With that, she opened the door, stepped outside, and walked down the street, making sure to keep her chin high and her steps brisk. Norman was no doubt watching her. For both her sake and for Jacob’s, she refused to allow Norman to find any weakness in her. Let him think what he would about their impending nuptials. He would be wrong, and before he could attempt anything to prevent the marriage, the ceremony would be over and they would be the victors.
She and Jacob loved each other more than she’d believed possible. Their love could conquer anything, including a misanthropic, jealous elder brother.
Even so, as she marched away, head held high, hot tears streamed down her cheeks.
CHAPTER FIVE
Never had a fortnight felt so infernally long as the one leading up to Miriam’s wedding day in Harton. Despite Norman’s attempts at cowing her, she was near to bursting with happiness. Aside from the interminably long wait, the only negative about her sudden and brief engagement was that Jacob was not with her, which meant that she could tell no one about the reason for her happiness. She could not reveal her true breadth of joy at all, for fear of sparking curiosity and rumors. And in a village as small and tight-knit as Audbury, curiosity fed rumors like dry straw feeding a fire—and it spread as quickly. Her greatest comfort was at home with her father, where she could talk about their future; naturally her father would live with them at Stonecroft Cottage. He would also travel with her to Harton and stand in as her witness to the ceremony, though truth be told, he might well be sitting as her witness.
However, as departure day approached, worries began to mount, though one by one, Jacob eased them from miles away. First he sent word that he would hire a stage for them—a blessed relief, as she’d feared they would have to ride in one of the mail coaches. Not only would that have meant tight and uncomfortable traveling conditions, but it would have posed a particular challenge for her father for a different reason entirely. Mail coaches often demanded that passengers disembark and walk up hills to save the strength of the horses and keep the stage on the proper schedule. But while her father was not prone to complaining, he was, quite simply, unable to walk.
When Jacob’s letter arrived with details about their private stage, for no one but her and her father, she held the letter to her heart and found happy tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Jacob truly did know her and her heart—so perfectly that he spent money he surely could not spare to ensure that she and her father would be comfortable and safe on their travels.
Oh, how she loved him in return. She was not yet his wife, but she vowed in that moment to always keep his wellbeing, safety, and comfort as her highest priority, as he clearly did hers.
* * *
On the twenty-second day of December, the stagecoach arrived, rumbling to a stop before the humble Brown family cottage. The driver and footman helped Miriam and her father into the carriage and then carried their two small trunks to the back, where they were strapped in tightly.
Miriam had never seen so elegant a carriage—had never seen anything made at such obvious expense and of such beauty. The padded interior, though not new, felt nothing short of luxurious and extravagant; Miriam found herself running a hand along the leather surface of her bench. Her finger traced the curves of the woodworking, then stopped on the glass of the window, wondering at how much such panes must have cost. Her breath made the glass fog, so she used the side of her hand to wipe it clear again, then chuckled at her own behavior.
“I must look like a child in my wonderment. It’s only a stagecoach, but . . .” She shrugged and laughed again. “It’s a stagecoach. For me and for you, hired by my dear Jacob, to bring us to him, and—” Her voice cut off; she did not quite dare to speak about her pending nuptials, for fear of tempting fate.
“’Twill be a wonderful . . . Christmas, I daresay,” her father said, smiling back with an understanding twinkle in his eye, as if he knew her thoughts.
They said no more about the purpose of their journey, a silent agreement to rejoice silently until they reached Harton and appeared at the parish chapel at nine o’clock on the morning of Christmas Eve.
Miriam looked about and noted two lap rugs. She unfolded one, which she arranged on her father’s lap to keep him warm. “I understand that travel by stage is much faster than even a few years ago, thanks to better roads,” she said, tucking the rug about his legs to keep as much cold air as possible from reaching him and making his rheumatism act up more than it already would.
“Indeed,” her father said, “though I pray we won’t encounter any slippery patches of snow or ice.”
“As do I.” She smiled and sat back on her bench opposite him, where she began arranging her own lap rug.
The driver walked from the back of the stagecoach, heading toward his seat up front, stopping at their door. He opened it, noted that they’d already used the lap rugs, and said, “The weather has been mild so far this winter, so no need to fret; we shouldn’t come upon any bad roads.”
Miriam and her father exchanged startled looks. The driver had clearly heard their conversation. She was particularly glad that she’d stayed silent about the impending nuptials, and if her father’s wide eyes under his raised bushy eyebrows were any indication, he was surprised to discover that anything they said could be easily heard without the carriage.
“Thank you,” Miriam said, sure to smile at the driver. “That is most assuredly a comfort.”
He tilted his head and touched his hat. “Happy to help, m’lady. Barring a storm, we should arrive in Harton shortly after nightfall.”
“Thank you,” she said again, still feeling too wary to enjoy being called m’lady for the first time in her life.
He climbed to his seat, the footman took his at the back—to act as a lookout, Miriam supposed—and then the coach lurched forward, and they were off. The crunch of the wheels on the stones of the road, combined with the clip-clop of the four horses’ hooves, created such a volume of sound that Miriam felt quite certain that neither the driver nor the footman could eavesdrop any longer. Goodness, she and her father had to practically yell to understand each other.
The constant rocking and swaying, which were novelties at first, began to wear at Miriam. Within a few hours, she felt positively green and certain that she knew what seasickness must be like. Across the way, her father slept, head backward, jaw hanging open as he snored. He felt well enough to sleep; that was something to be grateful for. It was also enough to allow her to rest, and she found herself yawning, having difficulty keeping her eyes open. Who knew that merely sitting in a stagecoach for hours could be so exhausting? She leaned her head against a pane of glass and closed her eyes, trying to rest as the cool glass eased her nausea, eager for sleep to claim her if but for a few minutes.
She would get through this journey; yes, she felt so nauseated from the motion of the stagecoach that when they stopped to change horses and got some tea, she couldn’t eat. Just as well; she mightn’t have been able to keep a meal inside her. But the resulting hunger certainly didn’t help her feelings of sickness or the headache that had formed behind her eyes and now throbbed.
At least this is but one day’s trip, she reminded herself, still keeping her eyes closed. We’ll be there soon, and I’ll sleep in a warm bed tonight. And Jacob will be there waiting for me.
Anything was tolerable if she knew that it would end, and that when it did, Jacob would be there waiting for her.
She must have slipped into a much deeper sleep than she’d anticipated, for the next thing she knew, Miriam was jolted awake as the coach slammed forward and to a stop with such force that it might have run straight into a wall of stone. Her father inhaled sharply and drooped in his seat. She reached forward and helped him up to the bench beside her, where he clung to her, breathing shakily.
What had happened? The carriage tilted dangerously side to side as she tried to gain her bearings but began to lose sense of which direction was up. She heard shouts from the driver, an
d horses neighing with what sounded like fear, and the carriage jerked and then tilted to one side. Miriam embraced her father; her heart raced with fear.
Outside, the world was nearly dark, with only a few deep-purple shadows visible, and those unclear shapes—trees, buildings, people—were all a blur. What little she could make out through the window changed by the second as the coach continued to jerk and sway but make no forward progress.
Miriam looked around, searching for her father’s cane with which to signal the driver for help. There it was on the floor of the coach, at her feet. She couldn’t reach it without releasing the hold on her father, which she would not consider. She held on even more tightly with one arm and then raised her other fist, using it to knock as hard as she could on the roof.
“Help! What’s happening?” she called.
It did no good; the horses neighed out of control, the driver unable to control them. The only thing he said was a string of orders directed toward the horses, interspersed with words that under other circumstances would have made Miriam blush. As she sat fearing for her life, she listened carefully for any information that would give insight to what she should do and what was happening, caring nothing for such curses.
The wheels creaked as they turned for the first time since their abrupt stop, pulling the coach forward with a lurch. A good sign, she hoped; perhaps they were past a patch of mud or something else that had caused them to stop and struggle.
Another jolt. The sound of the coach’s wheels on wood instead of gravel or earth—were they crossing a bridge? The stagecoach slammed to a stop once again and tilted once more, this time more and more, until Miriam and her father were thrown against the side. She whispered a grateful prayer that it wasn’t on the side with the door, which might have come loose and opened under such a force.
The noises grew louder, and the sound of splintering wood joined the others, along with screeching metal. Something snapped—a spoke of a wheel, part of the bridge? Something else broke. The driver bellowed.
Suddenly, the sensation of falling came over them. Miriam held her father in her arms and prayed. The last thing she knew was an enormous splash into black, icy water, before she succumbed to the darkness.
CHAPTER SIX
As Christmas Eve arrived, Jacob could not sleep. He lay wide awake in his uncle and aunt’s house, staring at the ceiling well before dawn. How could he sleep when in but a couple of hours, he would pledge his love and life to Miriam, and he would become her husband?
At last the sun crested the horizon, so he allowed himself to get out of bed and begin his morning ablutions. He took extra care shaving his whiskers to be sure he didn’t draw blood. Miriam deserved a handsome groom, and while he wasn’t boastful enough to believe he was anywhere near what would be considered handsome, he wanted to look as good as he possibly could for their wedding.
His boots were freshly polished—something seen to by cousin Martin’s valet overnight. Jacob dressed in a new suit bought especially for the occasion. His hair, by some miracle of the fates, lay flat for once, and soon he was ready to leave. He quietly walked to Martin’s bedchamber and knocked, apparently waking him, as evidenced by the groggy voice saying, “Come in.”
Martin, someone more like a brother to Jacob than Norman ever had been, was indeed still abed. He chuckled at seeing Jacob. “A bit eager, are we? I’ll call Collins and hurry, though I don’t think the vicar will be ready before nine o’clock.”
True to his word, Martin got ready quickly with the help of his valet, Collins, and soon the trio were walking from the family estate of Branbourne Manor toward the chapel. Martin was the only person Jacob had entrusted with the secret of the wedding. Collins knew now as well, but that mattered little now that he was with them along the way. Martin would be one of the witnesses to the ceremony. The other, of course, would be Mr. Brown.
As they walked, Jacob took care as to where he stepped, avoiding muddy spots as best he could so as to preserve the polish and cleanliness of his boots. He dearly hoped his hat wouldn’t muss his hair too much.
“Do you suppose they’ll arrive early too?” he said, voicing his hopes.
“If they do, you won’t be able to see her,” Martin shot back, and when Jacob looked pained at the thought, Martin grinned. “That would be bad luck.”
“But if we’re all there before nine o’clock, perhaps the vicar will be willing to perform the ceremony early.”
“Perhaps,” Martin said, in what seemed far too calm a tone.
“Perhaps?” Jacob said. “Perhaps? The events of this day will transform my life, yet you speak as if we’re doing nothing but taking a stroll to a regular Sabbath service.”
“And you,” Martin said with a laugh and a teasing shove, “speak as if the entire world should sense and acknowledge the import of this day.”
Jacob shrugged, acknowledging his cousin’s point, but he couldn’t quite escape the feeling that the world around him was vibrating with anticipation, as if the trees and frosted grasses did know. Intellectually, he knew that such thinking was foolishness, but it was truly how he felt.
“You do have the license?” Martin asked suddenly.
“I do.” Jacob had made sure of that fact no fewer than a dozen times already, yet he reached up and felt for the folded paper in his breast pocket again anyway. “Thank you for checking.”
As much as Martin might enjoy teasing, Jacob knew that the question showed how much his cousin really did care about this day.
The walk to the chapel couldn’t have been more than a quarter of a mile, but it certainly felt like several miles. They found the vicar, who was surprised to see them more than an hour earlier than anticipated. Even so, he happily agreed to perform the ceremony early in the event that the bride and her father arrived early.
“May I see the license?” the vicar asked.
“Yes, of course,” Jacob said, and suddenly had fumbling fingers too nervous to slip the paper out of his pocket with anything less than several seconds’ effort. “There you are.”
The elderly vicar settled a pair of spectacles on the end of his nose and peered through them, reading over the license and nodding as he read it. “Everything looks to be in order,” he said, then eyed Jacob. “You are the groom? And you are the witnesses?” He gestured to Jacob and then Martin and Collins.
“I’m one of the witnesses,” Martin said. “The bride’s father will be the other.”
“Very good.” The vicar sat at his desk and took up a pen and paper, on which he recorded the witnesses’ names, though for his part, Jacob wasn’t sure of Mr. Brown’s full given name.
“We can write that information in later, when they arrive,” the vicar said. “You are welcome to stay here in my office or to wait in the chapel through that door. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go finish my morning cup of tea while we wait.”
“I think we’ll wait in the chapel,” Jacob said. “Thank you.” He gave a half bow, holding his hat, and as soon as the vicar left, he ran his fingers through his hair. He looked to Martin with worry. “Did I save my hair from looking like a hat has been on it, or did I muss it up?”
“It looks fine,” Martin said. “But Collins here can fix it right up if a problem arises. Can’t you?” He turned to the valet, who bowed with a nod.
“I can and will, Mr. Davies.”
Martin stepped forward and took Jacob by the shoulders. “Breathe, man. Everything will turn out right. You’ll see. But only if you breathe. She won’t want to marry a man who faints before he meets her at the altar.”
At that, Jacob laughed and realized that he had indeed been holding his breath. “Let’s go wait in the chapel, then.”
They selected a pew and sat on the bench there, the echoing interior of the chapel, with its fine stained glass and impressive ceiling, making them speak in reverent whispers.
Jacob’s knee kept bouncing up and down; he simply had to expel some of his nervous energy. He checked his pocket watc
h again and again. At last the vicar entered, wearing his robes and a few minutes early. Still no sound of a carriage or steps outside that would indicate Miriam’s arrival.
The church bells rang, chiming nine times. Still no Miriam, no Mr. Brown.
They waited longer. And longer. At half past nine, Jacob felt nearly driven mad as a hundred possible reasons for Miriam’s tardiness crept through his mind. Perhaps she didn’t wish to marry him after all. Maybe a highwayman had attacked the stagecoach. What if her father had fallen ill and couldn’t travel? All of these possibilities and more muddied his thoughts and increased his worry.
The bells rang out ten times. She was more than an hour late. By law, the wedding had to take place before noon. Was their coach damaged? If she arrived after twelve, they would simply marry tomorrow, on Christmas. Was that legal? He’d have to ask the vicar.
At long last, steps sounded at the back of the chapel. Jacob stood and whirled about in a single motion, his heart nearly leaping from his chest. But instead of seeing Miriam and her father, he found Norman.
Jacob’s stomach dropped to his toes. How had Norman found out, and where was Miriam?
“There has been an accident,” Norman said.
“What are you doing here?” Jacob demanded.
“The butler said that you had come this way earlier, so I set out in search of you because of the news. I felt sure you would want to know.”
A heaviness seemed to wrap around Jacob’s chest, making it hard to breathe. “What . . . news?”
“As I said, there has been an accident. A stagecoach fell into a river while crossing a bridge. Two passengers perished: an elderly man and a young woman.”
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