with romance.” He winced at the choice of words.
“Did you just jump into the Thames to rescue me?” Her voice was scratchy and quiet.
“I did.”
“That is grand enough.”
He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head. “Is that a ‘yes’?”
She nodded. Her eyes were closed, but the strength in her hands increased. She gave him a squeeze. “I still wish to be officially deputized.”
The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart Page 27